The Golem of Paris

Chapter forty-two

Occupying an entire square block, the Russian embassy was a brutalist masterpiece fronting to Boulevard Lannes.

A kind of dry moat, sparsely planted with lindens and broken up by Jersey barriers, surrounded the building. Armed guards in military dress manned every point of entry. Walking the perimeter, Jacob counted thirty-two exterior cameras that he could see.

“Terrorism,” Schott said.

It was the two of them again. Vallot had begged off, taking the fob, wrapped in a tissue, back to the station to submit it for prints.

That was his stated reason, anyway. It was clear the guy didn’t want to go anywhere near the embassy, and Jacob couldn’t blame him: along Avenue Chantemesse, a pair of Police Nationale vans sat parked in contravention of numerous signs.

They completed their circuit and stood beneath the Dufrenoy bus stop.

Jacob said, “Lidiya and Valko leave the building. They exit via one of the staff entrances, along the side. They’re running to catch the bus. Two hundred yards. Three, four minutes, max. Five, if he’s asleep and she’s carrying him.”

“What’s your point?”

“That’s not very much exposure. It doesn’t feel like a crime of opportunity.”

“You think the bad guy’s waiting for them,” Schott said.

“Or Pelletier’s wrong, and they never made it out alive.”

“She said nothing happened in the embassy.”

“I know.”

“She’s making sense. Shooting at a party?”

Jacob studied the picture of the Gerhardt fob on his phone, wondering.

Personal item, carelessly forgotten?

Arrogant monster, leaving his mark?

“How about this,” he said. “The driveway around the back goes to an underground lot. Tremsin has them taken there, shoots them or has one of his guys do it. Nobody hears a thing. Upstairs, there’s music, there’s kitchen noise, it’s a silenced weapon. The concrete walls muffle it. The bodies go into the car, the car leaves, goes straight to the dump site. That’s why they’re not wearing coats: they never got them on.”

“Creative,” Schott said. “With zero facts to back it up.”

“Look at those cameras. The whole place is under surveillance. No way that doesn’t include the lot. There’s two cameras on the driveway. And even if she’s right, and the murders don’t happen inside, maybe the exterior angles catch the bad guy hanging around on the street or accosting them. It’s negligent as hell of her not to request the tapes from that night.”

“A year old?” Schott said. “They’re probably gone.”

Jacob refreshed his inbox. Still no response to the picture he’d sent out. A kindergarten teacher should have been awake by now. A baker, definitely.

Maybe they didn’t check their e-mail first thing in the morning.

He glanced at the embassy’s main entrance, over which loomed a gigantic triumphal sculpture, a Soviet remnant. “Can’t hurt to ask.”

Clearing the metal detector, they stepped into a lobby whose furnishings drew a drastic contrast with the building’s severe exterior: silk drapery, overstuffed furniture, decorative ceramics and gilt clocks and a baby grand.

You could have thrown a great party, right out there.

Jacob and Schott peeked down the halls, trying to get a sense of the layout, succeeding only in drawing suspicious looks. To buy time, they ducked into the visa office. People sat on plastic chairs, wearily filling out forms. Behind the desk stood a Russian flag; beside it, a giant presidential portrait.

The receptionist said, “Bonjour. Puis-je vous aider?”

“I’d like to learn more about your country,” Jacob said.

The woman’s face momentarily scrambled. She spoke into her desk phone, and moments later a man emerged from a rear door. Young, trim, with spiky brown hair, he wore a tailored navy pinstripe suit, a white shirt, a lavender silk tie ostentatiously knotted.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Tepid smile, shallow bow, name tag in Cyrillic and Latin: A. Rodonov. “How may I assist you?”

“I was wondering if you conduct tours of the building.”

“Tours... Unfortunately not. The embassy is not open to the public.”

“That’s too bad. Such an interesting place. Russia, I mean.”

“Indeed. Rich with history and culture.”

“We’d love to go, one day.” Jacob turned to Schott. “Right?”

Schott gave a tight nod. “Yup.”

“I can recommend several local travel agencies,” Rodonov said, “capable of putting together a stimulating and appropriate package for you and your, your” — eyeballing Schott — “your companion.”

Jacob smiled. “Where do we sign up for a visa?”

“Unfortunately, I cannot accommodate you today, as we are at present closed.”

Jacob glanced around at the dozen or so folks scribbling on clipboards.

“You may make an appointment and return at that time,” Rodonov said, bending to a computer. “The next available opening is in three weeks.”

“What about a job?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I had a friend who used to work here. She did some cleaning. A little waitressing. Lidiya Georgieva. You happen to know her?”

Rodonov’s eyes darted over Jacob’s shoulder. “I’m afraid not.”

