A diver in a wet suit broke the surface with the truck’s license plate in his hand.
Menard said, “I am thankful you and Agent Caine escaped more injury. It is probable the Land Rover was stolen, but we will trace this plate and find out to whom the truck belonged, and with luck, it will lead us to your buyer. And when we have a positive identification on the two assailants, I will let you know. I will meet you in France tonight.
“Now, the young captain will not detain you. We have secured your flight to France. It would be best for you to leave sooner, rather than waiting too long. I will manage this. But you must go now, or the captain might shoot all of us.”
Mike touched Menard’s arm. “Thank you, monsieur, you’ve been a great help.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “My pleasure, of course.” He handed Nicholas a Glock .40.
“My own. You may need this. Be careful.”
74
Paris, 14th Arrondissement
La Santé Prison
Saturday, noon
The flight from Geneva to Paris took only forty-five minutes, and the drive from Charles de Gaulle to La Santé Prison another twenty-five. Nicholas wasn’t feeling so great now. He was covered in a fine sheen of sweat when they arrived. Mike was worried about him, but he was a stubborn man, determined not to look like he was hurting, so she kept her mouth shut.
They were met by the warden of La Santé. Her name was Lucienne Badour, a striking brunette in her late forties, heavyset but with long, shapely legs more suited to dancing the cancan than walking the filthy prison halls. She spoke very nice English with a strong Parisian accent.
She met them at the gate, got them signed in, and brought them to the entrance of the infamous prison. She stopped before they entered the first door.
“May I ask why you desire a meeting with Henri Couverel?”
Nicholas shook his head. “It’s a matter of national security. We must speak with him in private, with no one listening. If he knows he’s on camera or tape, he may not be frank with us, and we don’t have time to sort out lies.”
“Is it pertaining to the Koh-i-Noor diamond? I understand it was stolen from the Metropolitan Museum of Art Thursday evening. It’s all over the news.” She turned to Mike. “Forgive my curiosity. Your boss, Milo Zachery, arranged this meeting. He told me a bit about what was happening.”
Mike said, “I’m sure he did, Madame Badour, but we are not at liberty to discuss the matter. May we see Monsieur Couverel now?”
Badour gave them a beautiful Gallic shrug. “You can see him, but whether he will speak to you is another matter. He is not a cooperative inmate.”
Mike had been in her share of prisons. La Santé had a reputation as one of the worst in the world. The suicide rates were enormous, inmates battled infestations, overcrowding, lice and rats, and one another. She had to admit, the long, gray corridors weren’t cheerful. They would go for twenty to thirty feet and meet another gate, which was opened only after the gate behind them was shut, locked, and cleared. It took a solid twenty minutes to weave their way inside the dank concrete walls.
Nicholas said, “Madame Badour, has Couverel made any requests which you’ve denied?”
“Hundreds. He knows most of the drug pushers in Paris. Many officials want information from him, but it always comes at a price. Cigarettes, privileges, television. His most fervent demand, however, is beyond my control.”
“What does he want?”
“A transfer to Clairvaux Prison. Out of Paris, out of this—” She broke off, swinging her hand around, and finished with a short “muck.”
“And if I could make this happen? Would he be more cooperative?”
She studied him for a moment. “You must have sway with the French authorities.”
Nicholas said, “Enough.”