chapter 33

Rue Caulaincourt is a river of light flowing north and south through Montmartre as the evening deepens. Its sidewalk cafés and carry-out restaurants are alive with talk and laughter, and drivers lean on their horns in sharp bursts, jostling for position in the sweep of traffic fighting through the intersection at the Boulevard de Clichy.

Li Jiang turns his back on all of it. The sounds of the city diminish with each step he takes down the stone staircase that descends from Caulaincourt to the Avenue Rachel. By the time he reaches the lower road, the noise above him is nothing more than a low murmur.

As he’d been told to expect, the iron gate to his left is open. He pauses for a moment, and casts a glance along Rachel: at the flower shops that line the street, at the couples talking quietly at tables outside the warm red walls of a small bistro, at the smokers congregating just beyond the door to a bar at the road’s end. These lights, these lives, they are not what call him.

He turns away and crosses the threshold of the Cimetiѐre Montmartre.

The gypsum dug from this great wound in the side of Mount of Martyrs long ago became plaster of Paris. The shouts and laughter of the quarrymen are now memories and silence. But Li expects that, like all cemeteries, the Cimetiѐre des Grandes Carriѐries remains alive with voices for those who will listen.

The ambient light of the city and the fading colors of the sky vanish briefly as the cemetery’s main avenue leads him beneath the green metal viaduct of the Rue Caulaincourt, and he drifts between the Doric columns that support the roadbed and its traffic, high above the quiet that surrounds him. Ahead, the avenue approaches a roundabout, its central flowerbed full and blooming, but he takes a sharp left, along the cemetery road that he remembers is named Avenue Saint-Charles.

When Bik told him which gate would be opened for him, he’d quickly studied a map and suggested a meeting spot. He’s memorized its location. Not much longer now.

Saint-Charles is narrow with high stone walls on either side, each wall taller than a man. The tops of the walls remain level as the road runs uphill, giving them the illusion of angling downward toward a distant vanishing point, so that the tombs and sepulchers of the cemetery are slowly revealed. Li walks, the monuments to the dead coming into view around him, and at a stone stairway he turns, climbing to a path of worn cobblestones, with a piano playing soft octaves in his mind. Lili Boulanger’s Nocturne pour Violon et Piano: fine music for a cemetery at dusk – moody and elegiac, a quiet counterpoint to the voices, whispering, trying to tell him something.

A dozen paces down, the path broadens. Li stops. The voices go silent. The Nocturne fades into the backdrop of the night.

To his right, a man is standing before a slender tomb of white marble.

The man is maybe six feet two. He is motionless, his legs slightly apart, his hands at his side. A candle, guttering on the marble slab, casts flickering light across his face. Although Li has never seen him before, there can be no question who he is.

Li slowly approaches. The man still does not move. His stance reminds Li of solitary summer hikes in the mountains and forests of northern China when, if he were lucky, he would spot a mountain leopard on the hunt in the rocks above a game path. If he were very lucky, he would see the twitching ball of coiled energy explode upon its prey.

Li stops an arm’s breadth from the man, and gestures toward the tomb. “She was so talented, and far too young when she died.”

The man nods slightly. The candlelight pools shadows below his high cheekbones. “She was. I am impressed by both Boulanger sisters, but you are right that Lili died before her work fully matured. I assume you picked this spot because you admire her Vielle Priѐre Bouddhique. I think it powerful, and yet quietly moving as well.”

“It is an interesting piece, Mr. Torrance, though not exactly my taste despite my being an old Buddhist in need of prayer.”

“Who could not use prayer, Mr. Li? As for your age, you may have some years on me but you left little trail behind you. I am certain that I do you a disservice by summarizing, but tell me if I have the outline right. You follow the Buddhist path, but which one we could not determine. You were once a soldier, and a much decorated one, but just how the decorations were earned is unclear. Then a blank space, call it a quiet spell, and you emerge as a concert pianist. You perform mostly in the provinces, but many say you are creative in your interpretations and are destined for the great concert halls. But that did not happen since, for reasons unknown, you abandoned the piano bench for the Ministry of State Security. At MSS you are variously rumored to be very senior, a mid-level functionary and a complete nonentity. Of course, you cannot be all three at once. I expect I am facing a man who is so senior at MSS that not many know it to be so. The ultimate cover. How have I done?”

