The Mazovia Legacy (20 page)

“Yes, Francis. I do.”

She did not fill the pause that followed with passwords or place-names. Delaney decided not to press her on it. He didn't try to imagine why she would choose not to tell him.
Do I really need to know this now?
he thought.
Yes. Probably
.

“And you want to go ahead and locate this, this whatever-it-is?” he said. “Yes,” she said firmly.

“I see.” He did not have to ask why.

“Do you?” she asked. Again the psychologist's look.

“I suppose I do, yes,” Delaney said. “Now, after all of this.”

“Why would you?” she asked. “Who knows what we will find, what's going to happen. It could get really dangerous now. Why would you bother with this?”

He knew she would ask him something like that. But he was not in the mood, in this crowded Paris bistro, to start baring his soul. “I said I would help you.”

“You've already helped me,” she said.

“I like to finish things.”

“Why else?”

“What are you trying to get me to say, Natalia? I'm not used to reading from other people's scripts.”

Delaney felt suddenly annoyed, or unnerved. She looked down into her glass of wine. “I'm sorry,” she said.

“You're really going to need some help on this thing now,” Delaney said. “This could get very wild about now.”

“I know that,” she said. “Zbigniew said as much this afternoon.”

Delaney looked at his watch and then looked around the bistro. There was no reason to expect Hilferty's face to appear, but luck, bad luck, often played a part in such situations.

“In fact, Natalia, I think before we do anything else we'd better get back over to Zbigniew's place and figure out what to do with those papers,” Delaney said. “I don't think it's a good plan to leave them with him anymore. We've been in here much too long as it is.”

“Oh, I don't think he'll want to let them go, Francis.”

“He'd better think that one over again. Let's see what he says.”

“Maybe you shouldn't come,” Natalia said. “He doesn't trust journalists.”

“Well, I don't trust spies. And some of them know where he lives. So let's go see what he says. I don't need to tell you that this could get ugly for him now, too. Not just for us.”

He could see she had already addressed that issue.

“All right,” she said.

They used the back entrance of the hotel again. There was still no sign of Hilferty. This worried Delaney more than a confrontation. Still, Hilferty would only delay them now and Delaney was worried about the papers and about the old man, not necessarily in that order. He went up to his room to get his equipment bag with the Browning in it. There was a Méridien envelope pushed under his door. Natalia watched as he read the note inside.

It said: “We're going to have to have a little chat, Francis.The minute you get back. You are really and truly starting to piss a lot of people off.”

Hilferty hadn't bothered to sign it. Either he was too angry or too rushed or too sure Delaney would know who had sent it.

“Hilferty,” Delaney said. “Not very happy at the moment. He wants to know what's going on. Badly.”

“Let's go,” Natalia said, realizing now the urgency.

They did not risk going through the lobby. By now the kitchen staff appeared used to the two foreigners rushing in and out. A chef in a ridiculously tall white hat tossed flaming bits of this and that in a blackened pan.

It was hard to get a taxi at the back. They had to walk to a cross street and wait some minutes before flagging an empty one. Then there was the Paris traffic. So it was only some considerable time later that they rolled up to the police barricades that had been set up at the bottom of rue de Belleville.

They both knew it would be bad news, the worst of news, as they climbed out of the cab to rush up the street to rue Julien Lacroix. The fire trucks and Police Nationale trucks and the marked and unmarked police cars had absolutely blocked the streets. Radio reporters sat on motorcycles sending stories by cellular phone back to their newsrooms, and crowds of passersby and café types craned their necks to see.

“
Qu'est-ce qui ce passe?
” Delaney asked a woman holding a small nervous dog.

“
Incendie, monsieur. Rue Julien Lacroix. Quelques morts. Un pompier, quelqu'un d'autre.
”

She was marvellously concise and well informed. A policeman with a crackling walkie-talkie confirmed the woman's version for them when Delaney showed his international press pass. Two dead, including a fireman. Shot apparently, not hurt in the fire. Someone else injured.
Très compliqué
.

