Chapter 7 - Start
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Chapter 7
Spring in Paris brought the Pari Fermier, and the Pari Fermier brought Benoit Delatour. Four delicious days which came to Paris only twice a year, the fair (which Americans would have in their ignorance called a farmer’s market) brought together over two hundred farmers from across the country. It was the best Auvergne honey, the best Normandy cider, and a spice cake from Languedoc-Roussillon that reminded Benoit of his childhood. Twice a year it came, and twice a year Benoit went to spend nearly a million Euros on the best food France - and therefore the world - had to offer. The lackeys at Interpol could wait; there was food to eat.
He reached into the small white paper bag and grabbed a few handpicked walnuts from the Périgord, popping one into his mouth. Perfectly toasted. It was hard to believe that six years ago he had fought tooth and nail against coming to Paris. It would have been impossible to find these walnuts in Marseille - up until recently it should have been impossible to find them in Paris. But six years ago was life in the countryside of Provence, in the Delatour manor with cousins and aunts and uncles, and parents and his brother Alec. And Élodie. It was comfortable, but the then-eighteen Benoit hadn’t realized how boring it was. Why the Delatour family had never made a mass migration to Paris was beyond Benoit. What good was all the money in the world without something to spend it on?
Benoit looked down and saw that, in his mild flashback, he had picked up a few extra items. A handful of oysters, a few slices of duck ham, some white asparagus, and a mound of remarkably fleshy prunes. He walked over to the seating area, set up for those who found themselves seeking a meal, and prepared himself for a miniature tasting. Each table was occupied by French men and women - the Pari Fermier was a well kept secret from the Japanese and American tourists. It was a welcome break to be surrounded in only one language for a change.
His cell phone rang in his pocket, and he ignored it. If it was Babette, she was just calling to confirm what she had already adjudged the right course of action. If it was work, they should know better. Those were the only two options; it was far too early in the day for Benoit’s circle of friends to be awake or planning the night. Alec. Well, he didn’t want to deal with Alec this week. This week was his fête nationale.
The late night phone call a month ago had not been the end of it. When Benoit had stopped answering his phone, Alec began sending e-mails. According to Alec, there was a mad Sentinel on the loose targeting Delatours. Well, his younger brother had always had a vivid imagination. Sentinels would land in France the day the world stood still. And only if they paid their taxes.
Benoit pulled out a small leather journal and scribbled some notes. The only things on the plate worth returning for were the prunes, but he would need to do a little more searching today. Camille was only five, and too young to be admitted to the fair, but she was of an age to expect gifts when Papa left for extended periods of time, and prunes just would not serve that purpose. Toffee. Toffee would work. He cleared the plate, passing the vineyard stalls as he walked. He was saving them for tomorrow - from experience, he knew that it would take a full day to taste all of the wine. Today was for the food.
His phone rang again, although this time he only knew it from the vibration against his thigh; the din of the fair made hearing anything not immediately in front of you impossible. If Babette was calling a second time, there could be a problem with Camille. He fished it out of his pocket and checked the caller. The “Unlisted” typical of calls from work flashed on the screen. He shoved it back to his pocket with effort. They shouldn’t be calling today. International Police or no, this was France, damnit.
Looking up from his anger and refocusing on where he was, Benoit’s eyes met a banner for a farm in Nord-Pas-de-Calais. The “Fournier-Laroche” logo was a Butterfly with white roses on its wings. And a tray of toffees sat out the counter. Behind the table was man no older than Benoit himself, talking with an older French couple about the jambon the farm had to offer. Jambon - it had a lift at the end, and even had good in the name. It was so much more descriptive, more delicious than the English “ham.” Ham just sat there. Jambon made Benoit’s mouth water.
He moved to catch the man’s attention when he felt his phone ring yet again. This time he hesitated. It was urgent, to be sure. But if he answered, his day and probably his week was shot. He put it out of his mind for a moment; when it stopped ringing, he would turn it off.
“Monsieur,” he called out, but the man did not respond. He was slicing different strips of different cures on the jambon, so thin you could see through it. Benoit had heard of buildings which used marble cut so thin as to let light in instead of windows. It seemed absurd. His mind was wandering an awful lot today. “Monsieur,” with a little more force this time. The man caught Benoit’s eye, nodded with an “I’ll get to you soon” nod, and immediately resumed his conversation.
The ringing had stopped, and Benoit took the opportunity to quickly shut off his phone. His hands were shaky, and he was getting jittery. This was ridiculous; whatever it was could either wait or be passed to another decoder. So why was he nervous?
“Salut, ça va.” The elderly couple had moved on, and the man was now paying attention to Benoit.
“Un de vos caramels à essayer, s'il te plait.” He pointed at the tray, and the man wrapped one of the toffees in a napkin and handed to Benoit. Sitting on the counter were different size boxes, all with the butterfly-and-roses logo, and all presumably containing toffees. Despite its small size, Benoit still bit it in half to taste. It was good; Camille would enjoy them, particularly the hint of sea salt that finished it.
“Benny, your phone seems to be out of battery.” The voice came from behind him, but he recognized it instantly, and chose to ignore it.
“Une boîte de seize,” he said to the man at the counter. He look confused, but at Benoit’s calm presence went back to a separate counter for a box. The ones up front were display, then, and probably empty.
“Don’t you even start with this shit, Benoit. I’m getting sick of it. Now forget the toffees and let’s go. We have a new assignment for you.”
Straightening his face - few knew it but the playboy attitude was a constant charade - he turned to face his boss. It didn’t matter how many times he had seen that face, it still unnerved him. An additional eye would have helped.
“Are you a fan of toffees, Nick? Or maybe some smoked jambon - I hear the Fournier-Laroche has a wonderful Sanglier,” he said, nodding his head backwards to the man behind the counter.
“Fuck, Benny, I don’t like anything you people make. Not even your goddamned fries. You got your chuckles, now c’mon. We’ve got a lot to do today.”
Nicholas Fury, former agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., stood at six foot even, with a shaved bald head, and one too-large brown eye. The American fancied himself something of a pirate - invading countries, plundering their lands and women, and leaving. Probably because of the eye patch covering his missing eye. There were as many rumors as agents at Interpol as to how Fury had lost his eye. Benoit preferred the one where a man who shot spider-webs from his hand stuck a web on Fury’s eyeball itself and ripped it out. There were plenty of black men in Paris, but Fury stuck out as the sore thumb American wherever he went. Including here.
“There is a McDonalds three blocks from here, Nick. Enjoy, and leave me be.” He turned to leave, but Fury grabbed his shoulder.
“Cut the shit, Benny. We’ve lost contact with one of our agents in Genosha. The Friends of Humanity may have him.”
“What does that have to do with me? I decode. Or encode.”
“Yeah, and now you’ll be doing that in the field. We have a new partner for you. She’s Israeli.”
“She?” He turned around. Now, he was interested.
“I figured you’d like that, Benny. Be careful though. She could run circles around you.”
Benoit looked longingly backwards at the rows of gastronomy calling his name; he was hoping to stock up on jams, jellies, and preserves today to last him and Camille through the summer. He turned back to Fury, and held up the white paper bag still in his hand.
“Have a walnut, Nick. They’re good for your heart.”