With a hiss of air brakes and the metallic scream of steel on steel, the train rolled into Gare de Lyon. Early on a July morning, Alex stepped onto the platform beneath the iron-and-glass vault of Paris"s great eastern terminal, his hands buried deep in the pockets of a worn-out jacket. The air smelled of iron, cigarettes, and something greasy and fried drifting in from the food stalls lined along the concourse.
He walked slowly down the platform among a dense cluster of Albanian refugees, studying the station with open curiosity. The building, erected in the middle of the nineteenth century, rose around him with theatrical grandeur.
Five hours earlier, at Strasbourg, French gendarmes and railway staff had failed to stop a shouting crowd barking orders and curses in a foreign tongue. Several hundred dark-haired men, women, and children had stormed five cars of an express train, simply taking them over. As a result, dozens of local residents and travelers bound for Paris were left stranded on the platform, tickets clenched uselessly in their hands.
Alex had slipped neatly into the chaos. Blending in with refugees from a country torn apart by civil war, he"d ridden for free.
The old station-recently celebrating the 150th anniversary of the start of its construction-impressed him with its pomp and, above all, with two massive mural panels mounted over the exits leading from the platforms into the main hall.
He didn"t know their titles, but as a budding amateur of painting he studied them with genuine interest.
The first radiated exuberance: young men being sent off to the front during the First World War, faces bright with patriotic fervor. The second was its grim counterweight-wounded soldiers and invalids returning from German captivity, hollow-eyed and broken.
Having satisfied his aesthetic hunger, Alex became acutely aware of a more physical one. He scanned the hall for a caf; he could afford.
The brasseries Le Train Bleu and La Vigne Saint-Laurent, barely twenty steps away, were dismissed instantly-their patrons looked like well-fed German burghers and French bourgeois. Instead, Alex headed for a humbler option, a station eatery with the plain name La Place.
Its glass wall stood right by the station exit. To the left of the entrance were buffet cases stacked with snacks, pastries, and glazed fruit. Beneath wide windows overlooking the forecourt stretched the baristas" domain: three nimble young men commanding a dozen coffee machines, somehow keeping up with the steady human tide of arriving and departing passengers.
Alex stepped into La Place and took it all in. Just beyond the wide-open glass doors stood suitcases of every size imaginable. Beside a couple of them, two children-no more than seven years old-sat directly on the marble floor.
Standing guard, Alex thought as he passed tall tables mounted on black metal legs.
He moved past groups clustered around the bar tables, listening to fragments of conversation. Male and female voices overlapped in French, German, and Serbo-Croatian.
No Anglo-Saxons, no Americans would ever eat breakfast in a place like this, Alex thought. Cheap food for locals below the middle class, tightfisted Germans, and broke Balkan refugees.
He placed his order, took a cappuccino from the barista, and set his tray on an empty table. He hadn"t finished his cheese-smothered fries when two solidly built men stopped beside him. Their clothes marked them unmistakably as Eastern Europeans. Alex had seen their type more than once in Strasbourg: tense, speaking in low voices, eyes sharp and constantly measuring the room.
That"s how inexperienced outsiders behave, he thought. The ones sniffing around for petty theft or small-time scams. If they"re Yugoslavs, Romanians, or Bulgarians, I won"t get much useful information out of them.
They were discussing their order-in Ukrainian.
"We barely have enough money for coffee," said the shaved-head one. "No croissants this time."
"With cups of coffee we"ll stick out like idiots," the second replied. "If we don"t order anything at all, the waiter will know right away we"re not here to eat."
"Guys," Alex cut in quietly. "Order the croissants. They"re worth it. Don"t worry about the money-I"ll cover it."
"And why didn"t you order any for yourself?" the bald one asked, without surprise.
"I had them in the dining car," Alex lied smoothly. "Two hours ago."
"And where are you from, so quick on your feet?" the second switched to Russian.
"Strasbourg. Broke up with a local girl-so here I am," Alex answered truthfully.
"Why"d you split?" the first asked suspiciously.
"The Fr;ulein didn"t like my past," Alex said, then deftly steered the conversation elsewhere. "I get the sense you"re not tourists. How about this: I buy you croissants, you give me information. Deal?"
"Depends on what you want to know," the second Ukrainian replied. "Some information costs more than any croissant."
