Paris Love Match

Chapter 26





Piers had never seen loose diamonds. He hefted the bag. It was ten pounds at least. The plastic was thick, and there was no way it was going to break open easily. He looked over the building site. The plastic bag he had used to retrieve the case flapped in the breeze. He scanned the top of the temporary wall. What if Brunwald’s men were watching?

He pulled his phone out and selected a couple of buttons on the crane’s web page. After a moment, a buzzer sounded, then the cabin started to rise back to the top of the tower. The ground fell away, bringing the pit and its lake into clearer view. He could see the fine rain misting around the far streetlights. The angles of the lights and the buildings confused his senses. He grabbed the seat cushion and closed his eyes to fight off a wave of nausea.

The cabin jolted to a stop. He opened one eye, looking out as far away as he could until his balance felt good. In the distance he could see the Eiffel Tower, the white dome of the Sacré-Cœur, and endless strings of headlights weaving their way through the city. Beside him, the Seine gave distorted reflections of the lights on the opposite bank.

He turned over the bag of diamonds. Somewhere out there, Brunwald the Butcher was holding Sidney and waiting for his call. Piers wished he could throw the diamonds and hit the man. The crane was a hundred and fifty feet tall and dropping something on him from this height was just what Brunwald deserved.

Piers looked at the phone number the dictator had given him. No doubt it was a drug dealer special, bought at some petrol station and activated anonymously. He wanted to demand Sidney’s freedom, he wanted her back as soon as possible, he wanted rid himself of the fear and doubt. He pulled out his phone and his finger hovered over the buttons. He wanted all these things, but Brunwald would want to see evidence of the diamonds before he released Sidney.

Piers lowered the phone. Brunwald had killed the mob’s men without a second thought. Once he had the diamonds, Sidney would be unnecessary—a liability, even, and one that he would be quick to dispense with. Yet he wouldn’t hand Sidney over without the diamonds.

Piers’ phone beeped, the crane’s web application closing down after a predetermined timeout. He watched an animation of the crane morphing into a puppy and bounding off the side of the screen. It was a stupid image for a machine capable of lifting tens of tons, and he’d told the designer, but the animation still remained.

He looked out to the east where the crane’s twin stood, dark and silent. A short distance beyond it the yellow of another large dumpster glowed in the night. He tapped a few buttons on his phone’s browser, logged into the twin, and cycled the cabin lights. He had control of both cranes. No surprise, really, as he had come to Paris to update their software.

He looked down at the water’s edge. The embankment road was two lanes wide in each direction. A small road dipped steeply off to what looked like a rarely used docking area for small craft. He strained around the back of his seat and saw the road came to an abrupt end. A dead end, like the one that had trapped Auguste.

He dialed Little and Large’s number. It rang, then clicked over to an automated message saying the person he had called was busy. It didn’t give an option to leave a message. He hung up and dialed again. On the fourth try, Little answered. “Get lost, we’re busy.”

“How well do you know your boss?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“It’s my question to you. How well do you know him?”

Little snorted. “Well enough. We’re, er, connected, you know.”

“Connected? As in family?”

“Er … “

“What do you do for him?”

“Look, it’s very nice talking to you, but I’ve got more important things to do.”

“They’ve got Sidney.”

“Who’s got Sidney? The boss?”

“Your boss is in a dumpster in a back alley.”

There was a long pause. “What?”

“You heard me. Him and his henchmen.”

Another long pause. “What?”

“Him and his henchmen were killed by Brunwald the Butcher, and thrown in a dumpster.”

“What?”

“Then Brunwald took Sidney. And if you say what again, I’m going to hit you.”

Piers could make out the muffled sounds of a short argument then Large came on the phone. “Brunwald the Butcher, as in the dictator?”

“The very one.”

“In Paris?”

“He was selling the painting to Morel. He killed Morel and wants the money Morel was going to pay for it.”

“Let me guess, he’s holding Sidney until you find it?”

“I need help.”

“You need the police. Army even. Rumor is, Brunwald uses his special forces to do his dirty work.”

“My face is connected with a string of dead bodies.”

Large paused. “We’re not hit men, if that’s what you think.”

