7 Steps to Midnight (23 page)

The taxi reached a traffic circle now. The driver seemed to floor his accelerator; Chris had to clutch at the seat to keep from falling over. The circle was jammed with speeding, honking cars and taxicabs. Jesus God, he thought, what is this, a training course for Le Mans?

Suddenly, the taxi shot off to the right as though flung off by centrifugal force. To Chris’s right now was what looked like the skyscrapered downtown of any major city. “La Defense,” he thought he heard the driver say. He looked in wonderment at a huge building built like a square arch, windows spaced around its perimeter.

“The Arc de La Défense,” the driver said. “A modern version
of the Arc de Triomphe. If you look through it, you’ll see the Arc de Triomphe further down.”

Chris looked but missed it. Abruptly, then, the taxicab was speeding onto an expressway. “La Périphérique,” the driver told him. From the word periphery? Chris wondered.
The external boundary of an area
, the dictionary definition floated up into his mind.

He closed his eyes. There was nothing visible now but a wall on either side.
Great
, he thought.
Here I am in gay Paris—well, scratch
that
adjective the way things are today—okay, in chic, romantic Paris and what do I have to look at? A pair of gray walls.

He drifted into thought. The thing that bothered him most about all this, he recognized, was its lack of meaning. The one thing his mind craved in any situation was the one thing he couldn’t find in this one. Sure, he had the basics: his work, his replacement, his assisted flight. But what was
behind
it all? Who was against him? Who was helping him?

He grimaced and shook his head. Once again, the complication of Veering’s wager threw him off. Every time it seemed as though this situation might conceivably be analyzed, the wager threw a wrench into the works.

He opened his eyes, feeling the taxi ease to the right. A sign ahead read Porte de Clignancourt.

As the taxi shot off the expressway, Chris could see the city again. Somehow, they’d climbed without his noticing or feeling it, for now Paris lay far below.
Montmartre
, he thought.
Martre
he didn’t know, but
mont
meant mountain and it certainly seemed as though they were on a mountain here. It was still hazy, though the drizzle had stopped, but he could see, he estimated, twenty miles or more across the city. Another angle on the ghostlike tower. Would he have a chance to visit it? he wondered.

There was a church to his right. “Notre Dame de Clignancourt,” the driver said. “Incidentally, this is not a neighbourhood to walk in after dark.
Monsieur
should leave before then.”

Up ahead, Chris saw what he assumed was Sacré-Cœur, its many cupolas topped by a huge dome that looked as though it were made of sugar icing. “Is that—?” he started, pointing.

“Sacré-Cœur,” the driver said, nodding. He pulled the taxi over to the curb and braked hard.

Chris paid the bill, tipping the man fifteen percent; it took him a moment or two to recall the value of French currency. Then he got out of the cab and it was driven off at high speed.
So much for my spy theory
, Chris thought.

He stood motionless, looking across Paris. The vista was awesome. In addition to the Eiffel Tower, he could see the curving Seine River, La Défense, the Arc de Triomphe and what he took to be the gothic extravagance of Notre-Dame Cathedral.

He looked around then. Where was he supposed to meet Alexsandra? All she’d said was Sacré-Cœur. She hadn’t indicated whether she’d meet him inside the church or not.

“Well—” he said.

He started, gasping, as a hand clamped hard on his right shoulder. Jerking around, both hands raised to defend himself, he saw a tall man glaring at him, an expression of furious agitation on his face.

“For God’s sake!” the man said, sounding breathless. “
What the hell are you doing up here?
”

“What—?” Chris began.

He winced as the man grabbed his arm and started forcing him along the sidewalk. “Come
on
,” the man said irritably. “We can’t just stand here.” He spoke with a French accent.

Chris tried to pull free. “What are you—?”

“
Not now
,” the man interrupted. “Just move.
Move.
” Chris felt a chill across his back as the man looked around, head snapping from side to side, his expression one of apprehension.

“Who
are
you?” Chris demanded.

“Down these steps.
Vite, vite.
” The man’s fingers gouged at Chris’s arm as they started down the steps. Below, Chris saw an open area crowded with artists and tourists, some having sketches made of themselves, others purchasing silhouettes scissored from black paper.

