16

The last time Carver looked, there hadn’t been a cab visible anywhere. But no sooner had Alix stepped up to the curb than a white Peugeot 406 with a Taxi Parisien sign on its roof was screeching to a halt beside her. She smiled again, this time at the driver, who beamed back. He looked North African. His head was pumping back and forth to the sound of Arab dance music pounding at top volume from the tiny stereo.

“Rai,” he said, thumbing at the stereo. “Good music!”

Carver was about to ask him to turn it down, but changed his mind. The noise would make it impossible for the driver to overhear any conversation he might have with Alix.

“Sure,” he said. “Good music. Gare de Lyon, s’il vous plaît.”

The grand old station, with its clock tower that resembled a miniature French version of Big Ben, served as the starting point for trains to the Alps, Switzerland, and Italy. “Attendez ici un moment,” Carver told the cabbie when they arrived. He grabbed the computer case, half-opened the door, and then turned back to Alix. “Give me your bag, I’ll stow it too. Won’t be a minute.”

She rummaged in the bag and took out her cigarettes, lipstick, a compact, and mascara. “Essential supplies,” she said. “I must fix my face. And you know, you should do the same. Use the bathroom while you are in there.”

Carver gave her a puzzled shrug, then got out of the car. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said before walking into the station, toward the left luggage lockers.

Afterward, as he looked into the men’s room mirror under the harsh neon light, he realized what Alix had meant. His face was streaked with grime and sweat and there was concrete dust in his hair. No wonder Max had been so mocking about his appearance—he was a total mess. He splashed himself with cold water, ran wet fingers over his scalp, then took another look in the mirror. Big improvement.

Back in the cab, Alix was applying her lipstick. She checked her glossy scarlet mouth in the mirror of her powder compact, then handed all her makeup to Carver with a mock-ingratiating smile. He noticed she had somehow persuaded the driver to turn the music down a fraction.

“Okay,” she said, as he stuck her makeup in his pockets. “Where are we going?”

He grinned. “Good question. Let’s see if our man here has any ideas.” He leaned forward and spoke to the cabbie. To Alix’s surprise, Carver’s French was fluent. He could chat to the driver, even crack a couple of jokes. Between them, they seemed to come up with a satisfactory answer. Carver gave the North African a last encouraging pat on the shoulder and sat back in the seat. “He says he knows just the place.”

“So,” he continued, turning to face her, looking her straight in the eye, “why did you come back? You know, back at the house. Why didn’t you just run away?”

“Where to?”

She glanced at the driver, then leaned toward Carver to make sure she could not be overheard. Her voice was low and urgent. Carver caught a glimpse of the driver’s face, looking at them in the rearview mirror, assuming theirs was just another lovers’ backseat conversation.

“When you ran up the stairs, you went so fast I could not keep up,” she explained. “Then I heard the shots and realized there were people up there. I thought, okay, maybe I can go back out through the gates, but the car was in the way, about to explode. So then I did not know what to do. I guess I was in a panic. I could hear the shouts from outside, then the man running down the stairs. I had to hide, so I just went through the door the other men had come out of. The men you shot. . . .”

She paused for a second.

“Anyway, I went through there and I could see some stairs in front of me and I remembered about the place having back stairs. I thought I would take those and find out what had happened to you. If I could help you escape, maybe we would have a chance. And, well, you know about the rest. . . .”

“Well, I’m glad you did, anyway.”

“So am I. I mean . . . that sounds terrible. People are dead. But I am glad. Does that make me a bad person?”

“No worse than the rest of us,” he said.

They were driving up the Boulevard de Sebastopol when Carver saw the green neon sign of an all-night pharmacy and told the driver to stop.

“Sorry,” he said to Alix. “One last interruption.”

He walked into the store and bought some eyeglasses—the weakest prescription he could find—a pair of scissors, and three packs of wash-in hair color: black, brunette, and red. Alix was going to lose that long blond mane. It was a pity, but it might just keep her alive.

“What did you get?” she asked him when he got back into the cab. “A little protection, maybe? In case you get lucky tonight?”

“Protection, yeah, for you.” He showed her his purchases in their paper bag. “You can be anything you like, but not blond.”

He said it like a man who expected an argument. But Alix didn’t fuss. “Okay. I’m not the same woman I was an hour ago. I’m not wearing the same clothes. Why should I have the same hair?”

They got to the destination Carver had negotiated with the cabbie, a club just off Sebastopol. There was no name visible anywhere, but the entrance was underneath a high arch. Two golden statues of women in classical robes held up lanterns on either side of the door. A throng of people pressed up against the gold-tipped black railings in front of the club, begging to get in. From the looks on their faces, most of them were begging in vain.

“Damn!” muttered Carver. “Should’ve thought of that.”

Alix said nothing. She seemed completely unperturbed. She just got out of the cab, smoothed down her dress, tossed back her hair, and walked straight through the crowd to the entrance.

There was a bouncer at the door: 250 pounds of West African muscle in a silver gray suit. He took one look at Alix and unhooked the rope that was keeping the masses at bay. She swept in like a movie star. Carver tried to follow her.

The bouncer stopped him. Carver leaned forward and said a few words in French. Then he tucked something into the breast pocket of the bouncer’s jacket. The man paused a moment, letting Carver sweat, then waved him in too.

“What were you saying?” asked Alix.

“I told him I was your bodyguard. Then I slipped him a hundred bucks.”

“Hey! It was me who saved your life, remember?”

“Sorry. That bit of the story slipped my mind. Come on, let’s eat.”

Within seconds of walking into the club, Carver had noted three possible exit routes. He’d spotted two groups of men who might be threats. And he’d discovered there was some kind of restaurant upstairs. Another hundred-dollar bill for the maître d’ bought them a corner table with clear sightlines. If anybody came for them, Carver would get plenty of warning. He handed Alix the scissors and dye.

“Go and do, you know, whatever it takes.”

“I could be a while.”

“That’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

Carver watched Alix disappear toward the ladies’ room. Then he summoned a waitress and ordered a double Johnnie Walker Blue Label, no ice. He didn’t know how many more drinks he’d get to have. He might as well stick to good ones.