SYNTHESIS
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Chapter 03 - "En Route"

"Madame," the flight attendant said in a brisk voice, touching her upper arm, "you will need to return to your seat in a few minutes. We will be landing presently."

"Thank you," Alex said, lifting her head from Bobby's shoulder. The flight attendant moved on and she kissed his cheek.

"I've been awake," he said, pushing up his sleep mask. "I didn't want to wake you."

"I'll be back," she said with some urgency, then did a hurried check in her crossbag and vanished.

The flight attendants were collecting leftover paper products and cups as Alex returned from the rest room, where she'd washed her face, reapplied makeup, combed her hair, and refreshed her lipstick. She still had the small makeup mirror from the kit in hand and passed it to Bobby, who chuckled. "Do I look disheveled after my nap, Eames?"

"I thought you might want to look your best for the great Duplantiers," she said with a sniff. "What's the time here? I suppose I won't know on my Fitbit until my phone connects to wifi somewhere."

Bobby was adding six hours to the time shown on his faithful Seiko watch just as the aircraft chime rang and the intercom kicked in, with a pilot who had, not a French accent as might be expected, but a rich Italian cadence instead. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are on final approach to Aéroport Charles De Gaulle. Please turn off all portable electronic devices and stow them until we have arrived at the gate..."

"In answer to your question, about one a.m.," Bobby responded as the pilot continued, and she smiled to herself, because, despite the somber reason for their flight and the unorthodox summons, she was feeling anticipatory as well, and knew by the restless shifting of his legs that he had the same sentiment. Following instructions, she stowed her makeup items, then buckled herself in; Bobby was already straining to the right to see the Paris lights below them. The flight attendants strolled by once more and it seemed as if it were only a few minutes later that they could feel the flaps of the big aircraft "brake" itself in midair and its descent angle increase. She reached out her hand to clasp Bobby's and held it tightly.

The intercom crackled. "Ladies and gentlemen, those in the window seats on the starboard side of the aircraft should be able to see Tour Eiffel in a few minutes."

She leaned as far to the right as she could and he shifted in his seat in anticipation as the skyline of Paris passed to their right below them, both the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe clearly visible, as well as strong spotlights highlighting the reconstruction on the Cathedral Notre Dame. She smiled at his look of wonder. "You know, Bobby, you've traveled so much I thought you would be more blasé."

He couldn't tear his eyes from the window. "About seeing Paris? I haven't traveled that much, Alex—just that brief trip to Oxford. I know I was stationed in Germany and Korea, but sightseeing feels different when you're doing it on military leave rather than solely being a tourist. And I've never been to France. I still remember my first time reading Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas. I longed to walk the Paris streets, visit the site where the Bastille had been, see Montmartre and the garrets where the artists starved, and the clubs where the can-can girls did their scandalous acts."

Alex chuckled at the latter, then sobered. "If we have a week's stay I hope there's time for a little sightseeing. I assume the great Madame will not be meeting us at the airport."

"My notes state that we will be met at the gate—yes, it is good to be the king—by someone who will shepherd us through customs and baggage claim, and then to Maison Duplantier. It's about 58 kilometers from the airport, within the limits of the village of Bouilloire just outside the city of Domont." He smiled. "'Bouilloire' means 'kettle.' I wonder where it got its name. An ironworks in the area, perhaps, that made cooking pots? Or perhaps a glacial kettle pond from the ice age-" Now able to tear his gaze from the window as the plane gently bumped upon landing, he saw her grin.

"It's nice to know traveling to the big city doesn't spoil you," she said mischievously.

They were quiet while the plane negotiated the remainder of the runway and rolled to a stop at the jetway. As soon as the engine noise lessened, the intercom came to crisp life again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Air France welcomes you to Aéroport Charles De Gaulle and Paris, the City of Light. The local time is one-oh-six, and the temperature is 9 Celsius, or 48 degrees for those of you still on Fahrenheit." Alex was sleepy now and realized she must have drifted off, because suddenly the pilot was finishing, "-enjoy your stay in Paris. For those of you continuing to Rome, please stay seated while the other passengers disembark."

