Glamorama

Glamorama Page 198

I tell her, "A bomb." I tell her, "It concerns a bomb."

She picks up a phone, utters words into it I can't hear. She continues to explain something that I'm too numb to decipher.

Two policemen carrying machine guns suddenly move into my line of vision, guarding me, not saying a word, standing at attention, waiting.

A young man, familiar-looking and nondescript, vaguely European, vaguely not, wearing a gray Prada suit with a stylish green tie, moves quickly down a corridor to where I'm standing.

The young man asks, "How can I help you, Mr. Johnson?"

"We need to talk elsewhere," I'm saying.

"What is this about?" he asks carefully.

"I know the people who planted the bomb at the Ritz," I say. "I know where they live. I know their names. I know who they are."

The official just stares at me, unsure of how to respond. "You do?"

"Yes," I say solemnly. "I do."

"And?" he asks, waiting.

"They blew up the Institute of Political Studies," I say. "They're also responsible for the bombing at Cafe Flore." Breaking down, I tell him, "They're responsible for the bomb that went off in the m6tro last week." Confidence collapses and I start crying.

The official seems to take this in stride. He makes a decision.

"If you would please wait here," he says to me. He leans and says something in French to the two guards, who because of this command nod, relax a little, even as they move in closer.

"No," I'm saying. "I don't want to wait here."

"Please, let me get someone in Security to talk with you," the official says politely.

"Let me please come with you," I'm saying. "They might have followed me-"

"Just calm down, Mr. Ward-I'll be right back," he says, walking away.

A third guard has joined the other two and I'm in the middle of a triangle, surrounded, and then something black explodes in my stomach.

"Hey," I'm saying. "How did you know my name was Ward?" And then I start shouting, "How did you know my name? I didn't give you that name. How did you know my name was Ward?"

But he's just a silhouette in the corridor, and then even his shadow disappears.

The guards move in closer and I'm sighing urgently to get across to them how distressed I am, fear speeding out of control, the smell of shit suffocating me, and I'm making gestures that don't mean anything to them, there's no reaction on the guards' impassive faces, nothing. Movement, people, sounds start curving toward me and new silhouettes are gliding down a hallway in my direction. Two more guards, the young official, another figure. And I'm breathing louder as the shadows get closer, progressing toward me, and I'm wiping my hands over my face, glancing behind the plexiglass window, but the woman's not there anymore, and then I hear a voice.

"Mr. Ward?" it asks.

Slowly, dumbly, I turn around.

F. Fred Palakon stands in front of me, dramatically backlit from the light at the end of the hallway.

I try to run.

10

An interrogation room. It's freezing. There's a ventilator in the ceiling and confetti's everywhere, pasted onto the walls, the floor, the chairs we're sitting on, scattered in piles across the table Palakon and David Crater and Laurence Delta and Russell and the Japanese man from the apartment on Avenue Verdier are all sitting behind. There's also an inspector lieutenant of the First Section of the Paris Prefecture of Police taking notes and someone who came in from Lyons for Interpol. This man is so familiar-looking it becomes distracting. Smoke has been produced for added atmosphere.

"You never wanted me to find Jamie Fields," I'm saying, unable to contain myself "This was never about her, Palakon."

Palakon sighs. "Mr. Ward, the fact remains-"

"Palakon," I'm warning, my heart speeding up. "I swear to god, unless you tell me what this is all about I'm not saying another f**king word."

"Mr. Ward, please -

"No, Palakon-fuck you." I stand up, kicking the chair away.

"Mr. Ward, please sit down."

"Not until you tell me what the f**k's going on, Palakon."

"We're here to help you, Mr. Ward," Palakon says gently.

"Oh f**king stop it," I spit out. "Just tell me what the f**k's happening. Jesus Christ, you have f**king offices in the f**king embassy? What-you're all having brunch together?"

Palakon glances at Crater, then at Delta, at the Japanese man, who scowls impatiently and gives Palakon a hesitant nod.