of a new moon.
Carlson drawled, “Guess it wasn’t such good luck, after all.”
“Maybe not for him,” Harry Middleton said. “But it might be for us.”
2
Pierre Crane had spent months working toward this moment. It was odd that it would end on the outskirts of Paris, but then the investigation had been difficult and strange from the beginning.
It was 10 o’clock at night, the black sky winking with bright stars. As the taxi sped him along the Boulevard Bargue in Montfermeil, Crane stared out alertly. It was said the two Frances met here: To his left spread tidy prewar family homes with neat gardens and carefully painted black steel fences, while to the right was his destination-a public housing project of big apartment blocks 10 stories high, sheltering thousands of immigrants and their French-born children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
The tenements were called Les Bosquets, “The Groves,” evoking visions of lush natural beauty. But what Crane saw through his taxi window was an asphalt-and-concrete jungle awash with graffiti, broken sidewalks, thirsty weeds and deep shadows. This was the last stop before homelessness for those who could afford no other shelter, which helped to explain its unemployment rate perennially hovering around 50 percent.
The bleak scene only increased the oddity of Crane’s presence: The man he was to meet was wealthy and powerful and about as likely to live in Les Bosquets as a nun in a Las Vegas whorehouse.
“
The driver responded instantly, pulling to the curb and announcing the fare. He stuck out his hand. “
Pierre Crane handed over euros and climbed out into the night. Thirty-eight years old, he was tall and gangly with pasty skin, dull brown hair, a large nose and a long neck. Teased as a child because of his physical appearance, and called “The Crane” behind his back by his colleagues (he enjoyed the fact that he knew that), he had developed a quick sense of humor and an appreciation for being underestimated. In service to both, he also held a black belt in karate, about which few people knew-and had for 20 years.
Dressed casually in khaki trousers and a nylon jacket zippered up against a cool autumn wind, Crane turned slightly on the sidewalk as the taxi squealed into traffic. Keeping his gaze neutral, he watched as a half-dozen teenage boys reversed direction and headed toward him through a pool of lamplight, snapping their fingers and doing a pimp walk to Algerian hip-hop music blaring from the boom box one carried on a heavily muscled shoulder.
As they drew closer, Crane bent his knees slightly, found his balance and let his empty hands drift down to his sides, fingers unfurled.
The youths appraised him with stony gazes, their bodies still rolling and dipping.
He shrugged, grinned and touched the snap-brim of his cap.
A few seconds of surprise showed in their dusky faces. Then their tension seemed to lessen. But as they passed him, a warning drifted back-“Go home
He stared thoughtfully after them, the bulges in the hip pockets of their low-slung jeans revealing what he had suspected-they were carrying knives.
Feeling a chill, Crane reminded himself he had walked into more dicey situations than this. An investigative reporter for Reuters, he seldom talked about his successes, but back in the 1990s he had discovered vital information that helped lead to charges of war crimes against Radovan Karadzic, the alleged architect of Bosnia’s holocaust. Later he uncovered the atrocity-filled Cosa Nostra background of a top Italian presidential candidate, creating headlines across Europe and sending the politician to prison. And last year, while working on a small story he had dug up a large prize-one of Saddam Hussein’s secret caches of gold, despite having three mercenaries on his tail the whole time.
Remembering all of that, the journalist marched resolutely into Les Bosquets, his large feet eating up the distance among the towering maze of dilapidated cement tenements. Pole lamps were alight, the ones that were working. He watched women in hijabs and blousy clothing move languidly in and out of doorways, many holding babies. Radio news in Arabic chattered from an open window. High above, colorful desert robes were draped over balconies, ready to dry in the morning sun.
He sensed no danger, but still he slowed and looked around carefully. He knew he had made no mistake in the directions, but none of the buildings carried anything close to the number he needed.
He forged onward, heading toward the next corner. He turned it in time to see two youths with reckless faces negotiating a drug deal. Watching it from a front stoop was a man in a bushy black beard, who was openly cleaning a 9mm Beretta pistol. The man quickly shifted his gaze to Crane, his sharp brown eyes assessing, a hawk spotting potential prey.
Suddenly the scarred door of the facing building swung open, and three men in denim jeans and short-sleeved shirts swarmed out, cradling sub – machine guns. The weapons were Ingram Model 10s, short, compact and fitted with MAC suppressors, which reduced emergent gas velocity to subsonic level.
Pierre Crane froze.
The pair involved in the drug deal ran in opposite directions. The man with the Beretta vanished indoors. All that remained were the armed trio-and Crane.
As they stared at him, expressions grim, sweat slid down his spine. Hoping they were who he thought they might be, he said the Arabic words he had been told to say: “
The man to his right nodded. “The Scorpion will see you now.” The words were in English, and the voice was low. It was the correct response, which was all that mattered to Crane.
The guards hustled him safely up the steps and inside. The door closed with a loud thud, followed by the clicks of a battery of locks thrown into place. Clearly this was no ordinary tenement, and now the Scorpion’s insistence that the meeting be held in Les Bosquets made sense: Crane had been warned to come alone, and by walking through the labyrinth of buildings to an address that did not exist, the Scorpion’s people had had plenty of time to observe him and make certain he was not only by himself but had not been followed.
He inhaled and looked around. The foyer was old but clean, with a low ceiling. Standing in the middle of it was a fourth man, unarmed and of an entirely different sort.
“Monsieur Crane, you’re late. I trust you had no trouble.” The man was older, somewhere in his mid-50s, with an angular face, a yacht tan, and a halo of salt-gray hair, every strand in place. Crane studied the cut and fabric of his suit-charcoal gray silk with a 24-carat gold pinstripe, estimated cost $10,000. And the shoes-by Berlutti, in alligator with natural seams-at least $1,500. The tie was Hermes and worth $5,000. But it was the watch that held his attention-Patek Phillippe, $200,000, not a centime less.
Crane raised his gaze. “So I meet the Scorpion at last.”
Bright blue eyes twinkled back at him. “You’re a smart lad.” The accent was lightly British, and his manner was casually
Crane knew the drill. He lifted his arms and spread his legs. No one spoke as a guard patted him down, then a second ran an airport-style wand over him. They were inspecting him not only for weapons but for any kind of recording devices, which was fine with Crane. Over the years he had developed an extraordinary memory not only for documents but also for conversations. Few people knew he had those talents either.
“He’s clean,” the man with the wand reported.
The Scorpion had been looking away. Now he focused on Crane again. “We’ll take the elevator.”
