Transporter

By Stephan Michael Loy

Deor is nobody special. She's sixteen, French, homeless, trans gender, and living hand-to-mouth on the cold streets of Paris. Oh, and she's a teleporter. Yes, that's right. She can move instantly from one place to another. No door is closed to her, no place restricted. And she can break the confines of the universe itself. At a price. Because of her power, she's hunted. Governments want her for sneaking and peeking. The police want her for crimes she's committed. Human traffickers want her as something special for their customers. And one man wants her dead for what he thinks she might know. But all of these threats pale to the shadowy thing in the space between universes. It reaches for her, drawing closer each time she transports via the film between worlds. And it desires no less than her violent end. Deor must learn to master her power while using it to evade her pursuers. She must learn to assert her agency over those who would control her. She must learn self-respect, compassion, and responsibility. Most of all, in a world full of questions, she must learn who she truly is. Spy vs. spy, police vs. criminal, monster vs. heroine, and the innocent squeezed in the middle, Transporter is an urban fantasy with a healthy dose of action, adventure, and suspense. Guest starring Fiona Street of Stephan Michael Loy's spyfi novels Fiona Street and Uncivil Service.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephan Michael Loy
• Release date: Oct 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215315798

Stephan Michael Loy

Stephan Michael Loy has been churning out stories of adventure and fantasy since way back in junior high. He's been writing professionally since the 1970s, breaking in his writing chomps on the Louisville Courier-Journal and IU's Indiana Daily Student newspapers. He has a degree in Journalism from Indiana University and an advanced degree in Art Education. He is a military veteran, having served five years in Armor and Cavalry commands in Europe and the United States. He uses all of these experiences in the stories he creates. He has published multiple novels and novellas on Smashwords that can also be found in print at Lulu.com and Amazon, among other online sources. Go to stephanloy.com to easily find these books in print or ebook formats. Stephan Loy lives in Indianapolis, Indiana with his wife Amy and their two criminal cats, Buffy (the Cat Toy Slayer) and Oz.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I could never leave Paris. Some might find that an odd sentiment since Paris hasn't treated me well. I admit that for all its lights, its monuments, its romance, the city can be cruel. It judges, and those judgments are final.

Vagrant. Freak. Pervert.

That is how Paris judges me. It could be worse. I could be a Syrian, or an American. Still, like a bare stone wall in a poor neighborhood, I'm tagged, and live with it.

But I could never leave Paris.

For all its arrogance, its airs against those not rich enough, not white enough, not French enough for its tastes, the city is still magic. Stand on any corner along the Boulevard de Barbés and drink in the aromas of saffron, curry, and turmeric. The mixed tones of afro-pop, arabesque, Mizrahi, and rap allow me to feel the churning vibrance of urban life intersecting my limited experience. Concentrate at sundown to let the warm, melodic tones of prayer tease the limits of my hearing. The synagogues, the mosques, the Buddhist temples, whether modest or magnificent, tell a story of Paris that brims with magic and hope.

And the cathedrals! The great, stone dinosaurs of a past age, asserting themselves even in the 21st century as the moral compasses of a society now built on money. The cathedrals, especially severe St. Denis in its dire, austere neighborhood, remind me that God is near, that He watches, that He cares.

Walk through the plaza outside St. Denis's doors, enter its cold nave, and stand for hours in the shadow of one of its tree-trunk thick piers. Feel transported from my worries to the bosom of a loving God. Feel it in the scale of the place, in its eight-story vaults, in its unadorned interior, so poor compared to Notre Dame de Paris. But Notre Dame burned down, so who's having the last laugh, eh? Stand beside the massive stone pier that, with its brothers, holds up St. Denis and feel my heart both lifted and made small in the speckles of red and blue light from the stained glass windows. And hear, in that great, sculpted cave in the heart of the city … silence.

God truly is great.

And yet He made me, and caused me to fall by the wayside of mankind. Vagrant. Freak. Pervert.

Monster.

I don't care. Really, I don't. If God takes from us, he returns gifts in turn. Though He has cursed me, he's blessed me, too.

That's all I need to continue.

I don't have money; maybe you guessed. But money isn't necessary to enjoy the best that Paris has to offer. Walk the length of the Champs-Elysées for more entertainment and vicarious satisfaction than one person needs in a day. I love window shopping at Promod, Eric Bompards's, and Louis Vuitton. I imagine myself in those luxurious clothes, a queen of high society fresh from croissants and coffee at the Ladurée, preparing to board my carriage -- yes, my carriage, complete with white horses and liveried footmen -- for an exhibition at the Grand Palais. It's enough to imagine, except when it isn't.

When it isn't, and no one's looking, I help myself to something nice.

