Exposure Page 6

  There was a second, larger flame bobbing in the air. Not a cigarette, but a small torch. Suddenly the torch seemed to explode. Flame shot out, and the cavern lit up. A fire-breather was spotlighted spewing flame, a black man in shorts and tank top. For a long moment, the entire gallery was illuminated.

  His display was greeted with a scattering of applause. The fire-breather offered an encore. This time he exhaled his fiery breath in Graham’s direction. His throwing of flames outlined Graham’s figure.

  Voices rose in alarm. A miner’s lantern was turned on, lighting the cavern and blinding Graham. In French, he heard voices demanding to know who he was and what he was doing there.

  “I’m looking for friends,” Graham said in English, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the light.

  His foreign tongue seemed to reassure those there. Graham guessed they were worried about the tunnel police busting them. The fire-eater had an audience of four, three males and a female. They were young, all in their early twenties.

  “A man and a woman came down here,” Graham said. “Did you see them pass by?”

  “We have only seen you,” said the man holding the joint. Then he tilted one of the skulls. “And the dead.”

  It wasn’t the kind of company Graham wanted to keep.

  The woman raised a bottle of wine. “Have a drink,” she said in accented English. “Stay for the show.”

  “No thanks,” said Graham, but he paused before leaving and turned to the fire-breather. He raised his camera in a questioning gesture.

  The fire-eater nodded and smiled, his white teeth dispersing some of the gloom. He raised a bottle to his lips, tilted it, and then brought the torch close to his mouth. In the red light, Graham could see beads of sweat on the man’s forehead. He tilted his head back, brought the torch almost to his lips, then spat out the liquid. It looked as if he were spewing flames. Graham snapped the photo. It would be his proof that he hadn’t been hallucinating.

  Graham turned on his phone light and hurried back the way he’d come. It was possible the couple had gone in the opposite direction or veered off into one of the side tunnels. Or, if they suspected pursuit, they could have tucked themselves into a gallery and waited for him to pass them by. Foregoing stealth for speed, he started jogging. He paid a price for hurrying. Twice he fell, each time scraping flesh and tearing fabric. Grime covered his hands and face.

  In the darkness, he almost walked by his exit, but felt the draft from above. Though by the clock he hadn’t spent much time in the catacombs, it didn’t seem that way. He crawled up and it felt as if he were escaping out of a tomb.

  After being in the catacombs, the third tunnel felt positively spacious. Graham knew the way, and hurried. He was afraid they had already surfaced and were ahead of him again. Le Croc might even have taken them out of another exit. No doubt there were many secret entrances and exits to the underground.

  His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and the tunnels seemed more gray now than black. Graham followed the rail lines back, putting the tunnels behind him. The neighborhood, and old buildings, didn’t look so run-down now. His ascent out of the catacombs put a luster on everything. He was just short of la place de Rungis when the sound of voices and laughter put him on alert.

  Graham crept forward. The Peugeot’s front windows were half opened, probably for ventilation. Still, all the car windows were fogged up. Graham wondered if that was a result of their exertions in the catacombs or the car. He checked on the two tires and saw they were still flattened. The car wasn’t absolutely disabled, but it would probably handle like one of those clown cars with different-sized tires.

  The Citroën was parked down the street, out of sight of her rental. It was angled for a quick getaway. Graham made it to the car, started its engine, but kept the headlights off. As an extra precaution, he left its front door ajar. There would be no fiddling for a door handle.

  At last satisfied, he cautiously backtracked and turned his attention on the couple. He crept up on the Peugeot, but his caution seemed unnecessary. The two of them were still talking away.

  “If you need money,” Le Croc said.

  “I won’t want your money.”

  “But what about all the expenses?”

  “I am sure I’ll manage.”

  “I can set up a fund—”

  “No,” she said, interrupting.

  In the face of her firm denial, he said, “I wish things could be different.”

