Which brings us here, Gobi.
Not quite, but close enough.
With everything that’s been written and broadcast and blogged about us in those final few hours in Paris, official and otherwise, you would think that the full story had been mapped out. And to the extent that the facts tell the story, that’s true. There were definitely aspects of the investigation that Nolan’s people withheld from the public, especially when the lead was still flying and the blood was still wet, but none of that really affected the outcome in any concrete way.
In the end it boiled down to this:
A woman, only twenty-four years old, died on top of the Eiffel Tower that night.
As far as the record is concerned, those are the facts.
Here is the rest.
The wet metal railing is flaking nine hundred feet up, rusty, worn smooth in places from the millions of eager hands that have gripped it over the years, gazing down over the lights of Paris. It’s so cold up here that I already can’t feel my fingertips, even with my hands stuffed down in the pockets of my parka. I stopped feeling my earlobes and the tip of my nose somewhere on the elevator ride to the top.
Despite the darkness and the temperature, plenty of tourists are still milling around up here posing for pictures, pointing out landmarks far below in a half-dozen different languages. Being here makes them feel glamorous somehow, part of something bigger than themselves. They act like celebrities at a photo shoot. They pose and preen. They air-kiss and vamp. They’ve got bottled water and hot chocolate and sandwiches from the bistro and plastic bags from the souvenir shop one floor below the main observation deck. There have been no additional security checks at ticket windows tonight, and why would there be? The afternoon’s assault off the rue Oberkampf was an isolated incident, the identity of its sole fatality not yet released to the public, but certainly not a cause for panic in the City of Lights. No one has mentioned anything to the authorities about keeping an eye on the Eiffel Tower in particular, because if such a person were to do that, neither one of us could have come up here.
I never would have seen you again.
And I see you now.
You’re standing twenty yards away, waiting for me on the opposite side of the platform with your arms crossed and your back to the railing. We’re a thousand feet above the most beautiful city in the world, and you’re only looking at me.
The wind and rain blow hard in my face, making my eyes water a little, and when I come closer and wipe them clear, I can see you’re bleeding. Not much, not yet. It’s running down your face from your right nostril. From here, I can’t tell whether you recognize me or not.
“Gobi.”
You smile sadly. You say something in Lithuanian. It sounds like a prayer.
“Where did you leave the FedEx van?”
You blink and gaze back at me.
“Where’s my family?”
Your eyes flick down and up to me again, almost tentatively, but without true recognition. It’s as if you’ve spotted someone in an airport, an old acquaintance whose face is familiar but whose name you can’t recall.
“I know you like them,” I say. “I know you’d never do anything to hurt them. Just tell me where they are.”
You smile again, then wince and touch your head, as if it suddenly hurts very badly.
“My mom and dad and my little sister, Annie,” I say. “You know them. You can picture their faces.”
You just shake your head.
Then, a few seconds later, you pull out the gun.