That's why I walk now, proudly, ostentatiously, along that elegant avenue with my hands in the pockets of a shiny black leather jacket with stainless steel rivets and zippers and a thick microfiber lining. It looks splendid over my black, boat-necked t-shirt, black, calf-length skirt, and flats. And it's warm. Almost midnight. March in Paris is chilly, and this jacket will see me through many a freezing night, in style.

I ignore the police cars tearing along the avenue toward the store. I'm just another fashionable woman on a fashionable street. They won't get close enough to see the tiredness of my accoutrement, the wear in my shoes, or the threads hanging from the hem of my skirt. They'll be too confused to mind me while they puzzle out their find. I mean, really, how does a burglar get into a store, but all the doors are still locked?

I know what you're thinking, and I don't care. You turn up your nose. You make moral judgments. But I hurt no one. The store won't miss the jacket. Insurance will replace it by opening time tomorrow.

In the meantime, I'm warm, and a little happier.

So sue me.

Still walking. Most of my day is walking unless I crash on a bench at the Eiffel Tower or in one of the parks or gallerias. Sometimes, if I can rub a few Euro together, I land at a café and stretch a coffee until they throw me out.

Mostly, I walk.

It sounds boring, I know, but there isn't much else to do without money. And I'm not just walking, not just putting one foot in front of the other. Meet friends, stop and chat. Look in store windows. Admire the lucky, the well-born, and the tourists in cafés. Wonder what it's like to live in the many marvelous hotels.

Manage something to eat. There's always something in the alley bins. Some of it's quite good.

Then, before I make the loop back home, wherever that might be, I play my nightly cat-and-mouse with the police. Stroll through the gardens, maybe rest on a bench or get a drink from a fountain. But it's after hours, so a cop shows up to shoo me on my way. I obey until out of sight, then rest until another cop tells me to get lost.

This can go on for hours. I've nowhere else to be and neither do they. They don't actually care if I go or stay, but there are motions to go through, so they go through them.

Some of them like me; they find me attractive.

Some know me and treat me with derision.

But most are just cops, as cops are everywhere.

It's the way of things. Tonight, the game ends around one in the morning at the edge of the Tuileries headed to the Louvre. It's late enough; time to bed down. Seven hospitals wait within easy walking distance, three on this side of the river, four on the other. But only two are big enough that they won't notice one more body sleeping in their waiting room. And there are the tunnels under the river, not exactly safe or warm, and the CHU -- the homeless station -- where you're as likely to get beaten as robbed. I'd love to get space in the City Hall, but that's by assignment only, and they wouldn't take me anyway. Churches, parking lots, alleys, there is always some place to rest for the night, though few of those places are comfortable in March.

Well, at least it isn't raining.

Stop in mid-thought, something tickling the borders of my mind. Turn to stare down the park promenade to the glass pyramid fronting the palace.

Someone sleeps in the Louvre.

That doesn't happen often. Only on rare occasions am I granted that window into the museum, to bask in the presence of great art and maybe find sleep in an unguarded basement. It's too good an opportunity to dismiss. It's just what I need, right when I need it.

So I concentrate, lean in, and I'm there.

A whiff of ozone, that's all, and the disorienting realization that the darkened park is now a cramped room lit by fluorescent lighting. Computer monitors line up bezel-to-bezel on a long desk, each screen split into eight or ten video windows. In front of the monitors lies a jumble of clipboards, loose papers, and three document boxes, those wire-frame things you mark in and out.

And in front of the table an overweight man in a blue blazer, white shirt, slacks, and scuffed shoes. He's crashed back in a rolling office chair, a comic book spread over his upturned face.

He snores.

I stand over him in my brand new jacket. I notice the art on the comic book cover. Enki Bilal. The guy has taste.

There's a pair of scissors on the desk, stuck in a plastic holder along with a bunch of pens and a screwdriver. Pick up the scissors, shrug part way out of my jacket, and take a few seconds to snip the price tag and inventory control fob, leaving them on the desk.

He doesn't so much as snuffle.

You might work out that I've done this before. Not from this room, but still. Usually, it's one of the guards in the galleries, or in the hidden collections downstairs. They doze or daydream through the long middle stretch of their shifts, giving me the in I need. It doesn't happen often; the guards at the Louvre are by and large a professional bunch, but it happens often enough.

I don't know my way from this room. I can't lean into a destination blindly or I might find myself in a nasty fix, like inside the Venus de Milo.

So, it's the door. But first, a little foraging. On the desk are two Euro twelve cent, a thermos and cup of coffee, a lunch bag, and the guard's holstered gun. A quick rummage through the lunch bag reveals a salami sandwich, an apple, and animal biscuits. I slide the sandwich into my jacket pocket and palm the biscuits. I pinch the coins. If only he had been kind enough to dig out his wallet and drop it beside his lunch, then I'd have a treasure trove, maybe.

