“Haven’t the flics briefed the press?” asked Martine. “Enlisted the public’s help?”
“And reveal how lax and incompetent they’ve been? Fat chance.” Aimée tried to catch the server’s attention for the bill. “Easier to label her a runaway. Please, Martine. Either Zazie’s locked up somewhere, or …” She wouldn’t say it. “… the rapist tried again last night. Thank God the girl got away.”
Martine nodded, determination glinting in her eyes. “Right up Nadine’s alley. She loves scraping the cobbles with the police. She’ll run after the scent like a rabid dog.”
Foaming at the mouth worked for Aimée.
“Plus,” Martine added, “she’d owe me some contacts I need.”
A journalist to the core.
Aimée threw a wad of francs near her half-finished plate and started to rise. Martine touched her wrist. “Word of caution, Aimée. Nothing’s sacred to her—people get singed. But if someone’s going to expose corruption, better she does than I do.”
“Exactement. Down and dirty. It’s about finding Zazie now—anything that works.”
Martine had already started to dial. “Where and when?”
“Below Place Saint-Georges, corner of Notre-Dame de Lorette and rue Laferrière in the ninth. Can she get there within the hour with a crew?”
“Less. The vans are very mobile. With luck one of the news agencies will pick it up. Maybe a nice little crowd.”
She grabbed Martine’s other hand. “Désolée, Martine,” she said. “I’m the one who’s not been a good friend, so wrapped up, preoccupied …”
“That’s what best friends do—give and take, eh? And don’t let salauds mess with little girls.”
Tuesday, noon
ZACHARIé’S HEAD HIT the crumbling ceiling in the low, dark tunnel under the H?tel Drouot. He cursed. He hated the mildew and crusty dirt miasma. His fingers trembled. He balled them in a fist to stop shaking. No good. So he shoved his hands in his jacket pockets.
Time to get his bearings, calm his nerves for the dry run. Otherwise the job would go up in smoke. What else could he do? His shirt, damp with perspiration, stuck to his spine.
“We’re done,” Dervier said, his forked tongue darting in full view. “Tunneled and drilled last night. Piece of gateau.”
Professionals. Jules wouldn’t have needed Zacharié at all. Except for the cherry on top.
The cherry of a job that guaranteed Marie-Jo’s release. Zacharié’s gang only knew a part of the plan, only part of the risk. For a moment he was wracked by guilt. Not that he had known the whole plan when he’d had them hired.
“And at short notice,” he said. “I’m impressed. Good job.”
“I know the tunnels,” Dervier said. “We’ll enter via the cistern chutes that run here like wet dogs.” Under the city lay ancient mines, quarries and series of passageways threaded by tunnels. Métro and train systems cut through old passageways hemmed by sewage and gas pipelines—a warren Dervier knew like the lines in his old mother’s face. God knew what she’d done down here during the Occupation, with the rumored black market, the brothels and the hiding places for Jews—all available for whoever could pay.
Dervier raised nine fingers.
Nine hours to the heist.
Dervier timed their practice run based on the job’s outlined scope—a robbery of the underground vault that should take fifteen minutes once they’d broken in. What Dervier did not yet know was that as the team emptied it, Zacharié would gain entry via the vault into the Ministry’s temporary storeroom, in the building behind the one they were breaking into. That was Zacharié’s special job. To take the thing Jules had hired him to steal.
Dervier clicked his stopwatch. “Fifteen minutes and forty seconds.”
“Ask me if I’m surprised, Dervier.” He summoned a grin, nudged him. “You’re the best.”
Each of the crew had his own motivation to succeed. Dervier faced a mountain of medical bills. Gilou itched for the thrill and getaway. Ramu, gambling debts. Tandou, the tunneler, zut, this was how he earned, with three kids and another on the way.
No margin for errors. The “supplemental” plans Jules had given him lay damp against his shirt under his jacket, directing him to the real object he’d been hired to deliver. He’d planned to add the change to Dervier’s itinerary at the last minute. He needed to get the team through the beginning of the plan first.
“Forget the big paintings and sculptures,” said Dervier. The team nodded in approval. “Remember, we’re going for the portable objets d’art, silver and jewelry.”
No doubt Dervier had his fence lined up. But he’d noticed Zacharié’s look. “Don’t give me a sad face, Zacharié. Every object’s valued and insured. Half of the coots whose names’re on the little tags have passed away. Think of it as a gift from the grave to their descendants. Old grand-père’s forgotten gold watch suddenly becomes an insurance windfall.”
Let Dervier rationalize. Jules had taken his Marie-Jo as hostage. Zacharié had no choice.
In the cold, dank tunnel, he felt a sheen of perspiration on his upper lip, his stomach in knots.
He pulled out the diagram Jules had given him.
“What’s this?” Dervier asked, shining his flashlight.
“Just between us. It’s an add-on to the plan. I need you to open those back exits, like here and here,” said Zacharié, pointing.
“Tell me you’re joking, Zacharié. There’s fifteen tons of concrete laid there after rue Papillon sunk in the RER excavations,” said Dervier. His tongue flicked. “See.” Cement supports shone in the bobbing yellow beam from Dervier’s flashlight. “They evacuated the whole street, and still people died. Now they run a Fête des Papillons to make people forget. As if they could.”
“Allez, Dervier, you’ve got the equipment, work around it. Not that difficult.”
“In eight hours?”