Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [47]
“My name is Archer Carroll. I’m here from New York to see Monsieur Chevron. I spoke to someone yesterday on the telephone.”
“Yes, to me.” The bank assistant addressed him as a country gentleman would address a stablehand on the subject of a gelding’s health. “Director Chevron has provided fifteen minutes … at eleven forty-five.”
Observing the bank assistant’s manner and tone, Carroll had the impression that only a very few words could have been substituted for “Director Chevron” in the opening sentence—words like de Gaulle, or Napoleon. Maybe even the Lord God Almighty.
“Director has an important lunch at twelve. You will please wait. The sofa for waiting is there, Monsieur Carroll.”
Arch Carroll nodded his head very slowly. Reluctantly, he wandered over to a tight nest of Art Deco couches.
He sat down and clenched his hands together. He was trying to fight back anger now. On the telephone, he and the bank assistant had set up a meeting firmly for eleven o’clock. He was right on time, and he’d traveled several thousand miles to be here.
Michel Chevron was right behind those heavy oak doors, Carroll kept thinking.
Chevron was probably laughing up his well-tailored sleeve at the ugly American outside in reception…
He steadily drummed his fingers on his knee. His right loafer tapped against the elegant marble floor.
At fifteen minutes to twelve, the bank assistant finally set down his slender silver fountain pen. He looked up from a thick sheaf of paperwork. He smacked his purplish lips before he spoke.
“You may see Director Chevron now.”
Chapter 33
A MOMENT LATER, Michel Chevron, an unexpectedly small man with an equine face and shock of ink-black hair that stood up on his head like a fuzzy yarmulke, said, “Mr. Carroll, so good of you to come to Paris,” almost as if this transatlantic journey was something Carroll did every other day of the week.
Carroll was led into an intimidating, Old World chief executive’s office. Tall, glass-enclosed bookcases filled with antiquarian books crowded one paneled wall. Along the other, there were crimson-draped casement windows looking out onto a narrow gray stone terrace.
Michel Chevron remained standing behind his desk. He was obviously impressed with himself, his position and all the trappings that surrounded him. A regal Fragonard hung directly behind the bank executive.
The Frenchman began to speak rapid, excellent English as soon as his assistant left the room. His tone remained cool and superior.
“There is a problem, Monsieur Carroll. A regrettable circumstance, beyond anyone’s control. I’m very sorry, but I have an important engagement at Taillevent. The restaurant monsieur? The rest of my afternoon is equally bad… I can spare these few moments with you only.”
Arch Carroll could suddenly feel a very cold place in his stomach. He knew the sensation and be tried to ignore it, but a fuse was burning. When the spark reached close to his private emotional arsenal, there was very little he could do to stop the explosion.
“All right, then just shut the hell up now,” Carroll suddenly raised his hand, palm out. “I don’t have time to be civil anymore. You kept me waiting through my polite and civil period.”
The bank executive broke into a disdainful smile.
“Monsieur, you don’t seem to understand whose country you’re in now. This is not America, I’m afraid. You have no authority whatsoever here. I consented to see you, in the spirit of cooperation only.”
Carroll reached into his sports coat pocket and sent a light tan envelope spinning across Chevron’s desk.
“Here’s your spirit of cooperation. It’s a signed police warrant. A French police warrant for your arrest. It was signed by Commissionnaire Blanche of the SÛretÉ The charges include extortion, bribery of public officials, fraud. I’m honored to be the one to deliver the news to you.”
Michel Chevron sat down heavily in his chair. His aquiline features appeared to have imploded so that the face seemed squat, crinkled like a concertina that has had air thrust out of it.
“All right, Mr. Carroll.