He tried to pull away. “You’re hurting me,” he snapped.

“They will hurt you far more if they get their hands on you,” the man said curtly. Chris shuddered at his words.
They?

He said no more as the man hurried him across the area; a sign identified it as the Place du Tertre. Chris stumbled on the cobblestone paving and the man pulled him upright again. It made Chris grimace involuntarily to see the way the man kept looking around as though searching for pursuers.

Abruptly, then, he turned Chris into a café, past the outside tables. Leading Chris to the back of the inside room, he had him sit in a booth. He pointed at a side door. “Remember that,” he said.

He slid in across from Chris and looked at him as though he
couldn’t understand what was wrong with him. “I’d like to know what in the hell you are doing here,” he said. “If I hadn’t caught sight of you leaving the hotel in that taxi, you’d be here alone.”

Chris swallowed nervously. “What’s going on?” he asked, his voice thin.

“This is what I am asking
you
,” the man said sharply.

Chris stared at the man, afraid to trust him. The man was pale with a thin, black mustache, his hair dark and lank. He wore a black leather jacket and a red shirt.

“
Well?
” he demanded.

“I—” Chris broke off as the waiter approached them.

“
Messieurs?
”

“Uh…
Pastis pour moi, s’il vous plaît
,” the man told him. He looked at Chris.

“What’s that?” Chris asked.

“Licorice. Like Ouzo,” the man told him. He looked irritated at Chris’s lack of decision. “
Citronnade
,” he said quickly, gesturing toward Chris.

“
Oui. Un moment.
” The waiter turned away.

Chris started to speak but the man cut him off. “Why did you leave the hotel?” he asked. “You were supposed to stay there.”

Chris tightened angrily. “How the hell was I supposed to know what to do?” he demanded. He now believed that the man was on his side, though.

“But why Montmartre?” asked the man.

“I was telephoned.”

“By whom?”

“Uh… I don’t know if you know her. Her name is Alexsandra Claudius.”

“Who is she?” the man asked.

“She helped me in London,” Chris said.

“Well, I wouldn’t know her, then,” the man replied. “But she would not have told you to go to Montmartre.”

“
I heard her voice.
”

“You haven’t heard of voice changers?” the man asked irritably.

“Oh, my God,” Chris murmured. He
had
heard about them; read about them anyway: special integrated circuits on a telephone that could disguise a voice, even change the sound of a man’s voice to that of a woman.

“I see that you know what I am talking about,” the man observed.

“Yes, I do. But…
why
?”

“To lure you here, of course,” the man replied, leaning to his left to look toward the front of the café. “I think we are safe,” he said, leaning back. “Better we stay inside for a while though.”

“You… don’t know who this woman is,” Chris persisted.

“No—but that is no surprise,” the man said. “If your relationship with her was in London…” He gestured vaguely.

“Who called me, then?” Chris asked.

“The less you know, the better,” the man replied.

“Oh… God,” Chris muttered. Alexsandra had said the same thing. He was getting damn sick of all this secrecy.

The waiter brought their drinks and set them down. Chris’s was a glass with an inch of what looked like lemon juice, and a carafe of water. “Put some sugar in it,” the man told him. “It will be less sour.”

Yeah, sure, that’s what I’m really worried about right now
, Chris thought,
sour lemonade.
Abruptly—irrationally, it seemed—he wondered if he had taken his hypertension medication that day. He had, hadn’t he? In London? He felt a wave of mental dizziness overwhelm him. London this morning, Paris this afternoon. And three short days ago, Arizona.

“We’ll have to put you in a different hotel now,” the man said, sounding put-upon. “Obviously, they found out where you were.”

“Who the hell is ‘
they
’?” Chris asked in a low, resentful voice.

The man only shook his head.

“All right, then, if they knew I was in the hotel, why didn’t they just come and
get
me there?”

“Because they knew we were watching you,” the man said as though answering the foolish question of a child.

“
Will you please tell me what’s going on?
” Chris asked almost
pleadingly. “I keep getting shunted from place to place and never—”

The man raised a hand to silence Chris. “I only know,” he said, “that I was assigned to keep an eye on you while you were at the Penta Hotel.”

