Chapter 2: Introductions

Her coat of shawls wrapped tightly against the wind, Madame Trousseau waddled down Rue du Champlain. She bobbed her head to the music as she hummed a cheery melody of five different half-remembered songs, frowning slightly as her grocery-laden trolley insisted on veering into every wall, person, and parked car along the way. "I must remember to fix that left wheel," she thought, as she had for the last month.

Just as she turned the corner, the wheel, possibly fed up with being ignored, snapped. €24.13 of fresh potatoes and onions spilled out onto the street. She muttered under her breath and knelt to pick them up. A scooter squeaked to a stop.

"Need some help?" asked a pair of boots.

Madame Trousseau looked up from the ankle-length leather boots at a young, blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman showing an indecent amount of leg. She smiled, and gathered the fallen goods.

"Thank you, my dear," said Madame, after she managed to stand up again. "My knees always swell so in this weather."

"No problem," said the woman. "Do you need any help getting this home?" she asked, holding the groceries. "I've some room in my basket."

"No thank you, my dear," she replied, "I live just here, it's no trouble at all. Could you get that wheel for me?"

"Really? I just moved in myself. Here you go."

"Oh! You must be the new tenant, Miss…eh…"

"Bouquet," said the woman, as she moved her scooter onto the walk. "Mireille Bouquet."

"Oh yes, that was the name! Peter was telling me all about you last night."

"I couldn't believe it," he said. "Paid the first six month's rent up front. In cash."

"Nothing wrong with cash," said Monsieur. "Never trust cheque nor credit; never know when the banks will bust again."

"That's the landlord, Peter Trousseau, right?" She helped Madame lift the trolley through the back door.

"Yes. He's my son," smiled Madame. "My sweet little boy."

"Uh, yes…quite."

"The rent is €850.00 a month," he said in the interview. "But for a tenant of your…qualifications," he said, brazenly looking her over, " maybe we could work something out, eh?" He leaned over the desk, grinned, and gave her a wink.

She smiled back, and raised her right foot.

"The poor boy stubbed his toe on something," said Madame, as they walked through the lobby. "Limping all night. And he was so looking forward to going out to the club again. Hello, Monsieur Verloc."

"Mm," grunted an overcoat.

"Did you get your paper this morning? I had a talk with the boy yesterday about it."

"Mm," said the coat, as he drew a thick broadsheet from beneath his arm.

"Ah, good, I knew it was just a mistake, he's so forgetful. Is your leg better?" The coat shrugged. "I'm sure you'll be back at work inside a week," said Madame, smiling. "Enjoy your walk!" The coat hobbled out the door. "That was Monsieur Verloc," she said, climbing the stairs. "He works for the police. Doesn't say much."

"I think we've met," said Mireille, carefully.

"Really? So soon? But you just moved in!"

"Oh," she said, smiling, "not formally. We just…passed in the street."

"Halt! Police!" Inspector Verloc spun into the alley. Moonlit shadows obscured every detail. He cursed himself for dropping his flashlight. He brandished his gun. "Throw down your weapon and come out with your hands over your head, now!"

A crack. His leg flew out from under him, shot with pain. He cursed, struggled up from the mud, and looked up.

A long-haired silhouette leapt over a low fence, and was gone.

"I'll have to introduce you two sometime," said Madame, as Mireille watched the coat limp past the window. "Everyone here is very, very friendly when you get to know them. Let's see…there's Messieurs Blanche, Violet and Brun (they just moved in a few months back), Monsieur Golgo, but I hear he's leaving soon, and, now who am I forgetting —"

"Morning, Madame," said an impeccably-dressed businessman.

"Monsieur Duceppe!" cried Madame. "You're back!"

"Just off the plane," he replied, setting his suitcase at the top of the stairs, "and happy to be back in your distinguished company, Madame Trousseau."

"Ooh, Monsieur," she said. "You are such a gentleman. And a scoundrel!" she tittered, as he bent to kiss her hand. "Whatever would your wife think if she saw you now?"

"I know she'd make an exception for such a beautiful woman as you, Madame," cooed Duceppe.

"We've discussed that, Maurice," said a voice from the lobby.

"Ah. Cherise. What took you?"

"But he's right," said a remarkably short and, again, impeccably dressed businesswoman. "I do make an exception for you, Madame. As for what took me?" She held up a suitcase in either arm, letting the rucksacks under them flop to the floor, and raised an eyebrow.

"Terribly sorry, my dear," Maurice deadpanned, "must have slipped my mind."

"And there's a yellow scooter double-parked in the doorway," she added, as Maurice hoisted a heavy case onto his shoulders, with visible reluctance.

"Ah, that's mine," said Mireille. "I stopped to help Madame Trousseau with this," she explained, as she proffered the bag.

The couple gawked at her, surprised. There was a short, uncomfortable silence.

"Where are my manners?" said Madame, breaking it. "Madame and Monsieur Duceppe, this is the new tenant, Miss Bouquet."

"Hello," they said, recovering their composure.

"Miss Bouquet, the Duceppes," continued Madame. "They just got back from a conference in, ah…where was it again?"

"Algeria," said Maurice.

"That was the place," smiled Madame. "They work for the government, you know. Sanitation, I believe."

