Emily loved Paris.  She’d studied here as a girl and had returned a few years later as a woman who fell in love with the wrong man, lost her virginity to a better one and spent the rest of the sunny summer in a Gallic mood, carefree and morose.  She was finally called home (when the sidewalk cafes turned cold) by an uncompromising mother and a father who was gravely ill.  Death and responsibility followed and summers and winters and ….  These days, Paris was just a weekend or less — too short to be enjoyed properly.  So she should have been happy with two weeks or more on the Seine, but …

The long story from last night had lasted most of the night, and they’d been busy all morning.  So waiting at the airport, they were both suddenly very tired – content to spend the rest of the trip silently contemplating the middle distance.  Dreyfus trying to figure out how Emily had talked him into letting her tag along and Emily smoldering, furious with Simon DeMonta, who she blamed for this insanity.  She’d heard a lot of the why of this ridiculous adventure but none of the how— and it worried her.

There was a car waiting at Charles De Gaulle, which oddly enough, already had a matching suitcase in the trunk.  Less than four hours out of London, they were checking into a boutique hotel just off Boulevard du Montparnasse.

The driver brought the luggage into the lobby and handed Dreyfus a telephone. “Pour vous, monsieur.”

Dreyfus nodded, put the phone in his jacket pocket and turned to reception, but before he could speak:

“Lady Weldon.  Excusez-moi!  We had no idea.” It was a voice from far behind the counter.

A man stepped forward and shuffled the other staff away with his fingers.

“Your usual suite, of course.”  He looked down at the arranged papers, trying to decipher them as quickly as possible.  “Perhaps a drink while we make the arrangements.”

“That would be fine, Lucien.  It’s nice to see you again.”

“And you, Madame.”

Emily took their passports out of Sinclair’s hand, gave him a you’re-in-my-town-now look and placed them on the counter.  She reached under his arm and directed him across the lobby.

“So that’s why you wanted to stay here.”

But before Emily could answer:

“Please, one minute.”  It was Lucien.  “Monsieur Sinclair, your friend Monsieur DeMonta has already arrived.  He is waiting across the street at Chez Marcel.  Just there.”

There was a perceptible pause.

“Shall I move him to the sixth floor?”

Emily turned her head only slightly. “No, he’s just fine where he is.”

She stepped Dreyfus towards the door.

“Could you send someone when the rooms are ready?”

“Certainly.”

Chez Marcel was far enough away from the tourist routes that it was old- style Paris – mostly empty at that time of day.  There were a couple of late shoppers, a book reader, a satcheled student, tapping a phone, and what looked like a bony bag of clothes thrown on a chair against the wall.

Emily hesitated. “Oh, my God! That can’t be him!”

Simon was completely beyond anything Emily had been imagining.  She had to consciously close her mouth.  This man wasn’t just old — he was crisp, practically brittle.  He looked like a forgotten banquet of dead flowers — afraid of the wind that could blow him into a thousand pieces.  There was no possibility he was going to steal a Picasso.  It looked as if he couldn’t even lift one.  What the hell had Sinclair got himself into?

Dreyfus maneuvered through the tables and Emily, horrified, followed.  A couple of steps later:

“Hey, good to see you.  Emily,” Dreyfus put his hand on the back of Emily’s waist and moved her forward, “this is Simon.  Simon, this is Emily.”

Simon smiled and his face brightened.

“At least he’s not dead!”  Emily thought.

But as he got up from the chair, he leaned heavily on a cane.

“We’re so screwed!”

But all Emily heard herself say was, “Pleased to meet you.  Have you been waiting long?”

—

Emily And Dreyfus – 4

 

Later that night, the misty, spring drizzle turned into a storm, driving needles of rain against the tall windows of the loft over the river.  Emily and Dreyfus sat on the floor, close to the fire — like superstitious tribesmen afraid of the angry gods.  Dreyfus had come home too late for kebabs, so they settled on bread and cheese and several trips to the kitchen for whatever else they could find.  It was their second bottle of wine, and they were tired from talking around a conversation that had started with:

“I have to go to Paris for a week or two.”

Normally, Emily would have shrugged it off.  Dreyfus was always going somewhere for some reason.  But there was something wrong.  There were too many details.  Dreyfus didn’t talk a lot about his job – to anyone.  In fact, he usually said nothing, and his standard response to even the most casual inquiry was “Insurance is boring.”  But for the last couple of hours, he’d been rattling on with way too much information.  Finally, Emily had had enough.

“This is bullshit.  Are you lying to me?”

Dreyfus thought about it. “Not really,” he said, and then considered his answer. “Well, sort of.”

“Okay.” Emily took a drink, “You should have told me that in the first place.”

Dreyfus stopped his glass in mid-air and tilted his head like a question.

“Do you hear yourself?”

Emily looked back, a little angry.  And then her face softened. “Fair play, Sinclair.  But that doesn’t excuse you from wasting the entire evening talking like we’re on a blind date.”

Dreyfus cut a piece of bread and dipped it in honey.  He shrugged and took a bite.

“Okay, give me one good reason why.  Just one good reason and I’ll shut up about it.”

“Alright.” Dreyfus exhaled, “I’ve got something to do, and I’m not sure about the laws in this country, but I’m pretty sure if you don’t know what I’m going to do you can’t be arrested for it.  How’s that?”

“Oh.”

“See what I mean?”

“Good reason,” Emily said.  “Now we’ve got that out of the way.  You want to tell me, and I want to know, so … What’s going on?”

Before Dreyfus could answer, Emily turned her head and pointedly looked at him. “You’re not going to murder somebody, are you?”

“No.”  Dreyfus cut another piece of bread. “I’m going to steal a painting.”