On hooks by the door hang a bunch of jackets. A riffling of pockets earns me four more Euro and change and an I.D. case, one of those fold-over vinyl things. I'm pleased to find a metro pass jammed inside with the owner's driver's license. The picture on the license shows a moderately cute guy. I leave the I.D. but scarf the pass.

That's all. Out the door. No one in the long hall outside. Terrazzo floor, ordinary walls. I'm in the new part of the building. Not exactly an orientation; I'll have to go deeper to figure out where I am.

If I know where I am, I can lean to anywhere else I know. And if I don't know where I am, I can still lean to any sleeping person within some range that isn't yet clear to me. Sorry, I don't make the rules.

A flight of stairs, a random turn up an intersecting hall. Hiding in a dark alcove while two other guards amble by, probably on their way to the security office. Then I come out by the gift shop, the main entrance spreading out before me, and I have my bearings.

Standing just short of entering the open space, I think what I'd like to see.

And she's in front of me, alone in her deep alcove, centered on the back wall behind a firm wooden barrier. Not down for cleaning, thank God.

Snapping an animal biscuit between my teeth, I let the experience of art wash over me. It's better in the dim lighting of the closed museum, with just a tastefully positioned spotlight for illumination.

The Mona Lisa. Dark, enigmatic, with that vaguely homely face and that famous tease of a smile. She and I are kin, I imagine. We are the same, mysterious, ambiguous. Maybe she isn't even a she.

You! Don't move! How did you get in here?

The guard approaches, one of the armed ones, one hand reaching toward me, the other on the butt of his gun.

Smile at him, take another bite of biscuit, then I'm gone.

But not far. Before me, a gigantic painting, a scale worthy of its subject. Liberty Leading the People can entertain me for hours though I rarely get more than a few minutes with it before I'm forced to run. The somewhat brawny Liberty with her musket, bayonet fixed, holding aloft the French flag as she tramples her enemy dead. The flag, the blue, the white, the red, highlighted in a kind of spotlight over the smoky battlefield. All kinds of characters in this painting. That wild kid with his pistols. The guy dressed to the nines, complete with top hat, holding his gun like he doesn't know what to do with it. Behind him, the guy with the cutlass, looking as if he's dabbing. And why doesn't that one guy have any pants?

This painting speaks to me. I want to own it.

But the commotion behind me tells me to cut short my visit.

Young girl, brunette, sixteen to eighteen years, dressed in black. I tell you, it's her. It's the ghost. She disappeared before my eyes!

The museum will be a hornet's nest now. I should go, find somewhere to sleep. I almost lean, pointed toward the Tuileries again, then pause.

What is that?

The painting. Though I fancy myself a fan, I'm not an art historian. But something itches my memory. Something about the character on the ground, the one at Liberty's feet.

It doesn't look right.

There! She's there! You! Freeze!

I probably should have left Da Vinci farther behind, but I so wanted to see this painting! They'll be on me in a second. Maybe I'll come back later, though I know that isn't true the moment the thought hits my mind. I won't be back because everyone's awake.

Hang over the rail, set off the alarm. There's still that sliver of a second. They haven't laid hands on me yet. The figure at Liberty's feet, a woman, it seems. The hands braced against the rubble-strewn land. Are those fingernails?

A hand on my shoulder, turning me roughly around. The guard's face is so close to mine, I smell the garlic on his breath.

Then I smell only the loamy scent of wet earth and long-dead leaves, and a chill strikes me. Huddle into my jacket.

A fellow vagrant sleeps at my feet, curled into a fetal position, using one arm as a pillow. He won't be there long. The cops patrol the Tuileries and they'll roust him out before long.

Must be a new guy.

Pocket the last of the biscuits. Pull out the sandwich and tear it in two. I eat one half. Very nice. Good salami. Mustard could be spicier. Crouch with the remaining half and nudge the sleeping guy with my wrist.

He stirs.

Here, I say, and hold out the sandwich. This isn't safe sleeping. The hospital waiting rooms are better.

He takes the offered sandwich. Bless you, my angel.

I'm no angel. Freak. Pervert. Monster.

Stand. Walk. Must find safety, and rest.

Chapter 2

She sat on a wooden bench in the corridor outside his brigade offices, comfortable, relaxed, assured. He paused before approaching, admiring what he saw. This was a policeman? Petit, slim of limb, legs crossed, her short hair so red and her skin so fair? She read something on a tablet and the way she bobbed her dangling foot made him want to smile. No. Unprofessional. One must adhere to expectations. Perhaps later, once he got to know her. She was, after all, American, the only fault he could see from ten meters away.

Straightening his tie and clutching his cardboard portfolio, he launched himself toward her, attempting to appear as self-assured as she. His heels clicked on the marble floor beneath the baroque hall's high ceiling.