"I"m not sticking my nose into your business. I just want to know where in Paris homeless people get fed-and where the police don"t chase them off. I need a safe place to lie low while I learn French."
"They hand out food during the day at Gare d"Austerlitz," the bald one explained, now in Russian. "At night, you can crash at Gare de Lyon."
"How do I get there?"
"There"s an escalator by the main departure board down to the metro. Take Line Five. Get off at Austerlitz and hang around the station area till dark. In the evening, walk back to Gare de Lyon-it"s close."
"Thanks, guys. Here"s twenty. Enough for a couple of plain croissants," Alex said, setting a crumpled Debussy note on the tray.
And he walked away.
Chapter Two
Thirty-year-old Stevo, a Romani gypsy, and his henchman Besik were sitting on the steps of the grand staircase that led to the most pretentious restaurant in the French capital-Le Train Bleu. Behind the oak doors hid an entire Belle ;poque museum: ceilings painted with pastoral scenes, gilded columns, massive chandeliers, mirrors in baroque frames, carpets meant for ministers and millionaires. A place where waiters wore white gloves and steaks were served on porcelain edged with cobalt blue.
But neither the leader of the Roma of Paris"s 12th arrondissement nor, especially, his right-hand man had the faintest idea what lay behind those oak doors. To them, the restaurant was just a building overhead-at their backs-where an iron staircase began. Inside there were fairies on the ceilings, Napoleonic table settings, and waiters gliding as if across a mirrored stage. But Stevo and Besik weren"t looking there. Their attention was fixed on the human current flowing below the stairs-the stream of potential profit.
Stevo studied the passengers of Gare de Lyon with care. He assessed jewelry, clothes, shoes, luggage, age. He weighed who could be intimidated and robbed, and who was better left alone. Besik, meanwhile, was openly gawking at girls and young women, imagining himself with them in secluded corners.
Three years earlier, Stevo had lived in Lun;k IX, a Roma housing project built in Ko;ice back in the socialist days. The son of a gypsy baron, he lent money on his father"s behalf to poor neighbors. The interest was steep-one percent per day. He collected debts the very hour welfare recipients came out of the post office. The job demanded decisiveness, fast reactions, and cruelty.
Stevo usually worked alone. His authority came from his father"s title, and he only took on helpers when he saw real potential. One of those was Besik Stojko-his partner in courtyard ping-pong.
Besik was five years younger, but stood out for his loyalty, courage, and organizational instincts. Unlike the lone-wolf Stevo, Besik led a gang of teenagers operating in the area between the school, a shabby grocery store, and a church.
There was nothing to steal from the locals-grimy children, perpetually pregnant women with sad eyes, potbellied men in tank tops and track pants. So the kids mostly targeted tourists who wandered into their neighborhood by mistake.
Stevo and Besik might have spent their entire lives in nine-story blocks with water and electricity cut off for nonpayment, if one day a British couple hadn"t parked a rented Daewoo compact on Khrebendova Street.
The moment the car stopped, a pack of boys aged ten to twelve rushed it.
"Money! Give us money!" they chanted in English, pounding their fists against the windows.
The woman behind the wheel leaned on the horn.
"Beeeeeeep!"
The kids responded by pulling faces. The oldest jumped onto the hood and began smashing his heel against the windshield.
"Get out of the car, you bitches!" he shouted, laughing as the glass cracked beneath his feet.
The man in the passenger seat tried to shield his wife from flying shards and didn"t notice a group of teenagers led by Besik approaching from his side. Realizing this wouldn"t stop the attackers, the Brit yanked the door open. One of the boys was knocked down, hit his head on the asphalt, and lost consciousness.
The windshield bowed inward. The woman covered her face with her hands. The husband, ignoring the boy he"d knocked down, grabbed the kid on the hood by the leg and flung him off the car. In that same instant, Besik stabbed him in the right side with a knife.
The man screamed and collapsed onto the pavement.
The children scattered. Besik"s teens quickly rifled through the victim"s pockets and headed toward an abandoned building with empty window sockets like dead eyes.
The attackers didn"t know that satellite phones were already widely used in Britain. They also didn"t know the woman had managed to report the attack to Scotland Yard in London.
By the time police arrived, the Brit was dead. Through tears, the woman described the killer-height, facial features, age, clothing, hairstyle. It was enough for local police to put out an alert.
