“Did any of your colleagues speak to him?”
“I think so, but he couldn’t tell anything, or didn’t want to—he knew Jean Sainval was dead, and had his suspicions about how.”
Dan drank and Florian topped up both glasses.
“So, we can have all the suspicions we like about who killed Sabine Merel and why Jack Redford went on the run, but there’s no proof, no witness . . .”
“Apart from Gaston Bergeron.”
“Who didn’t know anything.”
“Who didn’t say anything. I don’t know even if he’s still alive—he would be quite old by now, but sometimes old men talk more than young ones.”
“Do you know how I could get in touch with him, if he is still alive?”
“Let me see.” He got up, taking his phone out as he walked over and leaned on the far end of the bar.
He spoke briefly into the phone and then put it on the bar and chatted amiably with the two barmen, laughing and joking about something. Maybe he was a regular here or just the kind of raffish charmer who could drop into any drinking hole around the world and make new friends.
Even from there, Dan saw the phone light up a few minutes later. Florian answered, then gestured to the barman who hastily furnished him with a pen and a piece of paper.
When Florian came back he was smiling, and as he handed over the piece of paper, he said, “Still alive. He retired back to the village he came from, in Burgundy, not far from Auxerre.”
“Thanks, I’ll head out there tomorrow.”
“And if he can’t help, or won’t?”
Dan thought it through quickly, realizing they were running out of leads, but knowing he could only count on one outcome.
“As long as Brabham’s still in circulation I’ve got the dot on me. If I can help Patrick to rein him in, great, if not . . . I won’t go down easy.”
“I like your style. But the reason I ask is, it might also be an idea to speak to Eliot Carter, if you haven’t already.”
“Eliot Carter? I’ve never heard of him. Who is he?”
Florian responded with a look of mixed disappointment and superiority, and said, “An American, living here in Paris, in Le Marais. He was CIA a long time ago, but his special skill was forgeries, documents, passports. He did a lot of work for Redford, but they were good friends too.”
Dan checked his watch, conscious that his own time had a limit set to it, and said, “You think I could see him now, tonight?”
Florian smiled, took his phone out and put in a call. He kept his seat this time, which made Dan wonder why he’d wanted to shield the other call from him. A brief exchange followed and he ended the call.
“He’s expecting you.”
“Good, thanks. What’s the address?”
“It’s on the back of the piece of paper I gave to you. Almost like the old days, no?” He looked lost in thought for a moment, the appearance of someone remembering his own past, then seemed to come back to himself, and said, “Is Habibi dead or hidden away in Guantanamo?”
“He’s dead. His heart gave out under interrogation. Romania.”
Florian shrugged and said, “Just curious. He wasn’t a French citizen. It’s only that he was in Paris when he disappeared.”
“A lot of people seem to disappear in Paris.”
“That’s true. And, Dan, if this doesn’t work out, you should make yourself one of them.”
He knew Florian was right, and he’d spent his whole life disappearing, but it felt desperate now, as if the stakes were much higher. And it wasn’t even the fantasy of there being a possible relationship with Inger to consider—if anything, it was because he knew it was a fantasy that he now so urgently wanted to change his life.
Chapter Twenty-seven
He jumped in a cab not far from the bar and traveled the short distance to Eliot Carter’s apartment, conscious of having left Inger alone too long already, not knowing how safe she would be. He was buzzed up but had to ring the bell when he got to the third floor. He could hear some sort of North African music playing inside.
The door was opened by a young and skinny Arabic guy in a tight T-shirt that looked three sizes too small, and low-slung white jeans, a stretch of midriff visible between the two. His features looked incredibly delicate and feminine, and then Dan realized it was because they’d been subtly highlighted with makeup and eye-liner.
At first he thought he’d got the wrong apartment, but after looking him up and down the young guy smiled and said, “Are you Eliot’s friend?”
Dan guessed the answer was yes so he nodded and was shown in. Eliot was lounging in a Moroccan-themed sitting room, as if modeling his expat existence on the life of Paul Bowles, and when he spoke he had the same slightly arch, over-fussy American accent.
“How do you do, Mr. Hendricks? Do excuse me not getting up. Georges tells me you want to talk about Jack.”