To start at the beginning of the story go here.
The accusation of treason was enough to get Atwell to unfurl from his fetal position and shout, “I haven’t betrayed my country! I’m –“ I held up my hand for him to stop, but he kept going for a bit, saying something about not being any good to anyone dead, the Cold War and capitulation, and necessary evils. I wasn’t really listening.
I interrupted by prodding him with the umbrella again. “So what information have you been passing to Mitnick?”
I couldn’t tell if the hurt in Atwell’s face was the result of the umbrella’s steel tip or me pointing out that collaborating with foreign agents was, in fact, treason. Whichever it was, it resolved itself into a petulant, “I haven’t.” I glared my disbelief at him and when he decided he didn’t want another slap he continued, “I haven’t volunteered anything and Mitnick hasn’t asked for anything. I get the feeling he’s busy.”
“With what?”
Atwell squirmed some more and continued. “I went to meet Mitnick at one of his properties and ended up getting harassed by some of his guests – Russians, not his crew. I think they might be a part of a security detail getting things ready for another visit by the Avoritet.”
I thought about Mitnick’s response to Mikhail’s disappearance and nodded. That made sense. Whoever the vory were Mitnick didn’t seem to want them around anymore than he wanted anyone near Nika. He was probably keeping the other Russians busy searching for Mikhail. But it still sounded like Atwell was in a perfect position to tell Mitnick about the Ukrainian and I said so. He began to splutter and when more spittle came my way I knew I had convinced him that I held his life in my hands, instead of the other way around.
To get things back on track I asked him, “So why didn’t you tell Mitnick where the Ukrainian was?”
That stopped his diatribe and he actually said something decisive. “I didn’t think it would improve the situation. I figured once you knew who killed him we might be able to use it.” I couldn’t help but grin a bit – that seemed to be everyone’s idea.
Tired of listening to him I just held up my hand and said, “OK, I believe you. You didn’t tell Mitnick.” The relief that poured out of Atwell was nearly palpable and for a moment I thought he was going to thank me. That would have been too much, even for my stomach, so I cut him off. “But if Sartre finds out you’ve been watching him and not Mitnick, he’ll never believe you. Hell, right now he’s a lot more inclined to think it was you or me rather than one of his own guys.”
At that moment, a skinny cook with a thin, drooping mustache, most likely summoned by Atwell’s yelling, stepped out from the backdoor of L’Orange. In his hand, he held the preferred weapon of Gallic cooks, the skillet. He said something in French too quick for me to understand. I just smiled and said something in English about my friend falling down. I reached out and grabbed Atwell by the armpit and elbow, picking him up out of the trash. I tucked him under one arm and headed towards the alley’s exit, smiling back as I did. The cook had the expression most people do when they aren’t sure if they should call the police, but after a few seconds he went back into his kitchen.
Far enough away not to be heard, but not quite out on the street I said, “Sartre won’t believe a simple denial. At least, not for long.”
Under my arm, Atwell felt even smaller than he actually was. “So what do we do?”
I pretended to give that some thought as we kept moving. It was late enough in the morning now that the sun was beginning to brighten the streets and we could see a few people walking on the sidewalk, appearing and disappearing across the alley’s narrow entrance. “OK so we tell Sartre you found out that Mitnick knew where the body was and had informed the police. There wasn’t enough time to warn Sartre so you sent someone to burn the corpses so they couldn’t be identified.
“Our story is you saved his ass.” Atwell nodded, weakly at first, than with increasing conviction. “I’ll tell him that next time I see him. Until I do, you should probably stay out of his way.”
Atwell kept nodding and asked, “So where does that leave us?”
“We find out where this new Avoritet sit-down is and what it’s all about.” That statement felt counter-intuitive to me, so I appealed to something in Atwell I knew I could count on – his self-interest. “They only way we can get Mitnick off your back is if we convince your bosses or Sartre or someone that the situation is serious enough that you need back-up.”
Atwell nodded at that, and I could feel his confidence grow, him standing up straighter. “Yeah, OK.”
I let him go just before we stepped out onto the street. Out of the alley, the sun had made its full appearance, the terracotta roofs of Old Town glowing orange with all their splendor. I released Atwell out into that radiance and told him, “I can help with that. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
Atwell nodded, actually appearing somewhat grateful as he ran his hands through his dark hair, now oily with sweat. I decided to take advantage of that moment. “In the meantime, I need you to arrange a meet with this Rotella. Talk to your gendarme or whatever, but get word to him I want to talk.”
Out from under the danger of physical threat, Atwell immediately became suspicious again. “About what?”
“About Mitnick,” I replied, which was partially the truth. “I’d like to know whatever he might share.” Atwell narrowed his eyes in doubt and I couldn’t blame him. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to Rotella.
Not wanting to discuss that, though, I scanned the narrow street and spotted Alon’s green taxi. As if I had received some secret signal I turned back to Atwell and said, “I’ve got to go. I’ll check the drop later.”
With that, I strode out across the cobblestones and stepped into Alon’s car. The day may have been warming up, but the Frenchman was still buried in his coat, red nose jutting out from under his cap. He was none too pleased about taking a fare that promised to extend beyond the end of his shift.
Perhaps to offer something in consolation, I asked him, “Would you like some breakfast?”
To read the next chapter, go here.
To read the previous chapter, go here.
To read a polished and published prequel to this story go here.
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