18 La Garrote

 

Paris France. Jul 16. 2033

48°51'32.1"N 2°24'06.4"E

 

Dusk settled around the Rue des Montiboeufs. The rush of traffic had finally calmed and Garance took that as a sign to leave her bar stool at the Souris Timide. She tipped back the last of her stinger and set three notes on the counter. “Merci, Henri.”

“Bon, a la prochaine, Garance.”

She walked the half-kilometer to her flat, stopping to purchase a pack of smokes and baguette. The evening sun splashed pastel colors across the stucco fronts of the buildings along the street. Garance unlocked the door of her apartment and kicked her sandals off on the mat. She looked up to press her code into the sensor alarm and gasped. Her flat lay in ruins. A planter lay on its side, soil and foliage covered the foyer. Her sparse living room was in shambles. Garance peered around the corner of the room. “Allô?” She pulled her mobile out of her jacket, shouting into the receiver, “Callum! C’est Garance—rappelle-moi!” Pressing herself against the wall, she made her way back to her bedroom. “Allô—qui est là?” She felt her breathing become shallow, her voice was shaky. Kicking the door open, Garance stepped into the room. “Merde!” She stooped to pick up the fallen armoire that blocked the entrance, the contents of its drawers were strewn across her carpet. Garance noticed that her bedside table was tipped over, papers and a bag of weed lay on the floor next to her vibrator. “Putain de merde!” She slumped against the door. With trembling hands, she put a cigarette to her mouth and flicked the lighter. She tried Callum’s number three more times, but there was no answer. He always worked at La Balise until at least 10 p.m. Something wasn’t right. She returned to the entryway and grabbed her shoulder bag, checking to make sure her computer was still inside it. Garance pulled a package from behind a picture frame and stuffed it in her bag. She took a last look around her apartment, opened the front door and slung her bag over her shoulder. Taking the stairs two at a time, Garance’s mind raced. Who would do this? Why doesn’t Callum answer? Back on the street, she ran the entire distance to the office. The sun had set while she was in her flat and Garance now searched for the front entrance in twilight. Her breath came in hoarse gasps. Putain cigarettes! She spat onto the sidewalk and looked cautiously around before opening the main doors and heading for the stairs. An elderly man with a Pomeranian glared at her as she brushed past him. Garance fumbled in her pockets for the office keys as she climbed the steps. She glanced at the signage on the landing: Au quatrième étage—fourth floor. Slipping the key into the vintage lock, she turned the knob and entered. The room was dark, moonlight silhouetted the furniture. Garance reached for the metal wall switch and waited. She tried again. Nothing. “Allô… Callum?... Veronique? Is anyone here?” Placing the keys back in her pocket, Garance stepped further into the office and stared into the shadows. She froze in place, suddenly aware of a strange quality in the air. “Callum?” The smell persisted; metallic, almost earthy—there was a certain heaviness to the scent. Something primal inside Garance’s brain told her to run. She inhaled slowly and pressed forward, inching her way toward the work stations. As she approached her desk, she tripped over a small object. Garance felt around the floor, touching a coil of razor-thin wire. She picked it up, holding it toward the light from the window. The wire was sticky, that much she could tell. Garance ran her index finger and thumb along the wire and yanked her hand away as a sharp pain ran across her finger tip. “Ouille!” She stuck her finger into her mouth and tasted her own blood. Setting the wire on the edge of her desk, she went to Callum’s chair. She pulled the swivel seat toward her and Callum’s head flopped to one side. His left hand dangled from the armrest, blood covered the front of his shirt, pooling in his lap. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Garance backed away from the body and crashed into the table where Callum’s computer and piles of paper usually sat. The desk was empty.

Covering her mouth to keep from screaming, Garance rushed toward the door. She slipped on the hardwood floor, slick with Callum’s blood, landing hard on her hip. Garance slid around as she scrambled to reach the exit, “Mon Dieu—qu’est qui ce passe?” she sobbed. A note tacked on the doorjamb caught her eye. “à emporter Libanais.” She snatched the note and shoved it into her pocket as she tore her way out of the room. In the light of the hallway, Garance looked down at her trousers. Her left pant leg was smeared in gore from where she’d fallen, her fingers were bloody—both her own and Callum’s. Immobilized with panic, she stood at the top of the fourth-floor landing, staring at her hands. She heard a door close somewhere down the hallway; the sound of keys on a chain. She spun around and went back inside the office. Garance ran to the farthest window, opposite the desks—not daring to look back at Callum’s corpse. Pressing her full weight into the sill, she slid the window up enough to squeeze through. A rusty fire-escape was attached to the building’s stucco façade. Garance had no idea if it functioned, or if it would support her once she put weight on it. She lifted the corroded ladder away from itself and extended it toward the street. The rungs only reached to the second floor. Climbing down as far as she could, Garance searched in vain for another set of escapes. “Merde,” she peered into the dark second story window next to where she stood—it was vacant. She could feel her pulse racing, feel the panic beginning to rise… She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. A drain-spout ran down the corner of the building, not three meters away from her perch. She leaned out and grabbed the façade, placing her left foot on the ledge, gently at first… It held. Step by step, she slid along the ledge. As she reached for the pipe, her fingers slipped and she fell several meters. Her hands dug into one of the spout’s supporting brackets, stopping her descent with a painful jolt—the attachment slicing into her hands. She sucked in her breath and wrapped her thighs around the drainpipe, whispering, “S'il vous plait… Mère Marie.” Garance looked below, the street was dark and empty. She slid down the drain, clenching and unclenching her legs to control her speed and wincing at the pain as the rusty metal abraded her palms. The spout ended two meters from the pavement, Garance released her grip and fell to the ground. Pulling her shoulder bag to her side, she shoved her hands into her pockets and ran down the street.

