Echo of War by Grant Blackwood Page A

out of the St. Beuve, boarded the 11:10 train at the Montparnasse station, changed trains at Rennes, then continued north to St. Malo, arriving two hours and ten minutes after leaving Paris.
    From habit, Tanner had kept peripheral tabs on their fellow passengers. Of those that boarded at Montparnasse, nine changed trains with them at Rennes for the final leg to St. Malo. Of these, two boarded their car: a blond-haired man in his middle thirties and a teenage girl with magenta hair, a black leather jacket, and square-tipped biker boots. Twenty minutes into the ride, the girl ambled over to the blond-haired man, exchanged a few words, then accepted a franc note from him and walked down to them. “Aide une fille hors ?” she said. Help a girl out?
    Tanner handed her a few notes. She flashed a dingy smile, then returned to her seat.
    As they disembarked at St. Malo, the teenager started walking in the opposite direction, and the man hailed a taxi that took him around the corner to Quai Des Corsaires. Tanner and Cahil rented a locker, stuffed their duffel bags inside, then started walking.
    The Black Boar was inside the walled city on Place Vauban, so they walked across Avenue Louis Martin, which spanned the three-hundred-meter canal separating the intra- and extra-muros. Across the canal they could see the lighted ramparts and watchtowers perched atop the ancient wall, which was lit from below by amber spotlights, lending the battlements a Disneyland-like appearance. Tanner suspected the lighting had been installed in anticipation of the upcoming tourist season. By this time next week, St. Malo’s population would swell to five times its normal size as visitors from Great Britain and urban France descended on the “City of the Corsairs.”
    As they reached Grande Porte, the city’s main gate, Tanner caught a glimpse of a taxi pulling away from Porte St. Louise down the quai. A lone figure disappeared through the gate.
    â€œBlondie from the train?” Cahil asked.
    â€œCouldn’t tell.”
    It was nearly one-thirty, but Tanner was hoping the Black Boar would still be open. The deserted cobblestone streets glistened under the glow of gaslights long ago converted to electricity. It took little for Tanner to imagine them hissing and sputtering with the flow of natural gas. Houses crowded the street, dormer windows looming over them. Hanging from every dark balcony were flower boxes and hanging pots, tiny blooms of color in the darkness.
    â€œTalk about lost in time,” Cahil murmured. “I feel like we’re heading to a meeting of the resistance, listening for jackboots on the cobblestones.”
    Tanner nodded. “It’s eerie.” Of course, it was precisely this atmosphere that drew hundreds of thousands of tourists every year. On its face, St Malo was frozen in the 1930s.
    They followed the winding streets for another twenty minutes until they reached a cul-de-sac at the end of Place Vauban. There, tucked between a pair of alleys, was the Black Boar. Hanging from a rusty chain above the oaken door was a neon sign: “Sanglier Noir.” Light flickered through the tarnished windows. Tanner could hear raucous laughter coming from inside.
    â€œSomething tells me we’re not going to be able to slip in unnoticed,” Cahil said.
    â€œMaybe that’s good.”
    â€œGonna shake the tree?”
    â€œI was thinking about it It’s hard to tell what kind of reaction we’ll get though.”
    â€œOne way to find out”
    Tanner grabbed the door latch and pushed. In keeping with its appearance, the door let out a rusty shriek. They stepped through and were hit by a wave a cigarette smoke. The tavern’s interior went quiet. Two dozen faces turned to them and stared.
    â€œThank god there wasn’t a piano to stop playing,” Bear murmured.
    â€œAmen.” Tanner nodded at the patrons and raised a hand. “Bonjour. ”
    No one replied.