Brumaire was located at the point where the incline sharpened. I figured the location had been chosen against the possibility of the river flooding. After a few minutes walking I noticed an overgrown mound off the footpath. I’d observed it on the way to the river, but from the other direction I could clearly see an opening.

I went through. Three paces in it began getting dark. The air completely changed, suddenly humid and smelling of mold. I felt the wall. Damp limestone. I kept going. The tunnel descended gently into the darkness. I stepped carefully and soon ran into crumbled rock and soil. This had been blocked for a long time. There was no way to continue. So I turned around.

When I got near enough to see Brumaire through the trees I went off the footpath. Bushwhacked through the forest. I skirted the house and climbed a steep incline overgrown with brambles. I could have taken an easier route, but going straight up was more efficient and I didn’t mind the exercise. After a couple minutes climbing and getting scratched, I arrived at the cliff top overlooking the house. I lay the towel down and got on my belly to have a look-see.

The cliff towered over Brumaire. I was almost looking straight down at the house. The layout was spread before me. Driveway winding north-west to the road. The cliff I perched on hugged the eastern side of the house. Directly west on the other side was a large field bordered by a stone wall, maybe one hundred yards out. The sun was going down on the other side of the trees there. South was another field with a small apple orchard and then a stone wall approximately three hundred yards out. It was a large property. All together a difficult position to defend without a decent-sized team. An easy position to attack. There were multiple entrance points. The house was so big that you’d need at least five operators to cover the attack surface. So if it got to that I’d need to figure something out.

Nothing was going on. I started to dread getting dragged into a lengthy French dinner with Madame Vaugeois. So I tried to think of ways to avoid it. Couldn’t really think of an excuse and figured I’d just face it. A silver Peugeot 206 cruised up the driveway. Came to a halt next to the Mercedes.

Then the burner phone rang in my pocket. The one I’d taken from the ponytail guy earlier.

I pulled it out and pressed the green talk button. Put the phone to my ear. Down below, Cecile Nazari stepped out of the Peugeot. She was looking trim and fit in jeans, gray t-shirt and a pair of aviator sunglasses and light athletic shoes.

The phone said nothing for a moment.

Then a male voice, “You’ve committed suicide, it just hasn’t happened yet.”