A young radio reporter sporting a leather bomber jacket and impossibly tiny wire spectacles told them a bit more. Robbery, apparently, and then a small fire. Or something like that. An old man, living alone. Bandits who shot their way out.
Très cool, très professionnelle
.

Delaney knew it would be useless to try to get more information there that night and unwise to indicate any involvement. The French police always panicked when one of their own got killed and usually arrested everyone in sight. And there was the small matter of the gun in his equipment bag. Natalia did not see the logic of this at first, however, and the crowd watched with interest as she wept quietly on the street and insisted that they should try to go in. They were far too late for that. Eventually, reason prevailed.

T
hey should have been on an Air Canada shuttle back to Montreal, in the company of Quebecois tourists and businessmen and arts types who'd made their various pilgrimages to Paris. Instead, they were on Alitalia Flight 18, non-stop Paris to Rome, surrounded by stylish Italians and young French travellers on other sorts of pilgrimages.

Natalia sat quietly beside Delaney in the business-class section, reading the in-flight magazine. She was still not talking much, still deep and dark as she had been in the few days since Zbigniew was killed. She didn't bother with post-takeoff drinks or the lunch or the headphones. She didn't seem to want to bother with very much at all. At least, as far as Delaney was able to make out, she no longer seemed afraid.

Things were moving very fast now, even for a journalist of Delaney's experience. A day earlier, Hilferty had been extremely terse with him on the phone at the Méridien.

“Look Francis, this is getting very hot now,” Hilferty had said. “The fucking Vatican's coming in on this and I don't want any fucking around. They want you and Natalia in Rome. Like right now.”

“The Vatican,” Delaney said.

“You got it, baby. The Pope's own regiment. They've got wind of this now, and they're in.”

They met in the hotel bar, neither wanting to say more on the phone.

“What's the deal?” Delaney asked.

“Look, the way you've been jerking us around I wouldn't tell you another goddamn thing if I didn't have to,” Hilferty said. “But I'm fucked on this thing now and haven't got much of a choice. Our friends in the Holy See would like to have a polite discussion with you and your lady friend about what the hell you've been up to. A matter of some Church property? Something you can give them a hand with? Not that we'd know anything where you're concerned. So my betters in Ottawa think we should afford the Vatican every respect and courtesy and help them along on this. Or you should. Tomorrow.”

Hilferty pushed two Alitalia tickets over on the bar.

How would they know?
Delaney thought.
And how much do they know?
“What brings them into this?” he asked.

“Oh please,” Hilferty said. “I should be asking you this stuff. You're lucky I'm CSIS, and not with some other fucking organization, Francis, or it would be cigarette burns until you come clean. It might come to that yet.”

Hilferty was manic, knowing clearly that this operation was out of his hands, possibly out of con trol altogether and heading for the abyss. Delaney could see that in the way he munched his way through too many pistachios and picked labels off bottles of beer. This was not going to look good on a résumé.

“Walesa ask them to come in?” Delaney asked. He was determined to get what he could from Hilferty. He was guessing that Walesa's people felt they could no longer trust their own secret service and may have called in some people they did trust in the Vatican. Maybe. On the other hand, an indiscreet priest in Montreal might have captured the Vatican's attention as well. Or a murdered priest.

“If he did, and I knew, I wouldn't tell you, Francis,” Hilferty said. “Who says Walesa's a player anyway? Just who's asking who for help on this one is no longer very clear. Let's just leave it at that. The Vatican's interested, and my people know they're interested, and when the Vatican says jump, the Dominion of Canada, apparently, asks how high.” Bits of beer label continued to fall from his fingers. “Let me tell you this, hotshot,” Hilferty continued. “This is now very much the big time. You get it? There's now a lot more riding on this than you can imagine and we don't want any fuck-ups. If it were up to me I'd deport your ass back to Canada and get on with the job at hand. But we're stuck with you and that Polish shrink, and that's that. So no more bullshit, you get it? The Vatican intelligence people do not like to fuck around.They're like the goddamn Mossad. A little less money, maybe a little bit less, and a lot fewer toys, but they've got a thousand or so years of experience and God and the Pope on their side. That's two big backers to the Israelis' one.”

