“What the hell?” Will wiped his eyes and peered blearily at the TV screen.
“You’re being recalled to duty.” Taylor handed him a cup of coffee. “And so am I.”
Will looked up sharply. “You’re flying back to the States?”
Taylor shook his head. “I’ve been requisitioned by your RSO. Someone notified the media who then notified the police that a bomb had been planted in the Eiffel Tower.”
“So? It’s not the first time that’s happened. Why would we be recalled to duty?” Will took a noisy sip of coffee before adding, “Especially you.”
“Because of the group claiming responsibility.”
“Which is?”
“Finistère.”
Will looked blank.
“Finistère,” Taylor repeated.
“Gesundheit.”
Taylor swallowed his impatience. Nice to know Will hung on his every word. “The violent offshoot of the FLB.”
“The FLB?”
“Jesus, Will. Were you so busy enjoying your boys’ night out with Bradley you didn’t pay attention to a damn thing I said?”
Will lowered his coffee cup so fast some of the liquid splashed onto the pale hook rug. “What the hell are you yelling at me for? And what the hell does that mean? Boys’ night out? If you think something happened, why don’t you ask?”
Given how fast Will shot back, he must have been waiting for the question. The truth was, Taylor didn’t have to ask. He knew damn well Will wouldn’t fool around — and if he did, he’d have relieved his guilty conscience within twenty minutes of Taylor’s plane touching down. Will wouldn’t fool around. He wasn’t built like that. Which didn’t mean that Taylor didn’t find the idea of Will and David Bradley sitting around till the wee hours, smoking cigars and drinking brandy — or doing whatever the fuck it was they did — annoying as hell. But he hadn’t intended to admit it.
So he sidestepped. “The Front de libération de la Bretagne.”
“I know what the FLB is,” Will snapped back. He might even have been telling the truth. He looked irritated enough. “That wasn’t an actual question. Or if it was, the question was, are you shitting me? Why the hell would the Breton Liberation Front resurface now?”
Taylor opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Will added, “Nothing happened with David.”
I know that. At least that was what Taylor intended to say. But somehow the words that came out were, “Not because he didn’t want it to.”
Will’s face tightened. “What am I supposed to say to that? Nothing. Happened. Nothing will ever happen. It doesn’t matter what he wants. You and I are together.”
Why had he started this? Why had he let those stupid, stupid words fly out of his big, flapping mouth? Now that he’d gone this far, he didn’t know how to stop. Taylor said curtly, “What do you want?”
“What do you mean, what do I want? I just said —”
Knowing he was being a fool, knowing he was being unfair, hot-faced but stubborn, Taylor persisted. He just couldn’t seem to stop even though all his instincts were telling him to shut the hell up. “You said it didn’t matter what David wanted because we’re together. You didn’t say what you wanted.”
Will stared at him with utter disbelief. “Am I really supposed to answer that? What do you think I want? I want you.” He added bitterly, “Who wouldn’t want you? Seeing you’re so sweet-tempered and understanding.”
Taylor turned sharply and went to look out the window at butterflies dancing over the garden. He could feel Will’s fierce gaze boring a hole between his shoulder blades. He reached absently to squeeze the back of his neck; the muscles were rigid with tension. He needed to apologize, but more importantly he needed to explain why he was being such a jerk. The problem was, Taylor wasn’t sure he could explain. The problem was him, not Will. He knew that. They both knew that.
He was still trying to think what to say when Will said neutrally, “So I guess this proves that you really did see Yanni or whatever his name is at LAX?”
Relieved, Taylor turned. “It would be one hell of a coincidence that he just happened to be trying to get on a plane for Paris the same week his old gang suddenly reemerges and decides to blow up the Eiffel Tower.”
“True.”
“Yeah, so anyway, your boss wants me to check in.”
Will’s grin was tentative. “Sort of like old times.”
Taylor dredged up an answering smile. “Sort of.”
The awkwardness was fading as they slipped back into their familiar working roles. The moment to apologize was also passing, but on the whole Taylor thought it might be best to let it go, to just pretend the last five minutes had never happened. He’d been in the wrong. Will hadn’t deserved that treatment. Never again. Taylor made a vow to himself. Never again would he treat Will like that. From now on his insecurities were his own problem. His alone.
He said, “You want the shower first and I’ll go grab coffee and croissants next door?”
“You go ahead,” Will replied. “I’ve got breakfast under control.”
Taylor nodded and headed for the stairs.
* * * * *
The American Embassy was located at 2 avenue Gabriel, centrally positioned between the Champs-Élysées and Châtelet, a major station of the Paris Métro, on the city’s right bank. They drove, but Will was right. The embassy was close enough to Châtelet that they could have walked.