  Whether she did or not wasn’t clear. By the sounds of it, some mutual comforting was going on. It also sounded as if each was done with their say, and that they would depart soon. He needed to act before that. Graham studied the car, trying to figure out the best shot. He ruled out shooting through the windshield. He considered not using the flash and shooting from the open driver’s side window. They might be preoccupied enough not to notice him. But the shots would be clearer with the lighting of the flash. Graham decided to use it, and do a shoot and run.

  He went down on his haunches, approached closer, and sneaked another look at them. They weren’t making out. His arm was draped around her, and her cheek was nestled into his shoulder.

  Graham’s blood was racing; it was showtime. He adjusted his shutter speed, and made sure his camera was ready for continuous shooting. In rapid fire mode the camera was good for forty exposures per second. Camera poised, he moved in, mentally readied himself, and then popped up. He snapped off half a hundred shots before they even knew what had hit them. Then they were ducking their heads and raising their hands, but it was too late. He had gotten all the shots he wanted and then some.

  In his line of work, you didn’t tarry. Graham was halfway to his car before a car door opened behind him. He prided himself on his speed, but Le Croc’s footwork was legendary. As fast as Graham was moving, Le Croc’s footsteps sounded ever closer. Graham looked over his shoulder for an instant. Le Croc’s face was a terrible thing to behold. Their race was going to be closer than Graham could have imagined or wanted.

  He lunged toward his car as if it were the finish line, throwing himself on the seat. Instead of trying to close the door behind him, he engaged the gear and kicked at the gas pedal. Fingers closed on his shirt as he punched the accelerator. Graham grabbed hard on the steering wheel to avoid being pulled out. As the car patched out his shirt ripped, and Le Croc was left holding a fistful of fabric.

  Graham drove without lights. If Le Croc was watching, he didn’t want to identify where he was going. Not that Graham was exactly sure where he was. The best plan was just to put distance between them. He passed several potential turns while maintaining stealth mode. Without lights he sacrificed speed, but still managed to stay on the road. He made a left. If he was being pursued, it was more likely that Le Croc would make a right. After a minute, Graham turned on his headlights. He doubted Le Croc had gotten a good look at the car anyway. And the Peugeot’s two flat tires would certainly discourage pursuit. Graham slowed down to the speed limit and kept his eyes open. It was hard to travel very many blocks in Paris without hitting a main boulevard. The lights ahead told him he was coming to a major street.

  The lights behind told him he wasn’t alone.

  They were coming up fast. At night, you can always tell a speeding car by the way its lights bob up and down. What he saw was more extreme than that. The car almost looked like it was hopping. Its suspension and struts were being pushed hard, the uneven air in the tires making the car buck up and down. For all that, it still wasn’t slowing up.

  Graham remembered the look he’d seen on Le Croc’s face, and floored the accelerator. A world-class athlete doesn’t accept defeat. He was trying to find a way to win even when there didn’t seem to be one. Amazingly, the car race was going like their foot race. Even with two disabled tires, the Peugeot was closing on him.

  Neither car yielded to the red light. Graham half hoped the pol
ice were waiting on the corner. No one could outrun a siren. But that might be the worst thing for him. The police would certainly fall all over Le Croc. They would do his bidding and confiscate Graham’s camera. Maybe that was Le Croc’s plan. Get noticed, get both of them pulled over, and get his camera.

  Graham decided to get off the straightaway. The way the Peugeot was listing, he could better hold it off through a slalom course. He made three fast turns, and found himself barreling down rue de la Convention. Through the hard turns, Le Croc managed to hold his car on the road, even though he seemed to be hanging on by two wheels.

  The Paris sights were going by in a blur of lights. It felt odd being in the lead. Graham was used to being the chase car, not being chased. He made a series of turns, gaining some ground. For a moment he thought he had lost his pursuers, but then the telltale lights came into view again. Graham was almost annoyed at how persistent they were. So what that their love affair had been uncovered? Didn’t they know the world loved nothing more than dragging its heroes through a little mud? Screw both of them. They wanted the adoration without the scrutiny. That wasn’t how it worked.

