The Promise Ypóschesi: SEVEN PARIS MYSTERIES, #1

By Peggy Kopman-Owens

 

Cover Art © Roger Kopman. Who knew? Spies read! This 30-year saga asks readers, "How well do you know your best friend and what are you willing to do to keep him alive?"A sinister-looking man shows up late at night at a New York City apartment shared by mystery writer Jamie Litton and journalist Ben Foulof to deliver disturbing news. Ben has disappeared from his reporting assignment in the Middle East. The stranger leaves behind an absurd, but frightening accusation. Jamie's best friend Ben has become a spy, but for whom, and why? To unravel the mystery Jamie will escape to Europe with shadowy figures in pursuit, who assume if they cannot find their missing rogue agent, perhaps, his best friend can. Attempts to lead them astray will take Jamie on a path familiar only to one other person, and reveal memories of an ill-fated love affair. Will coded messages and secrets hidden in novels bring Ben in from the cold and keep them both alive? If so, for how long? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: PKOBOOKS LLC
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215504277

Peggy Kopman-Owens

Peggy Kopman-Owens writes suspenseful fiction, gentle mysteries with touches of romance that inspire readers to search for their passports. Her literary properties, reflecting her work in 35 countries, include three series set in Paris. SIMON PENNINGTON MYSTERIES, MRS. DUCHESNEY MYSTERIES, and SEVEN PARIS MYSTERIES now available in eBook, paperback, hardcover, and / or audiobook. (author's photo: © Michael D. Owens)  Cover Art © Roger Kopman. Online gallery at KOPMANPHOTOS.com "My mother wrote stories and songs, becoming my inspiration, teaching that passion and patience are inseparable partners. From my father and mother, both musicians who loved to travel, I learned to embrace a world full of diversity and endless possibilities. I can never thank them enough for bestowing this lovingly unselfish gift of intellectual freedom."

Book preview

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Chapter 1

I CAME TO ENGLAND TO write.

It was England’s history that drew me here, but my personal history that made me stay. I could no longer go home. My footprints had been erased. Only an envelope stuffed with old hotel receipts and an old list of borrowed addresses traced my fading path around the world.

IT WAS BEN’S STORY I was trying to write, not my own. Or at least, that’s what I told myself. To think otherwise, I could not tell it. How much of the story was mine? Our lives had been intertwined for so long that it was a struggle to remember, what had been my life, what had been his. What I do remember is that mine had no meaning, no focus, and no drama, until Ben burst upon the scene. It was impossible to imagine that this solar flare of a man was gone.

We met the summer before college. I was working for my father in the city, delivering architectural plans. At lunchtime, I stopped for a quick sandwich at a deli with sidewalk tables. He was sitting there. No, he was holding court there, surrounded by three knockout long-legged girls and one nondescript guy, who hoped to pick up Ben’s rejects. Other people seated nearby couldn’t help, but notice. He was already an artist at storytelling and his audience was beyond attentive. I, too, was drawn in. Ben’s voice was deep his laugh infectious.

How could he not be somewhere on the face of the earth? It was impossible to imagine. I opened my laptop and began typing where I had left off...

Ben was only to be in the Middle East long enough to get the story. At least, that’s what they told him in New York. At the airport in Beirut, a man identifying himself as his driver led him to a black car with darkened windows. It felt wrong. Everything about it felt wrong, but against his better judgment, he followed his instructions. A large man in foreign military uniform was waiting inside the car. Ryka was sitting next to him.

MY FINGERS STOPPED typing. The thoughts came rushing back. The agent who arrived to question me was surprised that I didn’t think his long absence odd. After all, wasn’t I supposed to be gathering his mail? Watering his plants? Feeding his cat? Did he say when he’d be back? Didn’t I know anything? Weren’t we supposed to be close? When was the last time I talked to him? Didn’t he call? Email? Then, he asked, Can you give me the names of the people who might want Ben dead?

Dead? I played it over, and over, in my head after he left. From that moment on, my world had grown darker with each passing day. I had come to accept and even crave the familiarity of darkness, now reflected in my mood, my dress, my choice of music, even my beer. I didn’t expect anyone else to understand. In fact, I didn’t deserve their understanding. If Ben could not enjoy life, I could not enjoy life. I would have given anything to hear his voice again, hear his steps on the stairs, but after this length of time... well, even a hopeless romantic such as I could see the futility. Yet, I dared.

