The Paris Architect: A Novel

“Keep your head down, you goddamn idiot.”

“You know he wants to give us away. You know that, don’t you, Remy?”

“I hope he does, Albert. It’ll give me a good excuse to put one in his brain pan,” whispered Remy into Lucien’s ear.

Remy had been peeking over the top of a pallet of bricks when Lucien decided to take a look at the factory for himself. After all, it was his building. But Remy shoved him back down to the muddy ground. Seconds later, Remy crouched down next to him.

“The guard’s just finished his rounds; he won’t be back inside for another half hour,” Remy said to Albert, treating Lucien as if he were invisible, even though he was sitting between them.

“That’s not enough time to set these charges,” said Lucien.

“I told you to shut your mouth, Monsieur Architect. You’re just here to tell us the best place to set the plastique inside there,” said Albert.

Lucien was indignant; this was no way to talk to a professional man. These guys were just lower-class slum rats from Paris. No education or breeding, and stinking Communists to boot. That was the problem with the war: it had upset the social order.

“Unroll that drawing and show us those columns again,” commanded Remy, who pulled a lighter out of his jacket pocket.

Lucien had the drawing flat on the ground and pointed to the four columns he’d already indicated with a red pencil.

“Just these four columns will bring the whole structure down.”

“I never could read architectural plans, so you’re coming in,” said Remy.

“But Armand said I could wait outside.”

“Would you listen to this jerk, Albert? What a goddamn coward.”

“Some patriot of France. Let’s kill him after the job. We can say the Boche guard did it,” snarled Albert.

“Listen, asshole,” said Remy, grabbing Lucien by his collar. “Armand isn’t here, so I’m running the show, and you’re going in there.”

“All right, all right. I’ll go.” He wriggled out of Remy’s grasp.

“We’re wasting time; we’ve got to get moving,” urged Albert.

“Where’s the best place to enter?” said Remy.

“We can go to the left around those pallets and get through the door on the south side.”

“Is it locked?”

“None of the doors are in yet.”

“All right, get moving,” said Remy, shoving Lucien forward. The three men crawled on their hands and knees around the pallets, which Lucien thought was overly dramatic. They could have stooped over and still not be seen. Albert carried the canvas bag with the plastique, and Remy had the one containing the detonator and the spool of wire. Once inside the plant, Lucien had a hard time getting his bearings; because of the moonless night, it was pitch dark in there. It reminded him of the blackouts in the cinema, where you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.

“Which way?” hissed Remy, irritated at Lucien’s hesitation.

“Hold on, hold on,” Lucien said as his eyes got used to the dark. “Follow me.”

The two men followed him to the last column at the far edge of the plant.

“Right here,” said Lucien, pointing to the base of the column. Remy expertly placed the charge and set the wire from the spool into the blob of explosive. Lucien was greatly impressed with his speed and dexterity.

“Hey, you’re very good at this,” said Lucien.

Remy scowled at him. “What are you? My mother? I don’t need your goddamn seal of approval.”

“Which one next?” demanded Albert.

“We’ll do this in a zigzag pattern,” whispered Lucien. “Two rows over at the opposite end.”

“You’re positive this will bring it down?” asked Remy.

Lucien was insulted by such a question. “I was first in my class in structural engineering. Of course I’m sure.”