And Besik, who had left the knife buried in the victim"s body, soon found himself wanted.
A few days later, police cars with sirens screaming stormed into Lun;k IX.
The district erupted in riot. Stevo organized it. Under his leadership, Roma smashed school windows, trashed the grocery store, and pelted police with stones.
To suppress the unrest, authorities deployed the army. With soldiers backing them up, police restored order.
Knowing freedom was no longer an option, Stevo and Besik ran. They escaped in the luggage compartment of a long-distance bus to Prague, then hitchhiked their way to Paris.
________________________________________
Three years later, a pair of well-dressed young men-about twenty-five-sat on the lowest step of the same staircase.
Behind them, like a boomerang arcing upward, ran the elegant iron staircase from the platforms of Gare de Lyon to the doors of Le Train Bleu. Wrought-iron railings and ornate steps lured weary travelers into one of Paris"s most exquisite restaurants.
Besik looked flashy, deliberately loud. His curls were hidden under a black low-crowned hat. On his shoulders-a red denim jacket with chest pockets, underneath a T-shirt with a large GUCCI logo. Over it all, a massive gold chain. Dark-blue skinny jeans and black ankle boots completed the look. He had always been theatrical-loved gold rings, bright accessories, stylistic excess. Despite Stevo"s mockery, Besik had long crossed the line between flair and vulgarity.
Stevo dressed more modestly. For him, quality and comfort mattered more than trends. The only rule was that clothing must not undermine the image of a man who inspired fear. He wore black boots, jeans, a sweater, and a leather jacket. Hiding from Slovak authorities, he had dyed his hair white and now went by Blond.
Stevo"s dark-brown eyes scanned the travelers carefully. Like a pack leader, he hunted-judging where a person came from, what they did, whether they were dangerous, whether they could be shaken down for money, or whether it would be a waste of time. Spotting a young man walking slowly and staring up at the wall paintings, Stevo nudged his lieutenant with an elbow.
"See the kid staring at the frescoes?"
"With the backpack?" Besik уточнил.
"Yeah. Looks Russian or Ukrainian. Bring him here. He"s our client."
"As the old gypsy saying goes: If they won"t let us rob stores, we"ll rob people," Besik grinned and headed toward Alex.
Alex was walking slowly past boutiques that had recently replaced ticket counters. He wasn"t looking at the displays; his gaze was fixed on the ceiling-on the painting stretching for dozens of meters overhead.
Cities and landscapes, cathedrals and castles, coats of arms and names-Jean-Baptiste Olive"s colorful panorama was meant to inspire travelers to journey south. Alex didn"t know that. He thought he was looking at real frescoes. He loved painting, though he understood little about it.
Besik slipped past unnoticed, turned, matched his pace, and said in a mix of Russian, Slovak, and Ukrainian:
"Legend has it that right here, at Gare de Lyon, gypsies from eastern Slovakia stole a suitcase full of manuscripts from Hemingway"s wife."
"I"m surprised you even know who Hemingway is," Alex said.
"I didn"t. Blond told me. He"s the son of the baron of Ko;ice"s Lun;k Nine district."
"And what is Lun;k, exactly-and where?" Alex asked.
"Eastern Slovakia. The most hardcore neighborhood in Europe," the gypsy replied with a grin.
"And where"s Blond himself?"
"Come on, I"ll take you. He"s waiting by the stairs of the fanciest restaurant in Paris," Besik smiled.
Stevo was still sitting in the same place. His posture had changed-he was leaning back, resting on his elbows.
"First day in Paris?" he asked, looking at Alex from under his lashes.
"Just got in from Strasbourg," Alex replied calmly.
"And what were you doing there?"
"What does a Russian runaway do on the German border without knowing the language?" Alex shrugged. "Stole stuff and fucked a young German girl."
"And why"d you leave?"
"She got scared. Too law-abiding. Afraid that if I got caught, I"d rat her out and she"d lose her job."
"I see. Stay out of the center-you"ve got nothing to do there. Go downstairs-there"s a shelter for the homeless. Come back here tomorrow. You"ll work under me. Name"s Blond. I"m in charge between this station and Austerlitz. If you can"t find me, give the money to Besik. He"s my right hand," Stevo said, nodding toward his man.
"And what exactly do I do?"