In a few minutes they were able to take their carry-ons and laptops and exit the aircraft, striding up the jetway in perfect sync as they had done years earlier working Major Case. As they emerged, a tall Black man in a dark-blue suit and an ID badge identifying him as a representative from Duplantix stood waiting for them just next to the gate agent's kiosk, holding an old-fashioned derby in one hand and a sign printed with the name "GOREN" in stiff black capitals in the other. His eyes flicked to them immediately, and he gave a welcoming smile. "Monsieur et Madame Goren?"

Bobby immediately extended a hand. "Robert Goren." Alex also put out her hand. "Alexandra Eames Goren."

The man gave their hands a perfunctory shake, then switched to English. "Welcome. I am a Robert as well, Robert Escoffier. Please, follow me."

Once again there was a tram for them to ride. Even at 1:15 a.m. the airport was bustling and Alex took in French travel posters, advertisements, and promotional photographs with half-drowsy interest. Escoffier—or rather the Duplantier name—must have come with magic incantations, because they were whisked to baggage claim, found their luggage in record time, cleared customs with a swift exchange of documentation between Escoffier and the bored-looking customs agent, who roused a flicker of interest only when he checked Bobby's passport, then were quickly transported outside to a silver town car with a plush pearl-grey interior. When they attempted to help with the luggage, they were politely rebuffed, and instead rode in luxury to Maison Duplantier, where Alex kept herself awake not only trying to figure out the purpose of various clusters of lights dotting the sleeping city, but also watching Bobby craning his neck to take it all in.

Finally they turned off main roads and drove through a darkened and quiet village main street that brought to mind something from a Peter Mayle travel book, then several miles along a two-lane road bracketed by hedgerows and towered over by ranks of linden trees, and finally between two massive iron gates which swung inward slowly as the town car paused before them. A minute or two after crunching over a long gravel drive between oak and chestnut trees, the car swung left to halt in front of a huge three-story house made of pale yellow-ochre stone trimmed in white, with white Doric columns flanking each side of the double front doors illuminated by low-set floodlights. Alex had to remember to close her mouth when the car stopped.

"Wow," she said sotto voce, "if the kids at PS 121 could see me now."

"Or Frank's old gang from our neighborhood in Brooklyn," Bobby chuckled.

Escoffier had barely stopped the town car when the double front doors swung open and another man emerged to help him with their luggage. They had scarcely exited the car themselves when an efficient woman named Christine Duchon, a blonde in her forties who Alex wasn't sure was a maid or an assistant, bustled out, speaking rapid French to Escoffier and his helper, who vanished inside with their suitcases. She cordially greeted them by name, then escorted them up buffed stone front steps through the heavy oak doors to a dimly lighted foyer with an overhanging crystal chandelier which alone took Alex's breath away. Her running shoes padded on polished wood as Duchon led them up a main staircase with carved wooden balusters and handrails, and then to the left up two flights of broad stairs. Their quarters were directly at the head of the stairs to their left.

Duchon switched on the lights of the room and smiled. "Monsieur et Madame Goren, you must be very tired after your flight. Let me know which of these suitcases contains your nightwear and toilet supplies, please."

"Ma'am...madame...please don't bother–" Bobby began, but Duchon demurred. "Non, sir, I've been asked to help you prepare for bed. It's very late and I am pleased to assist."

"It's the smaller blue suitcase with the tag shaped like a dog," Alex answered, shrugging, "and here is the key."

In an instant Duchon had set one of the carry-on bags on an already positioned luggage rack to open it. In a few minutes she had stacked their nightwear into a neat pile. Alex made a wry face at Bobby's grin when Duchon reached for their sleepwear, because her usual night attire consisted of a tank top and shorts, with flannel pajamas only for the coldest weather, but on this excursion she'd packed a pink-and-yellow cotton nightgown with white piping and a ruffled hem that her sister-in-law Patty had bought her as a wedding gift, something she had yet to wear. For Bobby, Alex had found new plaid pajama pants and a little-worn, plain t-shirt rather than the threadbare rock band shirts he favored. These, along with underwear and toiletries, Duchon transported into the connecting bathroom at their right, with Alex and Bobby trailing in her wake.

