A Twist of Orchids (16 page)

Suzanne stood watching her, hands on hips, her face impassive.
“So now you know. If you want my advice, you’ll leave well enough alone. But if you’re really determined to get in touch with Christine, last I heard she was living somewhere outside Les Faux. I’m sure anyone there could tell you where to find her.”

Adelheid Besser waited almost two weeks for Julian to fall in with her plans. When he did not, she contacted the other best-known wild orchid expert in the region, Géraud Laval. A retired pharmacist and Julian’s botanical bête noire, Géraud was a trolllike man with hair in his ears and an unpredictable temper. Géraud, too, had been searching for
Cypripedium incognitum
ever since the day Julian had shown him a badly deteriorated photo of a Lady’s Slipper orchid, purportedly found growing in the Dordogne.

The orchid was a point of bitter contention and rivalry between the two men. Publicly, Géraud denied it existed at all. Privately, like Julian, he was obsessed with finding it. Géraud had been hunting orchids in the Dordogne for most of his considerable lifetime (compared with Julian, who had been in the region a measly twenty-seven years) and was deeply committed to the belief that the honor of discovering a second indigenous species of
Cypripedium
for Western Europe rightly belonged to him.

At the moment, Géraud was as near as he ever got to speechless. He was the proud possessor of a host of tropical orchids that he tended lovingly in a glassed-in area attached to the back of his house. The greenhouse he now stood in was five times bigger than his. The space was broken up into different environments, each providing controlled amounts of light, moisture, and temperature. Ceiling fans turned slowly above their heads.
In a separate glassed-in laboratory, a woman in overalls was moving between shelves filled with flasks of germinating seeds.

“I don’t let just anyone see my darlings.” Adelheid addressed him in French; Géraud spoke nothing else.

They grew in pots on rolling metal tables or hung from overhead baskets, ranks of them, orchids he would have killed to own, or at least would have stolen (Géraud acquired his orchids any way he could). However, Adelheid’s great breasts were trained on him like torpedoes, and he decided thievery might not be such a good idea after all. They were all of the Slipper type. She had acquired them from all over the world, she said, and often went in person on collecting forays. She had
Cypripediums
from China;
Paphiopedilums
from Borneo;
Selenipediums
from Brazil. Grudgingly, Géraud acknowledged the honor she was doing him. The woman had a reputation for secrecy, terrific orchid snobbery, and, if you were looking to buy, exorbitant price tags. One did not view if one did not have world-class credentials. And deep pockets.

He stared hard at a plant with three remarkable blooms on a single stalk. The labellum of each flower was maroon with yellow markings, the dorsal sepal yellow with maroon stripes. The lateral petals tumbled in spectacular falls, like twisted ribbons, as long as his arm.

“This
Paphiopedilum sanderianum
seems to be doing well.” He tried to sound casual, but the words nearly choked him. The orchid was rare. Months ago, he had fought desperately to save a juvenile representative of the species in his collection from some kind of brown rot. It had died.

“Ah,” said Adelheid knowingly. “You have tried to grow it?”

“Susceptible to bacterial infections,” Géraud muttered.

“Nonsense. Overwatering. That,
mon cher monsieur
, is the most common cause of orchid death.”

He glared at her furiously. That this female should accuse
him
of overwatering!

To change the subject, he pointed at three young plants, nothing more than clusters of narrow leaves, on a stand by themselves. “And what are those?”

A cagey expression flitted across her face.

“Guess.”

He frowned, trying to appear knowledgeable. While he struggled she grinned at him, seeming to take an amused interest in his hairy ears.

“Give up,” she laughed and socked him on the arm, hard. “They are nothing less than plantlets of the fabulous
Phragmapedium kovachii!
”

“
Phrag
—!” His eyes bulged. It was the most sensational find of the twenty-first century, a magnificent Peruvian orchid with a flower as big as a man’s hand. Its discovery and subsequent importation into the U.S. had been the focus of intense controversy. He said nastily, “I heard it had been poached to extinction right after it was found. How did
you
come by it?”

“Ach, I bought it legally.” She waved dismissively. “As a flasked seedling, of course.”