“What painting?  You don’t know anything about art!”

There was a pause.

“Okay, the guy on the telephone.”

“Simon’s an old friend, and I owe him a lot.”

“Twenty years in prison’s a lot.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” Emily said and pointed to the wine.

Dreyfus poured both glasses.

—————–

Emily And Dreyfus – 3

The late afternoon was wet and chilly and Emily, tucked into her bulk- knit sweater and fat hygge socks, was half asleep when the telephone rang.  At first, she didn’t understand: no one had ever called the land line before.  But then she recognized the sound and swung her legs off the sofa.  She put her book down and slip stepped across the smooth hardwood floor to the kitchen wall.  The mid ring stopped when she picked up the receiver.

“We need to talk.  Tonight at eight.”

“I’m sorry?”

There was an electric hum.

“Tell Sinclair.”

And an audible click.

Emily looked at the telephone as if it was its fault.

“Shit!” she said, and placed the receiver back on the wall.  She stood there for moment.  This was the problem with Dreyfus Sinclair: you couldn’t ever plan anything.  Her night of lamb kebab takeaway and naughty Greek wine by the fire had suddenly disappeared.  She went to the counter and filled the kettle.  (Never mind, my darling.  Have a nice cup of tea.)

For a second she contemplated just going back to her own apartment, but it was rainy and grey and eventually Sinclair would come home, so ….  But, the evening was ruined.  She knew Sinclair well enough to know he wasn’t going to dump the voice on the phone to curl up on the sofa with her, no matter how attractive she made it.  Oddly enough, that was one of the many things she loved about the guy.  He came when he was called – every time, without fail.  This was important to her, and she wasn’t about to abuse it for a one night stand of kebabs and wine.  Besides, Emily appreciated the clear lines between the two of them.  She had a life and she liked it, and she expected Sinclair to respect that, so it was only fair that she do the same.  Still, it made the two of them together difficult at times.  As the water heated, she went back to the sofa and picked up her phone.  Normally, they didn’t trade texts but Emily wasn’t interested in Sinclair coming home, hanging around for an hour or two and leaving again.  That was not enough time to do anything (certainly not what she had in mind) but too much time to do nothing.  She tapped the message, sent it and went back to the kettle.  She made tea, put the pot, a cup and a big bag of ginger snaps on a tray and took it back to the sofa.  Her phone buzzed and she read, “thanks see you later.”  She picked up her book, a twisting trail of dead Scandinavians.  The interesting thing was Emily had been around Dreyfus Sinclair long enough that a cryptic telephone call in the late afternoon was not the least bit unusual.

Despite what spy novels and bad movies will tell you, lonely park benches and deserted warehouses are not the best places for secret meetings.  Professionals prefer busy places.  Actually, most clandestine business is conducted in plain sight under the floating cloak of a shifting crowd.  Universities are good, or large office buildings but one of the best places for covert conversations is a hospital.  It’s very close to the perfect cover.  The assumption is anyone who is at a hospital is supposed to be there, and the people who are there are almost completely focused on themselves.  That’s why no one noticed a very ordinary, somewhat rumpled Dreyfus Sinclair come through the main entrance at St. Thomas Hospital off Westminster Bridge.  He looked like a college professor uncomfortable outside the classroom, and when he walked up to the information kiosk, the volunteers were eager to help.  He asked for directions to the cafeteria, followed the pointed fingers to the elevator and left without anybody really seeing him.  In the basement, he stood at the cafeteria entrance until he saw who he was looking for.  Then he bought a coffee in a paper cup from the long serve-yourself line.  He walked around several open spaces and sat down opposite an older man at an out of the way, round, made for four, table.

“You’re looking good, Simon,” he said, tearing open the paper sugar envelope.

“You finally got a girlfriend.”

Dreyfus smiled and stirred the sugar into his coffee. “You in London now?” he asked.

“No, I came down to see you.”

“Okay,” Dreyfus answered, content to let the old man play it out his way.

“I need your help.”

Dreyfus tilted his head and opened his palm in a helpless gesture.

“They arrested Marta.”

Dreyfus straightened in his chair. “When?”

“A week ago, in Paris.”

“Paris?”

“She and Jenna went shopping, and she got caught at some shop with a bunch of makeup.  Saffron or something.  I don’t know.  It doesn’t matter.  Jenna ran and security called the cops.”

“Why was she stealing makeup?”  It was an accusation.

“Hell, I don’t know.  Old habits I guess.” Simon raised his shoulders in frustration, “But they took her in, ran her prints and …”

Dreyfus stared into the distance over the old man’s shoulder, trying to out-manoeuver the French justice system.

“That’s not it,” Simon said, reading Sinclair’s mind.  “When they ran her prints, the boys back home got a hit — and they were in there like ugly on an ape.  They’re squeezing the gendarmes to make a trade — her for me.”

“Don’t trust them,” Dreyfus said, reaching for his coffee.

“You’re singing to the choir.  But the bait is if I don’t come in, they’re going to extradite her back to Egypt on the old Zamalek conviction.”

“She had nothing to do with any of that.”

“I know — but she was named, and if they send her back to Cairo, they’ll hang her.”

“Lawyer up.  You can twist them into knots for years.”

“Not this time.  They want me bad.  It’s a closed hearing.  And besides, even if I could get the legals to do something, how many years do Marta and I have left?  She’s got enough paper on her to throw away the key.”

“The Hague, Human Rights?”

“That’s where I’m at now, but it’s only a stall.  I need some time.”

Dreyfus took another sip of his coffee and thought about it.

“You’re going to break her out of prison?  A French prison?”

“No, but I have a plan and I need your help.”

_______________________

Emily And Dreyfus – 2