“Have you lost your mind?” Mia’s brows lowered and her eyes shot fire.
We knew the terrorists’ targets. We knew the times of the attacks. All we were missing was the date. “We could make a difference.”
“Poppy, be serious. What can you do?”
“Ouch.”
“Keeping it real.”
“I can recognize the men who were at the loading dock with Badawi.”
“How many were there?” she asked.
“Two.”
“Two guys—” she held up two fingers “— and how many targets? The chances you’d actually spot one of them have to be tiny.” She pinched her fingers together. “That you recognized the guy this morning has to be some kind of miracle.”
“So what do we do? Forget about it and go shopping?”
“We let him—” she pointed at Jean “—handle it.”
“But—”
She held up her hands. “Can’t you just let it go? It’s not your problem. You’re supposed to be on vacation. Vacation. Fun. Shopping. Relaxation. Vacation’s not supposed to mean danger or death or intrigue.” She narrowed her eyes and glowered at Thor. “You’re not saying much. You’re the one who’s supposed to keep her safe. Tell her to go back to the Ritz.”
Thor shrugged. “She wants to make a difference.”
“By getting herself killed?” Mia’s pitch could shatter glass.
“Poppy is more resourceful than you give her credit for.”
Mia pressed her hands against her temples. “I can’t talk to you people.”
“Oui. D’accord.” Jean’s voice carried. He took the phone away from this ear, staring at it as if it was a pernicious weed.
“Qu’est-ce qu’il passe?” I asked. What’s happening?
Jean’s dark raincoat hung on his shoulders like a shroud. “There is a man at the National Police who wants to talk to you. He’s sending a car.”
I fished my phone out of my new handbag and looked at the screen. It wasn’t yet eleven o’clock. There was still time. “Okay.”
In deference to Mia’s Blahniks, we rode the funiculaire down to the hill.
A white Renaut minivan with Police Nationale painted in blue on the hood waited for us near the merry-go-round at Place Saint-Pierre.
Mia raised her hand and waved at a taxi. “I’m catching a cab.”
“Are you sure?” I hated it when Mia was mad at me. “You could come.”
“I don’t like police stations,” she replied.
Neither did I. “Will you be all right?”
“Me? I’m going back to the Ritz and booking a massage, a facial, and a pedicure. I’ll be much better off than you.”
I hugged her. Steel beams were more pliable.
Finally, she softened. “Be careful. Please.”
“I will.”
Jean opened the door to the backseat and I climbed into the van. “Where are we going?”
“11 rue des Saussaies.”
“Where?”
“Place Beauvau.”
Place Beauvau I knew. I’d been to the Miu Miu store when it popped up. “Isn’t that the Ministry of the Interior?” I hadn’t noticed a building for the National Police.
“Yes.”
“Why do they want to talk to me?”
“They don’t. The National Police is housed in the Ministry’s building. The inspecteur général of the judicial police has questions for you.”
Thor and I exchanged a look. With one highly charged glance he told me I’d better not let slip that we’d done something to Ghislain’s computer.
The drive from Montmartre was much faster with sirens. The van delivered us in front of the ministry and Jean ushered us inside.
We walked through a metal detector and a uniformed officer dug through my handbag.
He made Thor check his gun.
Jean led us to an office with an Aubusson on the floor, a baroque desk near the window, and Gen Paul paintings on the wall. “If you’ll wait here, please. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He disappeared down the hall.
I settled into a chair and whispered to Thor, “What has Mr. Brown told them?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I realize he likes playing things close to the vest, but thi—”
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Fields, Monsieur Stone.” A man as elegant as the office paused in the doorway. “Thank you for speaking with us.”
“My pleasure.” I sized up the man who’d welcomed us. Hair worn slightly too long. Beautifully cut suit. Charvet shirt. And—I narrowed my eyes—a Charvet tie. A man with means and taste, but there was something almost oily about him. He reminded me of Ghislain.
“Mademoiselle Fields, you have had an adventure since you arrived in Paris, yes?” He strolled into the office and propped himself on the edge of the desk.
“That’s one way to describe it.”
“Four attempts on your life, n’est pas?”
“Yes. I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“My apologies.” He pressed his hand to his chest. “I am Phillipe Coligny. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Would you care for coffee?”
“No, thank you.” What time was it? The problem with depending on a cell for the time was the difficulty in sneaking a peek.
“I am told you talked to Ahmed Badawi.”
“Yes.”
“Here? In Paris?” His tone said he didn’t believe me.
“Yes. We were in Sevran.”
“This I find hard to believe.”
“Oh?”
“For Badawi to come here, to Paris—” he wrung his hands “—it would be like Bin Laden visiting the United States after September eleventh.”
“I saw him,” I insisted. “I talked to him. He asked me about his nephew.”
“His nephew?”
“His nephew was killed in a hacienda in Sinaloa, Mexico. Badawi wanted to know the circumstances of his death.”
Phillipe’s raised brows suggested only mild interest. “It would be too great a risk for him to come here.”
“Why?”
“He would be caught.”
“He was in Sevran.”
