Free Murder Without Pity by Steve Haberman Page A

you think we are? Club Med because we don’t have your Wild West shootouts, at least not yet? Gennadi Primakov, listen to me. Paris has become dangerous. That examining magistrate’s summoned me for a second hearing.”
    Gennadi stopped and lolled his head toward Boucher. “Oh?”
    “I got his order in this morning’s mail.”
    “He is suspicious?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “Think hard, Louis. I can’t afford your ‘not sure.’ None of us can at this point. We’ve gone too far.”
    “You think I’ve thought about stuffed sturgeon since I got the summons? Of course, I’ve thought about it. I told the truth at that interrogation. As far as I’m concerned, the man who approached me that morning was a bum. I know nothing about what happened afterwards to him. But suppose that Monsieur Cassel still suspects me and has undercover police out? Understand now why I don’t like being in the open? That’s my point.”
    Gennadi frowned, as though finally sensing danger through his stupor. He slipped his left hand inside his overcoat pocket, pulled out his cell phone, which he gripped awkwardly, and muttered something in Russian. Then: “If things heat up, and you must disappear—”
    “No, no, my family. You understand?”
    “You think I have no heart because I’m Russian businessman? I have family too. But consider my suggestion as an option. Why not my hotel outside Rome?”
    Boucher turned to Gennadi; the suggestion appalled him. “We Bouchers have rooted ourselves in French soil for centuries. You may not have any love for your country. Don’t think that attitude extends to anyone in my family. We aren’t the problem. We aren’t the ones who must leave. Isn’t that what this is all about?”
    The car that had followed ballooned out of the mist and glided to the curb a step behind them. It was a black Citroën, Boucher noticed, and Gestapo agents nodded at him as they swaggered out of it. His heart pounded. He felt panic build
    “You….”
    The image vanished. He glanced across to Gennadi. He had unconsciously revealed his flashback to that former spy, who had caught on to him? But no, he was wrong, he saw. Gennadi simply yanked the rear door open with two fingers of his left hand as a hook, while his right coat sleeve fluttered in the breeze.
    “…go first,” the Russian said to him.
    Boucher slowed his breathing to relax as he ducked inside.
    Seated beside Boucher, Gennadi fumbled with the gold latch that secured a panel against the back of the passenger seat. A small fold-out table dropped down. Still using his left hand, Gennadi gripped a gold pen from a pocket woven into the rear paneling. It slipped from his grasp and disappeared between their legs.
    Gennadi leaned down and ranged his left hand around in the darkness. “I’ve given one of my men—also ex-KGB—another title: Vice President in Charge of Opening Presents From Lovely Natashas. Ah, there it is.” He straightened, gripping his pen between two mangled fingers. “That way I increase my chances of keeping attached my remaining hand and also my head. You think competition in the West is rough? Try running a business in the East. Now then, under what name should I have the corporation registered, please?”
    “I’m to hear you out first.”
    “Whatever our good friend wishes. The money is as much his as mine. My idea: I know an attorney, who has marvelous ability with numbers. He has helped me better live with what taxes I must pay in Russia, so he is expert in these matters. Don’t worry. I don’t use the name Janus when we talk. Simply that I have some project in mind. The rough outline is he proposes a corporate shell already on the shelf. Bylaws, etc. one hundred percent ready to go. He opens an account in the corporation’s name, TransEuropa-something, this lawyer suggests, but whatever name our good friend wishes. Something that sounds respectable, and he makes a deposit.”
    “That large an amount will alert the