“Of course,” Chris responded.
You were only following orders.
He poured some water into the lemon juice and took a sip, face curling up at the taste. “
Jesus
,” he mumbled.

“A little sugar,” suggested the man.

Chris lifted the teaspoon off the table and picked up a little sugar with it. “Can you tell me if I’m to stay in Paris?” he asked.

He thought at first that his question had, for some inexplicable reason, startled the man. Then, suddenly, he realized that the man was looking past him, features stiffening. Chris twisted around, breath catching as he saw two men approaching the booth, their faces dark, their clothes Middle Eastern.

“
Get out of here
,” the man said quickly. “Use the side door.”

Before Chris could respond, the man was pushing to his feet. Chris saw the two strange men break into a run. Abruptly, the man was facing them. To Chris’s startlement, he saw that his carafe of water was in the man’s right hand; with a blur of movement, the man was swinging it at one of the men.

The Middle Easterner tried to avoid the blow but only managed to dodge enough to have the bottle shatter on the area between his shoulder and neck; blood sprang from the slash in crimson drops. The Middle Easterner’s legs buckled and he stumbled to one side, crashing into a table and knocking it over. The man and woman who had been sitting there sprang back in their chairs, the woman losing balance and falling back against another table with a cry of fright. Dishes, cups and glasses shattered noisily.

Chris’s gaze leaped to the second Middle Eastern man. He blinked, as—magically, it seemed—a long, thin knife blade shot up from the man’s right hand. The tall man leaped at him and grabbed at his right wrist, their shoes squeaking on the tile floor as they wrestled. The tall man glanced at Chris, his face distorted. “
Go!
” he shouted.

Catching his breath, Chris slid from the booth and lunged for the side door. As he did, he looked aside and made a sound of horror as he saw the Middle Easterner driving his knife blade straight into the tall man’s chest. His face a mask of dread, Chris yanked open the side door and ran outside; as he did, he heard another crash of dishes in the café, people screaming.

Heart pounding, he turned left and started racing along a narrow alley, almost knocking down an old man trudging toward him. “
Dieu!
” The old man shrank aside, bumping hard against the brick wall of a building, a stunned expression on his face. Chris rushed by him, heard the old man shouting after him. “
Connard!
”

He reached an intersection in the alley, slowing down enough to turn right. He glanced back, tensing, frightened, as he saw the Middle Eastern man pursuing him, lips drawn back from crooked teeth, giving him a fierce and animal-like appearance.
God!
Chris thought. The adventure wasn’t stimulating now. He was terrified.

The bottoms of his shoes made tiny singing noises on the paving as he ran, already panting for breath. He looked ahead in desperation, with no idea what to do. If he just kept running, the man would surely overtake him. To die in a Paris alley with a knife thrust in his back? It seemed a nightmare beyond belief and yet there might be only seconds before it happened.

“
No
,” he muttered, trying to pick up speed. But he was not in good condition; his job had only required sitting and thinking. Inadequate breath was burning in his lungs, a stitch beginning to stab at his left side. He wouldn’t be able to run much longer.

He raked around another corner and, on impulse, dashed into a small café, almost knocking down a waiter carrying a tray of glasses. “Aiee!
Fais gaffe!
” the waiter snarled at him. Chris kept running, reaching a narrow corridor. Should he lock himself inside the men’s room, climb out a window? What if there
was
no window? He kept running and slammed through two swinging, shuttered doors into the kitchen. He’d go out the back door, try to—

He staggered to a halt, with a stricken expression. There was no back door.

He was trapped.

It isn’t true.
His mind rejected what was happening. Such things did not take place. His life in total jeopardy? The probability of violent death? He was only thirty-seven years old, for Christ’s sake!

Chris looked back across the swinging doors and saw the Middle Eastern man come striding into the café; there was no sign of the knife now. Chris stepped back against the wall, heart jolting.
My God, what do I
do
?
he thought. His gaze jumped around and, seeing a knife rack on the wall, he stepped over to it, pulling out a long carving knife.
You’re insane!
he heard his mind protest.
You don’t know how to defend yourself with a knife!