"Stand by a shop entrance. Open doors for tourists. Just two phrases in French: Welcome and Come again. You"ll learn them?"
"I speak English fluently. French-not yet. But I"m sure in a day I"ll pronounce it without an accent," Alex answered.
"Good. Terms are simple: we put you on a spot, you give us half your take. Try to screw us, and we"ll cut your throat and dump the body in the river," Stevo said, pulling an antique Italian stiletto from his pocket and lifting it to Alex"s eye level.
Chapter Three
The next morning Alex woke up on a folding cot among a hundred homeless drifters. After a hasty breakfast-one third of a baguette with cheese and a cup of lousy coffee in a paper cup, kindly provided by volunteers from the Abb; Pierre Foundation-he set off in search of the station"s metro entrance.
Alex had money, but he didn"t bother buying a ticket. He hopped the turnstile with practiced ease, ran down the stairs to the platform, and jumped into the open doors of the first train heading down the Yellow Line toward its terminus, Ch;teau de Vincennes.
He had never seen a fortress of that scale in his short life. Stopping at the drawbridge over a deep moat, Alex read the historical plaque in English and couldn"t help comparing the fortifications to the Kremlin.
Built a century later by Ivan the Terrible, the Kremlin was defended worse than the residence of Charles V, he thought. Seeing the ticket prices for the castle tour, he decided to postpone entertainment for later.
Alex wandered the streets around the medieval residence of French monarchs and quickly realized that in this quiet, affluent neighborhood he would have neither enemies nor competitors in his first French job. He didn"t know that by strolling along General de Gaulle Street and Franklin Roosevelt Avenue, across Lumi;re Square and Anatole France Promenade, he was actually in the respectable Val-de-Marne department rather than Paris proper.
The absence of police-so characteristic of the city center where he"d spent the two weeks since arriving in France-both surprised and delighted him. Looking at restaurants with open terraces, caf;s without window frames, and small shops standing wide open, he felt as though he"d stumbled into a paradise made just for him. The idyllic calm of the locals, the carefree tourists, the friendliness and attentiveness of waiters, bartenders, and shopkeepers all seemed unreal.
On the quiet Rue de Picpus, Alex stopped in front of the nightclub bearing the same name.
Perfect, he thought, studying the club"s black-and-red sign. If the windows are shuttered during the day, that means it runs all night. This is where I"ll start my career as a doorman. While it"s warm, I"ll sleep in the park right behind the castle. Let the gypsies keep hunting for other suckers at the station.
After a quick bite at a cheap Thai joint called Tamarin, Alex crossed Avenue de Paris and headed toward Parc Floral via Place des Mar;chaux.
Neither the Valley of Flowers, nor the Garden of Four Seasons, nor the exotic plants collected from all over the world in the Vincennes botanical gardens impressed him. What he did note was the accessibility and excellent condition of the public toilets-and the abundance of winding paths and secluded dead ends with benches hidden away.
I was right. No homeless people on the outskirts-they don"t give handouts here. It"s safe. I"ll come here after the club closes and sleep till noon.
Late that same evening, Alex stood in front of Le Picpus, opening the door for guests with the words, "Welcome." Slender mademoiselles in black dresses, escorted by gallant messieurs dressed in black suits and shoes, smiled at the young doorman and slipped him small bills.
When dawn came and the guests had dispersed, Alex sat down on the short carpet runner at the club entrance and began counting the night"s take. A waitress and a bartender stepped out through the glass door. Both were dressed to match the night crowd. The woman looked slightly older than Alex; the bartender was over thirty.
"Hey, do you speak French?" the waitress asked.
"English only," Alex replied.
"You"re a hero," the bartender said, impressed. "You stood here from nine p.m. to four a.m. in front of a place this gloomy with just one French phrase-and you didn"t even step away once. Come inside, hit the restroom while we make you something to eat."
Alex followed the hospitable Frenchmen toward the men"s room. Along the way he studied the interior and couldn"t quite grasp where he was. Black tables stood against walls of rough-hewn stone; wooden chairs had red leather seats. A coffin hung from chains above the bar, and in the corner near the men"s room door stood an iron cage, eerily similar to the holding cells in police stations back in his hometown of Reutov.
