To start at the beginning of the story go here.
I left Lanzo at Petit Motos Moreau but didn’t go inside. I wasn’t sure how his uncle would feel about me and the trouble I kept bringing to his shop and I didn’t want to deal with that iron grip of his. Also, I was pretty sure he’d be on his way to passing out by now.
It was still early in the evening so I took a tram into Old Town. In its plastic hull, there was a certain comfort in the conditioned air, the quiet chatter of the increasing tourist crowd, and the locals who mostly stared at their phones. In that calm pool of mediocrity, I decided the next logical step would be to update Sartre.
This early in the evening the glass domes and doors of the casino were lit only by the marquee. I wasn’t technically wearing my uniform, but the white shirt and black pants I had on were close enough that I decided to use the employee entrance. Sure enough, no one stopped me and the staff I encountered didn’t think anything was out of the ordinary. I saw Thibault, who was quick enough to see something wasn’t quite right, but he just smiled his still broken smile and we passed each other with a friendly, “Bon jour.”
I headed towards the security station and skipped the check-in. The third shift change wouldn’t happen for a bit, so the rooms were quiet, with none of the usual shuffling of casino employees getting ready. In the dark of the back room, I found Jasper at his bank of security monitors with two other professional observers. I tapped each of the others on the shoulder with a hand holding the pack of Marlboros, two sticks pulled out as an offering. Both of them, competent middle-aged men who weren’t looking to change jobs any time soon, stared longingly at the cigarettes with only doubt restraining them.
Jasper came up from the electric haze of the monitors to see me standing there, then reassured his co-workers in quiet French that he could handle things for a few moments. When neither man budged Jasper said something quicker and raised a decibel enough that I could catch, “Gouverneur Nuit.” The two men fidgeted in their seats for a moment, glanced at each other, then took the cigarettes and headed outside.
I offered Jasper a smoke, which he waved away. Having to use the little weasel as a go-between was almost enough to make me wish I had skimped on my own operational security. But I wasn’t even willing to carry the mobile Mitnick had given me, so Jasper was still my best choice for reaching Sartre.
I put the cigarettes away, leaning forward to stare at the monitors. In the glow of the screens, I hovered my bulk over Jasper like some kind of alien craft floating in mid-atmosphere. It allowed me to be heard as I said quietly, “I need to get a message to Sartre.”
Jasper stared up at me, his features rigid, concealing his discomfort at our proximity with disdain. “And?”
I smiled, probably the first genuine smile I had given Jasper, grateful that he was allowing us to skip any preamble. I decided to play nice. “Please tell him,” I stopped, suddenly remembering that I wasn’t entirely certain that Jasper was only working for Sartre. Mitnick had hinted that he had more than one person in the casino on his payroll. Checking my internal machinery, I realized I only cared enough to barely veil what I had to say. “Tell him,” I repeated, “that me and the Idiots are moving forward with the plan.” I let my eyes wander over the screens for a few moments, then added, “We’ll need his help after we’ve secured the package.” Even in the light of the monitors, Jasper’s face brightened at the bit of spycraft dropped into his lap.
That lasted just long enough for me to break away from the monitors. Jasper’s face returned to its usual resting scorn, clearly unhappy at delivering such a short and cryptic message. I repressed an impulsive urge to slap him and kept my calm, adding, “Or you can just tell him I need to speak to him.”
Completely removing himself from the chain wasn’t what Jasper had in mind, though, and he dismissed the suggestion with another wave of his hand. “I will let him know.”
I said thanks and stood, bending the light of the screens around me as I did. Jasper waited until I moved to leave before he said, “The Russians have been searching for you.”
That got my attention. Not wanting to give him any satisfaction, I slowly rotated my battleship bulk back to him. As if I didn’t understand, I asked, “What’s that?”
Jasper was practically leering, but he didn’t waste time trying to lord the knowledge over me. He pointed towards one of the monitors, crisp and clear in its high definition. The live image was crowded with people, either moving or standing at one of the gambling tables. I wouldn’t have noticed anything out of the ordinary if it weren’t for Jasper’s incisive eye.
In the background, near one of the casino’s marble columns, was a man who stood out from the formal wear of the high-end gamblers and the gawking of the spectators watching them. The black of his now familiar faux-uniform (black jacket and pants, short cropped hair) made it inescapable that he was of one of the Russians. The monitor rendered a distinct enough picture that I thought I could even spot a tell-tale tattoo.
Whoever he was, he was either very lucky or smart enough to realize that every inch of the casino floor was covered by cameras and he had picked the spot that made him least conspicuous. I squinted my eyes, trying to determine if I recognized him from the backroom party at Mitnick’s, but couldn’t in any decisive way. Trying my luck, I asked Jasper, “How do you know he’s Russian?”
Jasper only chuckled and I had to admit to myself the weasel wasn’t stupid. I conceded the point and tried another question, “How do you know he’s looking for me?”
Jasper’s leer only deepened. “He appeared a short time after you stopped coming into work. He has been searching for something. He continues to search. You are not here.”
That took me a moment to puzzle out, but I had to credit his logic. Weasel or not, Jasper was smarter than I gave him credit. He had inferred a correct conclusion by the absence of something rather than evidence of it. That was a trick I never quite managed.
None of this information thrilled me, though. Remembering I had given Jasper the mobile’s number, I channeled some of my sudden worry into disapproval. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Whether it was a small act of rebellion or just insolence, Jasper smirked at me and my question. “Tu veux quoi? I should call with nothing more than a strange man who does not gamble?”
I conceded yet another point to Jasper, making him grin all the more. As much to distance myself from that as anything else, I straightened up, but couldn’t help adding, “Nice work.”
The banishment of his usual disdain was as close to happiness as I had seen from Jasper, who took the compliment and swiveled on his chair back to the bank of screens. Whatever pleasure approval brought him, it didn’t stop him from trying to gather as much information as he could. “What will you do now?”
I cocked my head at the monitor and gave that some thought. When nothing better arrived, I said, “I guess I’ll go say hello.”
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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