Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

"You know there's a much better bar right around the corner," Gibert said as he joined Brunelle at her outdoor table.

She knew the one he was talking about. The Hotel Sinner was a kinky, very risqué, five-star hotel housed in a building that looked like it had once been a medieval monastery. All the cocktails had Latin names, the staff ran around in black cassocks, and the stained-glass mosaics were loaded with depictions of naked bodies. It was exactly her kind of place, which was why she had told Gibert to meet her at Café Berry instead.

The tiny café was open daily, only served brunch, and brewed some of the best coffee in Paris. In addition to a couple of tables on the sidewalk in front, there were a handful more in the partially covered Passage des Gravilliers next door. That's where Brunelle was seated, working on her second coffee, when Gibert arrived.

He removed a small handheld flashlight and clicked it on and off to make sure it was working. "As requested. Now will you tell me what we're doing here?"

"We're delving into the underworld."

"In that case, I think it really would have been much more appropriate to meet at the Sinner."

"I'm sure you do," Brunelle replied, paying for her coffees and standing up. "Let's get going."

As they walked to the end of the block, she explained what she had been able to uncover thus far and why she believed Figure One and Figure Two were the same man.

Gibert agreed, but had a different spin on what the AI had uncovered. What if the man wasn't faking the limp? What if, as he made his way across the rooftops from Jadot's back to the National Archives, he slipped? Maybe that's what the woman who was listening to an audiobook at the time had heard?

It was a decent enough hypothesis and Brunelle told him so. She may have been giving the killer too much credit by assuming he would actively try to avoid gait analysis. There was, however, no question that he had taken great pains not to have his face captured by CCTV.

"And what about the ice axe?" she asked. "Ever since Powell mentioned that's how Trotsky was murdered, I keep thinking about it."

Gibert shrugged. "I'm confident that the killer was already in the apartment, waiting for Jadot. Perhaps he was there long enough to look around. Maybe he found the axe and thought, This would be a pretty cool way to kill somebody. More than likely, the assassin is a Russian and being aware of the whole thing about Stalin and Trotsky thought, This'll make for a great story back at the Kremlin. That's what these guys do. They did it in Spain too."

"Spain?"

"Remember the story about Ukrainian intelligence convincing a Russian helicopter pilot to defect?"

"Kind of."

"It's an amazing story. Not only did the man defect, but he did so with his military helicopter and a bunch of top-secret intelligence. In exchange, the Ukrainians gave him a new passport under a false name and five hundred thousand dollars. While the pilot was incredibly brave, unfortunately, he was also a total idiot. He used the money to buy a flashy Mercedes S-Class and moved to a coastal town in Spain popular with Russians and Ukrainians. Even dumber, he reached out to an old girlfriend back in Russia and invited her to come visit him.

"So, surprise, surprise, two hooded assassins showed up in his parking garage one day. They waited around for him for a few hours and when he finally showed up and got out of his car, they shot him. Multiple times. But they didn't do it with just any old ammunition. They used nine-millimeter Makarov rounds, a pistol cartridge from the old Soviet Union. They didn't even bother to pick up the shell casings. Then they drove over the guy with their car. It was all caught on video and is all part of a larger trend.

"Whether it's using a nerve agent like Novichok to attempt to kill a former double agent in the UK, or bicycling by a former Chechen commander in a Berlin park and blowing his brains out with a suppressed pistol, the Russians are going back to their old, Stalinist ways. The Soviet-era practice of killings abroad is now back in full swing. The Kremlin isn't even trying to hide it. Their assassins are actually drawing attention to the murders. And, as Peshkov is a devoted Stalinist, I'm sure he loves it. The less subtle, the better."

They were all solid points and Brunelle nodded as he spoke. "The only thing I can't fully scratch off my list," she stated, "is the why. For Jadot to have brought down the wrath of a Russian hit team, he had to have crossed some sort of line with Moscow. What was it?"

"That's the million-dollar question," Gibert replied. "If we can find the killer, hopefully we'll also find an answer. By the way, the Germans caught the Berlin assassin. Do you know where he had traveled from?"

"Don't say Paris."

Gibert smiled. Pantomiming a gun, he fired it at her and said, "Yep, Paris. "

Terrific, she thought to herself.

Arriving at 1 Rue de Chapon, Brunelle was glad to be able to change the subject. "Here we are," she said.

Gibert looked at the front door and then at her. "You've got to be kidding me."

"I wish I were. This is the last place our man with the limp was seen."

"How the hell did he get in there?"

"With a key."

"But where would he get that key?" Gibert asked. Then, seeing Brunelle produce one herself, demanded, "And where'd you get one?"

"A fireman," she replied. "He must have forgotten it at my apartment."

The Parisian cop felt his cheeks flush. As fucked-up as she was, the thought of her being with another man sent a surge of jealousy through him.

At the same time, he knew she took a certain pleasure in causing him pain. It was her way of getting even.

Not wanting to encourage more of it, he got himself under control. "How the hell would a Russian know about this building?"