“It’s not possible. Someone would see him.”
“Aren’t there no-go zones in Sevran?”
A dark cloud passed over Phillipe’s face. “An exaggeration.”
Not from what I’d seen. “My point is that Badawi could easily hide in a neighborhood like that.”
“We have technology, cameras—we would know if he was here.” Phillipe turned to Thor. “Did you see Badawi?”
“No. But if Poppy says she talked with him, she did.”
“It is possible Mademoiselle Fields is mistaken. She’d been abducted. She was afraid. She—”
“I saw him.”
He shrugged. We were at an impasse.
“What about the list?” I asked.
Phillipe’s gaze settled on me for an instant, then bounced away. He raked his fingers through his mane. “This idea—that an attack is imminent, that Ghislain Lambert might be involved—” he shook his head “—it’s impossible. My father and his grandfather were friends. There is no way Lambert would be part of an attack on Paris.”
I crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair.
He focused entirely on Thor. “Lambert was brought to your attention because there was an idea he might be laundering money.” Phillipe flicked his fingers. “This was a false idea. I told your Mr. Brown, such a thing was impossible.”
Ghislain had definitely been up to something. “Be that as it may—”
“Non!” He held up a single finger and wagged it at me. “Ghislain Lambert loved his country. He would never put France at risk.”
There was no point in arguing with the man. “As you wish, monsieur.”
“This list you saw. It cannot be a list of targets. The only chatter we have heard about an attack focuses on the Louvre. And, I assure you, we have extra security onsite.”
This was Jean’s boss? The man was a pompous ass with his head in the Seine.
My handbag vibrated. “Excuse me.” I grabbed my cell. André was calling and the time was eleven thirty. “I’ll just switch this off.”
Phillipe pursed his lips.
“Sorry.” I wasn’t. Not really.
“As I was saying—”
Jean entered the office. His gaze traveled from Phillipe to me to Thor and his eyes narrowed.
I’d known the man less than five hours. I couldn’t count on him to back me up.
“I was just telling Mademoiselle Fields there is no way Ahmed Badawi could be in France.”
Jean raised a single brow. “Oh?”
“And it is not possible that Ghislain Lambert would support terrorists working in France.”
Jean nodded his chin. Once. Ceding Phillipe’s point.
“Mademoiselle Fields should return to her hotel.” Phillipe shifted his gaze to Thor and winked. “You should take her to the Louis Vuitton store. It’s just across the street from the Ritz.”
I ground my molars together.
“Although—” he shrugged “—with all the Chinese so eager to get inside, I hear there are lines to buy a handbag.”
It was official. The man was an idiot.
“We should consider all that Mademoiselle Fields has to say,” said Jean.
“There is no way Badawi is in France.” Phillipe Coligny wasn’t just an idiot. He was a stubborn idiot. And an ass.
Jean rubbed his chin. “The attacks of November thirteenth, they were timed to spread our resources thin.”
The upper corner of Phillipe’s lip quivered as if a sneer was pushing at his mouth.
“Imagine major attacks all over the city.”
“Attacks on Gare du Nord and Sacré-Couer and Le Tour Eiffel? They are too well guarded.” Phillipe flicked his fingers again, dismissing the mere idea of coordinated attacks.
The landmarks might be well guarded, but the people around them weren’t. We were wasting our time. I stood. “I have one request, Monsieur Coligny.”
“What is that?”
“If Gare du Nord is attacked, you’ll immediately send men to Pompidou.”
The Frenchman rolled his eyes. “Do not worry, mademoiselle. We are very good at our jobs.”
Not that I’d noticed, but arguing would be a waste of breath.
“We will send men and we will evacuate,” said Jean. “You have my promise.”
Phillipe pushed away from the edge of the desk. “But, sir—”
Sir?
“Go. Have the terrorism alert moved to the highest level.”
Phillipe blinked.
I did, too.
Jean slid behind the elegant desk and sat. “There has been an attack in Marseilles and my superior, the inspector general, has left for the south of France. It was an emergency and he apologizes for bringing you here and leaving before your arrival. He very much wanted to talk to you. I assure you, we are taking the threats you discovered seriously.” He turned to Phillipe. “Coffee for Mademoiselle Fields.”
“She doesn’t want any.”
“Get it anyway.”
With that, Phillipe Coligny departed.
“I’m sorry your trip here is wasted, and I apologize for Phillipe.”
“You are…” Thor sounded stunned.
“The director of SDAT.”
What did that mean? “SDAT?”
“Sous-direction anti-terroriste.”
“And you just decided to spend the morning with us?”
Jean pressed his hands together, then tapped them against his chin. “Your Mr. Brown told us you’d talked to Badawi. I wanted to see if you were credible.”
“Am I?”
“Very.”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing. We are on highest alert. Thank you for your time, Miss Fields.”
I’d been dismissed. I shifted in my seat.
“I’ll have a car take you to the Ritz.”
“That’s all right.”
“I insist.” He wanted me safely out of the way.
“I saw the Fendi pop-up when we pulled up. I’d rather go there.”