Within days of this encounter, the phone rang. On the other end of the line a man spoke with what sounded like an eastern European accent, but it was one that I could not identify. What took no interpretation was his anger. He demanded to speak to Ben. I told him Ben was not there. He didn’t believe me. I told him that I hadn’t seen Ben in months and we were no longer roommates. That much felt true. I had no idea when or if Ben would return. He accused me of trying to protect Ben and threatened to get the truth from me one way or another. I could only imagine what his choice of methods might be. The bizarre characters stalking me, hunting for Ben, tipped the scales. I could not continue. The rules of the game had changed.

Already, I had grown tired of Ben’s frequent absences, punctuated with unexpected returns and stays of only a few days or at best a few weeks, only to see him leave again, but before these threatening events, I had no courage to change. The comings and goings of Ben had become a lifelong pattern with us. He had come to expect me to be there to pick up the pieces of his life in the States while he was away, to pay his bills, to explain to the latest woman in his life, and most importantly, to wait for his re­turn. I lacked his ability to reinvent himself with each new overseas assignment.

In the interims, between his R&Rs in the States and his time in the Middle East, or wherever else he roamed, I simply existed. I had built no real life of my own, so I created one in my imagination, using him on paper the way he used me in real life. It seemed only fair. On paper, I had total control. In real life, I had none.

He woke up in a hospital ward. There was a buzz in his head that no amount of booze could have put there. The smells were antiseptic pungent. His eyes burned, his arm felt heavy, and his leg throbbed. What happened? Then, he heard her voice.

Her eyes were green. He could tell she was smiling at him, even though a mask covered most of her face. Tiny wisps of her hair, breaking free from her cap, were deep dark brunette almost black. She spoke with an Irish accent. She said her name was Andrea and she was giving him something for pain. He thought he should respond but could not. The realization, that he must be badly damaged, hit. He could not feel his left hand and he had no memory of being transported.

There was someone else in the room. Then, a man’s voice in the hallway; ‘Twelve dead. Thirty-four wounded. Will he make it?’ Ben strained to hear the answer, but the potion had taken hold. The last thing he heard was, ‘What about the girl?’ He passed out again.

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Chapter 2

THEN, ONE DAY AT MY job in New York, something happened. I had gone months with no word from Ben. I hit some sort of emotional wall. I’m still not sure why. Fear? Boredom? Abandonment, again. I just snapped, left my job at noon, and didn’t bother to come back. Instead, I went back to our apartment and packed. It seemed that I had simply had enough.

I called three storage companies, before finding one that would come right away. The man on the phone demanded two hundred dollars extra for the rush pick up. He probably thought I was being evicted. While I waited, I took an old backpack from the closet and filled it with summer clothes. As a last thought, I crammed in an old sweatshirt left over from college. I picked up my laptop computer and put it in its case, along with a library book I had been reading. I wrote a note to the building super, asking him to feed the cat or find her a home. My passport was in the bottom of my nightstand with about 500 dollars in emergency money. I grabbed both and stuffed them in my pockets.

The building super was leaving before the movers would arrive. I caught him in the hallway and handed him the note. He asked, but I could not give him an answer. No, I did not know when I would be back. No, I did not know when Ben would be back. I did not want anyone to know that I was leaving forever. The rent was paid for the next two months. That was all that the super needed to know.

Around the corner at the post office, I filed a HOLD on Ben’s mail and mine. Startup date? No, I did not know how long we would be gone. I hit an ATM on the corner for all the cash it would dispense out of my checking account.

A small moving van was backing up as I returned. Two large men asked for my meager assistance and we loaded it up in less than two hours. There was not that much, mostly Ben’s stuff. The larger pieces of furniture had come with the apartment, so they stayed. There were two lamps, a bookcase, some small appliances, and seventeen boxes of books. It looked as if we had robbed a library. I rode to Queens, squeezed in between the driver and his supersized assistant. I watched the truck being unloaded and helped arrange the boxes in the storage unit because it seemed important at the time, that there was some order to it, although I did not want to see any of it again. Over the years, these things had become anchors and I was ready to sail away.

