The Paris Directive Read Online Free PDF

his chest heaving, the air rushing back into his lungs, the pink to his cheeks.
    “My wife …” he mumbled.
    “She’s here,” Mazarelle reassured him. “She’s fine. Next time don’t be a hero.”
    When the ambulance arrived and he’d helped the driver load them into the back, Mazarelle shook his head. What a jerk. But at least he’d tried. How could he have lived with himself if he hadn’t tried? Poor bastard. The sad truth is he would have lost either way. Mazarelle had learned that what really drives you crazy is when you know it’s hopeless, and there’s nothing you can do.

7
    CAFÉ VALON, TAZIAC
    N ot far from the main square in Taziac is the rue Blanche, a short, narrow, side street that rarely sees tourists and dead-ends in a scrap metal shop. On the right-hand side, with its blue neon sign in the window, is the Café Valon.
    Two old friends sat drinking at the end of the bar nearest the door. They’d been there all afternoon, their eyes glazed and watery. At the other end was Mickey Valon, who owned the place, talking to Thérèse, who used to work for him on and off before she had her baby. Thérèse wasn’t bad looking, if you liked the big-boned type, but a little worn around the edges. Her husband, Ali, was bent over the pool table in back, playing a game by himself and dreaming of a killing. He had the soul of a hustler.
    Except for Thérèse, all the other customers were men, and at that hour there weren’t too many of them. The café was filled with cigarette smoke and the heavy aroma of steaming meat coming from the kitchen. Suddenly the big dog curled at Thérèse’s feet jumped up and ran to the door, its friendly tail flailing the air. Mickey glanced across at the unshaven, long-haired hippie in the torn leather jacket who had just come in and told his mutt to stop bothering the customer. “Come here, you big dope! Come here, Javert.”
    The dog stuck around just long enough to be petted by the stranger and then bolted, darting behind the bar. Mickey asked the stranger what he’d like to drink. Reiner ordered a glass of rouge . As he waited, he glanced around the café and noticed the guy in back playing pool by himself. When his wine arrived, he paid, took a sip off the top, and carried his glass to the rear. Standing by the pooltable and drinking, Reiner silently watched the stick work of the guy with the blue bandanna tied around his head. The only sound the sharp clicking of the balls.
    Ali seemed to pay no attention to the stranger, letting the hook sink in good and deep before he looked up, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He asked the stranger if he wanted a game.
    “Pourquoi pas?” said Reiner, and snatched a cue from the rack.
    The Arab watched him and liked the casual way he did it. With none of the life-and-death attentiveness of an ace duelist selecting a pistol or a blade. It boded well. He held out his hand and introduced himself as Ali.
    “Pierre,” the stranger said. “Pierre Barmeyer.”
    From the bar, Thérèse anxiously tried to see what was going on in the back. They quickly settled on the stakes—a hundred points at twenty francs a game. Ali racked up the fifteen balls as if he’d been doing it all his life. They lagged and Reiner won the break, but when he hit his cue ball, it wedged itself harmlessly into the pack. Taking his turn, Ali not only managed to dig it out but pocketed a couple of balls in the process. He followed that with a string of three more before calling the 5-ball, which hung tantalizingly on the lip of the side pocket.
    Chalking his cue tip, Reiner dropped in number 5. His cue ball followed. “Merde!” he muttered under his breath. From that low point, things disintegrated, and in time Ali put him out of his misery.
    Reiner pulled out a twenty-franc note and tossed it on the table. Whisking it away, Ali invited him to another game.
    “D’accord,” he said eagerly.
    As they played, Thérèse came back and looked at Reiner. He fixed