Back in the basement, crouched behind the AC unit, I texted Ashna, hoping my single bar of cell service would suffice. A minute later the unit chugged to life. I replaced the cover, packed my tools, and headed for the exit, sending a quick thank you to Ashna on my way out.
****
Later, the van returned to the rental company, I sat in my rented apartment and began researching the catacombs. There were official tours but they covered only a small percentage of the tunnels. Vast sections were closed off and forbidden to civilians. Artists and urban adventurers, however, had taken to breaking in, exploring, and throwing parties and events down in the dark chambers and galleries below Paris. I found an article detailing how a shadowy group had started an illegal movie house in a giant, previously unmapped cavern they came across. It was like the old rave scene in Manchester except instead of abandoned warehouses they were going literally underground. Plenty of photos and videos could be found online, posted by illicit explorers. If the door in Ortoli’s basement really connected to the catacombs it should not be too difficult to find from the other side. I would need someone to guide me though. I had a friend in Paris, an old comrade from my art school days. His name was Sebastian and he was just the kind of guy who would know someone, or at least know of someone, who could get me into the catacombs and show me around.
****
Two days later I crouched between two parked cars on a quiet street a few blocks from Ortoli’s house. I leaned against the bumper of the van behind me and rubbed my hands together. It was late, the street nearly deserted. Sebastian crouched next to me and, next to him, his friend Jabez, a documentary filmmaker working on a piece about the catacombs and the secretive groups who explored and even sometimes inhabited the tunnels. A big, meaty guy and something of a dandy, Jabez wore a midnight blue velvet suit, riding boots, and a deerstalker hat. Sebastian, as skinny, tall, and dark as I remembered him, hummed tunelessly, watching the road. It had been years but he didn’t seem to have changed. Still quiet and sardonic and happy to help a friend. I had just met Jabez but I liked him already. He proved more than willing to show us a way into the underground and help us explore. A true obsessive, he knew everything about the catacombs. We had met at a nearby brasserie and he had been talking our ears off ever since, explaining the history and the politics.
Jabez checked his watch, poked his head out to look for cars, and nodded to us. “Let’s go,” he said, standing.
We walked to the middle of the road and he carefully lifted a manhole cover with a crowbar, holding it up and motioning for us to enter. Inside, a circular shaft led straight down with ladder rungs set into the wall. Sebastian went first, then me. I looked up and saw Jabez slowly lowering the manhole with one hand while holding on to a rung with the other—an impressive feat of strength. The darkness closed in as soon as the cover was down. We all had headlamps provided by Jabez. I flicked mine on and so did the others. At the bottom of the ladder was a tunnel of fitted stone just tall enough for me. Jabez and Sebastian, both over six feet, stooped.
“This is a sewer access tunnel,” Jabez said. “Just up here we will find a door to one of the catacomb passages. I’ve entered this way a couple of times. Near here there is a good section of tunnels and rooms.” He started off and we followed. We walked about thirty feet and stopped in front of an alcove with an inset door. “Merde!” he spat. “They’ve locked it up.”
I looked over his shoulder and smiled. It was a lock I was familiar with—an Abus 82 series padlock securing a hasp that held the door closed. The Abus 82s were easy to pick but even easier to open with just a sharp steel awl. The actuator was brass so a harder metal could bite in and move it,
