The Golem of Paris

Chapter forty-five

From what Jacob had seen, mansions in L.A.’s high-end neighborhoods were often all show and no go, built wide and high in order to simulate volume, but disappointingly shallow — like the movie sets that had paid for them.

Now he saw the opposite illusion in effect.

As the Peugeot crept toward Le Petit Kremlin, the structure retreated and amplified, revealing an astonishing depth, most of it invisible from the street. A network of path lights gradually disclosed outbuildings, fountains, barbered trees, a gazebo — almost a city in itself. That it fit into the urban puzzle of Paris seemed magical, devilish.

He thought he caught the glint of a sniper scope at the roofline.

Schott cleared his throat uncomfortably.

Fifteen yards ahead, men in cargo pants formed a crescent spanning the driveway. Every one of them was thick in the abdomen — husky by virtue of genetics and bulletproof vests. Two held mirrors on poles; two restrained excited dogs.

The rest clutched submachine guns.

At their center, like an aberrant capstone, stood Knob Neck.

A transparent, three-paneled screen interposed itself between Tremsin’s army and the car. Blast-resistant Lexan, ten feet tall, with another several feet of overhang, braced from behind by steel rods and anchored beneath the paving stones. The outer panels angled to contain and redirect a pressure wave away from the house.

He’s a paranoid man.

Pelletier was relaxed — used to the process. She pulled up to the screen and parked. She took the keys from the ignition, opened her door, and set them on the ground.

“You want to talk to him,” she said, “you’ll talk to him. Under my supervision.”

Jacob said, “You can show up whenever you feel like it?”

“Of course not. When I told him who you were, he sounded curious. No guarantee, though. He might change his mind. He’s a creature of whim. Now hurry up and open your doors. Don’t get out, just sit there.”

“We can’t,” Schott said. “Locked in.”

Pelletier pressed a button and they shoved both rear doors open. She popped the trunk, then the hood. “Stay where you are. Lace your fingers behind your head. Get comfortable,” she said. “This could take a while.”

The mirror men and the dog handlers came forward, along with three gunmen, one for each passenger.

Up the driveway, Knob Neck was grinning.

Jacob said, “That’s the son of a bitch who followed me.”

“Dmitri Molchanov,” Pelletier said. “Tremsin’s chief of security.”

The devil — he delegates.

The thick blast shield distorted Molchanov’s features, exaggerating his already extreme dimensions. He was broad, like the others. Broader even than Schott. Jacob had failed to appreciate that, hung up on the guy’s height. A gust of wind lifted his greatcoat, revealing a V torso, strata of muscle asserting themselves through his shirt.

Crazily, he appeared to have grown since their last encounter.

The bend in the glass.

Or a psychological by-product of knowing who — what — the guy was.

His colors.

He doesn’t have any.

Jacob looked over at Schott. Tight all over. Vigilant.

The gunmen stood by, weapons trained inside the car, while the mirror men circled the Peugeot, inspecting its undercarriage, probing the trunk. They wore earpieces, touching them and communicating their progress, to Molchanov, presumably.

One of the men stooped to pocket Pelletier’s keys.

No exit without permission.

Molchanov kept on grinning. At this distance, impossible to tell what amused him. But Jacob couldn’t shake the sense that he was the target.

Was this going to go bad right now, before they got in the building?

He smiled back at Molchanov, and the two of them stayed locked on each other, beaming like a couple of lovesick idiots, until a mirror man went to inspect the engine and the hood was raised and Molchanov disappeared from view.

The handlers approached. The dogs were elegant, subtly vicious animals, with black bullet eyes and golden coats and sharp, feral snouts. One of them poked its head into the car, licked Schott’s shin.

“Good puppy,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Sobaka nomer odin,” the handler said.

“Pretty,” Schott said. “What’s it mean?”

“Dog number one,” Pelletier said.

Jacob’s leg buzzed: incoming message.

Roughly ten-thirty a.m. in L.A.

Recess time for Susan Lomax.

Reflexively he started to reach down.

The gunman watching him snapped the barrel into line with Jacob’s head.

“My phone,” Jacob said. “It’s in my pocket.”

The guy didn’t respond. The gun didn’t budge.

“Can I get it, please?”

Pelletier said, “Stop talking.”

A mirror man slammed the hood and rapped it twice.

Pelletier said, “Get out.”

Molchanov was already loping down the driveway toward them. He came around the blast screen and air-kissed Pelletier. “Bonsoir.”

“Bonsoir, Dmitri.”

Molchanov smiled at Jacob. “Hello again, Mr. Lev.”

Jacob stifled his nerves, showed teeth. “No kiss for me?”

Molchanov laughed. He had a mouth full of huge white veneers.

“Okay,” he said.

The security check wasn’t finished. It had barely begun. Jacob and Schott were frisked and wanded; their phones were confiscated, along with their wallets and everything else on them that wasn’t clothing. Jacob had left his bag containing Vallot’s crime scene photos in the car, but the guards took the worn pair of maps from inside his jacket. Schott lost his sunglasses.

Pelletier stood off to the side, exempt from the ordeal.

“When do we get our stuff back?” Schott said.

“When you leave,” Molchanov said.

He touched his earpiece and gestured and guards stepped forward and surrounded them, creating a corral of muscle. A cage that moved. Swept along, Jacob and Schott and Pelletier proceeded to the steps of the mansion, toward the open half of two colossal bronze doors. Figures in relief. Satyrs, fauns, nude maidens — Rodin in a randy mood.

They stepped into a soaring limestone rotunda.

One by one, the guards filed through a full-body scanner, the machine alarming pleasantly.

Bing, bing, bing.

“Jackets and shoes off?” Jacob asked.

“Not necessary,” Molchanov said, tapping the monitor. “It will find everything.”

With a practiced air, Pelletier removed her wallet, phone, fitness tracker, jewelry, belt. She set them in a plastic bin and stepped through the scanner.

Bing.

Molchanov, reading the screen, murmured something that made the other guards smirk and that caused Pelletier to go red in the face. “J’ai oublié,” she said.

She reached into her suit jacket and withdrew a tampon. Tossed it into the bin and stepped through the scanner.

“Okay,” Molchanov said.

The guards prodded Pelletier’s items and returned them to her.

Jacob patted himself down, turned his pockets inside out.

He stepped through the scanner.

“Okay,” Molchanov said.

Schott’s turn.

Bing.

Molchanov frowned, studying the screen. He asked Schott to step out, back in.

Bing.

Jacob craned to see the monitor. A guard slid forward to block his view.

“This way, my friend,” Molchanov said.

Schott didn’t move.

Molchanov waited.

Schott stood there.

Jacob said, “Paul?”

Four exits radiated from the rotunda, a gunman stationed at each. Two additional guards moved into position, isolating Schott, who was blinking now, a line of sweat tracking down his neck.

Molchanov said, “Doktor Tremsin is waiting.”

Schott took in a deep breath, bringing his shoulders back, as if readying himself to make a move. But he exhaled and nodded and trudged off, accompanied by two gunmen.

They disappeared through the southwestern door.

Molchanov turned to Jacob and Pelletier and gave a little bow, which on him was a big bow. “Please.”