– and watched Harry walk to the door and step out of sight. His eyes shifted and fixed on the shiny nebula of oil that floated on the surface of the coffee left in his cup. The diner suddenly seemed louder, and each clink and uttered word etched its distinctive mark on the aural swirl. Some tiny filament fired in the part of his brain that sheltered its unremembered secrets – and he heard a sigh, dulcet, mournful – but couldn’t be certain whether it came from a nearby table or booth, or a place that defied concrete definition. Then the waiter was at his side.
‘Would you like something else?’ asked the waiter.
Geiger’s right forefinger started a solo tap on the table, as if he had found a beat within the sound. He closed his eyes.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing.’
10
The early morning lines for non-Europeans at Paris Orly passport control were long. Harry still had half a dozen weary travelers in front of him while Matheson had already breezed through the section for nationals with a phony French passport, a perfect accent, short gray hair and a salt and pepper goatee. Harry had a carry-on duffel, and his laptop and private software – on disks sporting labels of albums by the Allman Brothers, R. Kelly and Coldplay – were in the scuffed leather portfolio he’d had since he was a reporter at the
Times
.
He looked at the ‘Thomas Jones’ passport in his hand. Six years ago, Geiger had taken a gig in Cancun – some bad blood in the luxury condo business – and they had acquired quality forgeries for the trip through Carmine. He remembered Carmine handing him the documents, patting him on the back and saying, ‘Harry . . . take good care of my boy . . .’ – as if Geiger, the man who broke the wills of killers and kings, was a naïf who needed looking after. And Harry remembered looking at Carmine’s hard, cobalt eyes and thinking –
If anything happened to Geiger, this guy would rip out my liver and make me eat it
.
The immigrations official was a woman in her twenties – pale and stiff-backed in her crisp blue shirt, with a short frown she clearly hadn’t had much time to earn. Maybe they taught you how to wear it at border police school. Harry handed the passport to her.
Her eyes went from his picture up to Harry’s face, then back down.
‘Monsieur Jones . . . visit in France why?’ she asked in poor English.
‘To see an old friend.’
‘In Paris?’
‘Yes. That’s right. For a few days, maybe a week.’
He faked a yawn and sneaked a glimpse at the security camera on the cubicle wall behind her.
There was a fuzzy squawk that seemed to come from a few spots simultaneously. Harry’s head did a ninety and saw a uniformed man across the area put his two-way radio to his ear. Then Harry picked out two other blue-shirts doing the same. The men looked up as one – directly at Harry – and started walking toward him. He tried to turn off the spigot flooding him with fear.
‘Ne bougez pas, monsieur,’ said the police woman. And she made a gesture commanding him not to move.
Harry turned back to her. The frown did a little twitch, and caused Harry’s internal screws to tighten from head to foot.
The trio were five feet away and there was no place for Harry to go. He watched them coming for him, one stride quicker than the last, and the tallest brushed against him as they went past. Harry turned and watched them stop at the next line and kneel around a silver-haired old woman who was lying on the floor. She might have been a fainter. Or maybe she’d suffered the heart attack Harry was certain he was about to have. The men exchanged comments, then gently helped the woman into a sitting position.
‘Bon,’ said his official. Harry’s sweat had glued his shirt to his back.
‘Bien, monsieur . . .’ She stamped the passport, held it out to him, and her lips curled upward into one of the sweetest smiles Harry had ever seen. ‘Paris! Ah, Paris!’
‘Thank you,’ he said,
‘Would you like something else?’ asked the waiter.
Geiger’s right forefinger started a solo tap on the table, as if he had found a beat within the sound. He closed his eyes.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing.’
10
The early morning lines for non-Europeans at Paris Orly passport control were long. Harry still had half a dozen weary travelers in front of him while Matheson had already breezed through the section for nationals with a phony French passport, a perfect accent, short gray hair and a salt and pepper goatee. Harry had a carry-on duffel, and his laptop and private software – on disks sporting labels of albums by the Allman Brothers, R. Kelly and Coldplay – were in the scuffed leather portfolio he’d had since he was a reporter at the
Times
.
He looked at the ‘Thomas Jones’ passport in his hand. Six years ago, Geiger had taken a gig in Cancun – some bad blood in the luxury condo business – and they had acquired quality forgeries for the trip through Carmine. He remembered Carmine handing him the documents, patting him on the back and saying, ‘Harry . . . take good care of my boy . . .’ – as if Geiger, the man who broke the wills of killers and kings, was a naïf who needed looking after. And Harry remembered looking at Carmine’s hard, cobalt eyes and thinking –
If anything happened to Geiger, this guy would rip out my liver and make me eat it
.
The immigrations official was a woman in her twenties – pale and stiff-backed in her crisp blue shirt, with a short frown she clearly hadn’t had much time to earn. Maybe they taught you how to wear it at border police school. Harry handed the passport to her.
Her eyes went from his picture up to Harry’s face, then back down.
‘Monsieur Jones . . . visit in France why?’ she asked in poor English.
‘To see an old friend.’
‘In Paris?’
‘Yes. That’s right. For a few days, maybe a week.’
He faked a yawn and sneaked a glimpse at the security camera on the cubicle wall behind her.
There was a fuzzy squawk that seemed to come from a few spots simultaneously. Harry’s head did a ninety and saw a uniformed man across the area put his two-way radio to his ear. Then Harry picked out two other blue-shirts doing the same. The men looked up as one – directly at Harry – and started walking toward him. He tried to turn off the spigot flooding him with fear.
‘Ne bougez pas, monsieur,’ said the police woman. And she made a gesture commanding him not to move.
Harry turned back to her. The frown did a little twitch, and caused Harry’s internal screws to tighten from head to foot.
The trio were five feet away and there was no place for Harry to go. He watched them coming for him, one stride quicker than the last, and the tallest brushed against him as they went past. Harry turned and watched them stop at the next line and kneel around a silver-haired old woman who was lying on the floor. She might have been a fainter. Or maybe she’d suffered the heart attack Harry was certain he was about to have. The men exchanged comments, then gently helped the woman into a sitting position.
‘Bon,’ said his official. Harry’s sweat had glued his shirt to his back.
‘Bien, monsieur . . .’ She stamped the passport, held it out to him, and her lips curled upward into one of the sweetest smiles Harry had ever seen. ‘Paris! Ah, Paris!’
‘Thank you,’ he said,
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