Li glances left and right, wondering if one of the men Torrance has no doubt stationed by the tomb might reveal himself in a moment of carelessness. As he expected, he sees no one and looks back at Torrance. “I am flattered by your inventiveness. You are correct, however, that I sometimes take on minor projects for MSS. As for your background, I would call it rumors blended with shadows. It does seem, however, that your clients are often people I would prefer to avoid. As for your current client, I cannot avoid him. The reason I wanted to meet you is because I suspect he presents a problem for each of us.”

Torrance cocks his head in a gesture Li interprets as ‘perhaps he is,’ then reaches into his pocket. He takes out a reclining Buddha carved from pink quartz, about three inches in size, and places it on the Boulanger tomb, beside the candle. Looking up at Li, he smiles. “A small token to the sisters, Lili and Nadia – and to the Buddha. Each has much to offer for those who seek.” He gestures down the cobblestoned path. “Shall we walk and talk? I have someplace I must go tonight.”

“Let’s. I also have things that I must see to.”

Torrance steps off, Li falls in alongside and Torrance does him the honor of not looking down at him as he speaks. “Mr. Li, I assume you know that I took on an assignment for Tommie Chan or else your associate would not have contacted me.” Glancing at Li and seeing a nod of acceptance, Torrance continues.  “Over the past few weeks I came to believe that something was happening that could affect my work for Chan. I could not, however, determine what it was.” Torrance leads them through an intersection with a second path, never breaking stride. “Then, earlier today, things became much clearer when you appeared, or rather your associate did, at his hotel. Then, of course, you met. The Guimet museum was a nice touch, by the way. Now I knew you shared an interest in my client. Worse yet, I knew that your interest was longstanding. The fact that I did not see you coming is, frankly, embarrassing.” 

Li Jiang has been prepared to detest this man, but finds himself balanced between professional wariness and a grudging respect. The Zurich office called an hour ago with an update on Torrance, or whatever his name is. They say he operates as professionally as any spy agency on the planet, including the CIA, Britain’s MI6, Israel’s Mossad, Russia’s FSB and Li’s own people. As for his boundaries, Torrance seems to have more of them than many governments. No drugs, no slave trade, no political killings and no torture. The sins that will assure him a painful reincarnation seem to be murder, kidnapping and well-placed political bribery and blackmail. 

Their path ends. Foot-worn trails weave downhill between the scattered tombs to another of the cemetery’s broad avenues.

Torrance steps ahead, beginning the descent down one of the narrow trails. Li follows, surprised, at first, that Torrance would turn his back to him – or to anyone. Perhaps, with the knowledge that his men are watching their every move, it is a gesture of indifference. Perhaps it is one of respect for a fellow professional who will know the rules for meetings like this. Whatever it is, there is no question that Torrance has been leading them by a route he has outlined in advance.

As they descend, Li decides to reveal all his cards to the killer walking before him. There is not enough time for anything else, and Zurich tells him that Torrance is reported to be true to his word.

“Mr. Torrance, I can grab Tommie Chan any time I want to, even here in France, bring him home and convict him of financial crimes that will ruin him financially and send him to prison. That is what I intend to do, whether or not you are working on Chan’s behalf. However, given your reputation, I would prefer you were not in my way.”

“And why do you think I would walk away from a client mid-assignment?”

“I expect you would stay with a client who was controllable and who had been straight with you to whatever end. Tommie Chan is not controllable, and he has not been straight with you. I also expect that you are after certain letters for Mr. Chan, but when you took on the job you did not know that MSS was after Chan for reasons having nothing to do with the letters. Chan did not tell you he had defrauded his own government, and that he had therefore made himself vulnerable and dangerous to be around.”

They cross the avenue. On its far side, an alleyway climbs in a gentle grade toward an earthen parapet ringed by a low metal fence. Torrance slows as he steps into the alley, then stops. He turns to Li, but says nothing. Li waits to see if the man wants to contradict anything he’s just heard.

After a few seconds of silence, Li continues: “The financial fraud is more than enough for me to take Chan off the streets of Paris, but there is another reason to do so. Chan is a princeling in China, a son of a hero of our civil war, and he is leaving a very visible trail of deaths and abductions in his wake. The embarrassment to my country would be significant if he were tied to those. I need Chan’s deadly hunt for the letters to stop, and I will stop it. His cause need not be your fight.”

In the low light, Torrance’s face is unreadable. The only sounds are those of the living city, drifting down from above.

Then Torrance shifts his gaze. His head turns slightly as he looks over Li’s shoulder. It takes only a moment. He returns his eyes to Li’s, then turns into the alley.

