“But you confessed.”
“I lied.”
Dana said, “Why would you…?”
Antonio Persico looked into her eyes and said bitterly, “I was paid. Taylor Winthrop killed him.” There was a long silence.
“Tell me about it.”
The twitching got worse. “It happened on a Friday night. Mr. Winthrop’s wife was in London that weekend.” His voice was strained. “Mr. Winthrop was alone. He went to the Ancienne Belgique, a nightclub. I offered to drive him, but he said he would drive himself.” Persico stopped, remembering.
“What happened then?” Dana urged.
“Mr. Winthrop came home late, very drunk. He told me that a young boy had run in front of the car. He—he ran him down. Mr. Winthrop didn’t want a scandal, so he kept driving. Then he became afraid that someone might have seen the accident and given the license number to the police and that they would come for him. He had diplomatic immunity, but he said if the news came out, it would spoil the Russian plan.”
Dana frowned. “The Russian plan?”
“Yes. That’s what he said.”
“What is the Russian plan?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I heard him say it on the telephone. He was like a crazy man.” Persico shook his head. “All he kept saying on the phone was ‘The Russian plan must go on. We’ve gone too far to let anything stop it now.’ ”
“And you have no idea what he was talking about?”
“No.”
“Can you remember anything else he said?”
Persico thought for a moment. “He said something like ‘All the pieces have fallen into place.’” He looked at Dana. “Whatever it was, it sounded very important.”
Dana was absorbing every word. “Mr. Persico, why would you take the blame for the accident?”
Persico’s jaw tightened. “I told you. I was paid. Taylor Winthrop said that if I would confess that I was the one behind the wheel, he would give me one million dollars and take care of my family while I was in prison. He said he could arrange for a short sentence.” He was gritting his teeth. “Like a fool, I said yes.” He bit down on his lip. “And now he is dead, and I will spend the rest of my life in this place.” His eyes were filled with despair.
Dana stood there, shocked by what she had heard. Finally she asked, “Have you told this to anyone?”
Persico said bitterly, “Of course. As soon as I heard that Taylor Winthrop was dead, I told the police about our bargain.”
“And?”
“They laughed at me.”
“Mr. Persico, I’m going to ask you something very important. Think carefully before you answer. Did you ever tell Marcel Falcon that it was Taylor Winthrop who killed his son?”
“Certainly. I thought he would help me.”
“When you told him, what did Marcel Falcon say?”
“His exact words were ‘May the rest of his family join him in hell.’”
Dana thought, My God. Now there are three.
I have to talk to Marcel Falcon in Paris.
It was impossible not to feel the magic of Paris, even as they flew over the city, preparing to land. It was the city of light, it was the city of lovers. It was no place to come by oneself. The city made Dana ache for Jeff.
Dana was in the Relais in the Hotel Plaza Athénée talking to Jean-Paul Hubert, with Metro 6 television.
“Marcel Falcon? Of course. Everyone knows who he is.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“He’s quite a character. He’s what you Americans call ‘big time.’”
“What does he do?”
“Falcon owns a huge pharmaceutical company. A few years ago he was accused of forcing smaller companies out of business, but he has political connections, and nothing happened. The French premier even made him ambassador to NATO.”
“But he quit,” Dana said. “Why?”
“It’s a sad story. His son was killed in Brussels by adrunk driver, and Falcon couldn’t handle it. He left NATO and returned to Paris. His wife had a nervous breakdown. She’s at a sanitarium in Cannes.” Jean-Paul looked at Dana and said earnestly, “Dana, if you’re thinking about doing a story on Falcon, be very careful what you write. He has the reputation of being a very vindictive man.”