The Paris Architect: A Novel

They ran the wire across the floor to the next column and set the charge, then went two rows over to the next column and then the next until all four were wired.

Albert kept looking at his watch. “Just five minutes left before he comes back, so move it, goddamn it.”

Lucien was a little surprised that Albert seemed to be losing his nerve. With Remy running the wire off the spool, they made it through the door and out past the pallets just as the wire ran out. Lucien was out of breath, and his left side began to cramp up.

“We’re too close to the building,” Albert said in a panic-stricken voice. That thought had occurred to Lucien as well.

“We’ve got no choice,” said Remy. “When it starts to blow, we run like hell toward the woods.” He quickly fastened the wire to the detonator and cranked the plunger clockwise until it could go no more.

“Here goes,” said Remy as he was about to push the plunger down.

“Wait, this is my building. Let me do it.” Lucien spoke with such authority that Remy, without the slightest bit of protest, handed him the plunger. Lucien figured that since he’d conceived the building, he alone had the right to kill it.

When Lucien pushed the plunger down, he expected an immediate bang, but it took a few seconds for the first explosion to come, then in short intervals came the other three. The columns seemed to rise up and twist in pain. Then they began to crumble, bringing down all the beautiful soaring arches Lucien had so lovingly designed. The reinforced concrete structure in turn pulled down all the brick exterior walls, sending shards of glass to the floor. Instead of running for his life, Lucien stood there mesmerized by the sight of the destruction of his creation. His heart ached at the sight of the huge pile of rubble. It was like sacrificing your own child.

“Come on, you bloody fool,” Remy screamed at Lucien from the woods. He ran back to get Lucien, yanking on his arm and snapping him out of his trance. “That’s all we need is for you to get pinched. You’d squeal your guts out.”

Lucien ran so fast that he passed both Remy and Albert on the way to the woods. When they reached the tree line, all three fell flat on their stomachs and looked back at the pile of rubble.

“You know your engineering, Bernard,” said Albert, thumping Lucien on his back.

“God, what a beautiful sight,” exclaimed Remy. “You know, Monsieur Architect, I’m so pleased with our work, I’ve decided not to kill you.”





62





“I’m sorry, Colonel. I didn’t mean to do that.”

Schlegal and Major Hermann Holweig stood over the lifeless body of Aubert, the cabinetmaker. Holweig prodded him with his boot in the hopes that he had just passed out, but the man was stone dead.

“Hermann, I told you to let up on him,” Schlegal said. “He was about to crack. But you kept on beating the hell out of him with that goddamn club of yours.”

“I’m sorry; you did tell me to stop using the club. I should’ve listened,” replied Holweig, dropping his head down in embarrassment.

“Christ, you’ve killed two people with that thing. That’s why I have Voss handle these matters. He never goes overboard like you do. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“It’s just all the bad things that have been happening to me. Losing Helena, then Alain’s murder. I just took it out on the old man,” Holweig said.

In an uncharacteristically compassionate gesture, Schlegal put his hand on Holweig’s shoulder.

“Yes, I’m sorry about your nephew. He was killed and robbed just down the block, in a call box, right?”

“Some French bastard murdered him, just for a few francs in his pocket. If I ever catch that frog, I’ll make him pay a thousand times over for what he did.”

Schlegal lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the desk.

“Your nephew—Alain—didn’t he work for Bernard, the architect?”

Holweig sat down in the chair in the far corner of the room and put his head in his hands.

“He was his right-hand man. A talented boy, right out of college. What a future that kid had before him.”