7 Steps to Midnight (24 page)

“Hey!
Vas-y! Bouge ton cul!
” a voice snapped behind him.

He whirled and saw a florid heavyset man in white cook’s garb glaring at him. Chris stared at him blankly, then winced as the cook advanced on him. He glanced aside to see if the Middle Easterner was coming in. He wasn’t.

The cook pulled the knife from Chris’s hand, returned it to its rack and gestured toward the corridor. “
Qu’est-ce que tu fous?
” he growled.

“
Pardon
,” Chris murmured, looking toward the swinging doors again. The Middle Easterner was still not coming in; what did that mean?

He edged to the doors and peered across the one on his left. He felt his stomach muscles jerking spasmodically. The man was sitting at a table, waiting for him. Apparently, he was not inclined to face a repetition of what had happened in the other café.

The other café
, Chris thought, grimacing in pain. Was the tall man lying dead there, his blood running over the tile floor? Where were the police whistles, the pursuit?

He jerked around with a hiss as the cook grabbed him by the shoulder. He didn’t really hear what the cook said, he was so agitated, but clearly the man wanted him out of his kitchen.

“
S’il vous plaît
,” he muttered.

“
S’il vous plaît, mon cul
,” the cook responded in a surly voice. He held open one of the swinging doors. “
Vas-y!
”

Chris could only gape at him.
I can’t go out there
, he thought.
I’ll be killed.
He shuddered. He had to do something to save
himself.
Come
on! he thought.
You’re supposed to have a brain! Use it!

The cook grabbed him by the arm and, suddenly, Chris yanked free, face distorting as he snarled, “
Va te faire foutre!
”

Apparently, he had remembered correctly from the book on French profanity he’d once read because the cook looked startled and intimidated, backing off.
Now don’t retreat
, Chris ordered himself. He made a hostile gesture with his right hand as though waving back the cook. The heavy, red-faced man drew back several steps. Obviously, he was a bully with no real confidence, Chris decided.

He glanced across the swinging door again.
Goddamn the man!
he thought in sudden fury. He was actually having a drink while waiting for Chris to come out of the kitchen, not even looking in that direction.

Chris turned back. Think! he screamed at his mind.

Night of the Ninja
, the memory sprang up.

Would it work here?

He drew in shuddering breath. What other choice did he have? It was that or death.

He looked around quickly and saw a dark raincoat and a hat hanging on a wall peg. With an abrupt movement, he pulled them down.

The cook started forward, and Chris twisted around, forcing a glare to his face. “
On ne bouge plus
,” he said in a low, menacing voice. The cook backed off again, looked shocked.

Chris glanced across the swinging doors again. The Middle Easterner was gazing out at the street.
Bastard
, he thought.

Moving quickly, he pushed through the swinging doors and, pulling open the door to the men’s washroom, stepped inside and locked the door behind him, heart jolting heavily again. What was this doing to his blood pressure? he wondered.
What the hell difference does that make?
he thought angrily.
A knife blade in my heart will kill me a lot faster than hypertension.

All right, all right
, he told himself.
Do it.

Hastily, he pulled on the dark raincoat and hat. He’d have to
move fast before the cook said something to the waiter and his hoped-for ploy was undone before it started.

Thank God the man who owned the coat—the cook, the waiter?—was bigger than him. He buttoned it to the neck, then stopped and ran the fingers of his right hand over the wall behind the toilet. A health inspector would go crazy in this place, he thought as he rubbed oily grime on his face, looking into the small wall mirror.

He had to rub the wall behind the toilet twice more before he had enough grime smeared onto his face to cover all of it. He then tore off pieces of toilet paper and stuffed them into his mouth, bulging out his cheeks. It had worked in the novel but would it work in real life? It seemed improbable to him.

He looked at his reflection analytically. Well, he
did
look different, there was no doubt of that. He felt something in the pocket of the raincoat and pulled out a glasses case.
Good
, he thought. He slid the glasses free and put them on. That helped even more.

