‘To be like me. And Bilal.’
At that Monique rolled her eyes again and Caitlin pushed past her, not wanting to be delayed by another tantrum. She retrieved a small backpack from the bedroom and began cramming food into it. Trail food that she’d picked up from a camping store: freeze-dried meals, more energy bars and a couple of British-surplus MRE packages. It was getting lighter outside, the glow of the fires beyond the edge of the old city were throwing less of a dramatic light on the low, scudding toxic clouds that hung over Paris. Which hung over everything, she reminded herself.
‘I am sorry…’
‘Would you for chrissakes stop saying that and pack. We have to get out of here,’ Caitlin insisted. ‘Come on.’ She led Monique through to the bedroom and pointed at another small backpack. ‘Pack clothes and food. More of the latter,’ she ordered.
‘Okay, okay. But you are wrong about Bilal. I told him what you said…’
‘A week ago that would have got you killed, but right now, slow packing is what’s threatening to end your life. Come on – move.’
Caitlin’s ears pricked up at the sound of a distant siren. Her heart jumped forward a beat, but the sound tapered off. As Monique began to fill her pack with more supplies, the American retrieved a pistol from the holdall. A Glock 19 for herself and a.38 revolver for Monique, if needed.
‘So what did he say exactly, your boyfriend, that is?’
Monique cinched shut the top flap, and flapped her arms theatrically. ‘He said you were crazy. He was very understanding. He thought the Disappearance had driven you mad. There have been many instances amongst the Americans in Germany. Suicides, breakdowns and such.’
‘So he’s in Germany? At Neukцlln, perhaps?’
Monique froze, a suspicious glare fixed on her face.
Caitlin smiled. ‘That’s right, I know where he lives. With his mom. Be cool – he is so off my to-do list now. Remember, I’m unemployed as of last week.’
The other woman eyed her doubtfully but finally swung the pack over her shoulder, ready to go. Caitlin rushed to put on a fresh pair of socks. She slipped into her old boots, donned the leather jacket she’d stolen from the hospital and loaded up. She wouldn’t normally hit the streets weighed down with so much artillery, but any encounter they had with the cops was going to turn nasty. She had no doubt that both she and Monique were on watch lists with every agency of the state by now. The only question for her was whether the state would fall apart before it laid hands on them.
She checked her watch – 5.45 a.m. Fifteen minutes until the curfew was over. Fifteen minutes they probably didn’t have.
At least the drizzle had stopped for now. She could see that the pavement and the road were still slick with acidic rain, but for now they could move about without the irritation of burning skin and stinging eyes. Caitlin checked the room for the last time, making sure they weren’t leaving some vital piece of kit behind in the rush. The GPS batteries were dead but the satellite system itself, or at least the link to it, was increasingly sketchy, so the unit stayed on the table where she’d dropped it. Between them, they knew enough of the city to get away.
There was nothing to identify her. Unless the French security service had her DNA on file somewhere, and anyway, that sort of obsessiveness was no longer necessary. She’d already been blown. Echelon was gone. She was simply looking to save her own skin now, not to maintain operational security. It was liberating in a way – she could play a lot faster and looser because there were no rules. They might just make it.
If her illness didn’t finish her off first.
As soon as they hit the street, both women were struck by the strength of the contamination still befouling the air. Caitlin had a flashback to her first time in India, when she’d stepped into a small curry house and had to step out again immediately, her eyes streaming and her throat burning from the dense mist of powdered chilli dust she’d inhaled. This wasn’t quite that bad. It was at least bearable. But the deterioration in the atmosphere was still severe. At ground level the number of dead birds was spectacular. Perhaps the night had claimed more of them. They didn’t quite carpet the ground, but it was impossible to walk in a straight line for more than a few metres without stepping on one.
‘Man,’ said Caitlin. ‘This sucks. We should have masks. Let’s get going. I want to find us a car with good filters.’
A week ago Monique would have protested and held them up. Now she nodded sombrely and hurried to keep up with her companion. Avoiding the birds, many of which still twitched and flapped feebly with the last sparks of life, slowed them down somewhat, and the noxious ether quickly burned their lungs and air passages. Caitlin had chosen an apartment in the 17th Arrondissement, north-west of the city centre, where the working-class tenements of Place de Clichy edged into the red-light district of Pigalle. There was still an abundance of smaller, cheaper rooms to be had in the area, one of the most densely populated in the capital. The brothels and strip clubs, the unlicensed bars and underground gaming halls all helped to create an outre environment where the police and other, more dangerous state actors were unwelcome.
‘Why are you doing this, Caitlin?’ Monique asked as they walked. ‘Why are you helping? Surely you could move more quickly on your own. You must still have friends left in the city, or on the continent? You could disappear.’
‘My friends have been
They stopped outside a patisserie. It should have been open by now but the shopfront remained closed and the blinds were shut.
‘I could sell you some line of bullshit, darlin’. That was a specialty of mine. You might not believe it, but I’m a
