after the meeting, Yves’s waiting.”
She shook her head. “There’s no easy way to say this. Sit down.”
His hand stopped on the roll of film. His smile froze and his gaze never left her face. “What happened?”
Her nose dripped as she sat. She wiped it with her sleeve. Tears threatened, but she willed them down.
“The meeting’s cancelled. They should have informed you.”
“Eh?”
She took a breath and gave him the bald facts.
For a full minute, shock painted Langois’s face, then hardened into anger mixed with hurt. “Damn fool. I told him.”
“Told him what?”
“When I met him at the Gare du Nord.” Langois shook his head. “I said leave it alone.”
She pulled out the Eurostar ticket stub with her shaking hands. The stub she’d forgotten to give to Rouffillac. “Yours?”
He glanced at it, nodded, then sat down on the edge of the desk.
“Leave what alone, Gerard?”
“His contact didn’t show.”
She leaned forward.
“What contact?”
“That’s what I asked.” Langois sighed. “But Yves knows everyone, has contacts everywhere. Getting to his sources is like peeling the layers of an onion. ‘Better you see it when it happens, keeps your photos fresh,’ he always says . . . said.”
Langois averted his eyes.
He wasn’t telling her something.
“So, like the flics , you think his contact was a junkie hustler? That’s what you’re saying?”
“Eh? You mean that asthmatic, the suspect you mentioned?”
She stared at him.
“I doubt it,” he said. “When Yves met me arriving on the Eurostar at Gare du Nord, we waited thirty minutes at the gate for his contact.”
“Any idea who the contact could be?”
He shook his head. “No clue. But instead of leaving by the main exit, grabbing a taxi, and having dinner, as we’d planned, he insisted we take the tunnel.”
“A tunnel in the Gare du Nord?” she said. “You mean to the Metro?”
“I thought so,” Langois said. “But after a ten-minute walk underground we ended up by some construction. A spooky place. Yves kept looking around, glancing at his watch; he said this was their backup meeting point.”
She had a thought. “Did he get any calls on his cell phone?”
“No reception down there. Anyway, he said the contact didn’t trust cell phones. Wouldn’t use one.”
She thought of the pebbles outside the loft window. Made sense.
“So the contact didn’t show there or at the backup location . . . didn’t he give you some idea what it concerned?”
“He asked one of the workers something. But I don’t speak Turkish.”
Surprised, she leaned forward.
“Yves spoke Turkish?”
“He’s been stationed in Ankara as chief correspondent for the last six months until this. . . .” He stopped.
The Anatolian sufi amulet, the Turkish puzzle ring, of course. Like he said, peeling the layers of an onion. She had to construct the events of Yves’s life before he met her at Microimage, so she could understand the events afterward.
“And then?”
“He got the keys to a great loft on the canal.”
“Did he make calls on his cell phone?”
Langois thought. “Can’t remember.”
“What about his bags?”
He shrugged. “Instead of dinner, he said he had to go, he would call me later. Otherwise, to meet up here tonight.”
She thought about Le Monde, the front page on the floor with the Metro bombing headlines.
“Does ‘a homegrown insidious network’ mean anything to you?”
“We photographers just capture an image; the journalists don’t tell us much.”
She had an idea. “How about the stories he worked on in Ankara?”
Langois pulled out a small large-format camera, switched on the power. “Yves went native, got inside the militant Kurd organization, the iKK party. Fancied himself a Lawrence of Anatolia for a while, until the Agence reined him in.”
Now the dark makeup she’d discovered on Yves’s face made some sense. . . . Suppose he’d applied it to make himself appear
She shook her head. “There’s no easy way to say this. Sit down.”
His hand stopped on the roll of film. His smile froze and his gaze never left her face. “What happened?”
Her nose dripped as she sat. She wiped it with her sleeve. Tears threatened, but she willed them down.
“The meeting’s cancelled. They should have informed you.”
“Eh?”
She took a breath and gave him the bald facts.
For a full minute, shock painted Langois’s face, then hardened into anger mixed with hurt. “Damn fool. I told him.”
“Told him what?”
“When I met him at the Gare du Nord.” Langois shook his head. “I said leave it alone.”
She pulled out the Eurostar ticket stub with her shaking hands. The stub she’d forgotten to give to Rouffillac. “Yours?”
He glanced at it, nodded, then sat down on the edge of the desk.
“Leave what alone, Gerard?”
“His contact didn’t show.”
She leaned forward.
“What contact?”
“That’s what I asked.” Langois sighed. “But Yves knows everyone, has contacts everywhere. Getting to his sources is like peeling the layers of an onion. ‘Better you see it when it happens, keeps your photos fresh,’ he always says . . . said.”
Langois averted his eyes.
He wasn’t telling her something.
“So, like the flics , you think his contact was a junkie hustler? That’s what you’re saying?”
“Eh? You mean that asthmatic, the suspect you mentioned?”
She stared at him.
“I doubt it,” he said. “When Yves met me arriving on the Eurostar at Gare du Nord, we waited thirty minutes at the gate for his contact.”
“Any idea who the contact could be?”
He shook his head. “No clue. But instead of leaving by the main exit, grabbing a taxi, and having dinner, as we’d planned, he insisted we take the tunnel.”
“A tunnel in the Gare du Nord?” she said. “You mean to the Metro?”
“I thought so,” Langois said. “But after a ten-minute walk underground we ended up by some construction. A spooky place. Yves kept looking around, glancing at his watch; he said this was their backup meeting point.”
She had a thought. “Did he get any calls on his cell phone?”
“No reception down there. Anyway, he said the contact didn’t trust cell phones. Wouldn’t use one.”
She thought of the pebbles outside the loft window. Made sense.
“So the contact didn’t show there or at the backup location . . . didn’t he give you some idea what it concerned?”
“He asked one of the workers something. But I don’t speak Turkish.”
Surprised, she leaned forward.
“Yves spoke Turkish?”
“He’s been stationed in Ankara as chief correspondent for the last six months until this. . . .” He stopped.
The Anatolian sufi amulet, the Turkish puzzle ring, of course. Like he said, peeling the layers of an onion. She had to construct the events of Yves’s life before he met her at Microimage, so she could understand the events afterward.
“And then?”
“He got the keys to a great loft on the canal.”
“Did he make calls on his cell phone?”
Langois thought. “Can’t remember.”
“What about his bags?”
He shrugged. “Instead of dinner, he said he had to go, he would call me later. Otherwise, to meet up here tonight.”
She thought about Le Monde, the front page on the floor with the Metro bombing headlines.
“Does ‘a homegrown insidious network’ mean anything to you?”
“We photographers just capture an image; the journalists don’t tell us much.”
She had an idea. “How about the stories he worked on in Ankara?”
Langois pulled out a small large-format camera, switched on the power. “Yves went native, got inside the militant Kurd organization, the iKK party. Fancied himself a Lawrence of Anatolia for a while, until the Agence reined him in.”
Now the dark makeup she’d discovered on Yves’s face made some sense. . . . Suppose he’d applied it to make himself appear
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