She paid him no mind until he snapped to a halt in front of her. Then she looked up, only mildly interested, and the green of her eyes startled him. Yes, this one was a beauty.

He dredged up some English.

"Mademoiselle Fiona Street? I am Robert Dupont, capitaine of the Direction Régionale de Police Judiciaire de Paris."

Really? she said in English, clicking off her tablet. The only one?

"Pardon?"

"You're the captain, the only captain in all of Paris? That's quite an achievement for a mid-grade rank."

He thought about that. Was she stupid or having him on?

"You are correct, of course. We have many capitaines. Captains, as you say. I have been assigned as liaison between you and the bureaucracy of the Police Nationale. Its structure, its organization, can be daunting to foreigners, yes?"

Yes. I've been cooling my heels out here for over an hour. I thought this was all arranged.

Well. There is arranged, and there is arranged. We are the government, after all. He succeeded in making her smile, at least a little bit. Please, let me make it up to you. You must need refreshment. I know a wonderful café just over the bridge. We can consult over coffee, perhaps even lunch.

She gave him a sly grin, aimed and obvious. She knew what he was about. Good. They could have two conversations at once, one of business and one of the eyes.

Do they allow pets?

What? "Pardon?"

She reached down to the canvas bag at her foot and opened it to reveal a large, disdainful, black cat.

Interesting. Why would you carry a cat?

Comfort animal. Will this be a problem?

No, of course not. I am here to make your business go as smoothly as possible. He hoped to hell it wouldn't cause a problem. He had no idea… Dog, yes, but a cat?

She stood, barely coming to the middle of his chest. In her black leggings and thin gray V-necked sweater, sneakers or no, she took his breath away. "All right, Capitaine Dupont--"

Please. Robert.

Okay, Robert, that sly grin again, if the French government is buying me lunch, who am I to argue? She gathered her gray pea coat from the bench, then bent over the bag. Okay, Ozzie, break's over. On caboose, buddy.

The cat gathered itself, stretched, and leapt out of the bag to stand at her ankle.

Extraordinary.

Dupont offered the woman his elbow.

Don't press your luck, Robert. The day's still early.

Oh, well. At least allow me to help with your things.

She handed him the coat. Lead on, captain.

He started back up the corridor toward his offices, the quickest route to the car bay. She fell in beside him. The cat, incredibly, took up a pace just at their heels.

So, Dupont said. You are an agent of your FBI? It says in your flimsy that you served in your army as a counter-terrorism operative.

Not really. I was an officer in an insertions and extractions unit. Rescuing VIPs from hot zones, that sort of thing.

Quite a dossier. You don't strike me as the combat operations type.

Oh? And what type is that?

In my experience, they tend to be bigger, burlier.

So, I'm just a little burly? Gee, Robert, thanks.

No. She wasn't getting away that easily. I meant that you are not burly at all. You are instead a heartbreaking beauty.

She looked startled, but happily so.

Have I offended you? he asked, though he knew it wasn't so.

Robert, m'boy, the French always surprise me.

Well, Mamselle Street, when in Rome… May I call you Fiona?

This is Paris, Robert, not Rome. But, sure.

Fiona Street walked along the corridors of French National Police Headquarters (Paris Division) on the arm of Robert Dupont, the black cat following like some odd administrative assistant or a bodyguard. The cat was a turn-off. Maybe Dupont should slow things down. He wasn't sure an elegant form and striking green eyes made up for the baggage of a crazy cat woman. But life was an adventure. Should he brave the experience?

He looked down at her just as she grinned up at him, and had his answer.

But first, work. There was the oddity of the thefts, and the Ghost.

And why the Americans gave a damn.

Chapter 3

What a douche, Fiona decided, then a grin touched her lips as she recalled that douche was actually a French word. But really, honestly, if she had to tell the truth, Robert Dupont wasn't the most douche-like of men she'd handled that week. He was only, maybe, in the top five.

There he sat, framed by the gray, frenetic noise of the crappy café full of office workers. The horns and engine growls of a busy, construction-clogged intersection rolled in from the street like smog. He positioned his doughy dad bod with his baby face and his curly brown hair and Elijah Wood eyes… Okay, his slightly too high hairline, that was the thing. The guy would be bald before he was forty. He posed to come off as suave and debonair, but only pulled off swavy and deboner. Go ahead, little boy, leer. Well, don't leer, but think all the dirty thoughts you want. Just, please, keep them to yourself.

Oz lay beneath the table, not giving a shit.

You are aware of the provisions of our collaboration, Dupont was saying. I am your liaison. You do not do anything of an official nature unless I am with you. We will be inseparable for the duration of your investigation. An item, as you say.

They told me that, Fiona acknowledged, but I have to be truthful. I don't go in too well with being shadowed. I prefer to work on my own terms.

That would be impossible. The agreement between parties is quite specific.

