The Book of Lost Fragrances

Forty

12:49 P.M.

Valentine didn’t hurry. William was on duty in the car. She was on a break. Trying to walk off the emotional cacophony playing in her head.

She stopped in a small grocery store. Bought two apples and two bananas. A liter of bottled water. And cigarettes-her indulgence.

Back on the street, she listened to the street noises and snatches of conversation. Tried to notice the rest of the world going by; to pretend, for a few minutes, that she wasn’t wound up and anxious. Wasn’t worried about failure. Didn’t miss François. That she believed she could take on this herculean task of running the mission herself. A mission that had become personal.

In the reflections in the store windows she passed, Valentine checked to see if anyone was following her. She didn’t expect there to be. But she always watched.

A few people inside glanced back idly at her. Some with mild curiosity. They didn’t see her. Not really. It was her look that caught their eyes. Diverted them from noticing her identifying features.

The uniform, cultivated over the years, was calculated to be just slutty enough so that the people who looked twice didn’t see past the outfit: shoulder-length, thick black hair. Bangs. Oversize black sunglasses that hid half her face. At night she substituted an oversize pair of tinted glasses even though she had 20/20 vision. Skintight blue jeans. Leather boots up to her knees. A white or black T-shirt. Never a bra, so there was typically a suggestion of nipples. Depending on the weather, either one of two old worn leather jackets: a fawn-colored blazer she’d appropriated from François’s closet years before, with double pockets inside and out; or a thrift-shop black bomber with a dozen pockets. She always had to have her hands free. Around her waist, she wore a belt. Halfway back, her knife hung off it. Invisible under the jacket, she felt it. And there was a gun tucked into the right boot.

She punched in the code and went through the door. William was where she’d left him. Sitting inside the parked car.

“Anything happen while I was gone?” she asked.

“Music. Kitchen noises. Dead fucking nothing.”

Earlier that morning, Valentine and William had followed the Citröen to the café. While Griffin and Jac were eating, Valentine had managed to attach a GPS device to the underside of their car. It had been routine, simple: she went to a bakery and bought some croissants, then walked down the street where they’d parked the Citröen. Just as she passed the car, she pretended to trip, dropping the bag. While she bent over to pick it up, she reached out and voila-it was done.

But the damn device had only helped them track the car to a parking lot used by a complex of stores. Too many stores. There had been no way to tell which one they’d gone into or what they’d bought.

No way to watch all the doorways and create a diversion and abduct Jac L’Etoile. They were going to have to find another opportunity.

Back on Rue des Saints-Pères, she and William had watched them get out of the car. Griffin carrying a suitcase. The two of them accompanied by another man. From the scraps of conversation they were able to hear with the directional mike in the following half hour they were able to pick up his name-Malachai-and a few words suggesting Jac and Griffin were going to make another effort to find Robbie. But no one had left the house or the boutique.

On every job, there were always stops and starts. But there were usually breakthroughs. If they didn’t come, you made them happen. So far there had been only stops.

She pointed to the laptop he had opened.

“Any luck getting information about the guy?” she asked him.

“Loads. Yeah. Malachai Samuels. He’s a past-life therapist from New York City.”

“Someone else who’s after the damn pottery,” Valentine said. “So do you think he’s still there alone?”

“Yeah. It’s too quiet for there to be three people there. Even if they were all just sitting around.”

“Where did they go, William? Where do they think L’Etoile is?”

He handed Valentine the computer. “I got this, too. You’re not going to like it much.”

Was it her imagination, or did he sound slightly pleased?

She looked down. It was a blueprint. It took her only a few seconds to recognize the mansion across the street. There were two exits. The door to the shop. The door to the house. A courtyard in between. A wall around the courtyard.

“No exits other than the two we have under surveillance,” William said.

She bit into the shiny red apple. “Well, they aren’t being helicoptered out.” The fruit tasted mealy. She threw it on the floor with the rest of the mess that had been accumulating. Rubbed her eyes. “We have to create some kind of diversion. Force her out of the house. And take her.”

“The police aren’t going to let her out of their sight.”

She was so sick of William. Of his negativity. Of his high-pitched, whiny voice. Of his habit of clearing his throat before he spoke. Of his red-rimmed eyes.

The wrong partner had lived. She wanted François back. She tried to think. What would her mentor tell her to do?

A melody might be set, but you could change the key. The tempo. You could always riff.

The hair against the back of her neck was making her hot. The collar of her T-shirt was damp.

Riff.