As he does, Li glances back, to see whatever it was that Torrance clearly wanted him to see.

The soft octaves return, and with them the voices. The low murmurs. The swirling of sound.

“I know of Chan’s family history, Mr. Li.” Li, turning, sees Torrance halfway up the alley, approaching the earthen parapet. As he moves to follow, Torrance continues: “It is my job to know my clients well, and this past day or two I found myself much disappointed in Chan. His instincts are not professional, and his lack of honesty we know about.”

Torrance waits until Li has joined him on the parapet overlooking the broad avenue below. “Mr. Li, I detest a lack of integrity, and my client has none. On the other hand, a young woman who is staying with me against her wishes has shown impressive integrity. To my surprise she has also proven to be a fascinating conversationalist.” His hand rests lightly atop the metal fence beside him. “I know so much more about your country’s porcelain and about the modern auction business than I knew before. That my work can be educational never ceases to surprise me.”

“Education can be broadening, Mr. Torrance. It can lead to good ends.”

“Indeed.” Torrance turns. The path between the tombs and the fence is narrow, only broad enough for one man to pass at a time, and Li trails Torrance in single-file along the edge of the parapet. “I am a strong believer in education,” Torrance says. “I never had much of the formal kind, much to my regret.” He follows the path as it makes a sharp left, and as Li does the same he takes a moment to look down to his right, at the broad avenue below and at the street sign set into the earth at its corner; the sign that Torrance had wanted him to see.

The signpost is slender green metal. The sign is metal as well, pocked and faded. On it, in graceful white letters, is written its name: Avenue de la Croix.

The voices whisper.

Li turns back. Torrance stands ten yards away. Beside him is a tomb of dark red marble, almost black in the dying light. At its center is a weathered copper bust of a man, his hair pushed back from his forehead, his beard thick on his cheeks.

Torrance gestures toward the bust as Li approaches. “Are you familiar with the works of Émile Zola, Mr. Li?”

“Only by reputation.” Li pauses, then: “A man of great integrity.”

Torrance reacts to the word, as Li expected he would, but he can’t be sure if the smile he sees playing at the corners of Torrance’s lips is real, or just a shifting of the shadows. “Without question. In word and in deed. I almost feel it is a shame I will not be enjoying my guest’s company much longer. I am sure she would have enjoyed reading him, as I would have enjoyed discussing Zola’s writing with her.”

The man’s phrasing was vague, no doubt deliberately so, and Li’s eyes never leave Torrance’s face, putting the burden on Torrance to make himself clear.

“But she will not be with me much longer at all,” Torrance then says. “I am sure, Mr. Li, that you are familiar with the concept of Stockholm Syndrome?”

“Of course.”

“I have had occasion to see it in action in the past…though to see a manifestation in reverse, well...it has been educational, and as I said, I am a strong believer in education.” Torrance steps forward, and the shadows fall away. The smile doesn’t. “Nonetheless, I believe she should be going home. She is an entanglement I do not need. I have a great many opportunities, and it is time for me to move on.”

“I am certain her own home would be welcome. And I appreciate that you will be moving on…stepping away.”

Torrance offers his hand. “You have my word. My client will be unhappy, but he has made his bed. By the way, you are right that Chan is after some letters. He has gotten his hands on two of ten. My men failed to get the other eight, but I understand that an acquaintance of yours, Shaun O’Connor, has deposited them for Mrs. Delacroix in the safe at the Hotel Roux here in Paris. Why he is involved I do not know, and it no longer interests me. It may, however, be of interest to you. Unfortunately, one of my men inadvertently mentioned this to Chan. He has been disciplined.”

“Thank you for the information. As you say, it may be of interest. In fact, I’m sure it is.”

“One more bit of information. You should watch Tommie Chan with care. He is capable of excess.”

“I will, and I appreciate the warning.”

“I don’t think you needed it.”

“I did not. Good night, Mr. … Perhaps you would give me a real name to go with the salutation?”

“Au revoir, Mr. Li. Good luck with Chan. I will think of you whenever I listen to the Boulanger sisters.”

Torrance turns away, descending a flight of stairs as a car emerges from beneath the Caulaincourt overpass and circles the central roundabout and its centerpiece of flowers. With his hand on the door, he looks up at Li. “My men will be shutting the gate in five minutes,” he says. Then he, and the car, are gone.

Li stands silent on the parapet. Just like that Tommie Chan has lost his right arm, and that means it is time to up the pressure.

--©2017, Terry Jones & Kevin Jones