 

 

The archaic neon sign that hung in Al Ajani’s restaurant window flickered perpetually—as if unsure whether to fully commit to commerce. Kassim wiped his hands on his apron, reached over the table and yanked the chain to its off position. He glanced at the young woman with red hair, sitting alone in the corner booth. Veronique was a regular in Al Ajani, but he could not recall ever seeing her this late at night—certainly not with such a disheveled appearance about her. He liked this girl; a very put together Parisian woman—friendly enough, but not overly so. He liked to watch her walk, imaging how she moved in bed. Tonight though, she was a wreck—her make up smeared down her face, her hands shaking as she held her cup of Maatouk coffee. He chose to give her space and ignore the tears. He walked behind the counter as the front door opened with a tinkling of brass bells. “Nous avons fermé—We are closed,” he shouted, waving his hand in attempt to shoo away the customer. “Non…aller.”

Veronique looked up, “She’s with me, Kassim. S'il vous plait?”

Kassim glared at the newcomer. He didn’t like her appearance—dirty, sweaty, blood all over her clothes. She looked like a street urchin. “Un quart d'heure,” he grumbled and walked into the kitchen.

Veronique stood and embraced Garance, then stepped back. “Ah j'y crois pas—quelle horreur!”

Garance held a finger to her mouth and shook her head. Checking to see that Kassim was not within hearing distance, she spoke in rapid English. “Callum… Veronique, have you been to La Balise?”

Veronique nodded, tears in her eyes. “I can’t believe it. What… Who? … Horrible.” She sniffed and rubbed her eyes. “I wasn’t sure you would know to find me here—you must have seen my note?”

Garance nodded yes and reached for Veronique’s Lebanese coffee. She took a sip of the strong liquid. Setting the cup back on the table she leaned forward and whispered, “We both need to disappear until I can find some help.” She glanced up as Kassim passed by the kitchen doorway, then continued. “I am certain that HighTower is involved in this. You know the piece I’ve been investigating—the refugee deaths?”

Veronique nodded, “Yes, I sent you a report about another outbreak in the Marshall Islands yesterday, remember?”

“Ah! That’s correct—shit. Well, I started digging deeper into it all last weekend. HighTower is not only connected, but I believe that they may have started it all—released something. There’s a laboratory in Hong Kong that is part of this—Callum was researching it as a separate story. I think he must have found something that linked the two of them—that’s why he’s dead. HighTower is definitely the key to all of this.”

Veronique tore at the napkin in front of her. “Garance, how did they trace you? Will they know how to find us…here?”

“I have no idea. Christoph warned me about this, I should have listened.”

“I’m so frightened—I don’t dare go back to University. Where do we go now?”

Garance looked through the windows like a hunted animal. “Listen to me. I have some money, it’s not much… Can you get yourself to Vienna? I don’t think your chip will raise alarms yet. But you should go tonight—you mustn’t wait.

“Vienna? I don’t…”

“Shhh—I can reach Christoph through the dark web. They can’t track us there. He will meet you at a place called ‘KontactKaffe’…it’s a strip club in Landstraße. I’ll send you details on this,” Garance handed Veronique a burner. “It’s old, and only has enough juice to last for one or two calls. Don’t use it—just wait for my text. You won’t recognize the number, but it will be the only message you’ll receive.”

“A strip club?”

“Don’t judge. He owns it… makes a good cover for his real profession.” Garance leaned in close to Veronique and whispered, “He’s one of the very best hackers in the world right now—trust me.”

“Will I hear from you again?”

“Yes—I’ll be able to reach Christoph, like I said… but not until I’m sure that I am safe.”

“Where are you going, Garance?” Veronique reached for her coworker’s hand. “You’re injured—you need to get those cuts taken care of.”

“Oui, oui—yes, I will. Look here’s the cash—it’s all I have for now.” Seeing the look on Veronique’s face she added, “Don’t worry, I too have certain hacking abilities of my own from a …former career.” She smiled at her colleague’s reaction. “Listen, I’m going to try to locate a scientist that went missing from this Hong Kong laboratory. He will have answers to our questions—I’m positive about this. I’ll reach out to Christoph once I’m in.” She rose from her seat and grimaced as the pain returned. Together, they walked out of Al Ajani’s and stopped at the corner of the building. Garance extended her hand, saying, “Best of luck. Christoph will take good care of you. He’s unique—you know, brilliant, paranoid… But decent. C'est un type bien. And Veronique—be sure to remove your chip the moment you get there. Christoph will help.”

Veronique nodded and gave her a weak smile. “Merci… Bon courage, Garance.”

Garance pulled up her collar. She shoved her hands deep in her pockets and limped into the hollow darkness.