Hilferty drank the rest of his beer and pushed the bill over to Delaney — at this point still only passive aggressive.

“We'll have a car out front tomorrow morning,” Hilferty said. “Better bring your gun. Our gun. And not in your carry-on.” He walked out, muttering darkly. “Fucking amateurs.”

Delaney wondered again if Hilferty's handlers back home knew he was in the habit of arming journalists with very large handguns, and overseas at that. Journalists who had made it very clear they were freelancers and on nobody's staff. The gun, clearly, was Hilferty's accident insurance policy: Canadians in general and now this worried spy in particular being the biggest buyers of insurance in the Western world.

Hilferty had also been agitated a few days before that, on the night Zbigniew died. When Delaney and Natalia had come back to the Méridien, he and Stoufflet were watching out for them from the lobby bar.

“We better have a little talk, Francis,” Hilferty said. “Right now.”

Natalia looked bad. Her eyes were red-rimmed and tired. She said nothing and tried to go around them but Stoufflet moved to block her way. As he did he locked his eyes on Delaney, enjoying the little testosterone dance, inviting him to be offended by the move.

“
S'il vous plaît, madame,
” Stoufflet said. “Stay with us for a little instant, would you please?”

Delaney decided that Stoufflet had no redeeming qualities.

“Let the lady go up,” he said. “She wants to go up to her room.”

“
Ah, oui?
A little early,
non?
In Paris?”

“Hilferty,” Delaney said, “I've had a very trying day; we have all had a trying day. Now get that French asshole out of Natalia's way or we'll have a scene right here in the lobby.”

Natalia looked up gratefully at Delaney, ignoring, this time, the psychosocial implications of his behaviour.

“Let her go up, Jean,” Hilferty said. “We can speak to her later if we need to.”

“Don't count on that,” Delaney said.

Natalia went into the open elevator without saying anything at all. They all watched as the doors slid silently closed and then they went into the bar for spy talk.

“Look Francis, we're going to have to get a few things straightened out right now,” Hilferty said. “We've got one dead old guy over there in Belleville and one dead fireman and people are very soon going to go apeshit on both sides of the Atlantic. Now are you going to brief us on what's going on here, or what?”

“No. I don't think so, John. This is private business at the moment.”

Delaney saw a smile creep onto Stoufflet's face.
He's just hoping for a chance to play the heavy,
Delaney thought.
As we're on his turf.

“Are you working with us on this thing anymore or not?” Hilferty asked. “I never was,” Delaney said.

“Bullshit. I say you fucking were, and I say you are right now. Don't push me too far, Francis. I can mess you up pretty bad back in Canada now, you know that. Our friend from the
Quai
here can find a weapon on you, and maybe there's some CSIS cash still back in your apartment in Montreal. That wouldn't look too good for a distinguished journalist, now would it?”

“I don't think it would look too good for a CSIS agent to be found to be on a covert operation overseas either,” Delaney said. “Or attempting to coerce journalists who are on an investigative assignment.”

“No one will buy that, Delaney,” Hilferty said.

“Let's see then, shall we? I have a bit of a way with words, and some very indulgent editors.”

Hilferty looked over at Stoufflet, who now had gone Gallic impassive. The Frenchman motioned for the bartender to come over to serve them drinks.

“
Cinquante-et-un,
” Stoufflet said. “
Un double
.For you,
mes amis?
”

“Johnnie Walker Black. Double,” Hilferty said.

“I'm not staying,” Delaney said.

“You fucking are,” Hilferty said. “Bring him a beer.”

