The Paris Betrayal by James Hannibal (beach read .TXT) 📕

rested on his arm. “I’m making this harder for you, aren’t I?” Clara said. “Whatever you’re doing. I’m not helping. I’ll get off at the next stop.”

“You can’t. They’ll scoop you up.”

“Who? Those policemen?”

“I don’t know. The badge looked real, but I think they’re working for someone else—someone bad. Do you believe me?”

The answer came back without pause or hesitation. “Yes.”

How could she put her trust in him like that? So soon. So easily. He narrowed the eye he could still control. “Why?”

“You might have pushed me away these last six months, but I’ve seen you—the way you help old Madame Bisset when she comes home with her shopping, the way you pick up rubbish the teens leave in the stairwell.” She smiled. “The way you lie about always having someplace to be, just to spare my feelings. You are a good man, Jacob—” Clara stopped and cocked her head. “I mean . . . Ben Calix?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Ben.”

“So where are we going, Ben.”

“We need to get you out of town, somewhere safe. And then we can figure out next steps. I know someone who can help.”

“Your imaginary love?”

He nodded. “She’s part of my world. And she’s skilled. She’ll know what to do.”

Clara went silent as the train stopped at Dupleix and La Motte-Picquet–Grenelle stations in quick succession. She made no effort to get off at either. It seemed she meant what she’d said about trusting him. “And what happens if these dirty cops catch us?” she asked as the doors closed again.

“Hard to say. Torture, probably. Whoever’s paying them will work me over for weeks to get at everything I know.” The train set off again, diving from the aboveground tracks into a tunnel. “You, of course, don’t know anything. They’ll figure that out pretty quick. A smart interrogator might hurt you to make me talk—for a while, anyway. A few hours. A few days. Eventually they’ll get bored with it and kill you.”

An elderly man seated on a bench at Ben’s knee tipped up the brim of his cap with his cane and stared at them both.

Ben frowned back at him. “Une blague,” he said in French. “A joke.”

The old man didn’t laugh. He didn’t get the chance.

A screech of brakes brought the train to a halt and sent passengers bumping and stumbling into each other. Murmurs passed through the crowded car.

“What was that?” Clara asked.

“I don’t know.”

The conductor made an announcement a few seconds later. “Mesdames et Messieurs, the station ahead has asked us to hold here due to a problem with our track. We will update you with more details as they become available.”

Ten minutes went by, and no more details came.

No coincidences.

“I don’t like this,” Ben said, leaning over the old gentleman to peer through the window. He saw nothing but the black tunnel wall.

Clara shrugged. “It happens . . . sometimes.”

“Yeah. But why today?”

Before he finished the question, the train started up again. The station lights appeared a few heartbeats later. Pedestrians gathered on the platform, impatient. Ben recognized two figures among them.

Looking harried and abused, one holding his ribs and the other holding a kerchief to his bleeding nose, Duval and Blue Sweatshirt strode up and down the platform on the wrong side of the yellow line, searching the incoming cars for their targets.

13

Passengers moved to the still-closed doors and patted the glass. Duval and his partner worked their way inward from the platform ends, peering into windows with cupped hands.

Clara leaned a shoulder into Ben’s chest. “Why don’t they let us off?”

Without answering, he pivoted his body to hide hers, so that only the dachshund separated them. He stared into her eyes and slid both hands behind her neck, thumbs tracing her jawline.

She swallowed. “Um . . . What are you doing?”

“Hiding your blue hair.” He tucked the blue strands back and pulled the fur-lined hood of her coat up to cover her head. “There. Now we’re not quite as conspicuous, are we? Can you hide Otto in your coat?”

The murmurs in the car grew louder. The patting on the glass became a pounding on the doors. A woman shouted in French at the security cameras. The conductor answered with an announcement. “Mesdames et Messieurs, the track problem mentioned earlier has engaged our train’s safety measures and will not allow us to open the doors. We apologize for the inconvenience and again ask for your patience as we work to resolve this issue.”

“Yeah, right.” Ben gave Clara a skeptical look. “Time to go.”

“How? The doors won’t open.”

“The side doors, sure. But every one of these trains has a fail-safe door at the back. Let’s head for the rear car.”

He let Clara take the lead. The trapped passengers were more likely to make way for a young woman with a dachshund poking out of her coat than a man with a swollen face.

Duval reached the end of their car, close enough for Ben to see his jaw tense with each breath. It looked like the broken ribs were taking their toll—and keeping his anger piqued. Ben saw a group of uniformed cops approaching. He touched Clara’s elbow. “Wait.”

“What is it? What do you see?”

“A distraction.”

The two froze until the uniforms engaged Duval. By the looks of their angry gestures, the cops didn’t know why they’d been called to the station. It seemed Duval had been acting on his own. He shouted back at them, looking away from the train.

Ben bent close to Clara’s ear. “Go now. Walk fast.”

They hurried through the cars joined by rubber gaskets and steel plates, until they reached the last. Ben flashed his Jacob Roy International Wool Merchant’s Association card at a woman standing with her daughter at the rear door. “Pardonnez-moi, madame,” he said, continuing in French. “Metropolitan Transit Security. Please stand aside and remain on the train.”

She didn’t question his false authority. No one ever did.

The lever turned, and a sharp jerk broke the magnetic seal designed to deter passengers. Ben hopped out first, then took the dog so