Dead Run (Dangerous Ground 4) Page 6

  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.

  Chapter Six

  “Trial run?” Will suggested.

  Taylor’s bleak gaze met his.

  They were having coffee and complimentary lemon shortbread at Nespresso on the Champs-Élysées. The coffee break had been Will’s idea. He wanted to talk the case over with Taylor where no one would overhear them. Not that there was really much of a “case.” Which was undoubtedly one reason Taylor was looking so morose.

  “I know that look. What’s on your mind?” Will dunked his shortbread in his coffee.

  “Assuming I did see Helloco at LAX, what would bring a sixty-something terrorist out of retirement? What’s the incentive for this guy to rise from the dead?”

  “World events?”

  “What world events? The FLB and Finistère were fighting for Breton sovereignty. What’s happened in recent world events that affects Breton sovereignty? When was the last time anyone on the planet gave a shit about Breton’s sovereignty?”

  “Presumably the Bretons do.”

  Taylor pulled a face. “Well, there is that.”

  “Look, if you think you saw this guy, then that’s good enough for me. So let’s start from the position that Helloco is alive and has returned to France for some reason. Maybe it has something to do with the death of his wife.”

  “Whose wife?”

  “Hinault’s wife. The other thing we’re taking for granted is that Hinault and Helloco are one and the same, right?”

  “The photos aren’t the same. Nothing about Hinault clicks with what we know about Helloco.”

  It wasn’t like Taylor to give up so easily. Will frowned at him. “Come on. Out of all the hundreds of people standing around you at LAX, you just happen to notice a guy who looks like this Helloco and who promptly vanishes right before an inactive revolutionary group pops up again. I mean, I know life is full of coincidences, but that’s too much for me to swallow.” He reached for the shortbread that Taylor absently slid his way. “Bonnet believes you. There’s just not a hell of a lot she can do about it right now. But she believes you.”

  “Why was there no bomb in the Eiffel Tower?”

  “I don’t know, but I can’t say I’m sorry about it.”

  “No. Of course not. But…why?”

  “It happens more often than you’d think. There was a similar scare back in September of last year. The world is full of nuts.”

  “True. But why bring attention to themselves?”

  “What? That’s what these nuts do. That’s what it’s all about.”

  Taylor leaned back in the large leather chair, frowning as he gazed into the distance. “No. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Taylor lifted his cup and drank, still thinking. Studying him, Will felt a surge of affection. This felt right. Working together again, being together again. This was how it was meant to be between them. This was what they needed.

  Taylor said slowly, “If Finistère is back, if they’ve regrouped and they’re planning to resume their terror tactics, why wasn’t there a bomb in the Eiffel Tower?”

  “Trial run,” Will said again.

  Taylor shook his head. “No. First of all, what would they be testing? As you say, there have been enough bomb scares on that site that they would already have a good idea of how the police would respond. Secondly, why would they tip anyone off to what they might be up to? And thirdly, they wouldn’t announce their return with a dud. That’s not how groups like that operate. They’d want to come back with a bang.”

  True. True. And true. “Okay. Agreed. So what’s going on?”

  Taylor frowned into space again. He sipped his coffee. Finally he put the cup down. “Someone wants us to think Finistère is back.”

  Will gasped. “That is absolutely astoundingly brilliant, Holmes.”

  Taylor curled his lip. “And it’s not Finistère.”

  * * * * *

  David called the embassy while Will was following up on Hinault’s passport.

  “Hey there,” Will said warmly when he heard David’s voice.

  Maybe too warmly? He threw a guilty look at the door of his cubicle, expecting Taylor to walk in any moment. He was currently meeting with Stone, sharing his new theory that Yann Helloco had not arisen from the dead after all.

  David’s deep voice was equally warm. “I was wondering if you and MacAllister would like to join me for dinner tonight?”

  Will hesitated a fraction too long.

  “No?” David’s disappointment was just obvious enough to be flattering without actually applying any pressure. “I’d suggest another evening, but I’m going to be busy the rest of my stay with the D-day memorial events.”

  “Taylor’s sister is in town, and I think he mentioned trying to get together with her tonight.”

  “Any chance of switching evenings?” David suggested.

  “No harm in asking.” Although Will wasn’t absolutely convinced of that.

  “Why don’t you check with your better half and give me a call back at my hotel?”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Great. There’s a place in the Latin Quarter called La Boussole. Everyone keeps telling me I’ve got to eat there. “

  “I’ve heard of it,” Will said. “I’ll let you know.”

  “You’ve heard of what?” Taylor walked through the doorway as Will set down the handset. Taylor was skimming the folder he held, and it was a miracle he didn’t fall over one of the chairs on his way toward Will’s desk.

  Will mentally squared his shoulders. “A place called La B
oussole in the Latin Quarter. David invited us to dinner tonight.”

  Head still bent, Taylor asked absently, “David who?”

  “Bradley.”

  Taylor looked up from the file and snorted.

  Pretty much the reaction Will expected, but it still irked him. “What’s that mean?”

  “Oh, I dunno,” Taylor drawled. “Awkward?”

  “Why is it awkward? It’s natural he’d want to get together. We’ve worked together. We’re… He’s an American in Paris.”

  “I saw the film, Will. I don’t need the review.”

  That was Taylor being deliberately offensive. Which meant he was feeling insecure. Will yanked back his temper with an effort. “Okay. Then the answer’s no thanks?”

  “Tara wants to get together with us, remember?”

  “So the answer is no thanks, or maybe we can switch and have dinner with Tara tomorrow night?”

  Taylor drew a sharp breath and then let it out slowly. He said with zero inflection, “If you want to have dinner with Bradley, we’ll have dinner with him.”

  Were they going to argue over this too? Will didn’t particularly want to have dinner with David. He liked David, yes, but he could think of few things less comfortable than the three of them having dinner. The truth was he’d be happiest if he and Taylor could spend every moment — including dinner — alone together.

  How come the world didn’t work like that?

  “No. The invitation was very casual. An afterthought, really. We’ll have dinner with your sister tonight like we planned.”

  Taylor didn’t have a lot of tells, but Will knew them all. He caught the infinitesimal relaxing of Taylor’s shoulders, recognized the way his lashes swept down, hiding his eyes — the way the hard line of his mouth softened and went boyish — just for an instant.

  “But how about this,” Will continued. “How about the rest of your stay it’s just us? Okay? There’ve already been too many inroads on our time together.”

  The surprised pleasure of the smile Taylor gave him made the discomfort of calling David back a small price to pay.