Not knowing who the woman holding the gun was or what she knew, Nash deliberately didn’t use the man’s name. Like her, he was playing his cards close to his chest.
“And what would you use instead?” She arched a challenging eyebrow. She was well practiced at that too.
“I think the appropriate term would be,” Nash scratched the back of his head, searching for the appropriate phrase, “oxygen thief? Dumpster fire of a human being? A walking talking equivalent of rectal bleeding?”
She laughed. Nash liked her laugh. Though she threw her head back in delight, the gun never moved from him for an instant.
Nash admired her dimples as she said, “Franciszek positively deserved it. The world will not miss his filth, that much I know.”
DGSE, for sure.
“Just on the off chance someone was watching, I think it wise we…” Nash motioned to the nearby stairs.
She frowned in agreeance and slipped the gun into her pocket. Her hand remained in her pocket, and the bulge was aimed at Nash. Making to walk off, her other hand flicked to the pile of euros next to where Franciszek’s body tumbled into the Seine.
“You just going to leave it there?”
Nash scowled. Is she proposing taking a terrorist’s money?
“It’s blood money. Tainted.”
Motioning for Nash to back up, she leaned down and picked up the wad of cash. “The money doesn’t care.” She gave him a coquettish tilt of her head. “I do.”
Motioning with the gun in her pocket, she gestured for Nash to precede her up the stairs. She’s smart, he thought. A possible thief, but smart.
Reaching street level, the city once again came into focus. Parisians darting from one point to the other, cars jostling for position, even at this hour. The two walked for a while, Nash a couple of metres in front. They approached a woman sleeping rough on carboard. She rested under several multicoloured blankets next to a shopping cart full of plastic bags containing who knew what.
Nash’s companion called out to him, “Hold on.”
She leaned down and gently touched the woman on the shoulder. Understandably startled at being disturbed in her sleep, the homeless woman recoiled. Holding up a hand to indicate she meant no harm, the DGSE agent spoke soothingly and handed the bundle of euros to the startled woman. When the homeless woman realised what was happening she burst into tears and pulled her benefactor into a fierce bear hug. Overlapping thank yous cascaded from her chapped lips as her hands repeatedly thumped the woman’s back.
Extracting herself and wishing the still-crying woman well, Nash’s new companion glowed as they walked away.
He shook his head good-naturedly. “A DGSE agent with a heart. Wonders never cease.”
“Why do you think I’m DGSE?” she asked in a way that completely confirmed Nash’s suspicions.
“Aren’t you wondering what she’s going to do with her newfound wealth?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m more concerned with what I’m going to do with you.”
“You could buy me a drink?” Nash suggested.
There was that smirk again. “My, quite forward, aren’t you?”
“Sometimes. But I’m also something else.”
“What’s that?”
“Thirsty. Hence the drink, you see.”
The woman’s forehead creased as if she were contemplating the idea. “What’s your name?”
“Mason Nash. And yours?”
“Sophia.” She extracted her gun hand from her coat and extended it to Nash. “Sophia Ocon.”
As it turned out, Sophia Ocon was indeed DGSE and had followed the same Interpol lead Nash had been chasing for weeks. Nash just got there first.
They sat in the tiny all-night café, huddled around a small table mere hours before dawn. Clumps of young people piled out of nightclubs arm in arm, singing and shouting in joyous spirit.
The waiter brought them a second round of cheese and left to serve a newly arrived group of nightclubbers in bright skimpy attire. Despite being four in the morning, the place was pumping. Sophia was excellent company. Quick to laugh and even quicker to smile, she had charm to spare.
Nash spun Franciszek’s phone in his fingers.
Noticing his distraction, Sophia asked, “Considering ordering a pizza? I know a good place.”
“I have no doubt.” Nash stopped spinning the device and placed it on the table between them. “Franciszek was only a cog in the Andrysiaks’ web…”
“How can you have a cog in a web?” Sophia waved her Roquefort about. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Ignoring her, Nash continued. “His brother Jakub is the driver of it all. Always has been. He’s the brains of the operation. I searched Franciszek for any evidence but this was all he had.”
“What are you going to do,” she asked, amused, “give Jakub a call and ask him to dinner?”
“Dinner?” Nash tapped the phone. “Not dinner. No.”
He looked her dead in the eye, daring her to say something.