From the outside, the embassy looked like any other official building in Paris. An elegant four stories of creamy stone and black wrought iron bars over bulletproof windows.
Inside the chancery, it looked like every other American embassy Taylor had been in — maybe with better art. Once they cleared the gates guarded by marines, they passed through a gracious entryway with a grand staircase of marble leading to the formal reception area which then led into the nicely appointed ambassador’s office. Will and Taylor did not go to the ambassador’s office, however.
They continued up through standard-issue embassy office-building-bland decor. The carpets were crimson, the walls off-white beige. Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and other Founding Fathers looked benignly down on them from their gilt frames on various landings.
Paris was America’s first diplomatic mission, and her first envoys had included Franklin, Jefferson, John Adams, and James Madison. No question that as DSS postings went, Paris was a very cool gig and Will had been lucky to get it. Taylor was proud of him. Not so crazy about the transatlantic commute, but yeah, he was proud of Will and had been since Will had been offered the posting. And if he hadn’t made that clear, he needed to do that.
They went into the DSS office, and laconic Mornings were exchanged.
It was easy to see that Will was right at home here, liked and respected by his colleagues. Taylor would have expected nothing less. It was still a little tough realizing exactly how well Will fit in. Initially after Will’s promotion they had kidded themselves that they might eventually work together again, but deep down they’d both known the chances of that were slim to none.
Anyway they had more important things to worry about now. Terrorism, even when not specifically directed at US citizens, was the number one priority of the Regional Security Office. Will made brief introductions while everyone waited for their boss, RSO Stone, to get out of her meeting with the ambassador. They drank office coffee, every bit as bad in Paris as it was anywhere else, and Taylor answered questions about budget restrictions and cutbacks in the States.
The Diplomatic Service staff was made up of five diplomatic security special agents, an Engineering Services Office, the Marine Security Guard Detachment, Local Guard Force, the Pass and Identification Section, and the Foreign Service National Investigations Section. It was a pretty good-sized department. They’d had about a quarter that size staff in Haiti.
Forty-five minutes later, Will’s Regional Security Officer arrived. She was around forty, cool, and pretty as any Hitchcock blonde, with a surprisingly deep voice.
“Welcome aboard, MacAllister. Sorry to disrupt your vacation plans.” Alice Stone had a firm handshake and a quirky smile.
“Happy to help however I can, ma’am. But how is a bomb threat at the Eiffel Tower DSS jurisdiction?”
“Good question.” She accepted a cup of the awful coffee with a nod. “Thanks, Arthur. Helloco came in on a US plane despite the fact that we — you, to be precise, Agent MacAllister — identified him. We could have intercepted him but failed to do so. Surely I don’t need to spell out how embarrassing that is for all of us?” She looked at her team. There was a general clearing of throats and tugging on collars, although no one in that room was responsible.
Will said, “Then Helloco has been positively ID’d as the bomber?”
Stone gave her quirky smile. “As a matter of fact, no. As a matter of fact, no bomb has been found yet, although the tower is still being searched by police. However, the French paper Ouest-France received a communiqué claiming to be from Finistère, and we are all in agreement that Helloco’s attempted boarding of a Paris-bound flight in Los Angeles is too much of a coincidence to be overlooked.”
Stone didn’t spell out who we were. The Ambassador? The French authorities? The American president? Or her little team of five — now six — special agents?
The most junior member of the team, a buff, blond boy named Arthur, said, “Ma’am, I’m still not following —”
“Our primary mission,” Stone cut across, “is to protect our citizens abroad. Finistère is the violently militant wing of the FLB. They are also anti-American, which gives us a vested interest. It’s peak tourist season in the City of Lights, gentlemen. American citizens are everywhere you look. Which means they are everywhere Finistère looks.”
“What’s our protocol?” Taylor asked. Will shot him an approving look.
“To start with, we’re going to do what should have been done in Los Angeles and get a positive ID on Helloco. Brandt, when we’re done here, get MacAllister kitted out, then head over to Prefecture of Police. They can’t wait to show him their pretty picture books.”
Will nodded.
“MacAllister, I’ve spoken to your AFOD, and you’re on temporary duty with us till further notice. You’ll be comped your lost vacation time.”
Taylor nodded.
“Okay. LAPD has provided us with the intel on Yannick Hinault, who may or may not be Yann Helloco. Hinault is sixty-seven and currently lives in Burbank. According to his paperwork, he’s a French national born in Alsace who immigrated to the States — legally — in December of ’72. He married an American citizen, Angelina Duff. She passed away in April of this year. No children, no known next of kin.”
