Dollar Down (20 page)

Nevertheless, betray I did, despite the haunting
memories of soul-saving rituals evoked by the cathedral. I
should have been born a Calvinist. Then I might have left Norte
Dame with no other thought than "awesome building."

Whether it was the reprised battle between mystics
and logic or just the shift of mental gears, I couldn't say, but
when I stepped out of the cathedral into the sun, I felt my
senses were more acute. I crossed the Pont Notre Dame to the
Right Bank and strode uphill along narrow winding paths. A
prickle along the back of my neck caused me to look back.
When I did, a man about thirty yards behind me took a sudden
interest in a menu posted outside a café. I turned and
walked back the way I had come. He was still reading the menu
when I passed and got a look at his face. No one I'd seen before.
An intersecting path provided a detour. I turned on to it for
several steps then went back and looked at the café. The
man was gone.

The prickle on my neck was not.

I headed uphill again, toward the closest Metro
entrance I knew. A car drove from a cross street and stopped in
my path. The passenger opened the door and got out. Even
though I'd only seen a photograph, at a distance of less than
twenty yards I recognized him.

Cervantes.

I stopped. If it hadn't been for the prickle, I would have
walked straight to him and started asking questions. Instead I
turned to look behind me and, at a flash of movement, jerked
my head to the side.

The brass knuckles just grazed my ear.

I staggered off balance and swung my arm in a wild arc.
My forearm slammed into the wrist of my assailant as he
backswung at my head.

The man I had spotted at the café stepped in,
with a pistol aimed at my chest. He was just beyond arm's
reach, a dangerous distance to try to disarm him. If
Brass-knuckles attacked again, I could use him as a shield.

I glanced from one to the other. If someone didn't
move, they had me.

I glared at Brass-knuckles.

Cervantes said, "Get in."

I didn't look toward him.

Pistol took a step back. Too far for me to attack
without getting shot. Brass-knuckles also stepped back.

I feinted with my eyes toward Brass-knuckles.

Before I could charge Pistol, he was struck from behind.
His eyes rolled in his head, and his knees buckled. I snatched
the pistol out of his hands and pointed it at Cervantes.

He ducked away from the truncheon flying toward his
head.

I fired.

Brass-knuckles ran.

The only ones left were a few people wondering what
the "pop" had been and Marie, the muscular circus pro.

"Where'd you come from?" I was glad to see her
regardless of the answer.

"I've been following David on Pascal's orders. He's
been on the mainlander's trail ever since you sent him to watch
their meeting. He said you're paying, but left vague direction.
He was curious about a China connection."

I needed to think of an excuse to get a bonus for those
two out of Oddsson's budget.

"There's a lot of blood. Take off your shirt."

Marie had not only rescued me, she'd taken me to her
apartment to bandage me.

The brass knuckles had raked the side of my head. The
wound wasn't deep, but it was long. The left side of my shirt
was blotched in red.

"Cold water and soap will wash it out in a couple of
minutes. In the circus, someone was always getting a scrape.
I'm good at this."

She was. The shirt was spotless when she finished
washing. Her first aid skills were also good. She gently cleaned
the wound with a soapy wet towel and applied an antiseptic
and a styptic salve.

"Lie down." She pointed her chin toward the bed.

"You take it. You're the hero today."

"You're the victim."

Ouch. That hurt worse than the brass knucks. I reclined
in bed with my back against the headboard and called the hotel
room where Alexandra and I were staying—no answer. I tried
her mobile phone. There was no reply from that either. An icy
fear clutched at my gut. "I have to go."

"Where? Why?"

"Alexandra doesn't answer."

"Where will you go, if you go?"

"To the hotel."

"Where did you call just now?"

"The hotel."

"If she didn't answer, she isn't there."

"She could be hurt."

"Give me your phone. Where are you staying?"

I told her. She rang the front desk and told them there
might have been an accident. With one hand over the
mouthpiece, she said, "They're checking now."

A few minutes later, she said, "
Merci
," and
hung up. To me she said, "There is no one in the room."

