The two men jumped Stanislas outside the burned-out
apartment building, and he realized he had made a mistake. He raised his cane
to strike, but too late. They muscled
him, shouting, up the long flight of stairs and into the drafty room, and then
they got serious.
The one with the German accent, grunting exertion,
bear hugged him several steps and threw him hard onto a stool, making Stanislas
cry out from pain that spiked up his bad leg.
Next the accomplice yanked his arms behind, and he went to work, and
everything went dark.
And afterwards, when Stanislas jerked to struggle
loose, the man with the accent clamped a hand on his shoulder and warned in
French, “Monsieur Cassel, please don’t.”
This menacing courtesy frightened Stanislas even more. This stranger, who had helped ambush him,
knew his name.
“Monsieur Cassel,” the man continued, “you are a
powerful examining magistrate here in Paris.
You have investigated and solved many crimes. You know the high and mighty and have even indicted some. Fearless, according to the media. But you do not sit in your Ministry of
Justice Annex office. And you cannot
command the police to rescue you. You
are in an abandoned tenement, alone and powerless.
“Our house rules: Not a word, please. I talk.
You listen. You answer. A simple shake of your head for a ‘no.’ A
simple nod for a ‘yes.’ Short and
simple. House rules, as I said, because we cannot waste time. Understand?”
And Stanislas, through his shock at having walked
into a trap, just nodded. House rules.
The man with the accent squeezed his shoulder hard.
“Luc has roped your hands behind you.
Understand?”
Stanislas nodded yes.
“He has blindfolded you. Understand?”
Yes.
“He has taken away your cane. Briefly, monsieur, you are our
prisoner. Do you understand how serious
your situation is?”
Again, yes.
A cell phone beeped. Another man answered, Luc no doubt, Stanislas guessed, and in
French and on the second ring, as though expecting the caller. In the near silence, as Luc listened,
someone somewhere outside in the fog pounded an angry beat on congas. Through the throb, Stanislas could hear
behind him Luc mumble words that sounded like code. Something about bringing the car around. Something about keeping the headlights
low. Do this, Luc ordered. Do that.
And Stanislas thought, they’re going to kill me.
Luc flipped shut his cell with a harsh click. He had finished chatting. “Three minutes,” he said. “Now what, gag him?”