fixture flickered, went dark, then flickered back to life. Abelard Boutin opened the door and gestured for him to enter. Boutin was as close to a human gnome as Fisher had ever met. In his late fifties, he was five feet, four inches tall and stoop shouldered, with only a few wisps of greasy gray hair to cover a skull so dented it reminded Fisher of a golf ball. Boutin’s black-rimmed Coke-bottle glasses completed the look. Boutin cared little for appearances, Fisher had learned, at least those in the “realm of the animated,” as Boutin called it. The Frenchman had only one interest: forgery. Like a mathematical savant who lived his life immersed in numbers, Abelard Boutin lived his life for the perfection of falsification. There were plenty of forgers in France but only a handful of Boutin’s caliber.
It was that and one other trait of Boutin’s that had brought Fisher here. Boutin could be trusted to do whatever it took to keep his beloved world intact. Clients who threatened that integrity were culled from the herd.
“How can I help you today?” Boutin asked wheezily. Clearly he was a fan of Gitanes: His apartment stunk of them. He shuffled Fisher into the apartment’s sitting/ TV/work room. The center of the space was dominated by a ten-by-five-foot maple workbench equipped with all the tools of Boutin’s trade. A perpetually burning electric brazier at each end of the workbench ensured that unexpected police guests would find no documents, only the tools of an avid fly-fishing-lure maker: swing-arm halogen magnifier lamps; miniature, multiarmed clamp vices; delicate pens and paintbrushes; a high-end copier-printer; and a laminating machine — for making weather-resistant shipping labels, Boutin had explained to Fisher on their first meeting. The forgery-specific tools and supplies Boutin likely kept in a well-concealed safe.
“I need these altered,” Fisher replied, dropping the driver’s licenses for the Doucet gang down on the table.
Boutin waddled over, snatched up the licenses, studied each in turn, then shrugged. “Easy enough. You have pictures?”
Fisher handed him the strip he’d taken in a do-it-yourself photo booth.
“The usual names?” Boutin asked.
“No, these.” Fisher handed him a typewritten list.
“How soon?”
“How much?”
“Depends on how soon.”
“Later this afternoon.”
“Sixteen hundred for all.”
“Eight hundred.”
“Out of the question. Fourteen.”
“One thousand, and let’s be done with it. I’m sure you don’t want me here any longer than is absolutely necessary.”
This did the trick. Boutin waggled his head from side to side, thinking, then nodded. “Come back at five.”
Fisher walked the half mile toward the city center, to a Sixt rental car agency on Aristide Briand, rented a white Ford Fiesta, then drove north out of the city on the D931. He reached Verdun just after noon. One of the handful of forgers on par with Boutin lived in an apartment near the quai de Londres on the Meuse River.
During World War II, Verdun and Reims were informal sister cities, together having been fortified into a loosely connected defensive line. Verdun’s other claim to fame, one which was not found in many guidebooks, was that Adolf Hitler had served briefly in Verdun during World War I.
Fisher found Emmanuel Chenevier in a postage-stamp courtyard off his ground-floor apartment, apparently asleep in a redwood lounger, a copy of
“Afternoon, Sam.”
“Emmanuel.”
Chenevier was not only the one man in France who knew his true identity, but also one of the only “off the books” friends he had here. An old Cold War veteran, Chenevier had spent thirty years in the DGSE, the Direction generale de la securite exterieure (General directorate for external security). They’d become friends in the early nineties and had stayed in touch. Chenevier was a loyal Frenchman down to his bones, and while he knew Fisher had been disavowed, they’d struck a bargain: Fisher wouldn’t harm Chenevier’s beloved “Hexagone,” and Chenevier would keep his secret.
“Please sit down, Sam.” Fisher took the other lounger. “You cut your hair,” Chenevier said. “And your beard… I can’t recall the last time I’ve seen your face. You’re moving on?”
“Soon.”
“You need documents?”
“Alteration.”
“Our bargain still stands, yes?”
“Of course. Had a situation in Reims yesterday, but nothing you wouldn’t have done.”
Chenevier pursed his lips. “I saw something on the news this morning. Some injured men in a warehouse?”
Fisher nodded.
“They deserved it?”
“They deserved worse.”
“I have trouble imagining such a thing, Sam. As I recall, one of them had his arms and legs broken: tibia and femur in both legs, radius and ulna in both arms. They found him strapped to a table.”
“I thought there were three bones in the arm: radius, ulna, and humerus.”
“So there are. Sam, you frighten me sometimes.”
Fisher didn’t reply. Chenevier let it go. “Let’s go inside. I’ll make us some lunch.”
Afterward, Chenevier looked through Fisher’s take from Doucet’s warehouse, separating the items into piles: credit cards, driver’s licenses, passports, and, as Fisher had already discovered, a surprise: thirty or so cell phone SIM (subscriber identity module) cards.
“These could be handy,” Chenevier said with a low whistle. “I’ll have to check them, of course, but if even a few are usable, you’ll be like a ghost. As for the credit cards—”
“Just need them for reservations. Hotels and cars.”
“I can do that. A few of the driver’s licenses might be of use—”
“Forget those. I’ve already been to see Boutin.”
Chenevier frowned. “He’s untrustworthy, Sam. And when he sees the news about that warehouse business…”
“I know. He won’t make the call until I’m gone, though.”
Chenevier smiled. “You’re right, of course. Monsieur Boutin has a finely honed sense of self-preservation, doesn’t he? Why go to him at all?”
“I need to shake the tree. See what falls out.”
“Ah, I understand. The passports are your safest course.”
“Agreed.”
“I can get six to eight out of this bunch. When do you need them?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“
“I can give you—”
“You can give me nothing, Sam.”
“
“You look tired. Tell me: Will you ever be able to go home again?”
Fisher considered this. “I don’t know.”
From Verdun, he drove north and west, meandering his way through the villages of Forges-sur-Meuse, Gercourt-et-Drillancourt, and Montfaucon-d’Argonne before turning back toward Reims. While he doubted he would
