Hunting Truffles

Chapter 6 Modane, France

Chapter 6

Modane, FranceHe paced the room distractedly, pulling his cell phone out of the jacket pocket to check for messages, then jammed it back in place, irritated that she hadn't called yet.

His face was stern and unwrinkled, his black hair combed straight back from his forehead, and he carried himself with the confident air of someone both experienced and street-smart. He reached up to scratch his cheek with his left hand, a hand with smooth unblemished skin, mismatched against his mottled right hand scarred from the fire that exploded in his fist on his last mission.

A plan to smuggle truffles was too far-fetched to believe. Which is exactly why he liked the idea so much, and why he believed the plot couldn't fail.

“It would work,” he concluded, “smuggling precious cargo.” He smiled at the mere thought of it.

It would take more than one person, but best not to involve more than himself and one other. He knew a most devious woman, one so treacherous that he had trouble trusting her himself. In fact, he didn't trust her. Criminals had a different notion of trust that wouldn't equate to what civilized society considered for the word.

“You rely on someone,” he thought to himself, “and reliance only lasts as long as the job does. Never trust.”

But he had to admit that his accomplice was scary by any measure.

They talked about the plan for weeks, considered every possible angle, listed every possible weakness. Soon, they were both convinced that it would work, even with all the fakes and counter-fakes that would be required.

“Don't worry,” she said, in a sonorous voice that seemed a pitch too low for a woman. “They'll never figure out what we're after until it's over.”

No killing, she said, as if to reassure him about a question he had never asked. In his past experience of working with her, he had heard lots of nasty stories but never got any hint that people had died at her command. Still, the cold, black look in her eyes unsettled him, and he had to wonder how much he didn't know.

“We're in it for the money,” he kept repeating, “that was clear. There's lots of money to be had from smuggling. And this – well, this will make us rich.”

There were a few complications, but he was sure they could iron them out. “We're in it for the money,” he said again. If she was willing, he would be too.

So they met in Modane one last time before going their separate ways. They ate and drank, he subconsciously raising the wine glass with his left hand to keep his blotchy right hand from view. They repeated every step of the process, until they had memorized their roles. Then she kissed him good night – it felt a bit perfunctory this time – and they parted.

She insisted on staying in separate hotels during this time in Modane. “We don't want anyone to be able to develop suspicions,” she said in her resonant voice. She could be very firm and, in this case, he knew she wouldn't reconsider.

Besides, he had things to do too. He had to arrange the truck, set up rendezvous points, talk to the people along the way they would need to work with, and find a truffle hunter who would not be smart enough to be suspicious.

“What about the police at the border? Should I bribe them?” he asked.

“No, you i***t. If you bribe them now, they'll have time to reconsider. We'll deal with them when the time comes.”

Her flare-ups were not that common, especially before a job began; she seemed to understand the importance of maintaining a respectful working relationship. But she would occasionally snap, as she had this time, and he accepted it. The steely glint in her eyes made him worry.