Free Murder Without Pity by Steve Haberman

outward, thumb up, forefinger stiff. “Collabo Boucher. We’re nearing his apartment in the sixteenth district. The Bois de Boulogne’s further west.” He idled the Renault, while he gave several slight upward kicks to his imaginary gun as he aimed toward a lighted window. “That’s his place. And that might be his silhouette.”
    Stanislas let the curtain go limp. He had enough contact with this dirty man for the evening. The Léon Pincus dossier may have dragged up a vendetta from a long ago war that continued, a viciousness fought in the dark without mercy and without end from generation to generation. He feared an anxiety he couldn’t explain that before any resolution these enemies could turn his case deadly with him in the middle.

CHAPTER 10
    PROJECT JANUS
    “Thirty cans with gasoline and fifty-eight empty wine bottles, the anti-terrorist squad unearthed in that garden. I saw the headline myself yesterday, waiting for my Mikhail at de Gaulle airport. Our Dray’s absolutely right. Streible and Fuchs too. Ayatollah shock troops are what those hooligan foreigners are with their hidden Molotov cocktail factories. The continent will go up in flames, if people like us don’t act soon. Did I tell you, Louis, Iranian tourists wanted to stay at my hotel in Moscow? I told my directors, ‘Let them make the Radisson their headquarters. Destroy it, if they want. But not my Palace Rustova.’” He gestured with his left hand to a restaurant on the right side of the street. A group of police had paused to study the menu displayed in the window. “Next time I slip into Paris, I take you there. They serve an excellent stuffed sturgeon.”
    Boucher studied the police, fearing they’d approach. “You spent the first half of your life in the KGB, scheming to destroy us decadent Westerners, Gennadi. You’ll spend the second half making up for lost time with your Pierre Cardin buying sprees and your stuffed sturgeon.” He glanced over his shoulder. The car was still there, following at a discreet pace on Rue Daru. It had materialized from out of the darkness as soon as they had left that restaurant. Only its beams through the mist revealed its presence. He felt as if he were in a cross hairs as they walked on, while the police at last continued their patrol in the opposite direction.
    Gennadi admired the shadowy outline of the domes of Saint-Alexandre-Nevsky Cathedral off to their left. “Its foggy like I’ve never seen. We are practically invisible. Still you are jumpy, Louis. You insisted on your chauffeur driving you to the restaurant, thereby denying me the pleasure of picking you up. You worried throughout our dinner—a feast at my considerable expense, let me add—and you continue to worry. Show some courtesy. Pay attention to your host, please.”
    “Keep your voice down. I’m not used to conspiracies like you are.”
    “I’m the one who should be frightened. I’m half your age and therefore by my calculation risk twice as long in prison. I’ve lived this long because I stuff a rabbit’s foot in my pocket whenever I go out? Believe me, I know when someone’s following. Your Gennadi’s had years of experience. Relax. We’re out for an after-dinner Saturday stroll. A Frenchman and a Russian, each strengthening a centuries-old friendship between two great powers.”
    Boucher eyed him sideways. Their rendezvous had unexpectedly turned into a Stolichnaya evening. Gennadi had gotten too boisterous at dinner for him to reveal the summons without provoking a scene. Was now any safer? “You’ve too much confidence. We aren’t in your Moscow where you know your way around.”
    Gennadi slapped him on the back. “Show some respect, Louis. Remember, I’m putting my money on the line for this project.”
    “That’s beside the point.”
    Gennadi swayed as he brushed away crumbs from his droopy mustache. “And what is the point? You will kindly inform me.”
    Boucher clutched Gennadi’s shoulder. “Where do