“Hanh.” He made the sound through his nose, conveying his utter disbelief.

“So,” she said, steering him out of the greenhouse. “You have seen enough?”

She conducted him into her house, where she pushed him into an overstuffed armchair in her front room. “Sit. Let’s talk business.”

“Business?”

“Mmm-um. I have need of you.”

“You do?” He felt absurdly pleased.

What she said next, however, nearly caused him to explode:
“I approached someone else first, you know. But he did not respond. Julian Wood. You know him?”

“That amateur!”

“I don’t agree. I have seen his book. It is very comprehensive. In it he has an orchid.”

“You’re talking about
Cypripedium incognitum
, I suppose,” Géraud said sneeringly.

“Mmm-um.”

“It’s a shameful piece of botanical trickery. This Wood fellow is crazy. He has no evidence—no evidence whatever—that this orchid exists. An absolute dog’s breakfast of a photograph. I’ve seen it. Yet he has the gall to include it in a book. That alone should tell you what kind of an orchidologist he is. Anyway, what do you want with him? Or with me, for that matter?”

“That is the business we will discuss. This
Cypripedium incognitum.
I wish to have it.”

“Ha! Good luck.”

“I want to hire you to find it for me.”

“Me?”

“
Mais oui.
”

“You’re mad. I told you. The thing doesn’t exist.”

“Julian Wood thinks it does. So do I.”

“Then look for it yourself. You’re an experienced orchid hunter.”

“I have no time. I have a very busy schedule with my darlings. I make collecting safaris all over the world. I do research. I attend conferences where my presence is demanded. I will pay you well.”

Géraud, who had been on the point of heaving himself up from his chair, paused.

“How much?”

Adelheid said cannily, “First we must talk terms.”

“What terms?”

“The attribution. I will, of course, share the glory of the discovery with you. You will take your place beside me in the orchid hall of fame. However, I want it named after me.”

Géraud sank back into his seat. Share the fame? Name it after her? He almost laughed aloud. If he found the orchid—
when
he found it—the credit of discovery would be all his, nomenclature and all. He knew her type to the core. She was as violently possessive, as bitterly jealous, as nastily competitive as any he had ever met. But she had fired his ambition and his greed, and the thought of besting Julian at his own game was too tempting.

“However,” she went on, “you will have to hurry. It is now April.
Cypripedium incognitum
is said to flower in May. Monsieur Wood has been looking for it already several years. Now that he knows I am after it as well, he will redouble his efforts. Don’t underestimate him. I think Julian Wood will give you a run for your money.”

“That clown couldn’t spot a daisy in an open field,” Géraud said with more certainty than he felt. He leaned forward. “Madame Besser—”

“Call me Heidi.” She invested the words with heavy innuendo.

Géraud looked at her more closely. Her face was round, her small blue eyes were shrewd, and her scarlet mouth looked positively rapacious. She had alarmingly hennaed hair to match her mouth. Why was it, he thought with annoyance, that so many women of a certain age opted for the red look?

“Very well, Heidi. We share the fame. And now, before we go any further, how much?”

“A thousand euros. That includes expenses.”

“You’re joking! You might pay that for an unusual specimen. For a new discovery, the limit, as you very well know, is what the market will bear. Seven thousand. And a seedling of
Phragmapedium kovachii,”
he added. It was time Heidi learned with whom she was dealing.

•

“How will you go about it?” asked Adelheid a little later.

They were seated at her table, having (after considerable wrangling) settled on a price. She had knocked him down to five thousand plus a
Paphiopedilum sanderianum
in good condition
(Phragmapedium kovachii
was off limits). Now they were drinking to their new partnership. Géraud eyed the straw-colored liquid in his glass, swirled it, sniffed, and took a mouthful. He couldn’t fault her choice of wine. It came, he noted, ready-chilled. Had she been so sure of success?

He shook his head. “Can’t divulge. I have my methods.” He could see that she looked doubtful. “But one thing I can say is that I have a way of keeping tabs on where Julian Wood is in his search.”

“Oh, yes?”