“That timeline works for our boy,” Taylor said. “If Hinault is Helloco —”
“Exactly. If. The only visual ID that LAPD was able to provide was driver license and passport photos.” Stone handed off a stack of papers. As the stack circled around to him, Taylor took one and studied the enlarged copy of a driver license photo.
He reluctantly shook his head. “I don’t think this is the same guy.” He looked at the enlargement of the passport photo. “They look a lot alike but…no.”
Stone’s blue eyes considered him. “Noted.”
“What about fingerprints?”
“Hinault’s fingerprints don’t match Helloco’s.”
Taylor nodded. He felt Will’s gaze. Their eyes met. Maybe he had got it wrong. Maybe the return of Finistère was a coincidence. Weirder things had happened.
Stone continued, “According to Hinault’s records, he worked as a gardener until 1999. No brushes with the law, not even a parking ticket. Interestingly, this would have been his first trip home to France in forty-two years.”
“What would bring him home now?” Will asked.
“That’s the question on everyone’s mind.” Stone placed her hands on her trim hips. “That, and whether Hinault is, in fact, Helloco.” She shrugged. “LAPD is working to get a search warrant for Hinault’s home. Once they’ve got access, we should know more.”
“Can’t we execute a warrant?” Will asked. “He’s a terror suspect.”
“Not yet he’s not. The only thing we know for sure that Yannick Hinault is guilty of is looking like a lot of elderly Frenchmen — and missing his flight. So far neither of those things is a crime.”
One of the older agents said, “It’s not a lot to go on.”
“No, it’s not, but if our job was easy, they’d let the FBI do it. Anyway, that’s the extent of information we have on Hinault. By all accounts he was a quiet man who kept to himself and was liked by his neighbors — and as suspicious as that sounds, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Brandt, you and MacAllister get over to our friends at police nationale and see if we can match Helloco to MacAllister’s airport ID. The rest of you listen up.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Will jerked his head, and Taylor followed him out of the office and downstairs to the armory vault.
“How’d you land Firearms Officer?”
Will merely grinned.
Taylor shook his head in resignation as Will opened the vault. “Does Stone know she’s got the kid in charge of the candy store?”
“No, and don’t tell her.” Will led the way inside the vault lined with everything from shotguns to a grenade launcher.
“Chocolate or vanilla?” He held up a Colt SMG submachine gun.
“Do you have something black in a size nine?”
Will said in an oily French accent, “I know just zee thing for monsieur.” He selected a SIG Sauer P229R DAK and handed it over. “What do you think? It’s got a lighter, smoother pull than you’re used to.”
Taylor assumed a firing stance, squinting through the rear sight, focusing on the front sight post. He nodded. “Yeah. She’ll do.”
Will handed over a magazine. Taylor slapped the magazine into the grip and pulled the slide.
“Here.”
Taylor glanced up. Will held up a shoulder holster like a tailor offering a beautifully cut sports jacket. Taylor snorted but stepped forward and let Will slip the leather straps over his shoulder. Taylor slid the pistol into the sheath and put the second magazine Will passed to him into the carrier. He let his arms hang at his side.
“How’s that?” Will handed over another magazine.
Taylor slid the third magazine in for balance and adjusted the front straps. Will adjusted the rear. Taylor practiced reaching for the butt of his pistol. “Yeah. That’s good.”
Will slid his arms around Taylor, pulling him close for an instant. “How’s this?”
Taylor’s smile was twisted. He tipped his head back, trying to see Will’s face. Will craned his head, and their mouths met in a quick, hard kiss. “Good,” Taylor said gruffly.
* * * * *
Paris police headquarters was located in the heart of the city in a huge old nineteenth-century building. Inside the building was a network of information and command rooms coordinating the different divisions of the national police, including public order, traffic, general security, public transport safety, and regional coordination and management of calls on the police’s 17 emergency line.
Were they not now technically on the job, Taylor would have requested that Will exert his legendary charm to get Taylor a courtesy tour of the place. But they were on the job — as was everyone else in the old building, threats against Tour Eiffel being viewed with the utmost seriousness.
Will’s police contact, Inspector Suzanne Bonnet, was trim, dark-haired, and all business. She probably had to be, given that cute little snub nose and the surplus of freckles. After the exchange of pleasantries, Taylor once again ran through the story of how he happened to spot a legendary and supposedly dead French terrorist from the seventies in a busy Los Angeles airport.
He was promptly provided with books of mug shots and more bad coffee. Will and Bonnet chatted while Taylor scanned the pages quickly. Pages and pages and pages of people at what was often the darkest hour of their lives.
