The Book of Lost Fragrances

Thirty-seven

PARIS, FRANCE

11:15 P.M.

It was a ritual of sorts. His first night in Paris, Malachai always visited the Bar Hemingway at the Ritz Hotel. On his eighteenth birthday, his father had brought him here to introduce him to his first drink and his first cigar. It was one of the very few good memories Malachai had of the distant figure who was always finding fault with his youngest son. That night his father somehow resisted invoking the name of the sainted other son who had died too early. Until it was time to leave. “Your brother would have appreciated it here.”

Tonight the bar wasn’t as crowded as usual. The recession, Malachai thought as he sauntered into the wood-paneled room. It was small and cozy with the feel of a genteel club. Copies of Hemingway’s novels sat on shelves. Press clippings and photographs of Papa, as the author was called, hung on the wall. A shrine of sorts, not just to the man but also to his love of a good drink. Colin Field, the head bartender, who’d been here for more than two decades, was famous for his offerings-one being a cocktail made with rare cognac that actually cost more than most people pay for an entire meal at a three-star restaurant.

Malachai slid onto one of the black leather stools and greeted Field.

“Dr. Samuels, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“You, too, Colin.”

“What can I get you?”

“I started out with Krug at my hotel,” Malachai said. “So I’ll leave it to you.”

Minutes later the bartender placed a flute in front of Malachai, who raised it to his lips and sipped the concoction.

“Grapefruit juice, champagne, and… I’m stumped.”

Field smiled. “A splash of gin.” He gave Malachai a small plate of olives, nuts, and potato chips.

“What brings you to Paris? Business or pleasure?”

Over the years, Malachai had learned that Field was exceptionally well read; in addition to keeping track of his clients’ drink preferences, he kept up with them in the press.

“A client.”

“A child?”

“A little girl with strange memories.”

“Past-life memories?” Field asked.

“She doesn’t think so… but I do.”

“I thought about you a couple of weeks ago. I read about that Chinese ban on reincarnation. What did you make of that?”

“It’s an absurd law. Political posturing. A power grab.” Malachai ate a few nuts. “What’s happening to Tibet and its traditions is a tragedy that only gets worse.”

Malachai finished his drink, paid Field, and left. Walking through the long corridor filled with glass vitrines, he examined the displays of costly antiques, china, and fashion accessories. There were silk ties and gold cuff links. State-of-the-art phones. Top-of-the-line watches and pens. Women’s jewelry, scarves, lingerie and gloves.

He stopped in front of a display of gold and what he assumed were white-gold or platinum women’s bracelets. Some plain. Others diamond encrusted. There was one on the bottom shelf. Blackened gold links. No stones. Just big links-almost two inches wide. He was seeing it on Jac, accenting her delicate wrist.

Passing through the lobby, he smelled something he hadn’t noticed before. He stopped. Sniffed. It was spicy and warm. Welcoming. Ha. She was right. The more you thought about scent, the more you developed a language for it.

“Are you burning incense?” Malachai asked the doorman.

“Non, monsieur. It’s the hotel signature scent. It’s called Ambre. It is for sale in the gallery during the day.”

Malachai thanked him and strode outside.

“Un taxi?” another doorman asked.

“I believe a car was supposed to meet me…” As if on cue, a black Mercedes sedan with darkened windows pulled up.

The doorman leaned in, asked the driver who he was picking up, and then turned back to Malachai. “Dr. Samuels?”

Only after they’d left the Place Vendôme and the driver turned right on the Rue de Rivoli did either of the two men speak.

“Thank you for being so prompt, Leo.” He looked into the rearview mirror. The driver met his eyes. He was wearing a black uniform, white shirt, and black chauffeur’s cap, with thick wavy dark hair curling out the back. He had on glasses and appeared to be in his early thirties, but it was hard to tell.

“No problem, sir,” Leo answered in an Italian accent.

“Winston gives you high marks. You worked with him at Interpol?”

“I did.”

“How long have you been on your own?”

“A few years.”

Leo wasn’t chatty. That was fine with Malachai. He didn’t require conversation. Just results.

“Have you been able to gather any new information?”

“Yes. A bit more than we reported to Winston this morning.”

Malachai was hoping they’d been able to locate Robbie. “About L’Etoile?”

“No. The police still don’t have a lead on where he might be and are-”

“What’s the news?” Malachai interrupted.

“They’ve identified the man who was found dead in the perfume store on Rue des Saints-Pères. He wasn’t a reporter; he was a jazz musician. A well-respected one.”

“Masquerading as a reporter? Why?”

“It’s beginning to look like he had another career, too.”

Malachai understood. “Who was he working for?”

“The local Chinese Mafia.”

How curious that earlier that evening, Colin Field had just brought up that newspaper story about the Chinese government outlawing reincarnation without obtaining a license.

“That’s very bad news for us,” Malachai said, more to himself than to the operative. “That means they know what L’Etoile found. I would imagine now they will spare no expense to get it.”