Conviction

2

At eleven the next morning, Fisher’s taxi pulled onto rue de Vesles. Fisher let it go another hundred yards before asking the driver to stop. He paid the fare and climbed out. The block was lined with boutique clothing and shoe shops. Fisher crossed the street and walked another hundred yards, past the intersection of rue Marx Dormoy, then back across again. No sign of watchers. Once on the opposite sidewalk he reversed course again, past Marx Dormoy, and then into a tunneled alley called passage Saint-Jacques. Once through the alley he found himself in a warren of tree-lined courtyards and tall wrought-iron fences.

He found the right house number and pressed the buzzer. A moment later a wheezy voice replied, “Yes?”

“It’s François Dayreis.”

The door buzzed and Fisher pushed into the alcove, then down a short hall to a stairwell. He took it down one flight to the basement apartment and knocked. Fisher heard the shuffling of feet on carpet. Down the hall a ceiling fixture flickered, went dark, then flickered back to life. Abelard Boutin opened the door and gestured for him to enter. Boutin was as close to a human gnome as Fisher had ever met. In his late fifties, he was five feet, four inches tall and stoop shouldered, with only a few wisps of greasy gray hair to cover a skull so dented it reminded Fisher of a golf ball. Boutin’s black-rimmed Coke-bottle glasses completed the look. Boutin cared little for appearances, Fisher had learned, at least those in the “realm of the animated,” as Boutin called it. The Frenchman had only one interest: forgery. Like a mathematical savant who lived his life immersed in numbers, Abelard Boutin lived his life for the perfection of falsification. There were plenty of forgers in France but only a handful of Boutin’s caliber.

It was that and one other trait of Boutin’s that had brought Fisher here. Boutin could be trusted to do whatever it took to keep his beloved world intact. Clients who threatened that integrity were culled from the herd.

“How can I help you today?” Boutin asked wheezily. Clearly he was a fan of Gitanes: His apartment stunk of them. He shuffled Fisher into the apartment’s sitting/ TV/work room. The center of the space was dominated by a ten-by-five-foot maple workbench equipped with all the tools of Boutin’s trade. A perpetually burning electric brazier at each end of the workbench ensured that unexpected police guests would find no documents, only the tools of an avid fly-fishing-lure maker: swing-arm halogen magnifier lamps; miniature, multiarmed clamp vices; delicate pens and paintbrushes; a high-end copier-printer; and a laminating machine — for making weather-resistant shipping labels, Boutin had explained to Fisher on their first meeting. The forgery-specific tools and supplies Boutin likely kept in a well-concealed safe.

“I need these altered,” Fisher replied, dropping the driver’s licenses for the Doucet gang down on the table.

Boutin waddled over, snatched up the licenses, studied each in turn, then shrugged. “Easy enough. You have pictures?”

Fisher handed him the strip he’d taken in a do-it-yourself photo booth.

“The usual names?” Boutin asked.

“No, these.” Fisher handed him a typewritten list.

“How soon?”

“How much?”

“Depends on how soon.”

“Later this afternoon.”

“Sixteen hundred for all.”

“Eight hundred.”

“Out of the question. Fourteen.”

“One thousand, and let’s be done with it. I’m sure you don’t want me here any longer than is absolutely necessary.”

This did the trick. Boutin waggled his head from side to side, thinking, then nodded. “Come back at five.”

Fisher walked the half mile toward the city center, to a Sixt rental car agency on Aristide Briand, rented a white Ford Fiesta, then drove north out of the city on the D931. He reached Verdun just after noon. One of the handful of forgers on par with Boutin lived in an apartment near the quai de Londres on the Meuse River.

During World War II, Verdun and Reims were informal sister cities, together having been fortified into a loosely connected defensive line. Verdun’s other claim to fame, one which was not found in many guidebooks, was that Adolf Hitler had served briefly in Verdun during World War I.

Fisher found Emmanuel Chenevier in a postage-stamp courtyard off his ground-floor apartment, apparently asleep in a redwood lounger, a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo lying open on his chest. As Fisher approached, Chenevier turned his head, shaded his eyes with one hand, and smiled.

“Afternoon, Sam.”

“Emmanuel.”

Chenevier was not only the one man in France who knew his true identity, but also one of the only “off the books” friends he had here. An old Cold War veteran, Chenevier had spent thirty years in the DGSE, the Direction générale de la sécurite extérieure (General directorate for external security). They’d become friends in the early nineties and had stayed in touch. Chenevier was a loyal Frenchman down to his bones, and while he knew Fisher had been disavowed, they’d struck a bargain: Fisher wouldn’t harm Chenevier’s beloved “Hexagone,” and Chenevier would keep his secret.

“Please sit down, Sam.” Fisher took the other lounger. “You cut your hair,” Chenevier said. “And your beard… I can’t recall the last time I’ve seen your face. You’re moving on?”

“Soon.”

“You need documents?”

“Alteration.”

“Our bargain still stands, yes?”