Nobody looked good in a mug shot.
The general public was uneasy with the concept of racial profiling — Taylor wasn’t crazy about it himself — but there was no question that people ran to ethnic types. There was a lot of character in these faces, a lot of high cheekbones and aquiline profiles, dark eyes, and olive complexions. Not so many round and heavy faces as in the States.
Bonnet was saying to Will, “Do you think you and your partner will work together again after this post in Paris?”
“I hope so.” Will probably said it for Taylor’s benefit. He sounded grim.
Taylor inwardly shook his head. Even Will, a master of self-deception when he needed to be, had to know they weren’t going to be teamed again.
But if it made him feel better about everything to think it was a possibility, okay.
One of the faces Taylor was contemplating finally registered. A long, lean face staring cynically from the pages of all the other glowering or despairing faces.
“Here’s our guy.”
Bonnet rose from behind her desk and came to study the page and photo Taylor indicated. She gave him what she probably hoped was a steely look. “You are sure, monsieur?”
Taylor assented.
“You have a very good eye. This photo was taken over thirty years ago.”
“It’s him.”
“It is Yann Helloco, yes.” Bonnet turned to Will as he joined them. “Unfortunately it does not prove a great deal.”
“How do you figure that?” Will asked.
“If we had a photo of Helloco as he would be today, that would indicate…something, perhaps, but we have only these historical photos. And it is from the historical photos that your friend made the identification, yes? In fact, he may have seen this very photo.”
Taylor shook his head. “No.”
“Even so.”
“Even so what?” Will demanded.
“She’s right,” Taylor said. “My identifying a mug shot of Helloco doesn’t prove that the guy I saw in LAX was the guy in this photo.”
“If it helps at all,” Bonnet said, “I believe that the man you saw was Yann Helloco.”
“Thanks.”
Will said, “So where do we go from here?”
Bonnet shrugged, a graceful and distinctly French gesture. “We will cast our nets and see what we catch. If Helloco is in this country, he will most likely attempt to contact his old compatriots.”
“And you have those people under surveillance?”
“Two of his former colleagues are in prison. Two are dead. One is missing.”
That simplified everything, didn’t it?
“Well then?” Will said.
Bonnet made a little face.
“What is it you’re not telling us?” Taylor asked.
“We found no bomb at the Eiffel Tower. That is good news, of course. But…”
But it was also the bad news. It decidedly reduced the urgency in trying to find Helloco.
“What’s the story on our guy?” Will questioned.
“Helloco was born in Brest in 1945. His artistic career began at the École nationale supérieure des beaux arts, where he studied painting. He had a promising career which he abandoned for activism in the sixties. He joined the FLB and was instrumental in the formation of the Breton Revolutionary Army. However, in 1969 he became impatient with the methods of his fellow revolutionaries and broke with his old compatriots to form Finistère.”
“Meaning land’s end,” Taylor told Will.
“True,” Bonnet said. “It is also the département in Brittany where Helloco was born.”
“Does he have any family still living there?” Will asked.
Bonnet shook her head. “Helloco’s parents are deceased. He has a sister living in Ireland. There was a brother, but he’s deceased. No one else. There was a rumor he married a fellow revolutionary, Marie Laroche.”
“Where’s she?” Will spoke before Taylor.
“We are searching for her now. Laroche was released from prison last year. She seems to have…how do you say? Fallen through the cracks.”
Will asked, “Why was everyone convinced Helloco was dead?”
“Looking back, it was perhaps a foolish mistake, but remember that in the 1970s forensic science did not play the role in law enforcement it does today. We simply did not have the resources we now do.”
“Yeah, but even so. Isn’t it unusually suspicious when the subject of a national manhunt turns up conveniently dead?”
If Bonnet was offended, she hid it well. “But you see there was no suspicion of this house or this family. It was only as investigators began to sift through the rubble that they pieced together the clues that led them to conclude the victim was Yann Helloco.”
“So who was the victim?” Taylor inquired.
Bonnet made another one of those little faces. “We don’t know for sure, but we now believe the body belonged to the estate gardener, Guillaume Durand.”
“Was Durand tied to the movement?”
“There is no indication of that.”
“Let’s recap.” Arms folded, Will leaned against Bonnet’s cluttered desk. “Basically we’ve got nothing. No bomb, no bomber, no former girlfriend of the bomber, and no Yannick Hinault, who may or may not be linked to all of the above. Does that sound about right?”
“Correct,” Inspector Bonnet said.
“Très fucking bien!” said Will.