Spark: A Novel (22 page)

“We’re pairing Taldor with an antidepressant drug called Moxiphin,” Dr. Tollner said. “Take your medication and stay away from alcohol and street narcotics. It’s possible, over time, that your brain may heal itself.”

The woman who said she was my mother wanted to drive me back to New York, but I refused to answer her phone calls. It looked like I was just going to walk out of the hospital, but Mrs. Shapiro found an orderly named Isaiah Liggins who wanted to visit a sister who lived in the city. For a small sum of money, he agreed to drop me off at my apartment.

Isaiah was a solid mound of flesh and bone who stayed quiet during our trip down the thruway. Two large hospital envelopes remained on my lap. One envelope contained hospital invoices and the contents of my blood-splattered wallet; the other was filled with enough pills for seven days of medication.

We arrived in Manhattan around six o’clock in the evening and Isaiah double-parked in front of a brownstone on East Seventy-Eighth Street. “This is it,” he announced. “This is where you live.” Then he led me over to an entry door. There was a doorbell panel with brass buttons. The name
J. DAVIS
was held captive beneath a clear Plexiglas shield.

“You okay?” Isaiah asked. “The nurses started talking about you last night when they learned that I was driving you down to the city. You’re the dead man, right? At least you think you’re dead. Maybe you’re crazy or maybe you’re just jumping ahead a few years. Everyone’s
going to die eventually. And then the wicked got to face God and all his angels on Judgment Day.”

“So now what do I do?”

“Mind if I look at your stuff?” Isaiah opened up one of the envelopes and shook out a few keys. “This here looks like your front-door key and these two will probably let you into your apartment. So go inside, walk upstairs, and start your life again.”

I inserted the gold key into the lock and opened the entrance door. When I walked inside, the door closed behind me, but Isaiah shouted through the glass, “Take care of yourself, my brother! God watches us all!”

Sitting in the café across the street from my hotel, I drank some bottled water and watched a soccer match on my computer. A year ago, I had downloaded a software application that turned the soccer ball into a point of red light. Usually, I would just watch the ball and ignore the players.

My computer beeped softly and I slipped on my headset. “You have a FaceTime request coming from the United States,” Edward said. “Do you want to accept the call?”

FaceTime was a webcam software application. It was on my computer, but I rarely used it. I switched off the soccer game and glanced around my table to see if anyone was watching. It was close to midnight and the café was almost empty. A young couple paid their check while an African man with tribal scars cut into his cheeks started to mop the floor.

“Yes. Switch it on,” I told Edward.

A moment later, Miss Holquist appeared on the screen. She was holding her tablet computer with one hand and the image wasn’t stable. “Can we talk? Are you in a secure place?”

“Yes.”

“This afternoon, I spoke to our client in India. Your meeting went well. He said you were very calm and efficient.”

“Did you receive my e-mail?”

“Yes, I did.” Miss Holquist smiled. “I’m glad that you checked with me.”

“He wanted me to meet with three customers.”

“Yes. I know. That request is a bit unusual, but he’s an important client.”

Miss Holquist shifted the tablet around and I briefly saw a standing lamp and the back of a couch. It looked like she was sitting in her apartment.

“I am authorizing the sales presentation requested by the client.”

“Three?” I asked.

“Yes, all three.” She smiled again. “Obviously, you’ll be paid an additional fee for the extra work.”

“This might be a difficult assignment.”

“I understand that. Be careful, be organized, and take your time. I’ll contact our friends in Paris. You’ll get equipment for your presentation in a few days.”

“This might be—”

“I’m sure you’ll solve the problem, Mr. Underwood. You’re my best employee.”

I heard voices in the background, and Miss Holquist turned toward someone who wasn’t in the picture. “Just get my credit card and call them,” she said. “My purse is on the kitchen counter.” Miss Holquist returned her attention to the tablet screen. “Normally, I’d tell anyone visiting Paris to go to a three-star restaurant or an art museum. But that’s not you, is it? You’re a very basic person. Take care, Underwood. Let me know what’s going on.”

Her face disappeared. Silence. I stared at the blue screen until an elderly waiter shuffled over to the table with the bill.

“Everything finished,” he said.
“Terminée.”

The next morning, I turned on my computer and made a new list with Power-I. It made my actions appear logical and orderly.