Yes, it would be, Inspector Clouseau. Fiona ran her gaze around her surroundings, a healthy habit for someone with her history. She watched everything from two advantages, from where she sat at the table and from where Oz lay on the floor. Outside the window stretched the bridge to the island with all the government buildings and the National Police headquarters. The bridge poured onto a wide, busy street clogged with cars and pedestrians. They passed by the café in the hundreds each minute, all dulled to Fiona's human eyes by a winter's day that had, at best, an ambivalent relationship with sunlight. The people were close, the traffic close, and the even gray light made it hard to tell one person or vehicle from another.

And this dumb cop sat with his back to the window.

Maybe bad guys were polite in France. Maybe they didn't interrupt lunch.

Maybe they were unaware that a cat's vision beat a human's hands-down. That would be good.

One thing that stood out as specific, Fiona said as she peeled the plastic wrap from her croissant-and-tuna sandwich, is the paperwork stipulation. When will you show me that file you brought along?

The folder lay on the table by his coffee cup, pinned securely under his elbow. He made as if he'd just noticed it. Yes… He took a languid sip of coffee, placed his cup back on its saucer, then slipped the file folder across to her. It isn't much. Notes jotted for a fantasy story. But that is why you are interested, no?

No. I mean, yes. Fiona flipped the folder around and opened it as she took a good bite of her sandwich. Dupont had a sandwich, too -- cucumbers, tomato, and cheese -- but he hadn't touched it. Watching his girlish figure, she imagined.

Oz broke out in quiet purrs, which made the sandwich taste better.

Inside the folder, Fiona found the usual police stuff, but less of it. Someone had been nice enough to run copies marked-up in English. Dupont?

Grainy security camera stills showed a dark-haired girl, nice looking, with a solemn, hard-jawed face and slim build. In every picture she wore uniformly dark clothing, the color hard to gauge in the black-and-white shots. Papers stapled to the images showed estimated metrics. She was between 160 and 180 centimeters, so… Five-seven or five-ten? Maybe half a head taller than Fiona. She looked strong, fit. She didn't sit around at home eating Ding-Dongs and pie. But her face showed a hint of boniness, which might have been an artifact of the bad images.

Who is she? Fiona asked as she scanned the paperwork.

We have no idea. She does not have a criminal record. She leaves fingerprints everywhere but they don't register in any database. Facial recognition fails on her. Our images, as you can see, are insufficient for identification. The standard checks yield nothing, nothing at all. She does not frequent the shops she robs or the buildings she enters, or rather no one remembers seeing her. She could be any of thousands of lovely young women of the city.

No, that wasn't right. It says here every venue she violates is later found to be locked up tight, no forced entry. So she breaks in without a trace, takes what she wants, leaves, and reinstates all security measures on her way out. So she's what, Catwoman?

I'm so sorry. Who is this Cat Woman?

Never mind. It also says here… She finished her sandwich and washed it down with Diet Pepsi.

Meow? Oz muttered.

No. You get yours later. Fiona pointed at the dispatch log on one of the reports. It says local response times are less than five minutes, but no trace of her. How's she get clean away in five minutes? And she has to take time to steal, too.

Again, it is a mystery.

Okay, that was starting to sound lazy. A mystery? Aren't cops supposed to solve mysteries? No theories? No wild guesses?

Fiona looked up from the file. Robert?

Yes.

What's not in the file?

Not a flinch. Baby-faced cold steel. All actionable information is there. The rest is rumor, crazy talk. Ghost stories.

Great. I came especially for the ghost stories.

Dupont took up his coffee cup, saw it was empty, and put it down with a grimace. Look at the last report, dated two nights ago.

Fiona shuffled to the final two pages. Two images, the girl standing in front of the Mona Lisa, again in front of another painting, a big one. That famous French thing with the man-girl and the torch. Grecian robes. She should know that one; it was grade school stuff.

The girl seemed to stare at the painting, her head slightly hunched. Come to think of it, she was always hunched. Self-conscious about her height? It says here they found her after hours. They locked down the museum exits within one minute. Doesn't the Louvre have a major police force all its own?

Their security is quite extensive.

So I'm betting they locked the place down in a lot less than a minute. But it says she was not apprehended.

No.

Then, where'd she go, Robert, ol' buddy? She still in there?

He pushed his empty coffee cup to the middle of the table, then used a paper napkin to wrap his sandwich. There are things that do not go into police reports. You understand.

Fiona didn't agree or disagree. She hadn't done so much as a minute of police work in her life.

Saying some things, saying them in print, Dupont dipped his head, watching her past his brows. These things could damage a policeman's reputation.

Mandatory visits to the department shrink are a bitch.

Just so. The stories told from that night at the Louvre are those kinds of stories.

Come on. I'm not in your chain of command. I'm not gonna rat out your officers. This stuff you're dancing around. I think it's what I came 4000 miles for.

