Chapter 3: Enlightenment

"Well, would you look at this?" Monsieur Trousseau held the evening paper at arm's length. "'NSB Official Murdered. Police Suspect Foul Play.' Second one this month. What is this world coming to?"

"You're so grim, Toulouse," said Madame, setting down her romance novel. "You're always reading those stories."

"I can't help it; it's what's in the paper."

"That's why I don't read it anymore," said Madame, adjusting her reading glasses. "It's nothing but scandal and war and death, page after page of the stuff."

"Way of the world, Cosette."

"Nonsense. If the world were like that, no one would want to live in it. The world is only dark if you stare at the shadows," she preached.

"Speaking of shadows, I'm lighting another candle." He did so. "This story just shows how right I was. I'll have to show it to Peter when he gets back."

"Oh, don't start that again, Toulouse."

"This could have been him if he'd stayed with the department," he said, pointing to the article. "I was right to talk him out of it then, and I'm even more right now."

"He loved it there, Toulouse," said Madame. "He wanted to serve his country."

"He can do that right here. Don't have to be some secret agent to be a hero. Just living in peace is impressive enough. There's no honour in being dead."

"He was a clerk."

"So were these two," said Monsieur, slapping the paper again.

"I still think you shouldn't have pressured him so. We were getting on just fine here without his help."

"Do you want him to leave, then?"

"Well, no, but —"

"Like Marien?"

"Now, that's not fair, Toulouse, and you know it!"

"At least now one of our children comes home more than once every three years." He grumbled, and checked the old clock. "He's late."

"He's probably staying late at the club again." A floorboard creaked in the hall. "Or not," said Madame, her face lit up. She rolled herself out of the easy chair and shuffled over to the door. "You're back early," she began, as she opened it.

"Madame Trousseau?"

"Oh! Miss Bouquet!"

"Uh, yes," said Mireille, paused halfway through her apartment door. "You were expecting me?"

"Oh, no, no, no," tittered Madame. "I thought you were my son, Peter, come back from his meeting."

"'Meeting'?"

"Oh, it's a silly old drinking club he's in," explained Madame. "Les Chevaliers, I think it's called. It's not him," she shouted over her shoulder. "It's just Miss Bouquet."

"'Course it's not him," came Monsieur Trousseau's voice. "He'd stay there all night if he could. And you don't have to shout, woman," he added.

"He goes down there every week with Mister Verloc and most of the bottom two floors," she said, ignoring him. "They're all old friends from his academy days."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes, the closest of friends. They were all so very disappointed when he left for the NSB, but they still had their club, and now they're even all under the same roof."

"Oddly convenient," noted Mireille.

"Have you had a chance to meet any of them yet?" asked Madame. "I haven't seen you in weeks."

"I had some business to take care of in the country…" she replied.

"'War Criminal Found Dead in Home,'" read Monsieur. "Good riddance."

"…But I did have tea with the Duceppes yesterday."

"Such a fascinating couple, aren't they?"

"Yup."

"So," she began, sitting on the edge of the pool table, "what are you two doing here?"

"Cheap rent," said Maurice, from his seat at the nearby table.

"Safe neighbourhood," added Cherise, leaning against one of the bay window-frames.

"And 'easy access to rooftops'?" asked Mireille, taking a sip of coffee.

Maurice smirked. "Yes, I told Monsieur Trousseau to put that line in the advertisement. It's more of a selling point than you might think. You know, you really need some more chairs around this place," he added, looking around the nearly bare apartment.

"They're on order," said Mireille. "But you haven't answered my question." She set down her mug down next to the 8-ball ("Need some coasters, too," she thought). "What are a DGSE(1) operative and an ex-Mossad(2) agent doing in the middle of Paris?"

Maurice raised an eyebrow. "Everyone has to live somewhere," he said.

Mireille gave him a look. He sighed, and set down his mug.

"And you guessed…how?" he asked.

"Your watch, for one," said Mireille. "Standard issue to all French intelligence operatives. A Class IV, I believe?"

"The one with the garrotte, yes," he replied, slipping it under his cuff.

"He broke the one with the laser," said Cherise. "I told him not to wear it in public, but would he listen?"

"You never know when it'll come in handy," he deadpanned.

"That, plus our meeting in Algeria, gave me reason enough to look up your file," continued Mireille. "Quite impressive, by the way."

"I won't ask how you got a hold of it."

"And I won't tell."

"Of course."

"You were more difficult to figure out," said Mireille, turning to Cherise. "The Krav Maga(3) you used in Algeria suggested Israeli special forces, possibly Mossad, but The Rat and his wares were strictly European; Israel couldn't care less about him. You were working with Maurice; that meant you were either a freelancer or a defector."

"The latter," replied Maurice. "I seduced her in Budapest two years ago."

"Ha. You wish," said Cherise. "I had him at my mercy in ten minutes," she purred, "but the French pay well. And Gaza had lost its charm," she added.

"It seems you live up to your reputation, Miss Bouquet," said Maurice, shooting a look at his partner. "From what I know of it, at least."

"What do you know, I wonder," said Mireille.

