Page 35 of A Mother’s Love

“I’m sure you are, but maybe they can make some suggestions, or offer their help.

And actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to check out the guardian here.

He is so overtly surly and disagreeable, maybe he’s in cahoots with the thief now.

” She gave him Henri Laurent’s name, the name of his employer and their address, and guessed him to be in his late forties or early fifties.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” the major said.

She hated to hurt his feelings with the FBI contact, and they hadn’t had long to solve the case, but she was grateful for any help they could get.

If they took too long, the thief might sell the bag in a panic for any amount before they caught him.

If there was any hope of getting her bag back, she wanted to at least try.

Bart sent her a text that said he’d pick her up at eight, but he didn’t say where they were going.

She didn’t care as long as it was with him.

His presence was very comforting and kept her going, from one day to the next.

She felt strangely disoriented being in a foreign country with a thief threatening her life.

She tried to continue editing her manuscript that afternoon and couldn’t concentrate. Both her daughters called her. They were sad to leave the boat and had loved their trip. They conferred after they talked to her, and even Olivia thought she sounded fine.

Halley started getting ready at six, and at seven-thirty, she was sitting in the study, waiting for Bart to arrive.

She was wearing the same black dress she had worn on New Year’s Eve, with a different necklace and big gold flower earrings with diamond centers.

The doorbell rang at the dot of eight and she let Bart in with a broad smile.

“Thank you for all the time you’re spending with me. I know you have things you want to do with your son.”

“I do, but they’re both working, and they won’t miss me. And they want to spend quiet time with each other.”

He had a car and driver outside, and they left the house quickly.

The reservation for dinner was at Alain Ducasse, where Bart knew they’d get an extraordinary meal.

He wanted to distract her and impress her.

She was quiet and poised on the way to the restaurant, and she relaxed visibly as the evening wore on.

He could see how stressed she was before that.

She put a good face on it, but he could tell she was nervous.

But with a little glass of Chateau d’Yquem at the end of the meal, after an excellent Bordeaux before that, she was in a warm haze as Bart paid the check, and a few minutes later, they walked out of the restaurant and through the Plaza Athénée hotel to his car waiting outside.

He had Halley get in quickly in case they’d been followed, and gave the driver the instruction to take them to Halley’s house.

It had been a delicious meal and a lovely evening, and they headed toward the Alexandre III Bridge to cross over to the Left Bank.

For Halley, being with Bart put the stalker into perspective.

As unpleasant as it was, it was a nasty episode and having her bag stolen and everything in it had upset her, but it wasn’t fatal or a tragedy, and she felt safe again being with Bart.

The bag and the thief shrank in importance, balanced by a civilized evening.

She felt as though she was getting her bearings again.

The calls from the thief had made her feel helpless and vulnerable.

They passed in the vicinity of the Faubourg St.-Honoré as they chatted in the car, and were suddenly faced by a wall of police, and additional squads in riot gear.

They were all carrying machine guns, and the riot police had bulletproof shields.

It looked like a war zone, and Bart frowned as he glanced out the car window.

There was a tank, and police buses and vans lined the streets.

A wall of riot police stopped their progress, and a police officer holding a machine gun approached the car, with a fierce expression, with his partner right behind him as backup.

Bart and Halley were being driven in a Mercedes, and were obviously a respectable couple with a driver, as both police officers signaled to lower the windows and glanced into the car.

Nothing they saw was alarming, but they were expressionless as they demanded everyone’s ID papers.

Terrorists hid in many guises, and no one was exempt.

The driver handed over his license, and Bart handed the police officer his passport. Halley didn’t react for a moment, and whispered to Bart.

“I don’t have a passport yet.” He nodded, and spoke calmly to the officer, who was flipping through Bart’s passport and handed it back. His partner had given the driver back his license. They looked expectantly at Halley, and she showed empty hands. She spoke to them in her limited French.

“I’m American. My passport was stolen a week ago. My bag was stolen, it was in it.” The policeman answered her in heavily accented but adequate English.

“You must have an identity card or passport,” he said firmly.

She showed him the copy on her phone, getting nervous as Bart stepped in.

The driver had checked his phone by then and knew what the problem was.

There had been an attempt on the president’s life by armed gunmen at the élysées Palace.

Two of the terrorists had been killed at the Palace, but four had escaped and were at large.

A massive manhunt was on in the area to find them.

Traffic had been stopped all over Paris, all emergency vehicles and riot squads were deployed, and the exits from the city had been blocked.

“Please exit from the car,” the first police officer said to her, and conferred with his partner, who went to get his superior.

Bart spoke to the officer. “My friend was the victim of a theft a week ago. All of her identification papers were stolen with her bag,” he explained again, and Bart spoke to Halley over his shoulder.

“Do you have a copy of the complaint with you?” he asked her.

Her eyes were wide as she shook her head.

She had left it at the house, not thinking she’d need it.

“Exit the car now,” the officer said in English.

Bart opened the door, she stepped out, and he got out with her.

“Stand aside,” the officer said to Bart, and it was clear that this was not the time to argue, with half a dozen machine guns pointed at them, since there appeared to be a problem.

Halley stood alone with the police a few feet from her, in her black dress and coat and high heels.

She looked like what she was, a very attractive, chic woman, who appeared to be totally harmless, but the police were taking no chances.

A senior officer approached then, assessed the situation, and spoke to his men in French, as Bart spoke up again from where he stood and didn’t attempt to approach. He didn’t want to exacerbate the situation, and remained visibly calm and cooperative.

“This woman is a famous American writer,” Bart said clearly in English.

“If you have access to the internet here, you can look her up. Her name is Halley Holbrook, and I can vouch for her.” He took a card out of his wallet, making slow, smooth, measured gestures so as not to startle them.

He handed them the business card that said he was a CEO, and he looked important.

“She must have a passport or an identity card, not a copy on her phone,” the superior spoke firmly.

“You have one, she does not.” He signaled to his men then.

“We must keep her in custody, in garde a vue, in supervision until she can prove her identity. Paris is under a state of emergency, monsieur.” And before Bart said anything, there was an officer in riot gear on either side of Halley, and they were leading her away, with a determined grip on her arms. She glanced over her shoulder at Bart, trying not to panic, while he wanted to stop them, but doing so would have risked both their lives in the circumstances.

They could have been shot if the slightest movement was misunderstood.

She had to go with them, and be taken into custody.

“I’ll take care of it right away,” he called out to Halley, and she nodded, and followed her police guard looking docile and scared.

Her life felt totally out of control suddenly.

Bart had his phone immediately in his hand when he got back in the car, and called his friend in Washington.

It was still early there. He didn’t answer and Bart left a message.

Before they put Halley in a police car, they searched her and took her phone.

“Could I keep that?” she asked in French. It was her lifeline and it frightened her even more to give it up.

“No.” They pointed her to get in and she did, and Bart saw the police car leave the scene almost immediately, and they told his chauffeur to drive on a few minutes later.

By then the driver had informed Bart of the attempt on the president’s life.

They had pulled out all the stops to find the four fugitive attackers.

Bart’s heart was pounding as they left the scene.

He felt terrible for Halley. They’d had such a nice evening until then.

“Do you know where they’d take her?” Bart asked the driver, and he shook his head.

“To a police station, but they won’t tell us which one.

They won’t let her go until she gives them proof of her identity.

” Bart called his friend again and got no answer, and then remembered that he had Major Leopold’s contact information in his phone, to share with the FBI, when Halley had given it to him.

He quickly called him, got no answer, and left an urgent message, explaining what had happened, and asking for his assistance.