Dupont looked around at all the close-in customers, at the wait staff and the bustling pedestrians streaming a few feet away on the sidewalk. Shall we walk off our lunch?

That he never ate?

Sure. Back to the office?

Yes, that would be best. He slipped the uneaten sandwich into a pocket of his overcoat. Paris is not so inviting in winter, don't you think?

I do think. Your publicists are pretty good, if not entirely honest.

She rose when he did. They squeezed through the press of tables, Oz ranging ahead through the forest of legs both wooden and human. Then they stood outside in the crush of pedestrians. A sharp breeze cut at Fiona's cheeks. The audio assault of car engines, horns, jackhammers, and backup beepers brought her and Dupont almost to shouts to be heard. Oz, no longer purring, clawed his way into the canvas bag Fiona carried mainly for him.

We have never interviewed a witness to any of the shop burglaries. How they were accomplished remains a mystery. Dupont edged toward the crosswalk for the island, Fiona at his elbow. But this latest illegal entry to the Louvre. Two security guards swore that the girl disappeared before their eyes. Actually disappeared, as in a puff of smoke.

Okay, that's interesting. Were they all liquored up? High as kites? Off their meds?

We could not give their story much credence, as you might expect. But one of the men contacted the girl. He placed a hand on her shoulder, as one does. When she disappeared, he said, the cold of death filled where she had been.

Not exactly corroboration…

His hand, the one he touched her with, came away cold burned, as if he'd been exposed to compressed oxygen.

Bingo!

The light changed. They crossed the street with the gaggle of other pedestrians. Oz re-positioned in the bag, his head poked out enough to watch behind them.

Did any of this show up on video? Please say yes, Fiona prayed.

We maintain some assets that don't make the public file.

Bingo again.

I'll want to see that video, Fiona said.

You will, but it's restricted. It cannot leave the brigade premises.

That's cool. I need to see it, not have a Hollywood premiere. Also, you probably should have led with this bit of news.

I'm sure you wanted the case laid out, beginning to end as is proper, no?

No. She didn't care about the case. But she was supposed to be an FBI agent, a federal policeman, so she carried the onus to act like one. Just as you say, buddy. But I love a popcorn mystery flick as much as the next girl.

Mystery. Hmm. Then you would like to know what they found in the Louvre's security office.

All ears.

They found the price tag and inventory fob for a jacket stolen from a fashionable shop, a shop robbed by our mystery girl.

Okay. That was something.

They crossed the bridge to the car, which Dupont had parked at a red curb.

No one followed them, according to the cat. Then again, he barely paid attention. You couldn't get a bored cat to do a blessed thing.

Chapter 4

No need to follow, Cesaire Girard decided. He knew where they headed. He would leave the woman for others to pick up later. He rested against the building that held the café and placed his phone close to his face. He ran through the video he'd taken of the meeting. Who was the redhead? Why did she meet with the National Police? If only the street hadn't been so loud, or the weather so biting that they'd sat inside. Maybe he could have gleaned some audio with the images. Never mind. He'd get his answers soon enough.

He clicked a contact and put the phone to one ear. The party on the other end answered almost immediately.

Yes?

They're headed back your way. Remain alert. I won't be here. I must report to the boss. Watch for the woman when she leaves. I want to know who she is.

What of the policeman?

No need to follow. We know where he lives.

Understood.

Returning the phone to his coat pocket and hunching into his shoulders, Girard started up the street to the nearest Metro stop. He struggled down the stairs, impatient travelers darting around him. The damned rapid transit may be a marvel of the world, but it had never been built for handicapped accessibility. Girard didn't normally consider himself handicapped, but he did walk with a limp and the city liked to remind him of it.

The platform was packed but the crowd polite, the underground chamber whispering with tones of "Excusez Moi and Pardon." Waiting, herding onto the car, standing the few minutes to the transfer point at the Invalides, then the trek to the transfer line with its long flight of stairs that so tested Girard's knees. Anyone else could have made the walk above ground, but the distance was greater than a mile, and he wasn't up to even short walks anymore.

Damned British. They'd damaged both his knees two years previously. They'd threatened to shoot them off but settled for letting him suffer for years.

Beyond a few scars, there wasn't much to notice. Except in the cold. And the rain.

Girard switched trains and headed down toward the Assemblée nationale, again standing because the car was packed. God, he wished he could manage a taxi, but he hadn't gotten paid; he needed his scarce Euro for emergencies only.

Off the train, up the damned stairs, then he waited on the sidewalk outside and tried to catch his breath. He sweated. His legs hurt. He didn't want to meet his employer looking like a man done out.

There had once been a day when Girard had no employer, when he'd been his own man in a harsh world. No longer.

Using his coat sleeve, he wiped the sweat from his face. Then he took in a few deep breaths of sharp March air and limped off toward his destination.