By five-thirty, I was in a cab to JFK. I stopped at another ATM in the terminal and got all the money it would allow. I thought you could only take the maximum amount out of one ATM a day, but obviously, I was wrong. On the other hand, obviously, it was easier than I thought. I figured I would hit another ATM, after we landed in Europe, as that would be a new calendar day and that should empty out the balance in my checking account. After that, in about two weeks, I could count on one more direct deposit check and then, I did not know. It might take two weeks for my boss to realize that I was not coming back to work. I made a mental note to worry about all that later or perhaps not at all.

From the departure screen, I chose the next available international flight number and walked to the ticket counter, where I bought a one-way ticket with the only credit card I had. It did not matter what the destination was, but it happened to be Paris. That was dumb luck. The ticket agent looked at me suspiciously when I told her one way.

The flight left on time, but I purchased a one-way less than three hours before departure, and now fit some sort of profile. Therefore, I was subjected to additional security checks. I was physically patted down by a TSA officer twice my size. While I was being searched, my backpack was being swabbed for explosive residue. I heard the last boarding announcement as I was putting my laptop back into the case. I almost did not make the flight and distracted, forgot the library book, leaving it behind in the plastic box on the conveyor belt.

Last to board, I ran down the aisle with the adrenalin still rushing through my body and fell into my economy class seat near the rear of the airplane. The plane started moving back from the gate. I stood up, opened an overhead bin to stow my backpack, only to be instantly reprimanded by a flight attendant coming down the aisle on a mission. Sit down, he demanded. I complied under the visible radar of fellow passengers, who must have thought I was a terrorist. I slid my laptop under the seat in front of me as the airplane began its roll out to the runway. I closed my eyes and held my breath. I had done it! I had really done it! Escaped. From what? To what? I did not know, but it was the most alive I had felt in years. I took a slow breath and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

The memory was starting to return. He blinked his eyes and tried to focus on the light in the center of the ceiling. It hurt. He closed his eyes and grabbed hold of one single thought. He had been talking to...

No, interviewing someone.

Yes. We had returned from a ...

and were riding in a ...

Ryka sitting next to him. He didn’t know why she was there. Then, in a flash, he was back in Iraq. How could that be?

Beirut? Iraq? Afghanistan? Germany? The sound was of helicopters circling overhead.

His head was pounding. He closed his eyes.

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Chapter 3

PARIS WAS WHERE MY first trip to Greece had begun and ended. It seemed the right place to be now, a place where I could just exist and not think. I checked into a budget hotel in the 18th Arrondissement, just on the edge of Montmartre and within walking distance of Sacré Coeur and the artist square, where many good memories had been born in my youth. Although older than most of the backpackers, I thought I’d be less noticed there. I rented a locker in the lobby, not trusting the security of my room, grabbed my jacket, and threw everything else inside. I walked for seven hours, before returning to total collapse from lack of sleep and jetlag.

It was sheer reverie, walking through Paris. I started from my hotel near Montmartre, bought coffee and a baguette, and ambled through Pigalle and on to the Opera. I had no real destination, choosing instead to breathe it all in as if I were a flâneur.

Students gathered near the Palais Royal, elderly couples sat on benches in the courtyard at the Louvre, some lovers stood before Notre Dame, staring into each other’s eyes. Others leisurely crossed the bridge of the Seine, hand in hand to wander through the bookstalls. I followed.

I silently shadowed one, then another, then another, and by doing so captured all of them. I allowed my thoughts to dissolve and evolve into and out of their experiences. Characters were alive, dancing through the streets of Paris and my head. All I had to do was capture their magical images ...forever in bright watercolor, painted onto the empty canvas in my mind. The words would come later.

As the sunlight faded behind rooftops, I stopped for a glass of wine at a café on Blvd. St. Germain. The evening was spent and ended at a small restaurant in the Latin Quarter, where I fortified myself on wine, and an incredible onion quiche, while listening to jazz from the club next door. I was walking on air by the time I returned to the 18th. Only Paris could do that.

The next day, I awoke before dawn and set about exploring all the other places I remembered from my youth, revisiting some from the day before. I once again walked well into the early evening hours. It felt as though nothing had changed since my first visit to Paris fourteen years earlier. L’ Arc de Triomphe was exactly the same Sacré Coeur the same Le Louvre the same Notre Dame cleaner, but as sure and constant, as it had been for centuries.