She hustled back to the carry-on one more time for the rest of their items, then bade them to make themselves ready for bed. "While you're bathing, and since it is so late, I will finish arranging things for you in the bedroom. Then you can go immediately to sleep if you so wish."

Alex blinked and said "Thank you," for Duchon were already exiting the room, closing the door firmly behind her, and she and Bobby stared at each other for a second before he said, chuckling, "Well, I s-suppose we'd better do as she says."

While not huge, the tiled bathroom was lavish: marble-topped double sink with high-end fixtures and a woven-willow laundry basket set underneath it, a wide mirror above the sinks with long glass shelves underneath to hold toiletry items. The tiles were a soothing mixture of pale blue and eggshell, with accent tiles at Bobby's eye level featuring hand-painted linden leaves in shades of green against white, and wooden accessories dotted the chamber: twin teak shower stools, small teak table, teak towel rack holding luxurious bath sheets, hand towels, and facecloths of brilliant white, teak hooks for clothing. A hair dryer, curling iron, and electric razor were also provided, and there were plush, pale green memory-foam bath mats before sink and shower.

Gratefully they shared the big glassed-in shower with multiple shower heads and the richly-scented triple-milled lavender soap, then did other evening ablutions; when they emerged Duchon had vanished, but the evidence of her presence was everywhere: she had turned down the king-sized bed, set tumblers of water on each of the glass-topped night tables, and transferred all their items into either the closet or bureau drawers. Their laptop cases were neatly laid on the writing desk. Two dark-green plush robes, one petite and one extra large, were draped over hooks on the outside of the bathroom door, and their luggage was stowed away at the rear of the closet.

"It truly is good to be the king," Bobby commented, amused.

Alex surveyed the room with satisfaction: it was a soothing mint green with white dental crown molding and a chair rail, with rose-and-vine patterned, thickly-lined curtains covering the windows, and the modern-style furniture was clean-lined and clearly quality, the bed itself a four-poster, with matching bureau, dresser, boudoir table with swing mirror (a full-length mirror was also mounted next to the bedroom door), writing desk and chair, and night tables all in a warm walnut finish. Under each window was a plush armchair with the same rose-and-vine pattern done in upholstery fabric. "I suppose I was thinking in cliché terms and expecting French Provincial or Empire—this doesn't look like any European country house I ever imagined. Downton Abbey flashbacks, maybe?"

"Based on the dossier, I don't think Madame is the type," Bobby chuckled, perching on the long walnut blanket chest at the foot of the bed; she sank down to his right. "I understand she's more practical than ostentatious from years as a businesswoman. She does own antiques, but nothing overdone, and has a large collection of chiefly modern art, as well as more traditional works."

"I should have gathered that from the chandelier downstairs. It looks like one of the photos coming from the new space telescope."

"The Murano? Definitely not your traditional foyer chandelier."

"Have you figured out why we're here yet?" she asked.

"Not...yet," but his hesitancy almost sounded as if he had his suspicions, and she asked forthrightly if he'd share.

"It's nebulous. I know it has to do with Nicole, but what about Nicole I don't know. Is that a note on my pillow?"

She glanced back, seeing a pink slip of paper perched on the pillows on what, at home, was his side of the bed. "Looks like it," and he collapsed backwards on the mattress and stretched his arms out, but couldn't reach it. He playfully waggled seemingly helpless fingers at her, and she shook her head, then swatted his leg in return, retrieving the note herself. In neat cursive it stated that due to their late arrival, breakfast had been postponed until ten a.m. and someone would wake them at nine.

"It's just at three," she said, "so we'd better get under the covers."

She tapped out a brief text to her sister as well as to Sharon saying they had arrived safely, but, as she recounted later, if Lizzie wanted some romantic tale about making love on the first night in Paris, she would be disappointed. Once the lights were out, they curled up under the covers and immediately fell asleep.

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