minutes and he ultimately had to choose the “lost or stolen” option to speak to a human being at this hour. It gave Kruse time to punish himself for waiting this long.
It was early in the morning in Canada, though the operator did not sound tired. She wanted clarity: the card was not stolen or technically misplaced. Yet he had called the lost and stolen number.
“My wife has been misplaced, and we share a card.”
“So you want to find her.”
“Yes.”
“Does she want to find you?”
“We were separated in error.”
Her latest charges were for a train ticket, a hair salon, and two restaurants in Paris. She took money out of their account only once, in Orange. There was one request for a pre-authorization but the woman on the phone didn’t have the location. Most pre-authorizations are from hotels. Kruse asked the operator if anyone else would have access to their accounts. Anyone in my position, she said. Certain law enforcement agencies, though she didn’t have specifics: Interpol, surely. Didthe operator have any way of seeing who had accessed their information, from among these organizations? Bankers, say, or police?
“Perhaps someone could see,” she said. “It’s all computerized. But I don’t have that access. Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Kruse?”
He was tempted to cancel her card, so no one else could find her. Evelyn taught art history, which offered few opportunities to think like a fugitive. Her limit at the ATM was two thousand francs a day. At the same time, if he annulled her card he would lose his connection to her. Now that Lily was gone they shared nothing else.
FIVE
Rue du Champ de Mars, Paris
THE LAST TIME HE HAD BEEN IN PARIS WAS TO ACCOMPANY THE anxious son of a pharmacy magnate to ESCP Europe, the top business school on the continent, for an interview. His father, who also owned the Denver Broncos, had received death threats for something he had done to unionized workers. The most serious danger, on that trip, had been unpasteurized milk. The boy did not get into ESCP.
The man and woman he followed off the train fell to their knees on the concrete platform so abruptly he nearly tumbled over them. A little girl and a littler boy, perhaps five and three, in a dress and a suit, sprinted into hugs. An older couple, the grandparents, looked on. “Never go away again, Papa,” said the girl, crossly.
The metro station at Gare de Lyon looked the way he felt. All but a few of the overhead lights were off and the tunnel was deserted apart from a security man smoking a cigarette, telling everyone who came around that metro drivers were on strike. The view from the front windows of the station was not encouraging: it was windy and rainingheavily, and there was a long lineup for a taxi. He bought a sturdy black umbrella at a boutique on his way out, but the gusts were so strong along the river it turned inside out with a
pop.
Kruse walked the north bank of the Seine past city hall and the Louvre to Place de la Concorde, where they had cut off all those heads. He crossed the river at Pont Neuf and stayed along the quay, as Lily would have liked. She was the sort of child who would not have noticed the rain as long as there was something pretty to see, birds to identify, and enough to eat along the way. Maybe a hot chocolate in a little bistro. It wasn’t the best day for distant views, birdwatching, or architectural wonders, as a dark cloud had collapsed over the city. She would have understood.
In the guidebook Evelyn kept on the bedside table, she ranked her chosen hotels from one to five. Her number one choice, on Rue Valadon, was impossible: it had been under renovation since the end of September. The neighbourhood immediately east of the Eiffel Tower was a hybrid of her interests: beautiful, chic, quiet, traditional, family-oriented, absolutely devoid of American chain stores. The streets were thin and in shadow most of the day, with a nearby market corridor full of
It was early in the morning in Canada, though the operator did not sound tired. She wanted clarity: the card was not stolen or technically misplaced. Yet he had called the lost and stolen number.
“My wife has been misplaced, and we share a card.”
“So you want to find her.”
“Yes.”
“Does she want to find you?”
“We were separated in error.”
Her latest charges were for a train ticket, a hair salon, and two restaurants in Paris. She took money out of their account only once, in Orange. There was one request for a pre-authorization but the woman on the phone didn’t have the location. Most pre-authorizations are from hotels. Kruse asked the operator if anyone else would have access to their accounts. Anyone in my position, she said. Certain law enforcement agencies, though she didn’t have specifics: Interpol, surely. Didthe operator have any way of seeing who had accessed their information, from among these organizations? Bankers, say, or police?
“Perhaps someone could see,” she said. “It’s all computerized. But I don’t have that access. Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Kruse?”
He was tempted to cancel her card, so no one else could find her. Evelyn taught art history, which offered few opportunities to think like a fugitive. Her limit at the ATM was two thousand francs a day. At the same time, if he annulled her card he would lose his connection to her. Now that Lily was gone they shared nothing else.
FIVE
Rue du Champ de Mars, Paris
THE LAST TIME HE HAD BEEN IN PARIS WAS TO ACCOMPANY THE anxious son of a pharmacy magnate to ESCP Europe, the top business school on the continent, for an interview. His father, who also owned the Denver Broncos, had received death threats for something he had done to unionized workers. The most serious danger, on that trip, had been unpasteurized milk. The boy did not get into ESCP.
The man and woman he followed off the train fell to their knees on the concrete platform so abruptly he nearly tumbled over them. A little girl and a littler boy, perhaps five and three, in a dress and a suit, sprinted into hugs. An older couple, the grandparents, looked on. “Never go away again, Papa,” said the girl, crossly.
The metro station at Gare de Lyon looked the way he felt. All but a few of the overhead lights were off and the tunnel was deserted apart from a security man smoking a cigarette, telling everyone who came around that metro drivers were on strike. The view from the front windows of the station was not encouraging: it was windy and rainingheavily, and there was a long lineup for a taxi. He bought a sturdy black umbrella at a boutique on his way out, but the gusts were so strong along the river it turned inside out with a
pop.
Kruse walked the north bank of the Seine past city hall and the Louvre to Place de la Concorde, where they had cut off all those heads. He crossed the river at Pont Neuf and stayed along the quay, as Lily would have liked. She was the sort of child who would not have noticed the rain as long as there was something pretty to see, birds to identify, and enough to eat along the way. Maybe a hot chocolate in a little bistro. It wasn’t the best day for distant views, birdwatching, or architectural wonders, as a dark cloud had collapsed over the city. She would have understood.
In the guidebook Evelyn kept on the bedside table, she ranked her chosen hotels from one to five. Her number one choice, on Rue Valadon, was impossible: it had been under renovation since the end of September. The neighbourhood immediately east of the Eiffel Tower was a hybrid of her interests: beautiful, chic, quiet, traditional, family-oriented, absolutely devoid of American chain stores. The streets were thin and in shadow most of the day, with a nearby market corridor full of
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