"It's not a state secret," Brunelle admitted. "These fake fa?ades are all over the center of Paris. Umberto Eco even had one in his book Foucault's Pendulum back in the 1980s. One Forty-Five Rue Lafayette was supposed to be an entrance to the underworld for high-level occultists."

"I'm familiar with that book, which is fiction, as well as these buildings. They're nothing more than airshafts for the Métro system. They've all been disguised to blend into their neighborhoods, like something from a movie set."

"They're also the perfect way to disappear. Once you go through one of these doors, poof, no more cameras."

"I suppose," Gibert agreed. "And probably not impossible for the Russians to get a hold of a key."

"Shall we?" Brunelle asked, sliding hers into the lock.

When Gibert nodded, she unlocked the door and pushed it open. They were greeted with a whoosh of cold air racing up the shaft. Looking up, she could see that the fake building had no roof, just a grate.

Gibert had been correct, these faux buildings were all over central Paris. Many of them were painted with trompe l'oeil details, like partially open windows, and some even showed people inside.

Brunelle stared down into the semi-illuminated shaft. A ladder, surrounded by a safety cage, went all the way to the bottom. The descent was broken every ten to twelve feet by a landing of metal grating.

"Ready?" she asked.

"After you," Gibert replied.

The shaft was filthy. No matter where she placed her grip, her hands came away covered in a fine, dark soot. Already, she was envisioning a long, hot bath in her near future.

When they finally got to the bottom, she wiped her palms on her jeans, leaving black streaks. Looking up, she guessed that they were about five to six stories underground. They were now in some sort of concrete and steel rotunda. Piping and flexible, brightly colored conduit lined the walls. Two fans, with blades the size of a small aircraft propeller, sat behind grime-caked, metal louvers. They clicked on and off, as necessary, to help circulate the air.

"Which way?" Gibert asked.

There was really only one direction and Brunelle pointed to it. Straight ahead.

As they walked, they could hear and smell the underground subway system. While there were the occasional pungent whiffs of urine, the overwhelming odor was of burnt rubber, as many of the train carriages didn't operate on steel wheels, but rather on rubber tires.

"I suppose it makes sense that a Russian assassin would choose to disappear down here. Paris has the busiest subway system in Europe. Want to guess whose is even busier?"

"Don't say Moscow," Brunelle warned.

Raising his finger gun again, the cop aimed it at her and fired.

She shook her head and kept walking.

"Just out of curiosity, what exactly are we looking for down here?" he asked.

Brunelle removed a map she had printed back at her office and replied, "A way out that would allow our killer to remain invisible."

"Meaning someplace with no cameras."

"Correct."

"But that's pretty much impossible," Gibert said. "Any Métro station he walks down these tunnels to, the moment he steps onto a platform, he'll be photographed. He could climb up another shaft, but he'll have the same problem. As soon as he steps out onto any given street, there's bound to be cameras. Either he's counting on us being unable to check all the feeds, or something else is going on."

"You're getting warmer," replied Brunelle, as they arrived at an intersection and she paused to read plates affixed to the walls with the names of the streets running above them.

Gibert followed as she took the tunnel branching off to the right.

"You're not going to give me anything?" he asked. "Nothing at all to work with?"

"At this point, all I have is a guess," she admitted.

"Which is?"

"Using the rooftops and camping out in the National Archives shows a detailed level of planning."

"As does securing a master key to access the air vent," Gibert added.

"Exactly," Brunelle replied. "So why would it stop there? Our killer has dropped off the CCTV system. Even if his limp was faked, we have his natural gait on record from when he entered the archives. I actually agree with you and think he may have been injured at some point Sunday night. Regardless, he's not going to appear on camera again. That made me wonder how he could continue to fully stay off of it. Then it hit me."

Gibert waited for her to explain. Instead, she pulled out her flashlight and began shining it along the wall of the tunnel. Up ahead was a narrow recess that contained some sort of door.

As they neared, they could see that the door had a large sign warning of high-voltage electricity housed within. Producing her key, Brunelle unlocked the door and pushed it open. "Moment of truth," she said, stepping inside.

Gibert followed and as they entered, the lights automatically turned on. The space was filled with industrial-level wiring, breaker boxes, and various other electrical and mechanical equipment.

"What is this place?" he asked.

"From what I was able to figure out, it connects to an electrical substation and helps distribute power down here to the tunnels."

"And we're interested in it, because?"

"Of that," she replied, pointing at a door on the other side of the room. On it was another large sign, reading DO NOT ENTER .

Walking over to it, she examined the lock and noticed something along the frame.

"Do you have a key for this one too?" Gibert asked, seeing that it was different.

"Don't need one," Brunelle replied, pulling the door open.

A metal shim had been inserted into the deadlatch, which she removed and handed to the cop. "Souvenir."

The door let out onto the bottom of a stairwell. Examining the frame from the other side, she saw a pair of contact pads that had been reconfigured so that the door could be opened without setting off the alarm. As she stepped through and held open the door for Gibert, she drew his attention to it.

With no other door at this level, they had to climb up a flight of stairs. Judging from the sounds coming from above, Gibert had a pretty good idea of what kind of structure they were in.

When they opened the next door, everything clicked for him. To her credit, Brunelle had actually figured it all out.