He drew in a deep, bracing breath.
Now or never, Barton
, he thought.

Opening the door, he stepped into the corridor, glancing toward the kitchen. The cook, thank God, was still there, looking across the swinging doors, an expression of fear on his face.

Chris shuffled into the café, slumping over.
Yes
, he thought as the idea came to him. He started to act like a man beset by stomach gas. He belched loudly, kept moving, shoulders hunched, a look of discomfort on his face. The Middle Easterner glanced at him and turned away.
My God, it’s working!
Chris thought exultantly. He forced himself to belch again.

Seconds later, he was walking casually along the street, leaving the café behind. For a few minutes, he felt sure that the man would realize he’d been tricked, that Chris had walked by him, ineptly disguised.

Amazingly, it didn’t happen. Once, Chris even stopped and got down on one knee to retie a shoe, glancing back to see if the Middle Easterner was after him. He wasn’t. Where was the man
from? he wondered as he stood to continue on. Egypt? Iran? Libya? He had no way of knowing.

Unexpectedly, a laugh tore back his lips. By God, it had worked, he thought.
Night of the Ninja
, for Christ’s sake! Who would have believed it?!

A few minutes later, he was able to hail a taxicab. At first, he didn’t know what to tell the driver. Then he realized that he had little choice. He had to go back to the Penta Hotel in hope that someone would pick him up there, take him to safety. At the very least, he had to pick up his bag and find safety himself.

He slumped back against the seat and closed his eyes as reaction set in. Had he really done it? The memory seemed farfetched, unbelievable.

Then gloom set in again. The pleasure of his escape had already faded. He was still in Paris, still caught in the web of what was happening to him.

At any moment, he could be pounced on again.

At the last minute, Chris decided to tell the driver to let him off down the street from the hotel. Better to come walking up in this disguise, he thought. Inept as it was, it would call less attention to him if he entered the hotel on foot.

He paid the driver and started walking down the block, hunching over again. It was dark now. Anyone watching for him should be thrown off a little more by the lack of visibility.

No one even glanced at him as he entered the hotel. He walked, using the shuffle again, across the lobby and stood in front of the elevators. A cluster of Japanese tourists were standing there. When the elevator doors opened, they charged in before the occupants—also mostly Japanese tourists—could get out.
Banzai
, Chris thought as he shouldered himself in among them. He couldn’t resist working up a belch as the door slid shut. He pretended he didn’t see their looks of distaste.

He stood in silence to the seventh floor, managing to raise another belch as he exited. “Par
don
,” he said as though pardoning himself was the last thing in the world he had in mind.

He walked to his room and listened at the door to hear if there were any sounds inside. When there was nothing, he turned the key in its lock and, bracing himself for a possible struggle, and shoved the door open so hard it banged against the wall.

There was no one in the room that he could see. Leaving the door ajar, he edged forward and peered cautiously into the bathroom. It was empty.

As fast as he could, he tossed his discarded clothes into the bag and zipped it shut, then started for the door. A thought occurred
to him and, closing the door, he moved to the telephone, picking up the handset.

“
Operatrice
,” a woman’s voice said.

“This is Room 729,” Chris said. “Are there any messages for me?”

There was a pause before the woman said, “
Oui, monsieur.
An Alexsandra Claudius left a message.”

Chris tightened. They were after him again.

“She said that, upon your return, to please meet her in the hotel bar.”

He shuddered; he’d walked right by the entrance to the bar.

He thanked the operator and hung up. Quickly, he picked up his bag and moved to the door, hesitated before jerking it open. There was no one in the corridor.

Closing the door behind him, he strode hurriedly to the elevator and pushed the button. He’d have to pass the bar one more time, he thought. The idea chilled him. Who was in there? More Middle Easterners waiting with concealed knives? “Jesus,” he muttered.

Another ride down with a group of Japanese tourists. This time, he didn’t play the part of the gas-ridden man but they edged away from him anyway. His nose curled as he sniffed. It was the grime he’d smeared on his face; it had the definite aroma of a toilet.