"We have decent intelligence on your family and their involvement with the Corsican crime syndicate," replied Cherise, "but virtually nothing on you. You're an assassin, obviously, a highly efficient one as well. Despite your short time in the business, your name already commands fear and respect amongst those in the know. Beyond that, we know nothing. Interpol didn't even have a picture."

Mireille nodded, unsurprised. "So, now that introductions are over,"she said, "and knowing what we know about each other, what now? Do we part ways?" She casually draped a hand over the table's corner pocket. "Or do we fight it out?"

Her eyes narrowed. Maurice looked right at her, and slowly reached inside his vest.

"I remember when Monsieur Duceppe first came here," said Madame. "It was six years ago —"

"Four," said Monsieur.

"— Yes, four years ago, the poor dear. The radiator in his apartment was broken at the time, and it was the dead of winter. I kept him stocked on sweaters and mittens the whole week it took Toulouse to fix it."

"That was generous of you."

"Oh, it was no trouble at all," she replied. "It's what any good neighbour would have done. I knit them for the Veteran's Society all the time, and I had some left over."

"Did you happen to knit him a green sweater-vest with a white horse on the front pocket?" asked Mireille, recalling the image.

"Yes, I believe so. That was actually a bit of an accident; the vest was much too big. How did you know?"

"He was wearing it yesterday. I think he likes it, actually."

"Biscuit?" asked Maurice, as he pulled a packet of them from the vest.

Mireille froze, hand clasped around something in the corner pocket, then blinked. Twice. "Um…what?"

"Tollhouse biscuit," said Maurice, setting them on the table. "Great with tea. Monsieur Trousseau swears by them." He picked one up. "Want one?"

Mireille, her face a curious mixture of fear, suspicion, and amusement, accepted it cautiously. "You…carry these everywhere, do you?" she asked.

"Well, you did invite us for tea, didn't you?" said Cherise, her eye on the corner pocket.

Mireille glanced at both of them, withdrew her hand slowly, and carefully set the cue ball on the table. "Of course," she said.

"I make it a policy of mine not to shoot my neighbours," said Maurice, enjoying his biscuit. "You should, too, Miss Bouquet."

"Hold on a minute," she said. "You two honestly have no problem with me knowing your true identities? Even knowing who I am?"

"Our business trades in lies, secrets, betrayals and death, Miss Bouquet," he said. "A little bit of honesty and trust does wonders to break up the monotony. You'd know that, if you'd been in the business as long as I have."

"Oh, I'm not complaining," she said. "Saves me the trouble of cleaning the walls," she added facetiously.

"Really? Well, then, I'll make him another one then, and this time, it'll be the right size!" said Madame. "It's always important to dress appropriately in this weather," she said.

"Mm," replied her neighbour, her thoughts elsewhere.

"Are you, um, cold, my dear?" asked Madame.

"Huh? Uh, no, not at all," said Mireille, in her barely-legal miniskirt. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, ah, erm, nothing, no reason at all!" sputtered Madame. "I, ah, just thought I felt a bit of a draft," she explained, dropping a not-so-subtle hint.

"Could be from that window you have open there," said Mireille, missing it. "Is there something wrong with your lights?" she asked, peering through the doorway. "You've got candles everywhere."

"Nothing wrong with beeswax, madam," replied Monsieur Trousseau. "Gives off a wonderful light and saves on the electric bill."

"Not that we need to," added his wife, with haste. "Peter's paid off all our old debts. This is just an old habit of ours."

"'Better to light a candle' and all that," continued Monsieur, still reading.

Mireille nodded, and gazed upon the darkness.

"Four years ago," said Maurice, several minutes later, "I was ready to die. I had just killed a man with my bare hands. He was no one of significance, nothing but a tiny black thread in the web of crime that binds the world." He examined the tablecloth in detail. "He was a friend. He…was old enough to be my grandfather. And now he was nothing, just another stain of blood upon my sin-black hands. I thought back to all those that had come before him, to the too terribly long trail of death and deceit I had tread for ten long years, that endless progression of men and women whose lives were twisted, shattered, or, mercifully, ended by my words and actions. And for the first time, in far, far too long, I had to ask myself, 'Why?'"

"If he deserved it," asked Mireille, "why ask why?"

Anger flared in his eyes, and was quenched at a glance from his partner. "Someday," he said, with restraint, "you might come to question that line of reasoning, Miss Bouquet."

"Perhaps," she replied.

"When I returned to France, I learned that seven top officials in my department, one of them my supervisor, were under investigation on charges of corruption. The same people I had trusted every day with my life," he added, fist clenched. "I'd spent fifteen years in the field hunting criminals on every continent and never thought to look over my own shoulder!"

"I was a fool. Every assignment, I'd cut another link, kill another man, and I thought that soon, surely soon, the whole net would fall to pieces, and my country could at last sleep in peace. But the great web is so large we see but a little of it at a time, and influence even less. For every terrorist, arms dealer, and tin-pot dictator I felled, ten more would take their place. In one week, my most trusted allies had shown to me the blackness hidden in their hearts, had betrayed my country and myself. How could I be sure that corruption did not lie in every single one of those persons I joined the department to protect?" he asked.