When Alex returned to the hall, the waitress had already brought a plate of snacks and a pair of ;clairs. She was sitting across the table and wiping makeup from her face with a napkin. The bartender carried a tray with three tall glasses of beer, set them down, sat beside Alex, and asked:
"So where do you live, kid?"
"Not far from here," Alex said, taking a seat in front of the food.
"You are looking for steady work or was this just a one-night thing?" the waitress asked, watching him with a smile.
Alex carefully bit into an ;clair, trying not to spill chocolate custard onto the table. Still chewing, he raised his index finger.
"Then come back at eight tonight. Try to find suitable clothes. Big youth party-about fifty people. In a crowd like that, nobody knows everyone. You"ll have a blast."
"I"ll be here," Alex replied. He drained his beer in one gulp and, slightly buzzed, added, "Will everyone be dressed in black again tonight? I"m asking so I know what counts as suitable."
The bartender laughed.
"In this club, guests are always dressed in black. It"s a trendy youth subculture. They call themselves goths."
"So, I get it-you"re both in black too, but you"re not part of it?"
"Exactly. It"s just business. We don"t share their views, but we follow the tradition for profit"s sake. Listen, kid-you"ve got good English, but you"re not British. Where are you from, so modest-looking?" he asked.
"Russia. And I"m not modest at all-more like combative when needed, bold, with a history," Alex replied.
"Combative, huh," the man snorted. "Alright. If you pass initiation into the goth brotherhood tonight, come back the day after tomorrow for work. You"re young, but you look solid. After a trial period, we"ll promote you from doorman to bouncer."
"Do you have trouble with your crowd?" Alex asked.
"Not with ours," the waitress said. "But other youth groups hate them-especially skinheads and metalheads. So you won"t be dealing with regulars, but with uninvited guests."
Paris was still asleep. In the pre-dawn twilight, Alex headed toward the park hoping to get a few hours of rest while foreign tourists slept in hotels and sipped coffee with almond macarons and sabl;s. But his plan to hide away in a secluded corner of the park fell apart. At that early hour-when visiting slackers were still luxuriating in hotel beds-the park was full of locals: cyclists, runners, and fans of the increasingly popular Nordic walking.
Assessing the new fitness craze, Alex thought, Bunch of wannabe skiers, and walked along Avenue Daumesnil toward the Vincennes Zoo.
To his left, behind a line of parked cars, stretched dense forest. To his right stood a two-meter-high fence topped with sharp metal spikes, shielding the homes of the wealthy from envious eyes. Alex walked the sidewalk, peering over the fence at heavily pruned trees. Thick elm branches had been sawn off, sticking up like severed stumps of raised arms.
In the middle of the block between Alphand Street and de Gaulle, Alex noticed that the poplar crowns in front of house number 37 rose several meters higher than those in neighboring yards. He stopped and looked around.
Despite the no-parking markings in front of private gates, cars are packed tightly along the entire curb here, he thought. Looks like the owners haven"t been around in a long time. Worth checking. Can"t pass up a chance like this.
He put a foot on the base of the fence and pretended to tie his shoelaces, scanning the street. It was deserted; only the occasional car sped past.
Go, Alex ordered himself. He jumped, grabbed the metal spikes, pulled himself up, swung his weight over, and seconds later landed in the courtyard of a two-story villa.
Weaving through overgrown forsythia and boxwood, moving quickly across open spaces, the uninvited guest reached the back entrance.
The upper half of the door was stained glass. In the center, framed by gilded wire, were two white lilies. Around the large flowers, one in each corner, were dark-blue glass squares.
Alex leaned against the stained glass and peered inside through the clear crystal. No movement.
Overgrown bushes and grass, untrimmed trees, illegally parked cars in front, silence inside, he listed mentally. All signs point to an empty house.
As he ran through the checklist, he wrapped his T-shirt around his fist.
After one last glance around, the burglar struck the dark-blue glass square nearest the handle. A thick piece of crystal fell onto the mat beneath the door and remained intact. Alex slipped his hand through the opening, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
White fabric covered the furniture in every room and utility space of the villa-lampshades, porcelain fixtures, the TV, paintings on the walls. The only thing uncovered was a large rug in the middle of the living room, surrounded by plush armchairs.