  The road dropped, and the turns became tricky. Good, thought Graham. With the condition of the Peugeot’s tires, their teeth ought to really be rattling now. He pushed on the accelerator through a series of curves. When he looked back, they had disappeared from his rearview mirror. Maybe one of the axles had finally given out. Graham saw an entrance to the boulevard Périphérique. If he hurried, they might not guess his route. He crossed over and merged onto the main road.

  Graham checked his rearview mirror, and then checked again. Finally, he was clear of them. But just as he was exhaling in relief he turned his head and saw a car being driven ridiculously fast on a city street that paralleled the Périphérique.

  The Peugeot. “Am I fucking Captain Hook?” Graham yelled. He couldn’t seem to rid himself of the crocodile. Did the bastard think he was going to intimidate him into stopping? Graham shot a look at his gas gauge. It read full. He would outlast him if necessary. Graham pushed the accelerator to the floor. The older car groaned loudly as the speedometer ticked upward.

  At that time of night, the Périphérique was almost like a highway. The wide road was one of the main arteries circling Paris. There need be no guessing as to where you were. The traffic signs were well designed and prominent, showing what was coming up in not only distance but approximate time.

  He’d have to get off, but where? The Bois de Boulogne would be a good spot, Graham decided. It was Paris’s answer to Central Park, located on the city’s western edge. There were thousands of acres of woods there. If necessary, he could park the car and get lost among them.

  Graham was studying the road signs instead of watching in back of him. A jolt from behind sent his head into the steering wheel. He grabbed the wheel, pulled out of a swerve, and centered himself in his lane. Somehow Le Croc had crossed over onto the Périphérique and blindsided him, bumping into him from behind. Graham looked in his rearview mirror. The Peugeot was right on his tail. Le Croc was furiously signaling for him to pull over. Lady Godiva’s hand was over her mouth. She looked terrified.

  To hell with him. As unbalanced as it was, the Peugeot wouldn’t be able to chase him for long. Le Croc was almost driving on two axles. Graham held tight to the wheel and kept driving. Though he was expecting another bump from behind, when it happened, the jolt still shook him up.

  “Son of a bitch!” he screamed. Graham’s eyes lifted to the rearview mirror. The asshole was still right on his tail. He was pointing over to the side of the road as if he were a traffic cop.

  “Bastard!” He wasn’t the only one making noise. Cars around them were flashing their brights and honking their horns. But that didn’t slow either of them.

  Le Croc played bumper tag once more. Then he pulled up alongside Graham, again motioning for him to pull over. Graham was tired of his orders. He reached into his camera bag, pulled out a camera, and with one finger set it to autofocus. Shooting, steering, and screaming, he sprayed the flash like he would an automatic pistol. Le Croc recoiled, his car swerving into the next lane.

  Graham grabbed his opportunity, pulling hard right on the wheel and angling toward the exit. Too late, Le Croc saw what he was doing. On wobbly wheels, he tried to stay with him. The two cars aimed for the opening of the Lac Supérieur Tunnel.

  Just before the tunnel’s entrance, the Peugeot smashed the Citroën’s left taillight, shattering glass. Then the two cars were side by side in a sea of sparks. Graham jockeyed for control, fighting to free himself from the other car’s deadly embrace. Le Croc struggled just as desperately, evading metal on one side and concrete on the other. He shot ahead of the Citroën and appeared to make it through the gap just as the blowout occurred.

  To Graham, the Peugeot looked like a plane shot out of the sky. It was spewing smoke and violently rolling over and over. The car’s corkscrewing ended at a concrete pillar. The collision was so violent that in the enclosed space of the tunnel it sounded like a bomb going off. With no time to think, Graham reacted. He pulled hard at his wheel and barely avoided smashing into the wreck, mere inches separating him from the accident.