Beyond a central meridian of bare trees, the street displayed an unending palace façade, the elegant nineteenth-century expanse of the Musée de l'Ordre de la Libération. On Girard's side of the boulevard, swank apartment buildings fronted on the palace, their two-hundred-year-old exteriors accented with subtly caste-conscious signage and uniformed doormen. Girard's destination waited only a few hundred steps from the Metro station, but he was already exhausted by the time he submitted himself to the house security.

Good day, Monsieur. You have business? the doorman asked down his nose.

I have an appointment with Monsieur Périgord. Would you mind ringing me in? The uppity doorman's mouth needed a fist planted in it. Okay, so Girard was a little down on his luck. His clothes weren't the latest, or the cleanest, or the newest. But he was a goddamned person, goddammit. No shit-eating servant needed to take that air with him.

The doorman nodded, then turned away into the vestibule of the building. He made sure to close the auto-locking glass door in Girard's face. He took a phone from a pocket of his uniform tunic and placed it to his ear. After long moments during which he studiously ignored the dirty, vagrant, household visitor on the stoop, he turned back to Girard, came through the door, and held it open.

Monsieur Périgord awaits your presence. The center elevator, Monsieur.

Girard knew which elevator to take. And the smug bastard would know that, too, if he paid any attention to the people who came to his stoop. This wasn't Girard's first visit, after all.

The center elevator had two controller buttons on the inside next to the doors. Neither worked, at least not for visitors. Girard entered, the doors closed, and the elevator went up. When the doors opened again, he stepped into a luxurious anteroom decorated in baroque accents with brocaded cloth wall coverings above cherry wainscoting and coffered plaster paneling below. The rug covering most of the parquet floor showed geometric flower motifs and felt as soft as foam rubber. It was Afghan, probably costing several thousand Euro, and was there for people to wipe their dirty feet.

The frosted glass door opposite the elevator opened and a butler in tails stood in its frame. Tall, straight, strongly built, and hawk-nosed, he looked over Girard through rimless pince-nez glasses.

Monsieur Périgord will see you, sir. His British accent was almost comically posh.

The butler led the way into the apartment, through a large, wide sitting room filled with spindly furniture and covered by a four-meter rib-vaulted ceiling. The entire front wall was glass but for a skeletal framework of thin stone pillars. A delicately designed set of French doors framed in cherrywood and iron filigree stood centered on that wall, their glazing shuddering as the butler pushed them wide and stepped out onto the roof. He stood aside for Girard to continue.

Monsieur Girard, sir, he announced as Girard stepped out into the windy cold once more. Strange place for a hospitable meeting.

The butler retreated back into the apartment and closed the doors behind him.

Périgord hunched about ten meters down to the left of the doors. He wore a down jacket and heavy jeans, his feet snug in leather-and-lamb's-wool slippers. A wool cap covered his sharp-faced skull and dainty-looking gardening gloves protected his big hands. He stood over a long box garden with a trowel in one gloved hand and three or four bulbs in the other.

That was nothing. The boss forever puttered with his garden, though usually he did so in the kitchen, babying the bulbs and shoots he kept in his larder and in a special, second refrigerator. He was almost English in his gardening fanaticism. Girard tried to ignore it.

What bothered him was the man at Périgord's side. He stood taller than Girard, nearly two meters, and had the look of hard life and hard choices, a killer. His powerful build and square jaw contrasted with a sickly whiteness to his skin. He reminded Girard of what he was, a vampire.

All right, not actually a vampire, but Girard didn't like that man; he'd never liked him. Cheap ex-merc gone crime lord wannabe. He gave the crime lord community a bad name.

Good afternoon, Monsieur Girard, Périgord said in his commanding, gravelly bass voice. You've come to report, I assume.

"Yes, Monsieur. The policeman, Capitaine Robert Dupont, met with a woman today over lunch. At first blush, I take her for an American. That's the best I could determine from my limited observation."

"I'm not paying you for limited observation but for valuable observation. Surely, you can do better."

The pale man smirked.

I have two men on them, Girard said. "They returned to the headquarters Police Nationale de Paris. When they leave, my men will follow the woman."

Périgord slipped a bulb into an already-dug hole and covered it over. Then he stood straight and faced Girard directly. Whenever he straightened, his thin build and sharp, somber face reminded Girard of a cinema vampire. Vampires all around today.

You seem concerned about this woman, Périgord said. "Are you sure she isn't just an … assignation of our friend Capitaine Dupont?"

From a distance, they acted professional. And the woman didn't seem in his class. Not remotely so. We will discover who she is, then decide if she is important.

I suppose it's wise. You were not observed.

No. I was quite careful.

Périgord gave Girard an unsettling look, as though he inspected an engine for defects. Then he turned away and dug another hole in his pot. Very good. What of the girl? The one at the museum.