He took another sip of wine. “My wife, you see, is a friend of his.” He referred to Julian’s artist, Iris Potter, with whom Géraud lived not in a state of matrimony but in a long-term, on-off relationship. That is, Iris periodically left when her cranky lover became too hard to bear and returned when his temper improved. Julian had once said to Iris within Géraud’s hearing that he did not know how a nice woman like her could stand living with a
chameau
like him. That was another score the squat orchidologist had to settle. “She’s a very good artist,” Géraud went on. “In fact, it was she who did the drawing in Julian’s book.”

“Your wife did the drawing? Did she see the embroidery he claims it is based on?” Adelheid pushed a plate of cheese puffs toward her guest.

“No. That’s the scandal of it. He simply told her what to draw. I’m convinced this embroidery is an invention. Even she felt he was pulling a fast one.”

“Hmm. So how can she help you?”

“
Eh bien
”—Géraud’s fat fingers dipped into the cheese puffs—“Julian tells her things, and she tells me.”

The bright lips shaped into a predatory smile. “So! You ask
her
to ask
him
how he plans to go about looking for
Cypripedium incognitum.
Where he will search.
Et voilà
, you get there first. What if he beats you to it?”

Géraud frowned in annoyance. “Let’s get something straight, Heidi. When I search for orchids, I do things my own way. I don’t answer questions, and I don’t give out information. I want your absolute assurance that I will have no interference from you. Is that clear?”

He expected her to object. However, the woman took it surprisingly well. She cocked her head at him and gave him what passed for a coquettish grin.

“Mmm-um.”

Géraud absolutely knew that he could not trust her.

It was a little past ten on April Fools’ night, or as they said in French,
poisson d’avril
, April Fish. Kazim was taking fifty euros off a runny-nosed junkie when he spotted the Mercedes parked in the shadows of Place de la Clautre. A man dressed in black slid out of it and moved swiftly toward them, throwing a wedge of darkness before him as he passed under the lamps of the empty square. Kazim recognized the man, the one they called Serge, at once. It was hard to mistake a face like that, the skin pulled tight and as reflective of light as the steel blade of a knife.

“
Merde!
” Kazim uttered. He swung around. The junkie, who had said his name was Freddy, was gone. For a
con
with a limp, he had vanished into the darkness surrounding the cathedral with surprising speed.

Kazim was even faster, vaulting onto the seat of his Honda, roaring off in the opposite direction down Rue Taillefer. A moment later he became aware that the Merc was on his tail. He laughed. With its speed and on city streets, the Honda could outrun anything on four wheels. He led the car on a crazy chase, purposely heading west across the city, three times around the great circle of Boulevard des Arènes, the scream of his 1300cc engine splitting open the night. It amused him that the
flics
, who were normally out in force at this hour on a Friday night and who should have been all over him by now for speeding, excessive noise, riding without a helmet (it was still locked to the rear of his bike, where it bounced wildly), were nowhere in sight. He
had used the cops as an escape hatch once already, when he had provoked the punch-up with that zitty
merdeux
and his mates at the market.
Allah askina!
Tonight he could ride his bike through the plate-glass window of a shop and no one would blink. But he wasn’t worried. The fourth time around the circle, he slowed. The Merc came up on him like a train. He accelerated suddenly and made a hard right, leaning at 45 degrees, into a narrow street. The Merc attempted the unforeseen turn, fishtailed, and described a 180 in a shriek of rubber.

“Eat smoke, bastard,” the young Turk shouted over the roar of his engine. He threw back his head in triumph, feeling the sharpness of the wind cutting through his hair. He was now heading north. Another hard right down a narrow road brought him roaring into a major intersection. He swung back in the direction he had come, down the broad expanse of Rue Président Wilson.

The Merc was waiting for him on one of the side streets. It gave Kazim his first real jolt of fear to see it slipping smoothly, like a barracuda, behind him into the thin, late-night traffic. He accelerated and swung away, first right and then left. He saw the car again on his tail as he hit the bottom of Rue Romaine. It followed as he entered another traffic circle and stayed with him this time as he shot out of the roundabout past the tall ruin of the Temple of Vesunna. For an instant he thought about peeling off into the dark parkland surrounding the temple, but remembered that not so long ago a body had been found there. He kept going.