surrounded by three men, all grim-faced and dark-eyed, all hooded against the snow that had now turned to a light rain. All pointing guns at her and Pat.
Pat rolled his window down and was looking into the face of someone surprisingly young, and more surprising, vaguely familiar. It wasn’t Ahmed bin-Shalib, the man he wished he had killed last night. And then it came to him.
“Exit the car, please Monsieur Nolan, with your hands on your head;” said the young man. “Quickly.”
“You are Madame Jeritza’s grandson,” said Pat, who had not moved.
“Yes, I am Doro. My grandmother is dead. And I will kill you if you do not do as I say.”
“Dead ...” Pat said, and then, moving slowly, he unfolded his large body from the car, placed his hands on his head, and stood before Doro, all of nineteen but with a serpent’s coldness in his eyes. Catherine had exited on her side, and was standing quietly, calmly, her hands on her head while the man behind the car, also no more than nineteen or twenty, walked over and frisked her, not professionally but thoroughly nevertheless, extracting her police revolver from her arm holster and her Judicial Police badge and ID from her shoulder bag. The gun he put into his jacket pocket. The badge and ID he stared hard at before handing them to Doro. The man also frisked Pat and then led them inside.
“Sit down,” Doro said once they were in the house. Pat and Catherine complied, sitting next to each other on one of several small couches that faced a wood-burning stove at one end of a long room. At the other end stood a rough-hewn trestle table surrounded by eight straight-backed chairs. Off to the right of the dining area, they could see into a kitchen. Above the living area the brass railing of a loft bedroom was visible.
“Ephrem will make a fire,” said Doro. Ephrem, the youngest of the three at seventeen or maybe even younger, put his gun into a front pocket of his black leather jacket and went out through the door they had all come in.
“How did you find us?” Catherine asked.
“We have been following you since last night;” Doro replied. ”We saw you in the park. The man that got away, he killed Annabella today.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I saw him leaving her store. When I went in, she was dead, her head crushed. Three of her fingers had been cut off.”
Catherine did not reply immediately. “What do you want with us?” she asked finally.
“I want to find the man who killed and tortured my grandmother. I think you know who he is. I do not want to hurt you, but I will do whatever is necessary to avenge my family’s blood:”
“Why did you follow us last night?” Pat asked.
“We saw the two Arabs following you. We were curious. We did not see mademoiselle until the shooting.” Doro nodded toward Catherine. “Afterward we were thinking of blackmail:”
“Blackmail?”
“Yes. You killed a man. You removed something from his body. You left him in the park:”
“So you followed us from the park:”
“Yes.”
“And this morning:”
“Yes.”
Ephrem had returned with an armful of wood, which he loaded into the stove. Then he struck a match to its tinder box. While this was happening, Pat looked down and realized that he had taken Catherine’s hand. He let it go, gently, slightly embarrassed. Doro and his other partner were still facing them, their pistols, deadly-looking stainless steel affairs, pointing at Pat and Catherine.
“You don’t need the guns,” said Catherine.
“Who were those men?”
“One was a known terrorist, the one that got away. He and the dead one were carrying the credentials of the Saudi Arabian Secret Police. Maybe stolen or forged, maybe not. Did you see the raid on the house in Courbevoie?”
“Yes. He was there, the one with the bandage. He killed Annabella:”
“Were there others?”
“One
Pat rolled his window down and was looking into the face of someone surprisingly young, and more surprising, vaguely familiar. It wasn’t Ahmed bin-Shalib, the man he wished he had killed last night. And then it came to him.
“Exit the car, please Monsieur Nolan, with your hands on your head;” said the young man. “Quickly.”
“You are Madame Jeritza’s grandson,” said Pat, who had not moved.
“Yes, I am Doro. My grandmother is dead. And I will kill you if you do not do as I say.”
“Dead ...” Pat said, and then, moving slowly, he unfolded his large body from the car, placed his hands on his head, and stood before Doro, all of nineteen but with a serpent’s coldness in his eyes. Catherine had exited on her side, and was standing quietly, calmly, her hands on her head while the man behind the car, also no more than nineteen or twenty, walked over and frisked her, not professionally but thoroughly nevertheless, extracting her police revolver from her arm holster and her Judicial Police badge and ID from her shoulder bag. The gun he put into his jacket pocket. The badge and ID he stared hard at before handing them to Doro. The man also frisked Pat and then led them inside.
“Sit down,” Doro said once they were in the house. Pat and Catherine complied, sitting next to each other on one of several small couches that faced a wood-burning stove at one end of a long room. At the other end stood a rough-hewn trestle table surrounded by eight straight-backed chairs. Off to the right of the dining area, they could see into a kitchen. Above the living area the brass railing of a loft bedroom was visible.
“Ephrem will make a fire,” said Doro. Ephrem, the youngest of the three at seventeen or maybe even younger, put his gun into a front pocket of his black leather jacket and went out through the door they had all come in.
“How did you find us?” Catherine asked.
“We have been following you since last night;” Doro replied. ”We saw you in the park. The man that got away, he killed Annabella today.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I saw him leaving her store. When I went in, she was dead, her head crushed. Three of her fingers had been cut off.”
Catherine did not reply immediately. “What do you want with us?” she asked finally.
“I want to find the man who killed and tortured my grandmother. I think you know who he is. I do not want to hurt you, but I will do whatever is necessary to avenge my family’s blood:”
“Why did you follow us last night?” Pat asked.
“We saw the two Arabs following you. We were curious. We did not see mademoiselle until the shooting.” Doro nodded toward Catherine. “Afterward we were thinking of blackmail:”
“Blackmail?”
“Yes. You killed a man. You removed something from his body. You left him in the park:”
“So you followed us from the park:”
“Yes.”
“And this morning:”
“Yes.”
Ephrem had returned with an armful of wood, which he loaded into the stove. Then he struck a match to its tinder box. While this was happening, Pat looked down and realized that he had taken Catherine’s hand. He let it go, gently, slightly embarrassed. Doro and his other partner were still facing them, their pistols, deadly-looking stainless steel affairs, pointing at Pat and Catherine.
“You don’t need the guns,” said Catherine.
“Who were those men?”
“One was a known terrorist, the one that got away. He and the dead one were carrying the credentials of the Saudi Arabian Secret Police. Maybe stolen or forged, maybe not. Did you see the raid on the house in Courbevoie?”
“Yes. He was there, the one with the bandage. He killed Annabella:”
“Were there others?”
“One
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