Little started talking excitedly in the background. Large covered the mouthpiece, and when he came back, Little was silent.

“We do cars,” Large said. “That’s all we do. We don’t even work for Morel. My friend is a distant relative. He just hired us to follow you for a while.”

Piers hummed.

“What’s he going to do with Sidney?” said Large.

“I don’t know. He didn’t show any hesitation when he shot Morel and his two men.”

“He shot both of them?”

“You know them?”

“Just by reputation. They weren’t the sort of people you’d want to cross.”

“Brunwald had several men.”

“We can’t take them on. Like I said, we just do cars.”

Piers bit his lips. “I need a car.”

“You going to get out of the city?”

“No! I need to get Sidney back.”

“What sort of car?”

“Something used. Medium size. Something that doesn’t stand out.”

“Old blue Citroën. I know where we can get one with a big engine.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Not sure. Can you get a boat?”

“Where?”

“The Seine.”

Large exhaled. “Could do. Boat’s not a good idea. Too easy to get caught. Nowhere to hide on the water. Not like with a car.”

“Okay.”

“Be about an hour for the car.”

Piers hung up and looked down at the Seine. Large was right, it wouldn’t be easy to escape from a madman with a gun at boat speeds. He breathed out deep and corrected himself. It was madmen, not madman.

His phone bleeped as the web interface timed out on the second crane. The stupid dog ran off the side of the screen, nothing like Rover’s exuberant obedience.

He turned the phone over in his hand and despised the animation’s creator one more time, but the cranes were an amazing power to be controlled from something so small.

He pulled up a map of the area. The embankment road was there, the bridges were there, the Seine was there; even the small road was there. A dilapidated building stood where the building site and cranes now stood.

He shone the flashlight out into the night, straight along the massive frame of the jib, then down to the end of the thick cables. He recognized the dual-pronged device on the end as the attachment that connected to the dumpsters. He grinned. The cranes had been used to move the giant dumpsters into position. With the right instructions, they could move them again.

He redialed Little and Large’s number.

Little answered. “What?”

“I’m going to need something else.”

“What do think we are? Amazon.com? Ow—”

Large came on the phone. “Got a plan now?”

“Yes, but I need something else. Scuba gear. A mask, oxygen, and flippers.”

“One lot or two?”

“Just one.”

“When do you need it?”

Piers thought for a moment. “Before dawn.”

“No problem. Where do you want to meet?”

“Near Notre Dame.”

“There’s a twenty-four hour café on Rue de Gascony. Terry’s All Time. Go inside. Meet you there at 4am.”

“Thanks.”

“Watch your back.”

Piers hung up, lowered the cabin to the ground, and clambered over the temporary wall and back out of the building site.

The dead end street was as dark as ever. He ignored his sense of foreboding and pulled up the map on his phone. His GPS position appeared in the corner and he counted off the northings and eastings as he walked back and forth past the center of the dumpster. Satisfied, he worked his way around the block to where the second dumpster lay and went through the same routine.

Across the river, Notre Dame was lit up. He found the small road and noted the GPS position of the sloped entranceway. A dirty sign read Petit Quai. The road was really just a poor man’s dock, a good ten feet lower than the main road. A rusty chain ran along most of the edge with two gaps, obviously intended for embarkation. The road was concrete, covered with equal parts oil, gravel, and moss. Its neglect contrasted jarringly with the care taken over its famous neighbor, but as Piers stood in the darkness he knew it was perfect.

He walked downstream to Pont au Double. The bridge’s central stone support had a ledge a couple of feet above the water. The Seine burst into a small wake as it flowed around the support. Even in the lurid glow of the street lamps the water looked thick and dirty. A foam of green scum piled up against the stone of the bridge.

He timed his walk from Pont au Double downstream to Pont Saint-Michel at four minutes. The second bridge had similar stone pillars. Rusty metal hoops led down to the water. The river churned as it wound unhappily around the stone obstruction. He dropped a leaf and watched it roll below the murky surface in moments. The current was strong. He bit his lip and hoped his weight would help. Either way, he would know by the time he reached here whether his plan had worked. All he had to do was be patient.

He walked off the bridge and headed back to Bernard’s to kill six hours.