He had just taken a huge chance, back at the café. If word of his betrayal ever got back to Escher, or God forbid Emil Rigaud, he’d vanish as thoroughly as the Turks had. You didn’t erase Rigaud’s emissaries without, eventually, being called to account.
But damn them all, he thought, as he paced the platform. God damn the whole organization. He had been systematically sucked in, his career destroyed, his reputation shot. And all in the service of what? He was damned if he could even remember how Rigaud and Linz had ever sold him such a lunatic bill of goods. Blood-purification rituals, a mysterious essence called vril, endless cell rejuvenation. Not to mention the promise of untold riches and universal acclaim as the doctor behind it all. Lunacy, pure lunacy. And all he could muster, in defense of his own actions, was that he hadn’t been himself back then. He had been writing himself far too many prescriptions, for a host of potent drugs. But still … what had he come to? A man of his gifts, reduced to traipsing after a couple of supremely na?ve academics as they strolled, oblivious, through a veritable minefield. What a waste.
A train rumbled in on the opposite track, but after it left, the platform was empty. Julius looked around, but on his side the only other people waiting were a couple of Muslim women, their scarves tied tightly around their hair. Europe was changing, he thought. Perhaps he should consider emigrating. On the wall, there was a travel poster for New Zealand. Would that be far enough away to escape his past?
When the next train came, he got on, glad of the warmth, but still keeping a wary eye out. Ever since Escher had shown up on his doorstep, he’d had to keep looking over his shoulder. But after all the killing, brutality, and deception he’d seen over the past week, he’d finally done something to expiate the guilt. He had entered something on the other side of the ledger. He just wasn’t sure if he’d gotten through to them. The girl had a combative streak, he could see that, and the man—David Franco—looked, despite his spectacles and scholarly demeanor, like a man on a mission. A mission, Julius thought, that could still wind up costing him his life if he didn’t take the warning to heart.
At his stop, he got out quickly, scurried up the stairs, and out onto a seedy street in the Pigalle section of the city. Escher had checked them into a hotel where he was clearly a regular customer—the ancient lady at the concierge desk had given him a toothless smile while sliding a room key across the counter.
“Your usual, monsieur.”
Escher had thanked her and slipped her some money.
Their room, on the top floor and facing the front, was furnished with double beds, threadbare carpeting, and a view of an alleyway. But as he approached, Julius saw that the lights in the room were on, which meant Escher had returned from his visit to the Crillon and would be awaiting word on what David and Olivia had been up to. Julius had not wanted to go too close to the town house—he could see a camera above its door—but he had texted Escher the location and address.
He plodded up the creaking staircase, already editing in his mind what he was going to say, and looking forward to a pot of hot tea, when he opened the door and saw Emil Rigaud standing between the beds, slipping a cell phone back into his pocket.
“We’ve been waiting,” Rigaud said, and it was then that Julius took note of the young man with a scar across his neck—it looked as if someone had once tried to cut his throat—lurking just behind the open door. The man shoved the door closed with his foot, then stood in front of it like a sentry. Another man, in a white shirt and red tie, emerged from the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel. Julius could hear the water running in the tub.
“Monsieur Rigaud, what an unexpected pleasure,” Julius fairly stammered.
“It is?”
“Of course, of course,” Julius said, his heart hammering in his chest. Rigaud was seldom the bearer of glad tidings. “But what are you doing here?” Gesturing around the shabby room, he tried to make a joke. “As you can see, I am traveling budget class.”
Rigaud didn’t crack a smile. “I’ll tell you why I’m here,” he said, though Julius was still focused on that water running in the tub. “I came up to Paris to see why you and your friend have been making such a hash of things.”
Rigaud was nearly fifty, but in admirable shape—taut, lean, wearing one of his hand-tailored suits. Only his hair—dyed a too-bright blond—struck a discordant note.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Julius said, his mouth going dry and his pulse pounding. He had a momentary thought of trying to bolt past the guard at the door, or even of getting out the window and onto the fire escape.
“Sit down,” Rigaud said, slinging a wooden chair in front of the clanking radiator.
“If I may just take off my coat first?” Julius said, his mind racing, as he placed it and his hat on the end of one bed.
The tub was still filling.
Julius took the seat, the man at the door moving to stand just behind his chair.
“First there’s that little mix-up in Florence, with Ahmet and his friends.”