What she called “our surveillance of the Red Mafiya” began along the Parc Monceau in the eighth arrondissement. Unlike in the United States, where the Russians seemed to hang out in such working-class neighborhoods as Brighton Beach in New York, the Mafiya was apparently situated in pricier digs here.
“Maybe because they know Paris better and have operated here longer,” Maud suggested. “I think so. I have known the Russian thugs for many years. They don’t believe in your Wolf, by the way. Believe me, I’ve asked around.”
And that’s what we did for the next hour or so. Talked about the Wolf to Russian thugs Boulard knew. If nothing else, the morning was beautiful, with bright blue skies, which made it excruciating for me. What was I doing there?
At 1:30, Maud said cheerfully, “Let’s have lunch. With the Russians, of course. I know just the place.”
She took me into what she called “one of the oldest Russian restaurants in Paris,” Le Daru. The front room was paneled with warm pine as if we were inside the dacha of a wealthy Muscovite.
I was angry, but trying not to show it. We simply didn’t have time for a sit-down lunch.
Nevertheless, Maud and I ate. I wanted to strangle her, the obsequious waiter, anybody I could get my hands on. I’m certain she had no idea how angry I was. Some detective!
As we finished, I noticed that two men at a nearby table were watching us, or maybe they were eyeing Maud, with her lustrous red hair.
I told her about the men, and she shrugged it off as “the way men are in Paris. Pigs.”
“Let’s see if they follow,” she said as we got up and left the restaurant. “I doubt that they will. I don’t know them. I know everybody here. Not your Wolf, though.”
“They’re leaving right behind us,” I told her.
“Good for them. It is the exit after all.”
The short rue Daru ended at rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, which Maud told me was a window-shopping experience that continued all the way to the place Vendôme. We had walked only a block when a white Lincoln limousine pulled up alongside us.
A dark-bearded man opened the rear door and looked out. “Please get in the car. Don’t make a scene,” he said in English with a Russian accent. “Get in, now. I’m not fooling around.”
“No,” said Maud. “We don’t get in your car. You come out here and talk to us. Who the hell are you? Who do you think you are?”
The bearded man pulled a gun and fired twice. I couldn’t believe what had just happened right in the middle of a Paris street.
Maud Boulard was down on the sidewalk, and I was certain she was dead. Blood seeped from a horrible, jagged wound near the center of her forehead. Her red hair was splayed in a hundred directions. Her eyes were open wide, staring up into the blue sky. In the fall, one of her shoes had been thrown off and lay out in the middle of the street.
“Get in the car, Dr. Cross. I won’t ask you again. I’m tired of being polite,” said the Russian, whose gun was pointed at my face. “Get in, or I’ll shoot you in the head, too. With pleasure.”
Chapter 79
“NOW COMES SHOW-AND-TELL time,” the black-bearded Russian man said once I was inside the limousine with him. “Isn’t that how they say it in American schools? You have two children in school, don’t you? So, I’m showing you things that are important, and I’m telling you what they mean. I told the detective to get in the car and she didn’t do it. Maud Boulard was her name, no? Maud Boulard wanted to act like the tough cop. Now she’s the dead cop, not so tough after all.”
The car sped away from the murder scene, leaving the French detective dead in the street. We changed cars a few blocks from the shooting, getting into a much less obtrusive gray Peugeot. For what it was worth, I memorized both license plates.
“Now we go for a little ride in the country,” said the Russian man, who seemed to be having a good time so far.
“Who are you? What do you want from me?” I asked him. He was tall, maybe six-five, and muscular. Very much the way I had heard the Wolf described. He was holding a Beretta pointed at the side of my head. His hand was rock steady, and he was no stranger to guns and how to use them.
“It doesn’t matter who I am, not in the least. You’re looking for the Wolf, aren’t you? I’m taking you to meet him now.”
He threw me a dark look, then handed me a cloth sack. “Put this over your head. And do exactly as I say from now on. Remember, show-and-tell.”
“I remember.” I put on the hood. I would never forget the cold-blooded murder of Detective Boulard. The Wolf and his people killed easily, didn’t they? What did that mean for the four cities under threat? Would they kill thousands and thousands so easily? Was that their plan to demonstrate power and control? To get revenge for some mysterious crime in the past?
I don’t know how long we rode around in the Peugeot, but it was well over an hour: slow city driving at first, then an hour or so on the open highway.
Then we were slowing again, possibly traveling on a dirt road. Hard bounces and bumps shocked and twisted my spine.
“You can take off the hood now,” Black Beard spoke to me again. “We’re almost there, Dr. Cross. Nothing much to see out here, anyway.”
I took off the hood and saw that we were in the French countryside somewhere, riding down an unpaved road with tall grass waving on either side. No markers or signs anywhere that I could see.