I sat up. My breathing was short and shallow.

"There is no point in anxiety. You can do nothing until
she contacts you."

"That's easy to say, but..."

But what? I lay back down and tried to sort through a
rush of thoughts. I couldn't just wait, but what could I do? Who
could I ask for help? I smiled thinly at my own
inadequacy.

"Do you want me to call Pascal?"

"Yes. Please."

She dialed.

"Hi Boss, Mick's at my apartment. I'm patching him up
after a fight. Can you come? I'll explain after you get here."

She cut the connection. "He said thirty minutes."

Marie advised me to get busy on whatever I would
have been doing if I hadn't been nearly abducted or killed, and
if Alexandra had not been out of touch.

I felt Marie was taking the concept of cool to an
unreasonable extreme, but admitted she was right. No point in
wasting time. I called Houston to see if my friend had received
the vial. He said no. It should have arrived by now. I asked
Marie to call the delivery service. They said the package had
been delivered and signed for.

I called my friend again.

"Can you check whether anyone else has signed for a
package?"

"I run a one-man business. Who am I going to
ask?"

I cut the connection.

"Sorry Marie. Would you contact the delivery company
again?"

This time she got the address it was sent to and who
had signed for it. She said the address aloud to confirm it.

After she hung up, I asked her to repeat what she had
said.

"It was sent to Jason Parr, at the Houston office of
Winchell and Associates. He's the one who signed for it."

It was no easier to comprehend the second time I
heard it. I don't know how long I sat in silence.

When I looked up, Marie was staring at me. "Did
someone help you send the package?"

"Alexandra."

"She's beautiful. I guess I shouldn't have, but once or
twice I followed you." She shrugged. "For practice."

Yes, she was beautiful. She was also young, successful
and brilliant, too far out of reach even for my daydreams. I
thought back. Somehow she had made it all seem plausible.
During our first dinner together, she had flattered me by saying
that noir tough guys were sexy. Then came an excuse to move
in with me and all the rest, with the inevitable
consequences.

After claiming to have made an error on the first
mailing label, she had filled out another one, which she showed
me. She must have given the other one to the delivery man.
While David was looking at one oil sample in his lab, she had
excused herself to make a call. Not long thereafter, the sample
was stolen, probably by the mainlander Wu.

As David had asked, "How did he know to steal
it?"

I'd swallowed the bait like an adolescent guppy. That
wasn't the worst of it. Alexandra was the only one who knew
where I was going to meet David.

As much as I had learned, I still didn't know what the
bait was for.

A buzzer sounded. After checking through the window
overlooking the street, Marie buzzed Pascal in.

"What happened to you?" he said.

I was still shirtless and oozing blood.

He kept glancing at Marie and clicking his tongue as we
filled him in on our encounter. When she fell silent, he said to
Marie, "You have no business putting yourself in that kind of
danger."

I agreed, but with the silent caveat that I was glad she
had.

We rehashed events. Alexandra was somehow
connected to Wu and to Cervantes, who was part of her client's
team in name only. He had another agenda, which we still
didn't know. Cervantes was seen meeting Gatineau and
Oddsson. The Venezuelan was connected to everyone, and he
and Cervantes had been seen with the Saudi and several others
who, I supposed, were Arab oil chieftains.

Scenarios involving those groupings played out a lot of
different ways, but no matter how we looked at it, Oddsson
was the odd man out. If I was the fly in the ointment, he was
the one who put me in it. He and his lawyer credited me with
helping clear Oddsson of suspicion in Sabine's murder, but
even after that he had agreed for me to keep nosing into the
affair.

Pascal was particularly concerned about Oddsson's
role. When he found out the husband was the client, he started
to worry about his fee. He wanted to call him right away to
confirm payment. "I don't do
pro bono
," he reminded
me.

"I don't either, but calling Oddsson is a bad idea."

"Yeah? He's paying the bills, isn't he?"

"I have an advance that covers your end."

"I'd feel better if it was me who had it."