Of her, I have no news. I've spoken to some of the shopkeepers she robbed, but they know nothing of her. I've put out feelers to contacts in Louvre security, such as they were, but they know nothing, either. Some don't think she's real. They call her the Ghost.

Well. We know she's real. Ghosts don't show up on camera. Never mind the Louvre. I'll ask around myself. There are advantages to being chairman of Artistic Restorations and Maintenance.

Yes, Monsieur.

He planted another bulb. I need to know who the girl is, Girard. She paid far too much attention to that painting.

I will not fail you, Monsieur.

You don't have to worry over failure in this regard. Jean David here will find her. I've hired him for his … business network. He has outstanding street-level access.

Yes, he did. The bastard.

A cold wind streamed across the roof, making Girard shiver. It seemed not to affect the two vampires. I understand, Monsieur.

Good. Périgord buried the bulb. That will have to do, for now. I'll require you to confer with Jean David. There may come a time for direct action against any and all nosing around my affairs and you are not the man for such action. Jean David is.

Whatever the hell that meant. Girard only knew there was a girl in question, that a policeman sought her and was asking too many questions. He didn't understand a word of the veiled movie dialogue. He understood only his worth, that he had skills at finding girls on streets, and that the rich man had valued those skills.

And no longer trusted him.

I will cooperate fully, Monsieur. I will leave you now to your garden. And your guest.

Wait, the old man called as Girard pivoted for the doors.

Girard halted and looked back over his shoulder.

Am I paying you enough? Périgord asked. Do you have all the assets you require?

I would not impose, Girard said. Our agreed-upon fee is fine for now.

You will let me know if you need more.

Yes, surely. No, he wouldn't. If he demanded more money, his replacement stood there, grinning.

Périgord grunted approval. Very good. Thank you for the update. Same time tomorrow, then.

Girard nodded, then left.

As the butler preceded him to the elevator, Girard barely contained his relief. When he'd found that snake Jean David present, he'd wondered if the meeting signified a change. The nasty sort of change where he loses his job, and everything else.

But it seemed as if only adjustments had been made, a second contractor for specialized purposes. Périgord was correct; Girard exceled at trafficking the streets, but he shied from the messier aspects of that culture. Jean David held no such scruples. Did Monsieur Périgord understand the kinds of men he employed? He seemed like an amateur. He seemed old and unused to dirt, flower gardening excepted. But Girard knew plenty of men like Périgord. He'd contracted with them for years until his business went under. They were wily; they were arrogant.

And they could, without hesitation, be vicious.

#

As Girard exited the apartment house and limped his way back toward the Metro stop, a short, overweight man ceased his admiration of the palace across the street and fell in behind him.

"Osservatore Uno. Have picked him up again," he whispered into his throat mic in Latin.

Understood, came the response in his ear.

He has implicated the chairman. Should I scoop him up for questioning?

No. That meeting changes things. Await direction from higher authority.

Are you sure? I--

Maintain surveillance. Await further guidance.

Understood. Out.

Down the stairs of the Metro entrance and onto the platform. The overweight man waited for the next train, standing not a meter from the lame Frenchman so as not to lose him in the crowd.

Wait for higher authority, the man mused. Days ago, he had been assigned and briefed by the Monsignor himself. Authority didn't go much higher.

It didn't matter. The man kept a hard watch on the Frenchman while trying to look as invisible as possible. He knew his place. He would not spoil his mission. He was there to observe, to snatch, possibly to kill, but only on command.

The train arrived, and they all pressed aboard.

Chapter 5

Ride the Metro, a rare treat. I remember this, warmly.

I'd nestle beside Papa, pressed into my seat as the train accelerates, pulled gently forward as it slows. The low tone announcing stops, the lady's voice telling us where we are. The squeal of brakes. The train takes us to the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, to the varied and spicy restaurants of the Fifth or Eighteenth Arrondissements. To the parks, to the river, to la créme glacée. The cinema, the church yards, relaxing on a bench and eating Jambon Beurre or pommes frites.

Fine times, happy moments, not to last.

Papa tried, but he was never comfortable with me.

Now I zone out, a seat near the center of the car. No one thinks twice of me. No one asks to check my pass. Not that they would find much. I've peeled off the guard's photo and replaced it with mine, taken in a station Photomat using two of his seven Euro. I've doctored the name scrawled above the picture. I am now Míchoné Carreau. Michon the guard will buy another pass to replace the one I stole from him.

The Metro is a luxury, someplace to be without looking as though I have no place to be. No pitying stares or hostile sneers from passers-by. Look at the homeless girl; maybe we should give her a Euro. No! She'll waste it on drugs. Buy her a sandwich, that's the thing to do. No. Don't encourage her. She should find a job.

None of