He braced himself for the onslaught as the elevator reached the lobby floor. The doors slid open and he lunged out determinedly, prepared for collision. There was only one Japanese couple standing outside; they shrank away from him in alarm as he came charging from the elevator.
Great
, he thought, looking around nervously.
That’s what you need to do, call attention to yourself.

He had to force himself not to hurry across the lobby. He visualized what he must look like, a ridiculous sight at best, his so-called disguise stupidly transparent.

But he made the front door with no one exiting the bar to challenge him. There was a line of guests outside again, waiting
for taxis; he wouldn’t stand on line this time. He shambled away from the hotel and started along the sidewalk.

As he walked, an unexpected wave of depression swept over him. What in the name of God was he supposed to do now? The only possibility he could come up with was to hire a cab to the airport and return to Arizona. What else was there?

He was trying in vain to make up his mind as he walked when a car quickly pulled over to the curb and braked beside him. His head jerked around and he looked at it with dread. Inside the car, a figure leaned over from the driver’s seat and shoved open the passenger door.

Chris gaped in disbelief.

“Get in,” said Alexsandra.

He stood immobile, staring at her.

“
Quickly
, Chris,” she told him.

Twitching, he bent over and tossed his bag on the backseat, then slid onto the passenger seat and reached for the door handle. Before the door was shut, Alexsandra was accelerating quickly into the street.

He looked at her in grateful wonderment. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he said.

She reached out and squeezed his arm. “I’m here,” she told him.

The sound of her voice made something break inside him. The involuntary sound he made was something between a gasp and a sob.

“Are you all right?” she asked in concern.

“I’ve been through a bit,” he said.

“I want to hear all about it,” she said, “but let me get us somewhere safe first.” She was looking into the rearview mirror as she spoke.

“Oh, God, don’t tell me we’re being followed,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “But I want to be sure.”

The car sped down beneath an overpass. As it did, Chris glanced aside and saw enough of his reflection in the window glass to make him start. “Wait a minute,” he said.

“What is it?” she asked.

“
How did you know it was me?
” For a moment, he had the wild suspicion that she was in league with the Middle Easterner, who had finally realized that it had been him passing in disguise and had let her know about it.

“I didn’t at first,” she was saying. “I was parked by the hotel, hoping you’d come back; I’d been told you went to Montmartre.”

“That man,” Chris said impulsively.

“What man?” she asked.

“The one who met me there. The one who got stabbed. I thought you might know if he’s alive or not.”

He could see from the way she looked at him that all of this was news to her. “My God, what have you been through?” she murmured.

He started to tell her but she stopped him again, telling him she wanted to get them someplace safe before they spoke.
Is
there someplace safe? he wondered bitterly.

“Anyway, I was waiting for you to come back to the hotel,” she continued. “I actually looked at you and didn’t recognize you. What made you do that to yourself? No, don’t tell me,” she went on quickly, frowning at herself. “I can’t concentrate yet.”

“But how
did
you recognize me?” he demanded.

“I didn’t,” she said. “I recognized the bag you were carrying. Then I took a closer look, driving along behind you.”

Chris fell silent after that. Now don’t start being suspicious of
her
as well, he told himself. Wasn’t the nightmare bad enough without adding that?

After several moments, he took off the hat and glasses, withdrew the soggy toilet paper from inside his cheeks and put it in the floor wastebasket. Unbuttoning the raincoat, he took out his handkerchief and started wiping the grime off his face. “Yes, please,” said Alexsandra, glancing over.

“Smells bad, doesn’t it?” he said.

“Atrocious.”

He hadn’t paid attention to where she was driving. The first thing he became conscious of was greenery surrounding them.

“The park?” he asked. He couldn’t keep a trace of uneasiness from his voice. Anything could happen in a park, he thought.

She nodded at his question, then drove another ten minutes before turning into a cul-de-sac and braking the car. In spite of himself, Chris tensed as though preparing to defend himself.