“Kind of a shame,” Jacob said. “She was murdered. Her son, too. You really don’t remember her?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. May I ask—”

“Huh. I don’t have my résumé on me, but I mix a mean drink.” He thumbed at Schott. “Him, he can sing a little.”

Reflected in the glass over the portrait, a pair of guards entered the office.

“Maybe we could speak to the house manager,” Jacob said.

For a moment, Rodonov didn’t react. Then his fingers twitched, halting the guards.

He said, “This way, please.”

Rodonov ushered them to an airless conference room, seated them at one end of a long polished table, and left.

Jacob took out his phone to text Vallot, check his e-mail.

No bars.

He got up and paced. “They could’ve kicked us out.”

“They will, soon as they figure out what we know,” Schott said. He brushed dried mud from his cowboy boots. “Crissake, sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

“You should be.” Jacob paused by a carved mahogany credenza to wiggle the spout on a samovar. “I am.”

He tried the door. Locked from the outside.

“Fantastic,” Schott said.

They waited for twenty-two minutes before a portly man with a gray pompadour entered. As the door swung shut, Jacob glimpsed three guards in the hall.

Whatever diplomatic training Rodonov had received prior to his posting was lost on this fellow. He stuck out his palm.

“Identification.”

Jacob gave up his badge. Schott did the same.

“You are policemen.”

“We are.”

“Why didn’t you say so immediately?”

“Are you the house manager?”

“I am the person to whom you are talking,” the man said.

He placed their badges on the table. “Why are you here?”

“I’m sure Mr. Rodonov told you.”

“You tell me.”

“Lidiya Georgieva.”

“The name is unfamiliar.”

Jacob laid out a photo of Lidiya’s corpse. “How about the face?”

The man recoiled, gagging.

“No?” Jacob began digging in his bag. “Want to see her son?”

The man put up a hand. He had averted his eyes. “That will not be necessary.”

“You sure? It might jog your memory.”

“Remove this, please.”

Jacob leaned over and retrieved the photo.

The man contemplated the table, reading an invisible chessboard.

He said, “We can agree that what happened to Miss Georgieva was tragic.”

“And her son,” Jacob said. “Let’s not forget him.”

“Yes. Her son. Very tragic, we can all agree. However, I cannot see how American police officers should come to be involved.”

“The case may be connected to one of ours.”

“The correct step would be to broach the matter with the French authorities.”

“I have. I wanted to give you the opportunity to provide your perspective.”

The man said, “The case you refer to — it must be important, to bring you all the way to France.”

“The night Lidiya and Valko were killed,” Jacob said. “You had a party here.”

“We have frequent parties,” the man said. He appeared to have recovered from the shock of seeing the photos; his smile showed smoker’s teeth. “Russians are a people full of joy.”

“It was a reception for visiting businessmen,” Jacob said. “We need to know who was here.”

“That is impossible.”

“You keep a visitor log. We signed it on the way in. The security tapes from that night, I need to see them, too.”

“We’ve cooperated fully with the French police. Beyond that, I cannot help you.”

“I’d like to speak to the ambassador.”

The man chuckled. “Out of the question.”

“Arkady Tremsin,” Jacob said.

Silence.

“You’re familiar with him.”

“Familiar, no.”

“You know him.”

“I know who he is, naturally. Everyone does.”

“What’s your government’s relationship to him?”

“There is none to speak of. Mr. Tremsin renounced his citizenship.”

“What led him to do that?”

“You would have to ask him.”

“I understand he got in some trouble back in Moscow.”

“I can provide no further comment.”

“What about this guy?” Jacob said, calling up the photo of Knob Neck on his phone and holding it out. “Who is he?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“He’s Russian.”

“I don’t know every Russian in Paris, Detective.”

“He’s hard to forget,” Jacob said. “Six foot five. Big ugly scar on his neck.”

“I hope you realize,” the man said, “that your mere presence here constitutes an affront.”

“Against your government or Tremsin?”

The man said nothing.

Jacob said, “I need to see those tapes.”

The man smiled faintly. “You have such an amusing way of using that word.”

“What word is that.”

“‘Need.’” He stood up. “Wait here.”

Time passed.

Ten minutes.

Schott said, “This is fucked.”

“What are you complaining about?” Jacob asked. “You like Russian literature, it should be a special treat.”

Twenty minutes.

“You’re right,” Jacob said. “Super fucked.”

Thirty.

He addressed the CCTV camera in the corner of the ceiling.

“Open up, please,” he said. “I have to use the bathroom.”

He dragged over a chair, climbed up, began waving at the camera.

“Open up or I’m going to piss in your samovar.”

A bolt turned; the door opened. The portly man was back, along with a platoon of security guards and, alpha dog in a stylish black pantsuit and unforgiving four-inch heels, Odette Pelletier.

“Get off the chair,” she said.