"You'll get paid before I do. Can you trust me on this,
Pascal? We don't have a lot of time."

In fact, we had less than I had thought.

We had decided it was too dangerous for me to return
to the hotel and that Marie should not be alone.

When we got to Pascal's apartment, we ran through a
few more suppositions and a few bottles of wine. It was late
when we went to sleep, me on the floor and Marie on the
sofa.

The respite was short.

My mobile phone rang at some dark hour. It was
Burroughs.

"Guess what Sanchez, it's tomorrow morning in
China."

From Burroughs' Colorado perspective, it was
tomorrow morning in Paris too.

I looked at my watch. "It's after 2:00 a.m. here."

"Huh, early evening on my side. You might want
advance notice on this. The work day has begun in Beijing and
a government announcement says that Sinopec and Petroleos
Venezuela have reached an agreement to develop bitumen and
extra heavy oil in the Orinoco. They say they have perfected a
cheap liquefaction process."

"It doesn't work."

"There are a lot of officials and experts explaining that
it works just fine. News bulletins are already out. The global
petroleum market is about to be restructured, they say. The
initial take is 'yippee, we're free from the Mideast.'"

"What's your take?"

"First, the U.S. isn't that dependent on the Mideast,
anyway. We import about a quarter of our oil consumption.
Second, Venezuela is a loose cannon, whose leader has no
particular love for America. Third, China has its own ambitions
that could make the world a scarier place. I don't see us coming
out ahead on this."

"The news releases about the liquefaction are
wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"I told you, the process doesn't work. That information
comes from someone in the office of the president of Venezuela.
I think it's a ruse to trick the Saudis."

"Into doing what?"

"I have no idea."

Burroughs's guffaw hurt my ear. "No matter what
anyone says about you, Sanchez, it can't be denied that you are
a distinct entertainment."

But not one of lasting value. His laugh died as quickly
as it had exploded. "I apologize for waking you, but I'm glad I
did. If you're right about this being some kind of oil market con
game, we need to make sure souls in Washington are covering
that possibility."

"What about your SEC contacts?"

"They're finding some irregularities, but no screaming
alarms so far. Maybe your oil scam theory will nudge them to
get outside help."

"When?"

"Who knows? They're the government. They move
with the alacrity that they deem appropriate."

"So do glaciers."

"Right, we might have to help things along on our own.
You remember Bizet. We've been in contact. I think you should
call him at a decent hour. He's in Paris now."

I finally managed to get back to sleep, but not for long.
At 7:10 a.m., my phone rang. It was Burroughs again.

"Turn on your TV, there's got to be an announcement
on some channel."

"It's in French."

"You don't speak French?"

"What is it, Jim?"

"At the end of this quarter, OPEC is going to start
pricing oil in euros."

"So?"

"That's what this is all about, Sanchez. At least, I think
it is. I just talked to Bizet. He's expecting your call."

"All right."

"Sanchez, the live feed from your secret LIFFE
computer chief is critical. Bizet will explain."

"There is someone I need to discuss that with, namely
the guy who will plant the bug. Which do you want me to take
care of first, the live feed or Bizet?"

"The live feed, above all. Bizet will be instructional. I
haven't been able to get all the details on the instruments they
are using for the dollar trade. I don't know what the target
range is."

"I thought the target was a thirteen percent fall."

"I believe that is only a goal to prep the market, to get
it close to the target. The other strike dates in Trevor Jones'
notes indicated an upper and lower range. The only way we
can determine how to trade against them is to monitor their
moves. If we can keep the dollar's value against the euro
outside the range then we can beat them."

"Why do you care?"

"Two reasons. First, anytime a market, any market, is
manipulated it ceases to function. If that happens in foreign
exchange, world trade is skewed, and I lose a good part of my
livelihood. Second, Bizet and I and a few others will be betting
against the fix. We don't have enough cash right now, but I'm
working on it. It's a long shot, Sanchez, but if things work out,
you'll get an advisory fee. Ten percent."