"Waste management, hmm?" said Mireille, examining the couple. "Clever."

"Have you ever travelled to Algeria, Miss Bouquet?" asked Cherise.

"Just once," she replied. "Briefly. On business."

"You should go back some time," said Maurice. "You meet so many interesting people there," he added, shooting a glance at her.

"Indeed," she said, shooting back.

"Seventy cases of Semtex, complete with detonators," said The Rat, as he tapped the crates with the carved cane that he was known by. "Enough to raze a city block, or raise a nation, whichever you prefer," he added. "Vacuum-sealed, as you requested, and with all the necessary documentation to get across the Spanish borders untouched. The payment?"

Cherise gave a signal. Maurice stepped forward, set the case on the dirty concrete floor, and kicked it forward.

"Check it," said The Rat. One of several men with automatics opened the case and examined its contents in the light of the nearby lantern, holding each bill up to the light and rubbing them between his fingers. After several minutes, he paused, glanced at The Rat, and nodded.

"As expected." He circled around behind the lantern, its orange light darkening every line on his sun aged face. "And now, hands up, please."

"What?" Cherise growled.

"Surrender. Now." Safeties flicked, bolts clicked, and Cherise was suddenly staring down the sights of eleven Kalashnikov rifles. A derringer flashed into Maurice's hand. An arm like steel lashed out, grabbed the hand, and twisted. Bones snapped. Maurice croaked. Another hand snatched the gun, as a rifle butt brought him to the ground.

"We had an arrangement," hissed Cherise, as a guard removed two throwing knives from her person.

"Which did not include this!" shouted The Rat. He snatched up a bill exactly like all the others. "Electronic ignition strip interwoven into each bill, and fibres soaked in urea — an old trick. I'm insulted that whomever sent you thought it would work." He dashed the case to the ground, the bills scattering about the yard.

"Honestly, using a bomb when a bullet would do? Pure arrogance," he spat. "You could have shot, stabbed, or strangled me the second you walked into this prison yard and saw the goods. But you didn't. You had to try and be better than that. More 'civilized.' You used subtlety and technology to do the job, all in an attempt to distance yourself from the basic brutality of your actions. You and I, we're no different. We're thieves, liars, and murderers. It's in our blood. Except that I can accept that fact, while you two dare not. No, you don't dare." He leaned over the table, his face made terrible by the electric lamp. "You cannot, must not accept that in that moment before you pull the trigger, that you will see, there lined up so expertly in your sights…" He drew a huge pistol and levelled it at Cherise. "Your own face."

A trigger moved.

Cherise gasped.

The lamp exploded. A magnum thundered, and storms of wild gunfire split the darkness. Bullets whipped by her face. Instinctively, she ducked, grabbed, pulled, twisted, snapped, and then drove her knee down. A skull split, not hers. She grabbed the guard's rifle, and, using his still-warm hand, snapped off three shots. To her right, she heard four more. Bodies tumbled to the pavement.

And then…silence. Save for her own ragged breaths, and those of her partner. She gave him a quick nod as her night vision returned, and surveyed the carnage.

The Rat was very dead. Shot clean through the head.

From behind.

Cherise and Maurice snapped their rifles towards the far wall of the prison.

A figure, balanced on the wall, looked back. A face flashed in the moonlight, then dropped into the darkness.

"If you'll excuse us," said Madame, breaking their reverie, "we'd best get these things inside. But after that, I want to hear all about your trip."

"Of course," said Cherise. "We've a souvenir for you."

"Oh, you shouldn't have," said Madame. "Goodbye for now!" She turned her beatific smile to her new neighbour as they climbed up to the third floor. "What did I tell you? So very kind. And so worldly. Ah the stories they've told me and Toulouse…"

"I can only imagine," said Mireille, glancing back at them.

"I've always wanted to see the world," she continued, misty-eyed, "but money was always so tight, and Toulouse always had something to do around the apartment. Now that Peter's here, we have the time, of course, but Toulouse feels so tired nowadays. Spends half the day sleeping and the other half snoozing! And I certainly don't walk as fast as I used to, anymore. And the aeroplanes are so dangerous. All that security, all that standing in line…how could anyone stand it? A cruise could be interesting…but everyone who goes on one comes back with that flu; I think it's from chickens or something. Or they hit an iceberg. I would fancy a drive out in the country, but everyone goes so very fast nowadays, it's not safe at all. And I'd miss talking to all my friends at the local market, too. But it would be wonderful to travel, someday before I die. Maybe to Africa, or China, or America, no, not America, all those gangs and guns and —"

"This door, then?" asked Mireille.

"Eh? Oh! Yes. Yes it is. Thank you for your help, dear," she said, opening it. "Oh, but you will come in for tea, won't you?"

"Maybe later, Madame; I better lock up my scooter. The shelter's out back, yes?"

"Oh, don't use that," said Madame, accepting the bag of groceries. "Monsieur Verloc says we should beware of bicycle thieves. Bring it in instead; it's drier and very much safer."

"Really? I'll do that then. See you later, Madame Trousseau," said Mireille, as she turned to go. "It's been…an experience…meeting you."

"See you later, Miss Bouquet."

"See you."