Because You Despise Me by J. S. Cook

Author:J. S. Cook [Cook, J. S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2010-09-10T04:00:00+00:00

"That was a rather nice touch—asking to cash your chips first. You must have suspected you were going to your death.” Christophe Picard gazed at the man sitting across from him: the bruises under Abaroa's eyes had faded somewhat; now he merely looked like someone had tried to color him in with a charcoal pencil. His broken fingers were still taped, of course, but he was smoking a cigarette with the aplomb usually due a condemned man.

"I'd won two thousand francs. I wasn't going to leave it there.” Abaroa smiled, a charming sort of dimpled smile.

"What I don't understand,” Picard continued, “is why they stopped short of killing you."

Abaroa made a face. “You sound as if you regret it. Would you rather they had beaten me to death?"

Picard's face was blank, almost expressionless; he looked like a two-dimensional cutout rather than a man, or a figure that had been painted on a backdrop. “The Gestapo almost always carry out what they intend ... I'm curious as to why they stopped. It's not such an unusual question."

"You sound like you don't trust me.” It was said as gently as Frederik Abaroa said anything, but there was steel somewhere at the back of it. “And yet you came to Maarif looking for me, monsieur. I wonder why that is, hm? What was it you said to me in France? Don't kill him unless you absolutely have to, but I must have a visa.” Abaroa leaned forward, his features taut. “Your orders, monsieur ... your orders."

"It isn't you I don't trust.” Picard shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He smiled, attempting levity, but there was a falseness in it, an expression hastily slapped on at the last minute in an effort to save face. “It's Monsieur Renard. After all, you were in his hands. It was Monsieur Renard who took charge of your arrest and interrogation; it was Monsieur Renard who managed to somehow spirit you safely away before the Gestapo killed you."

"Monsieur Renard is Free French, just as I am,” Abaroa spat, “you know this. His remaining in Maarif as the Prefect of Police is just as risky to him as your position is to you."

"Ah, yes,” Picard purred, “But his position is rather more lucrative than mine. He is close friends with the brothel owner, Jake Plenty; people say he's there every night. It appears they have some sort of...” Picard's long fingers played with a spent matchstick on the table. “...arrangement."

Abaroa's face hardened. “Do you feel guilty, Monsieur Picard? Is there perhaps something on your conscience?” He got up from the table and wandered over to a shuttered window, spent some long moments gazing through the louvered slats at the desert beyond. “Do you know how much I hate this place?” he asked. “This Maarif? It's like a festering sore ... so many forlorn people crushed together inside so many square miles of sand and desperation...” He glanced at Picard sitting motionless behind him. “Nicolas Renard was your contact in Maarif. I was to get you a visa, and I did it.

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