"I could spend the rest of my life hacking away at such a shroud of darkness and in the end leave my hands so black with blood that it would consume me, claiming me as one of its own. And as I sat there in a public park, alone with my thoughts, I was aware of only two things: that there was a gun in my hands, and that there was one thread in that hopeless web I could cut forever."

"And then?" said Mireille.

"And then," replied Maurice, "I met them."

"Did I ever show you what they brought us as souvenirs?" said Madame. "They gave me this darling beaded necklace," she said. "And a hand-made cane for Toulouse. Toulouse!" she said over her shoulder. "Where's that walking stick the Duceppes gave us?"

"It's in the umbrella stand beside you!" he shouted back. "Are you blind?"

"Here it is," she said, plucking it up.

"Interesting handle," said Mireille, examining it.

"Monsieur Duceppe said it's a charm against rats," explained Madame.

"Probably true," she replied, her face carefully neutral. "Are they always so generous, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I keep telling them there's no need," said Madame, "but every time they go abroad, they always bring back something for me and Toulouse. It's most embarrassing."

"I'm certain they don't mean to upset you."

"Oh no, no, no, there's no harm done," she replied. "But such extravagant gifts…what did we do to deserve them?"

"Maybe they see in you something they like?" suggested Mireille.

"They just walked by, sat right on the bench, and started talking to me," said Maurice. "For hours. Two complete strangers. Turns out I was on their bench. But they accepted me, immediately, without any questions; me, a man who had committed murder in a dozen different nations. They were so trusting, so happy, so blissfully unaware of the death and deceit I saw everywhere I could hardly believe they were for real."

"And that turned things around for you?" asked Mireille.

"I saw in them a reason to go on. Here were two people full of hope that by purest chance had happened upon me. And even if there were no others like them left in the world, I felt that if I fought for them, protected them, then maybe my life would not have been lived in vain." He paused, and blinked the passion from his eyes. "Anyway, that's why I'm here," he mumbled, sinking back into his chair.

"In us? Perish the thought!" said Madame, with a shake. "We're no different from other decent folk."

"Some would disagree," said her neighbour.

The front door clattered open. Ten patent-leather shoes shuffled in from the cold, and up the stairs.

"There he is," said Madame. "Hello, Peter."

"…All these clean-ups, funds will get tight — Mama?" Peter turned to a nearby overcoat. "We'll talk later."

"Good evening, gentlemen."

"Mm," replied Mr. Verloc. His companions were less vocal.

"What are you doing up so late, Mama?" said Peter, climbing the stairs. "You should be in bed already."

"I was worried about you, dear. You were out so late," she added, reproachfully.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Budget debate. The higher-ups have issued a bunch of absurd orders again, and I had to find the money for it."

"But did you have to stay so long? You missed dinner; you must be hungry by now. Toulouse! Toulouse, get some tea and sandwiches ready!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he grumbled, shuffling off to the kitchen.

"Uh, yes, Mama," said Peter, "I'm the Treasurer, I had to. Oh, good evening Miss Bouquet, didn't see you there."

"Evening," she replied, stepping out of the shadows.

"I, ah, don't suppose you've reconsidered my, eh, proposal, then?" He smiled, optimistically.

She smiled back.

"You're more of a dreamer than I would have thought," said Mireille.

A dangerous silence settled over the room.

"Yes, I am a dreamer," said Maurice, a touch of frost in his words. "You have to have to be, in this line of work. No one does what we do just for the money, Miss Bouquet. Not even you, I suspect."

"True," she replied. "But moving here and constructing an elaborate cover story, all out of some sense of chivalry? It seems a bit much."

Maurice half-rose, but Cherise restrained him with a touch. "Not if you realize what we have here, and what you can gain if you stay," replied Cherise.

"I…see," said Peter, slinking out of stomping range. "I'll, ah, just head in then."

"Would you care to join us, Miss Bouquet?" asked Madame. "The tea's reheated, and there's only cheese sandwiches, but we'd be delighted to have you."

"Thank you, Madame Trousseau," she replied, "but I've some research I'd best get started on this evening."

Madame nodded. "For your consultancy job, yes?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Well, how about this weekend then? Toulouse and I know this wonderful spot down by the river. Hmm?"

Mireille, halfway into her apartment, looked back.

An old, wrinkled, entirely trusting face beamed back at her.

"You meet all types in this business," said Cherise. "Cheats, thieves, spies, liars, killers, agents, and many more, correct?"

Mireille nodded, not sure where this was going.

"Now, think about them. Out of all the people you have met, how many would you consider enemies?"

"Too many."

"How many would you call 'ally'?"

Mireille thought for a moment. "Not more than a handful. Why?"

"And how many," asked Cherise, leaning in close, "would you call 'friend'?"

She paused, set down her cup, and searched herself for an answer.

"I'd…like that very much, Madame Trousseau," said Mireille.

"Wonderful, wonderful. Good night, then."

"'Night."

(Footnotes)

1. General Directorate for External Security, or France's military intelligence bureau.

2. AKA The Institute for Intelligence and Special Tasks. As above, except for Israel.

3. Official martial art of the Israeli special-forces.