When the drinks had come, Hilferty said: “Well, we've got ourselves a little situation here, Jean. How would your people want us to play this one, do you think? We've now got what we like to call back in the frozen wastes of Canada a reluctant operative. Thought he was onside but now he's way, way offside. Probably has some information we would find very helpful indeed and refuses to give it to us. We've got some poor fireman dead, and the police asking your people a couple of questions I would expect. We've got some dead Polish émigré, and a little bonfire in his garden, which Francis over here probably knows a bit about as well. I asked Monsieur Delaney for some help, Jean, and now that things are getting interesting, he is refusing to cooperate. What do you make of all that?”

“
Cherchez la femme, mon ami,
” Stoufflet said.

“Forget this piece of shit. We talk to the girl.” There was the eye contact again.

“Not a bad idea,” Hilferty said. “Although she did look a little upset tonight already. Lost a friend of the family, we understand, Francis. Sorry to hear about that.”

“Look, you guys can play spy games all night, if you like, but the fact of the matter is I'm not interested in this particular scenario anymore,” Delaney said. “I very much doubt you've got the balls to try to force me to do anything just at the moment, John, and if you do I'll play this so big in the media back home you'll be looking for work twenty-four hours later. So why don't we all finish our drinks and go on about our business.”

“We'll be on you like a fucking rash, every minute, Francis. You've got no room to manoeuvre. What's the point?”

“That's now my business only, John. Let's just see how it all plays out, shall we?”

“We'll be on you like a rash,” Hilferty said.

“Fine. But tell your friend over here to be particularly careful to stay out of my way. And Natalia's way. Could you do that for me, John?”

Delaney was surprised at the intensity of his anger and the adrenalin rush. It had been a day of intense feelings all around. He left them then sitting at the bar, nursing their options.

Natalia hadn't seemed terribly surprised when Delaney told her they had been summoned to the Vatican. Now that she had seen how these things worked and had seen that people were willing to kill for whatever it was they were all seeking, nothing much appeared to surprise her anymore. It wasn't clear to Delaney whether her beloved Jung, apparently to be trusted for insights into all sorts of complex human situations, had prepared her adequately for this sort of thing. Perhaps he had. Whatever the case, Natalia seemed to be willing to just ride it out now, wherever the darker psychic energies of others took them.

Of course she blamed herself, or herself and Delaney in equal parts perhaps, for Zbigniew's death. She argued that they should not have gone to him so overtly, without giving him more warning or a chance to say no or a way to meet more surreptitiously. And she blamed herself for taking too long to get back to the old man's apartment the night he was murdered, to warn him of the dangers and to take away the papers he had ended up dying for.

It was all Delaney could do to talk her out of going along to the Paris morgue to volunteer information to the police, to try, somehow, to set things right for the old man. Going to the funeral, if there was to be a funeral, was also out of the question. It was too late for any of that, he had insisted, and eventually Natalia let the desire to do penance drop.

“We were too busy drinking wine and eating dinners in a bistro to care enough that he might be in danger,” she had said repeatedly in the first hours. That line had stopped coming so often now, Delaney noted. Then again, not many lines of any sort were coming just at the moment.

The Alitalia jet was at cruising altitude now, droning steadily southeast from Paris toward Rome. Delaney looked over at Natalia again. This time she looked up at him and made eye contact. A small improvement, a psychologist might say. The eyes were not the same as they were before they had left Montreal. But they told him she was more determined than ever to see this thing through. For the sake of two old Polish gentlemen at least. Their immediate worry was how much of Zbigniew's cache of letters had survived. Hilferty had been cagey on that, trying as best he could to draw them out. All Hilferty would say was that there had been “a little bonfire.” Delaney had no idea whether CSIS even knew about any letters or whether the French police had salvaged some from the apartment. They would have to assume the worst, Delaney decided: that at least some papers had been taken by the people who had broken into the apartment. How many, and which ones, were of course the more important questions.

Another question, which he and Natalia talked through endlessly in the couple of days they had spent in Paris waiting for the right time to make a next move, or waiting for the inspiration for a next move, was who might have done the killing and who else knew about it.