“Of course. Had a situation in Reims yesterday, but nothing you wouldn’t have done.”

Chenevier pursed his lips. “I saw something on the news this morning. Some injured men in a warehouse?”

Fisher nodded.

“They deserved it?”

“They deserved worse.”

“I have trouble imagining such a thing, Sam. As I recall, one of them had his arms and legs broken: tibia and femur in both legs, radius and ulna in both arms. They found him strapped to a table.”

“I thought there were three bones in the arm: radius, ulna, and humerus.”

“So there are. Sam, you frighten me sometimes.”

Fisher didn’t reply. Chenevier let it go. “Let’s go inside. I’ll make us some lunch.”

Afterward, Chenevier looked through Fisher’s take from Doucet’s warehouse, separating the items into piles: credit cards, driver’s licenses, passports, and, as Fisher had already discovered, a surprise: thirty or so cell phone SIM (subscriber identity module) cards.

“These could be handy,” Chenevier said with a low whistle. “I’ll have to check them, of course, but if even a few are usable, you’ll be like a ghost. As for the credit cards—”

“Just need them for reservations. Hotels and cars.”

“I can do that. A few of the driver’s licenses might be of use—”

“Forget those. I’ve already been to see Boutin.”

Chenevier frowned. “He’s untrustworthy, Sam. And when he sees the news about that warehouse business…”

“I know. He won’t make the call until I’m gone, though.”

Chenevier smiled. “You’re right, of course. Monsieur Boutin has a finely honed sense of self-preservation, doesn’t he? Why go to him at all?”

“I need to shake the tree. See what falls out.”

“Ah, I understand. The passports are your safest course.”

“Agreed.”

“I can get six to eight out of this bunch. When do you need them?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“D’accord.”

“I can give you—”

“You can give me nothing, Sam.”

“Merci, Emmanuel.”

“You look tired. Tell me: Will you ever be able to go home again?”

Fisher considered this. “I don’t know.”

From Verdun, he drove north and west, meandering his way through the villages of Forges-sur-Meuse, Gercourt-et-Drillancourt, and Montfaucon-d’Argonne before turning back toward Reims. While he doubted he would be using an alternate route to the border, the more familiar he was with the countryside, the better. Chances were, his dash from Reims would take him straight to Villerupt and Russange, but he was also aware of the old adage “No battle plan survives contact with the enemy,” and unless he was wrong about Boutin, the enemy would soon be here.

Only two questions remained: How good would they be? And what would be their orders?

He was back at Boutin’s apartment shortly after five. The forger had the altered licenses ready. Fisher checked them, then handed over the money. “Nice work.”

“I am aware. So, where will you go from here?”

“Who said I’m going anywhere?”

“I just assumed… ” Boutin gestured to the forged licenses.

Fisher shrugged. “Switzerland… Italy. I’ve got a friend who has a villa in Tuscany.”

“A lovely place, Tuscany. When will you be leaving?”

“Tomorrow or the day after.”

“Well, safe travels.”

Fisher left Boutin’s apartment and walked down the block to Jules, a clothing store on the corner of de Vesles and Marx Dormoy, and spent fifteen minutes perusing the racks by the window overlooking both entrances to passage Saint-Jacques until Boutin emerged from the courtyard. Being the devout indoorsman he was, the forger took the shortest route to the nearest cabine, or telephone booth, where he spent thirty seconds before retracing his route to his apartment.

Good boy, Abelard.

Like Emmanuel Chenevier, Boutin the Gnome would have little trouble with arithmetic. The man he knows as François Dayreis arrives at his apartment with five driver’s licenses, and within hours those same names appear in the news: a brutal assault on the outskirts of Reims. A lone perpetrator. François Dayreis was more trouble than he was worth — a customer whose continuing business was more a liability than an asset to Boutin. By the time he’d placed his anonymous call to the authorities, Boutin had probably suspended his business and secreted his tools and materials. If Dayreis was captured and tried to implicate him, all the police would find was an old man running a fly-tying business in his basement apartment. As is the nature of their trade, forgers know how to hide things.

Now came the waiting. Boutin would be visited; of that Fisher was certain. His cutout had been clear about that much. The timelines and scope of the response would be telling. Who? How many? And, most important, what were their rules of engagement?

Fisher checked his watch: almost 7:00 P.M. Boutin was savvy; he wouldn’t have said anything to the authorities about forged documents, but rather that he knew of the man described on the news. François Dayreis was his name. The report would go to the local police, the Police municipale, who would pass on the tip to the Police nationale. As Doucet and his cohorts would have reported the theft of their driver’s licenses (but not the loss of their satchel full of stolen IDs, passports, and SIM cards), the Police nationale would assume the attacker planned to use the stolen licenses, which would necessitate the involvement of Interpol and the Direction centrale du renseignement intérieur (Central directorate of interior intelligence), or DCRI, France’s version of the FBI. From there, electronic ears would take note of the name François Dayreis and alarms would be raised. In all, Fisher estimated he had six hours before someone in the United States pushed the panic button.