It was midmorning when Slaton exited a taxi two blocks from Invalides. The rain had finally abated, and as soon as the cab was gone he crossed the street to an inexpensive hostel. He’d been steered to the place by Neumann, who had occasion to know such recesses of the city, and she assured him it would meet his two main requirements: vacant single rooms and a willingness to operate on a cash basis.
Slaton purchased lodging for one night, and the proprietor, a man with wild hair and a deeply grooved face, explained that the room would not be available for another two hours. He also said that if Monsieur so desired, he could leave his bag in the locked closet behind the desk. Slaton accepted enthusiastically, no hesitation to suggest that the case might hold something valuable. Fifteen minutes later he was walking unencumbered across the storied grounds of Invalides.
There was never a question of where to start. He took his phone from his pocket and called up a very accurate mapping program he’d downloaded. It was designed for agricultural use—in particular, the application of pesticides—but inherent in the platform was the one thing Slaton needed: precision.
He began on the stone terrace where the ceremony was to take place, and was forced to estimate the spot where the interior minister would tomorrow shake Baland’s hand, or perhaps put a banner over his shoulder—whatever pomp fit the circumstance. This put him in the middle of a half acre of stone pavers, Arcane limestone if he wasn’t mistaken, that spread artfully back toward the museums. In front of him the terrace ended abruptly, bordered by an empty moat that was guarded by rows of inert cannons. Slaton marked the location and elevation of the spot where he stood, then set out on his search.
He walked the surrounding gardens, up the Esplanade des Invalides and toward the river. At the Quay d’Orsay, with the Seine spreading before him, he checked his phone and saw a range of 562 meters. He marked the spot as a border, then moved west, canvassing rows of apartments along Rue Fabert, and taking a lingering look up Rue de Grenelle. A few of the buildings there caught his eye, and he marked them on his electronic map. He spent a full thirty minutes on his survey, along the way standing amid groups of tourists—always in abundance here—and snapping a few photos for later reference.
He initially discounted the idea of using the eastern border along Rue de Constantine—the street was home to any number of embassies, Canada and Great Britain among them, which implied added layers of security. Then, in a burst of inspiration, he doubled back for a second look. His idea coalesced as he stood in the skeletal shadow of a hand-sculpted, wintering horse chestnut tree.
Slaton stared at the Colombian embassy, or more accurately its placeholder. It was a narrow three-story affair wedged on an urban triangle, shouldered tightly between a slightly taller residential building and a small branch bank. More intriguing was what Slaton saw on the front door, and along the high façade above.
He went closer and read the notice posted on the door in French, Spanish, and English:
THE EMBASSY OF COLOMBIA IS CURRENTLY CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS. LIMITED SERVICES ARE AVAILABLE AT OUR TEMPORARY ANNEX AT 45 RUE DUROC. WE APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE.
He looked up at a scaffolding and saw two workers busy refurbishing a cornice. The outer stone edifice had been pulled and rebuilt, this obvious to Slaton by mortar joints that were a near match in color to original sections, but without the telling stains of the urban wear. He knew a good deal about Lutetian limestone, also known as “Paris stone,” which for centuries had been cut from the quarries of Oise, north of the capital, and shipped conveniently downriver. In recent years the rock had become fashionable, and it was shipped in great quantity around the globe to enhance terraces in Dubai and mansions in Hollywood. Having worked with it, Slaton knew the stone had unique characteristics: it was easy to cut, durable to the elements, and available in a wide array of colors. So as he stared up now at a major rebuild, clearly in its final stages, his curiosity was piqued.
“It looks good,” he called up in American-accented English.
One of the men kept working, but the other, a hirsute fireplug of a man, smiled amiably.
“Is the stone from Oise?” Slaton prodded.
“Of course,” said the stocky man. “You know Paris stone?”
“I’ve worked with it a few times in the States. Once to build a patio for a mansion, and at another site a small concert pavilion. I like it better than the Italian stone, easier to work with.”
The man began climbing down a ladder, and when he reached street level, he said, “Italian stone?” The words came through puckered lips, as if he’d tasted something sour. “No one uses that rubble here.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your work.”
“We are almost done for the day.” He wiped his hand on a tarp that was hanging across the scaffolding. “The mortar will have to set before we finish the last section—after the weekend, I think.”
Slaton looked up and saw a few remaining gaps in the long cornice. “It looks like you’ve been at it for some time.”
“Three months. The weight-bearing wall behind the cornice had cracks, and the only option was to replace the top three meters, a big job.”
“What was the original thickness?”
The man smiled. “You do know your stone. The original wall was over two meters thick.”
“Two meters?”
“The man who first commissioned it would accept nothing less.”
“Who was that?” Slaton asked.
“Napoléon.”
Slaton stared. “As in … Bonaparte?”
“Is there another?”
Not here, Slaton thought, before saying, “How thick is the new wall?”
“Just under half a meter. The committee for … how do you say it … authenticité architecturale. They insist on perfection to the eye, but cannot raise enough money for honesty to the original structure.”
“Believe me when I say, it happens everywhere. I had the same problem in Malta. Let me guess—there’s a void between the outer wall and the existing interior walls.”
“Certainement. But who will ever know but us?”
Slaton smiled.
The Frenchman gave him an overview of the project, and pointed to various repairs in the building’s façade. Slaton asked a few knowledgeable questions, and complimented him on his workmanship. The mason suggested agreeably, and not without a bit of pride, “Come, let me show you. As a brother mason, you would be most interested.” He started up the ladder with a beckoning wave. His partner, who Slaton suspected did not speak English, showed no interest whatsoever.
Without hesitation, Slaton stepped on the first rung and began climbing.