The Book of Lost Fragrances

Thirty-five

On the opposite side of Rue des Saints-Pères, inside the courtyard of the nineteenth-century apartment complex, a chestnut tree cast the navy-blue Smart car in shadows. William had secured the parking space from the concierge. Three hundred euros in exchange for the numeric code that residents used to open the heavy wooden gates. Only two families had cars, so there were three unused spaces.

Despite the privacy the tree afforded, Valentine kept the lights off and the windows rolled up. The electronic listening device had been modified so its switches didn’t illuminate. Her headphones were state of the art. Even when William was in the car with her, he couldn’t hear what she was listening to. She had been trained to take every precaution.

The whole time she’d been sitting there, no one had come or gone. Everyone seemed to be in for the night.

Valentine shifted in her seat. Arched her back. Stretched her legs. She ran ten hours a week. Practiced martial arts another five. Her diet was macrobiotic laced with vitamins. Under François’s tutelage, she’d turned her body into an instrument. One that no one could take from her. Her only vice was cigarettes. And she allowed herself only eight a day.

Four hours in the car was nothing. Her longest stint had been nine hours. But that had been a success. So far, tonight had been anything but.

Valentine had followed Griffin North and Jac L’Etoile back to the mansion after their dinner at Café Marly. For a few minutes, she’d heard them clearly, then nothing. After an hour, a few sentences, then Griffin put on the stereo. After that, she’d heard only intermittent pieces of conversation. Nothing valuable. At least on the surface. Maybe later, when she could play it back, there’d be some clues.

It was hot and cramped inside the vehicle, but Valentine was trained not to let that distract her. She just listened. Because the subjects spoke only English, it was taking more concentration than usual. And proving more frustrating. Valentine was missing nuances of any of the conversation she did hear.

She’d understood the sound of their lovemaking, though. And for some reason, it had embarrassed her. It had been four years since she’d been with a man. And he had been the only man she’d been with since François had picked her up off the street and taken her to the hospital.

The knock on the window startled her. Instinctively, she put her hand on her knife. Like soldiers in the People’s Armed Police in China, she was trained in many killing techniques: shooting, knifing, hand-to-hand combat. Like François, she preferred knives to guns. The butterfly knife she wore on the belt around her waist had been his gift to her on her indoctrination into the Triad. Dragons were beautifully engraved on the blade. Leather strips, softened by years of use, wound around the steel tang.

In ancient times, these knives were favored by monks, who wore them under their robes. They sharpened only the tips so they could use them in self-defense without causing death.

The blade of Valentine’s knife was sharpened all the way to the hilt.

When she saw that it was William, her grip relaxed. She unlocked the doors.

Once inside, he offered her one of the two cardboard cups of steaming tea. She thanked him. It had been a long night, and the drink was welcome. She opened the tea, and the windows fogged.

“Has there been a lot going on?” he asked.

In between sips, she filled him in. It was strange to be with William without François there. Awkward to be two instead of three. She wondered if she should have brought in a third. There were four other members of the team. She could add any one of them.

“Where do they think Robbie L’Etoile is?” William asked. “Have they said?”

He was jittery and had circles under his eyes.

“No, they didn’t. But for a while I think they left and went to find him.”

“I checked with our men on the way here; no has left the house since they came back from dinner.”

“They left. They must have used another entrance.”

“We have both entrances covered. I know how to set up surveillance.”

“Well, they left.”

“There isn’t any other way out,” William said. “I’m certain.”

“That’s impossible. From their conversation, it was clear they went somewhere to look for him. You have to find it.”

“François wouldn’t argue with me. Valentine, I told you. I know how to do my job.”

The stress. The sadness. The loss. She knew how he felt. “I miss him too.”

“What does that mean?” William asked.

“It’s hard to do your job right when you’re preoccupied. Emotion gets in the way. But no one is going to accept missing him as an excuse for slipping up.”

“How dare you. I didn’t slip up.”

“Then where did they go?”

“You have no idea of how I feel. What do you know about loving someone? A little street whore. If François hadn’t saved you-you’d be dead by now. He told me you’re damaged emotionally. That you’re a sociopath who-”

Valentine threw what was left of the tea into William’s face. He coughed. Sputtered.

“You’re out of your mind, you know that?” he growled.

Valentine pulled her cigarettes out of her backpack. Shook one out. Lit it. “It’s late. Why don’t you go home, William? Cry in your pillow. I’m fine on my own. I’m not going to let your emotional reactions impede the success of this mission.”

William wiped off the rest of the tea. “If there is an exit,” he said finally, firmly, “I’ll find it.”

“We’re wasting time. Let’s take the perfumer’s sister. L’Etoile will come out. He’ll do anything he has to, to save her.”

“How do you know that?” William asked.

“Isn’t that what family does? Or don’t I know about how families respond to situations, either?”

“Even if that was the right solution, we’ll never get to his sister. The police are watching her twenty-four hours a day.”

“Since when is that a problem?” Valentine looked at him. He was facing forward. His profile was toward her. The prominent nose. Receding chin. A little extra flesh where the years were catching up to him. François had been lean. Kept himself hungry. “You sound like a coward.” She inhaled. Drew the smoke into her lungs.

“Fuck you.” He banged his fist on the dashboard. “You go too far.”

“People who don’t like to wait are waiting.” She exhaled. “The longer the pottery is out there, the better chance there is of its getting into the wrong hands. Our bosses will hold us responsible for our failures.”

Smoke had filled the car. Blue smoke. The color of François’s music.