He leveled a disbelieving gaze my way. “I see. Stay away from Gare du Nord, Miss Fields.”
“Of course.” Gare du Nord was far too big for me to spot a terrorist. I had a much better chance at Les Halles and Pompidou.
Thor escorted me out of the office, down a sweeping flight of stairs, and out the ornate front gates into Place Beauvau.
I walked toward the Fendi store.
“You seriously want to go shopping?”
“No, but that’s what I told Jean we were doing.” I led him toward the boutique. “This space has already been both a Prada and Miu Miu pop-up.”
“Pop-up?”
“A limited-time-only store. Here for a few months, then gone.” We pushed through the glass door, I picked up the nearest handbag, and looked into his eyes. “What are we going to do?” I meant about the terrorist attacks, not the shopping. I knew what to do about the shopping.
“There’s not much we can do.”
He was right. I sighed and took in the shop’s zebra wood walls, the glass shelves holding beautiful bags, and the gold mannequins wearing the latest in prêt-à-porter. “I want a gun.”
Thor’s jaw dropped. “You what?”
I put the bag back on the shelf. “I want a gun.”
“Why?”
“Because I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”
Thor merely stared at me.
I let him stare and fingered the sleeve of a floral trench. “I think I’ll try this on. Here—” I shoved my handbag into his hands and slipped my arms into the coat’s sleeves “—what do you think?”
He grunted.
“I think it’s fabulous.”
“So you’ll take the coat and a gun.”
“And that handbag.” I caught a saleswoman’s eye and pointed to a Peekaboo in a soft shade of pink.
She hurried toward us—well, hurried as much as a terminally chic Frenchwoman forced to wait on an American ever could.
“Ce sac à main et cette tranchée florale.” I pointed toward the coat.
“Puis-je vous aider avec autre chose?”
No. I’d bought quite enough. “Non, merci.” I handed her my American Express card and turned back to Thor. “Where do I get a gun?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “We’ll have to go to Neuilly.”
“Fine.”
“You’re serious about this?”
“Jean seems like a decent guy. I think he’ll do all he can to stop whatever’s happening, but I have a terrible feeling I’m going to need a gun.”
“You don’t even know what day whatever’s happening will happen.”
“True,” I ceded. “But I want to be prepared and—”
“And?”
I had a sinking feeling that whatever was happening would happen soon. “And I need a gun.”
Thor grunted. “Fine.”
“That was easy.” I’d expected more of an argument.
“You know that terrible feeling you have?”
Too well. I nodded.
“I have the same one.”
We took the Metro to Neuilly and walked the few blocks to the safehouse.
Thor led me to an armory and presented me with a Glock.
“What now?” he asked.
I glanced at my phone. It was well past noon. “Back to the city? Can you get a car?”
“First a gun, now a car. What next?”
“What are you doing here?” Jake stood in the door to the armory and he didn’t look happy to see me.
“Picking something up.” Vague was good.
“What?” he demanded.
Thor rubbed the back of his neck. “A Glock.”
Jake’s eyes widened and his lips narrowed. “For Poppy? Are you insane?”
“I’m a very good shot.” I was. My father had taught me.
“You can’t carry a gun in France. It’s against the law.” That was rich coming from Jake.
“Since when do you care about breaking the law?”
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“If I’m right about these attacks, my having a gun will be the least of the French authorities’ worries.”
“The attacks?”
“The attacks Badawi has planned.” Had Mr. Brown not told him?
“What attacks?”
The phone in my handbag buzzed. I thrust my hand into the depths and pulled out my cell. I held up my finger, putting Jake off. “What?”
“Are you all right?” André sounded genuinely concerned.
“I’m fine. Sorry I barked at you.”
“I’m worried. Mia said you were chasing terrorists.”
“That’s the National Police’s job.”
“So you’re not doing something incredibly dangerous? Promise?” He sounded doubtful. “Where are you now?”
“I’ve been shopping at the Fendi pop-up.” Not exactly a lie, but not the whole truth. “I bought a trench and a Peekaboo bag.”
“Another bag?”
“The one you bought me will always be my favorite.”
Thor and Jake were watching me with slightly stunned looks on their handsome faces.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I have a meeting with your mother.”
“With Chariss? Why?”
“There’s a promotion opportunity. I’m going to meet her at her shoot. She’s in Montmartre this afternoon. At Sacré-Couer.”
That was wrong. I’d seen her calendar. “Chariss is at the Moulin Rouge today.”
“They changed the schedule.”
My stomach free-fell through the floor. “André, don’t go to Montmartre. Don’t go anywhere near Sacré-Couer. Promise me.”
“What? Why?”
“Just promise me!”
“Okay, fine. I promise. What’s go—”
“I’ve gotta go. I have to call Chariss. Bye.” I hung up the phone and dialed my mother.
The call went to voicemail. She was probably ignoring my calls.
“Chariss, get away from Sacré-Couer. Please, for me, just do it.” I ended the call and looked up at Thor and Jake.
They were both staring at their phones with matching expressions of horror on their faces.
“What? What happened?”
“There’s been an explosion at Gare de Nord.”