An elderly woman in Compiègne rushed to the hospital with convulsions. Suspected meningitis. Died twelve hours later.

Four children sickened after having cake and milk at a birthday party in Roissy. This led to the first official inquiry.

Two of the party victims died. The first news stories appeared.

Missions

MISSIONS

Catherine had been perfectly content with Pleski out of sight and out of mind. And then this phone call with his request to meet. She would go, but she was running scenarios for the conversation when she got there. How maybe someone else could take over his account. Lead off with that. Make up some excuse. She was transferring to a different department (or different planet). This other colleague would be a better match for his needs anyway. Win-win, everybody happy. Pleski would have to agree. How could he argue? No, you’re not transferring to another department? How could he claim to know? Tell him how sorry she’d be to lose him as a client after their pleasant and successful business relationship. But she was certain he’d be just as happy working from now on with what’s-his-name, whom she could recommend without reservation. Now get the fuck out of my life.

He proposed meeting over a drink at Les Armures, in the old town. It figured that he’d like the traditional places, and Les Armures had tradition in spades. Location on a cobblestone street. You could break an ankle getting to the front door. Inside, a massive stone wall and ancient wooden rafters overhead. (One modern appurtenance: a bronzed letter of thanks from Bill Clinton for hosting him and Hillary, those two probably attracted by the same Swiss schmaltz that attracted Pleski.)

He was waiting when she arrived, seated beneath a crossed pair of antique rifles on a whitewashed wall. He had a Scotch, she ordered coffee. This was going to be simple, and unfogged. She had a mission.

But so did he.

She had just begun, “Mister Pleski, there’s something I—” when he cut her off.

“I need a small favor.”

“I’m sure the bank will be happy to help with anything you need, but I’m going to be moving to a different department, so—”

“Fine, whatever. Just one last lick before you go.”

Last lick? This already didn’t sound good.

He explained, as casually as asking for a fifty-dollar loan: One of his associates, who happened to own an all-cash business (all cash? People nowadays were using credit cards to buy Tic Tacs) needed a bank check to consummate a real estate transaction, a check from a source that would satisfy the nitpicky demands of the real estate organization, which his friend was not able to satisfy in the short time available.

“Well,” Catherine said, setting down her coffee, “I don’t know if you’d call the Holborn Bank ‘nitpicky,’ but we do have to satisfy certain regulatory requirements in vouching for a source of funds.”