After a quick sweep, Alex returned to the back door and carefully set the broken glass back in place. In the kitchen, he tested the faucets. Cold water pressure was good; the hot tap only hissed. He flicked the living room lights on and off. Satisfied, the exhausted young man lay down on the sofa, pulled a white sheet over himself, and fell fast asleep.
The new occupant of the house on Avenue Daumesnil woke closer to evening. Stretching luxuriously, he scanned the room and headed to the kitchen in search of food. The refrigerator was empty and unplugged. Upstairs, he inspected two large master bedrooms and a smaller child"s room. He found nothing of value in closets or bedside tables but noted several conservative suits hanging in the man"s wardrobe-one of them black.
Alex had no doubt he"d find one. He knew that everyone reaches an age when funerals become part of life-and the older you get, the more frequent they are.
At thirty, a man rents a black suit for a funeral and returns it afterward. In old age, cemeteries became routine, Alex thought. The owner of this house is clearly over sixty. Which means my outfit for the goth party is hanging right in front of me. All I need now is a dark shirt and black shoes. Ideally, I could wear a black felt hat too. Never dreamed of one, but if I"m supposed to look like a clown, why not go all the way?
He took the suit off the hanger and tossed it onto the wide bed. Opposite the king-sized bed stood an ornate dresser on curved legs. Inside, Alex found a black shirt still in its store packaging and a new white tie.
The shirt, pants, and shoes fit him poorly-in size and in age. Still, he put them on and went into the bathroom. Studying his reflection carefully, Alex took a beautiful bottle of perfume from the shelf and, ignoring the silhouette of a woman on the label, squeezed the atomizer a couple of times. Bathed in expensive fragrance, he gave his reflection a thumbs-up and said:
"Nice."
Wearing the unbuttoned jacket once owned by a successful older businessman, Alex sat at a nightclub table with a group of young French people. The Parisians were slightly older than him and peppered him with questions in English about youth life in Russia.
"We don"t have punks, rockers, or goths," Alex said, answering yet another question about Moscow subcultures. "In Russia, a guy"s life splits into two parts-before the army or prison, and after. The lucky ones, like me, who got into a gang early became professional criminals by eighteen. The rest-those without the guts-became gopniks."
"What are gopniks?" asked a thin girl with a strand of black hair covering half her face.
"Street trash banded into small crews that operate in their own neighborhood," Alex replied.
"And what do these crews do?" she asked. Neither she nor her friends understood his untranslatable slang.
"They loiter around shaking down passersby for pocket change or beating up drunks and homeless people. Some even dress it up with ideology, calling themselves the city"s sanitation workers."
"Got it-like English football fans," one of the guys summed up. "Hooligans, basically."
"And what are you going to do in Paris?" the thin girl asked. "Want to join us?"
"You"re good people-not mean, but very sad. I like to laugh, joke, and pull pranks. Thanks for the evening, but my road doesn"t run with yours," Alex replied. He finished his beer and left Le Picpus.
Chapter Four
Alex went down to the lower level of Gare de Lyon just as the clock on the tower-resembling London"s Big Ben-struck seven a.m. After the brutal night he"d spent at the goth club, he looked worn down. His head was splitting from the beer, and the wrinkled suit-clearly borrowed from someone else"s shoulders-made him look older than his years.
Stevo and Besik spotted him, exchanged surprised glances, and moved to intercept.
"Where the hell have you been?" Besik asked, blocking his path.
"Get lost," Alex snapped, shoving past them and walking on.
"Money," Stevo shouted after him.
"I don"t have time for you, filthy beggars," Alex replied without turning around. He raised his fist and slowly extended his middle finger.
"Maybe we teach him a lesson? Right now?" Besik suggested.
"Too many people," Stevo said calmly. "We"ll catch him at night, under the de Gaulle bridge, and spill his guts."
"We promised to dump his body in the Seine. Next time, we will," Besik agreed.
Alex, already nearing the food distribution table, walked past dozens of cots crowded with homeless men and women and didn"t hear a word of it. He wasn"t hungry. A baguette with cheese and coffee in a plastic cup held no appeal.
In the long line of refugees of every nationality mixed with local clochards, three men caught his eye-faces that clearly belonged somewhere in the former Soviet Union.
"One of them is definitely Georgian," Alex thought. "Hawk nose, talks with his hands like an Italian. The other two-probably Moldovans. Sluggish replies, nervous glances. Let"s test it."