Mr. Pradhani had given me a Paris address and photographs of Jafar Desai, his wife, Nalini, and their little boy, Sanjay, that had been taken at a family wedding. Number 15 Rue de Tournon turned out to be a former palace built in the classical style that was a half block away from the Luxembourg Gardens. The building’s entrance was wide enough for a horse and carriage, and it was framed by two Greek columns. Both wood doors were open, revealing a cobblestone courtyard where a few cars were parked on one
side. Three floors of windows looked out on this courtyard, but their gauzy curtains concealed what was going on in the rooms.

This is when I encountered my first problem. There were six names on the brass doorbell panel near the entrance, and none of them said “Jafar Desai.” This building had once been something historical, but now six wealthy families occupied the different suites. This meant that I couldn’t just visit one apartment with a gun and shoot whoever answered the door.

So how was I supposed to confirm that Jafar and his family actually lived in the building? I couldn’t place a Sentinel on the busy street, and all the
NO PARKING
signs meant it wasn’t feasible to wait in a rental car. Fortunately, the Café Tournon was a hundred yards up the sidewalk. If it wasn’t raining, I could sit at an outside table on a rattan bistro chair and watch the entrance until my targets appeared.

But the café created a second problem. Most Human Units want a logical reason for your continued presence in their location. An official-looking clipboard and hard hat provide an instant answer to most questions, but that wasn’t going to work on the Rue de Tournon. That morning I bought a cane with a silver handle at an antique shop near the river, and then placed a stone inside my shoe. I was limping when I returned to the café, and the different facial expressions stored on my phone indicated that the waiter displayed sympathy. Now there was a logical explanation for why this crippled foreigner was going to sit in a café for several hours, ordering bottled water and leaving a big tip.

None of my targets appeared that first afternoon, and I wondered if Mr. Pradhani had given me the right address. The next morning, I arrived early at the café and sat at a table that gave me a clear view of the building. At 8:40 a.m., a black Citroën pulled up and a young man with close-cropped hair jumped out. He pressed a button down on the door buzzer panel, said something into the speaker, and then waited on the sidewalk with both hands stuffed into the outside pockets of a raincoat. This young bodyguard remained at his post—alert and waiting—until Jafar Desai walked through the archway and got into the car.

With the right kind of weapon, I could probably neutralize both men in less than a minute. The moment the car arrived, I would leave the café and limp down the sidewalk. I’d draw the gun and begin shooting when Jafar appeared. But how would I deal with the mother and child? What about surveillance cameras? And where would I go after I finished the assignment? The police would respond immediately and I needed to find a location where I could change my appearance.

I left the café and wandered around the neighborhood until I found a possible hiding place. Saint-Sulpice was a large white church with mismatched towers that were supported by a double colonnade. It looked like two Greek temples had been stacked on top of each other. I climbed the wide staircase, entered the building, and found myself in a cross-shaped room defined by a line of white arches. Light streamed in from the large overhead windows and one beam of light, coming from the east, was clear and distinct.

I circled the interior, gazing up at a church organ placed on a balcony above the entrance. Statues of saints stood in front of the gold and silver pipes, and it felt as if they were staring down at me. Just behind the altar, I found what I was looking for—a row of confessionals waiting for priests and sinners. After I killed everyone, I would come here and hide in one of these small, enclosed booths.

The church was filled with long rows of creaky chairs for worshipers. Sitting on the left side of the altar, I studied the painting on the domed ceiling. Angels had grabbed the Virgin Mary and were taking her somewhere. I liked all the free space above me and the light and the sound of heels clicking across the stone floor. My perfect church would resemble this place—minus chairs, statues, and people. The stained-glass windows would show dogs at play.

While I was designing a church in my mind, the room began to fill up with women wearing dresses and pearls and men wearing suits and neckties. Each family group had brought along a girl or boy with a white smock covering their best clothes. The children were going to be confirmed and accepted into the church.

Now the organ at the end of the church began playing—deep sounds from the large pipes and high notes from the smaller pipes
that swooped and glided like birds through the air. People stood up when a procession of priests and altar boys entered the church, followed by an elderly man wearing a scarlet robe. People sang and spoke from the altar—all in French, of course—and I stood up and sat down with them as if we were all pleasure bots posing in a store window.

After a half hour of these activities, the old man stood in the ornate pulpit wearing a red cardinal’s hat. He began talking slowly, and then his voice gained energy as he pointed his fingers and waved his hands. The old man spoke, but no one answered him. He was a small red dot within a dark, echoey space.