Music still played in the cafés where waiters in long white aprons still ignored tourists, who complained too loudly about the service. Lovers still hopelessly draped themselves over riverboat rails to admire their reflections in the water and kiss. Paris was still here.

It was comforting to know that Paris would be here, long after I was no longer walking its streets or the earth. For the first time in a long time, I felt completely free, free of responsibility, free to feel, to simply be... free of Ben.

In the U.S., there was a constant building up and tearing down physically and mentally. It was a culture of new better best. More. More. More. What have you done for me lately? Star today. Loser tomorrow. Faster. Faster. Faster. Here it was different the pace slower. Yes. Not just in the Dordogne, but also in Paris, one can find it.

An often, overheard expression is On doit profiter. It does not mean as it looks, that you must make money as we in the U.S. interpret the word profit. Here, its loose translation is to gain intrinsic value from being in the moment. These wise Parisians know how to slow down, how to appreciate the world around them, to keep their thoughts above the maddening crowd (although at rush hour one might be hard-pressed to believe it.)

Their gift is the ability to hold an image in the mind’s eye and hold it suspended in the Heavens as the Earth below rotates a mere millimeter beneath their feet. They’ve learned how to catch a delicate whiff of a bouquet, let it linger on edges of their nostrils before drawing it deep within their lungs, as if lavender’s sweet aroma were pure oxygen itself. A sommelier once told me that a taste of a rare vintage could live for months on his lips, the tip of his tongue, or the back of his throat, keeping its memory alive forever.

The French know the intrinsic value of holding on to the past, its pleasures, its promises, and its tender mercies. The heart of Paris bears witness to the belief. Buildings, art, people are not meant to be cast aside lightly. They are here on earth for one purpose only for the lover to. caresser to caress to cherish.

I wondered why, to my eyes, most of the world has not learned these lessons. Those things that give true joy can only be seen and appreciated slowly. The soul of un objet d’art or of a person should not be hidden under layers of paint or years of dust from neglect. The soul can only be seen as its creator had intended, in its most natural state, in the light that only God could create. To see, to know, to feel such things, mankind need only learn the art of waiting. For those without patience, the French might say Quel dommage!

Night fell. I didn’t return to the hotel. Instead, over a glass of wine at a quiet café, I began writing again.

Ben’s memory of the ride from the airport returned clearer this time. The man in the car had been an officer. He was trying to get him to talk, but it wasn’t easy. The tight-jawed military man told him up front, he didn’t like reporters. Ben tried to sell him on the merits of his story in the States. It didn’t have any effect on him. He was a follower, a good of­ficer, but an obedient one. Whatever they fed him, he believed and he reinforced with his soldiers. Ben wondered why, then, had he agreed to meet? He told Ben. Ryka was his father’s cousin, a distant cousin, but a favorite of his father. She had assured the officer that he could remain anonymous.

Then, what? Ben’s head hurt but his leg hurt more. He tried to move his foot. It moved a little, but a pain shot through his shin and up his leg into the groin. He nearly sat straight up in bed, but the sensation stopped as quickly as it hit and left only a now, too familiar throb. He tried to take a deep breath and relax.

In his mind’s eye, he saw himself stand up and shake someone’s hand. Yes. There had been no interview. Abruptly, the driver had pulled into the curb and it became obvious that Ben was expected to get out. He complied, but turned to look at Ryka. She only shook her head and said nothing. He didn’t know what he had said or done wrong that had so offended the man.

Ben thanked him, grabbed his notebook, and took a few steps past the corner of a building when he heard; (no ... make that) ‘felt’ the explosion. He saw nothing of the initial blast, but it knocked him off his feet and into the front of a storefront fifteen feet away. A canvas canopy tore away, cushioning his initial impact. Seconds later, he was thrown chest first into a metal pole with a wall of debris hurdling toward him. It must have occurred in split seconds, but now it was clear. He could see it in slow motion. He had put his arms up to block the blow. Then, there was blinding smoke. Gunfire. Chaos. Then, searing pain. Something unseen was piercing his left shoulder and thigh at the same time. He passed out.

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Chapter 4

BEN’S IDEA OF FUN HAD always been a taste of intrigue, the promise of a mystery, and always the chance for adventure. He craved adrenal rushes. He bored too easily. I had attributed this