  One hurried look of the mangled car was all that Graham got. Behind him he could hear the wail of the Peugeot’s horn. It screamed at him like a fatally wounded animal. As fast as he was driving, he still couldn’t outrun its sound. The wailing followed him throughout the tunnel and far beyond.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  They called him “Ivan the Terrible,” but never to his face. Even behind his back, most were careful to whisper the nickname, afraid that he might somehow overhear. Ivan Proferov was a crime boss who claimed he came from Cossack stock. His forebears, he said, used to ride their horses along the Russian steppes, their blades running with blood. History seemed to be repeating itself. Proferov had risen in the Mafia ranks the old-fashioned way—by strong-arming his way up.

  Signs of his trade could be seen in his custom wood-sided fish house. The two whores had passed out on ermine furs. One of them, the dyed redhead, was still clutching a bottle of Cristal champagne. Drugs were scattered along the folding table that also held imported cheeses, Danish sugar cookies, and Beluga caviar.

  His father, whose idea of luxury had been to bring along a stool when he went ice fishing, wouldn’t have approved of fishing this way. He had liked to brave the elements, his only concession to the cold an occasional sip of vodka. Ivan’s father would have thought his fish house decadent, even without the whores. Outside it was freezing, but inside a thermostatic heating system was keeping the opulent American fish house warm. There was indoor carpeting, customized paneling, bench seating, a bathroom, and even running water. Ivan had stayed in dachas with fewer amenities.

  The fish house had been driven right onto the ice and lowered down with a hydraulic lift. Ivan had stayed in his Mercedes while one of the bodyguards had cut through the ice with a chain saw.

  No, his father wouldn’t have approved at all, not of the way Ivan fished, nor the way he lived. His father had remained a loyal Communist even without the benefits of being a member of the party. His father had died a poor fool.

  Ivan leaned over and looked into the dark water. So far he had only caught one fish, a scrawny little grayling. He had hoped for a string of big fish.

  Maybe in the future he would go on a real fishing vacation to Lake Baikal. There were big fish there. But now wasn’t a good time to stray from Moscow, what with the power struggles going on in the Solntsevskaya crime organization.

  Big fish eating little fish. But that’s how it had always been.

  “Bite, you sons of bitches.”

  The blonde whore mumbled something. Her hand reached up on its own, fumbled for cocaine, and dropped when it didn’t find any. The redhead kept snoring.

  He should probably bait the hooks again. Ivan
had brought live minnows. No fake lures for him. His father used to always say that there was no shortage of stupid fish or stupid men ready to be lured by trinkets. Stupid fish, he lectured, never got to be big fish. And big fish, said his father, knew the difference between real food and fake food.

  Maybe, thought Ivan, I should throw some of the caviar into the water. The big fish might awaken for that. His father had always done his ice fishing along the Moskva River. Ivan had decided to try his luck on the Moscow Canal, which was fed by the Volga River. Big fish lurked in the reservoir, huge pike, but none had paid him a visit yet.

  “Bite, you sons of bitches.”

  Russians were serious about their ice fishing. The year before a floe of ice suddenly broke away from the shore, stranding a group of ice fishermen. The iceberg raft floated out to the open sea, and was soon lost to sight. A helicopter was dispatched for a rescue operation of the fishermen, but as it turned out no one was very keen on getting saved. The fish were finally biting and the fishermen were loath to leave their iceberg. Fistfights broke out over who could have the privilege of being rescued last. It didn’t seem to matter to the men that their next stop was the Arctic Circle. The fish were biting, and that was what mattered.

  It was a fish story, thought Ivan, but a true fish story.

  Ivan could hear one of the bodyguards stomping his feet outside. There were a dozen men patrolling the area, all with Kalashnikovs. Ivan paid his mercenaries top dollar. His back needed watching. There were men like Sergei Khramtsov with ambitions that couldn’t be satisfied. Nothing was enough for Khramtsov. In that, they were alike.

  “Bite, you sons of—”

  Ivan cut short his oath. There was a pull on his line. A major pull. Oh, this was a fish. It was a monster, something that had come up from the depths to satisfy its hunger.