Chapter 3: A Double Agent's Tears

In the twilight of Saint-Germain, the café awnings fluttered in the wind like tired sails. The newsstand at the corner had already closed up, its corrugated iron door pulled halfway down to reveal half a faded poster with corners peeling up and down in the breeze. The air carried the toasty aroma of roasted chestnuts mixed with the scent of damp asphalt, the lingering signature of a light rain that had just passed. Anse stood at the street corner, an unlit cigarette pinched between his fingers, watching Madeleine emerge from the music shop. She was carrying her violin case, her pace a beat slower than normal. Her fingertips repeatedly stroked the case's latch, her nails pale, her palm bearing a fresh callus freshly worn in. She didn't see him, heading toward the metro station with her head down as the wind caught the hem of her coat to reveal a patch of dark gray skirt stained with a spot of dried coffee. The streetlights had just flickered on, casting a dim, yellowish glow over her shoulders and stretching her shadow long and thin across the wet pavement. Anse followed, his footsteps falling two paces behind her. She suddenly stopped without turning around, though her shoulders tightened.

"You hit the wrong note," Anse said.

Madeleine turned around, a thin veneer of a smile plastered across her face like powdered wall plaster. "Sir, I don't know you."

"When you were playing Bach, measure three, the G-string was always half a flat," Anse stepped closer. "There's something on your mind, so your hands go soft."

Her pupils contracted for a fraction of a second before dilating again, her smile growing even more polite. "You heard wrong. I did that on purpose."

"On purpose for three years?"

Madeleine fell silent, her fingers gripping the edge of the violin case until her knuckles turned white. The wind rushed in from the intersection, tossing the stray locks across her forehead. She didn't bother brushing them away, just stood there like a stone statue eroded by the wind. Anse caught sight of a corner of paper sticking out from the seam of the case—a Zurich tram ticket dated yesterday. He didn't call her out, simply stepping aside to clear the way to the café entrance. "Let me buy you something hot."

She didn't budge. "You're a hound sent by Leroy to test me."

"I'm not sent by anyone," Anse said. "I was just passing by and heard the flaw in your playing."

Madeleine stared at him for a few seconds, then suddenly let out a dry laugh that sounded like a bow scraping across a rusted string. "Fine. Then listen to me play."

She led him through Montmarte, the stone steps of those narrow alleys gleaming with a greenish-grey hue in the dusk. Ivy climbed the walls on both sides of the alley, their leaves stained a dark copper by the streetlights. Occasionally, a cat darted across the top of a wall, dislodging a few stray tiles. The air was heavy with the scent of an old bakery, and someone's window was left ajar, leaking a fragment of a French song from a radio. She walked fast, her heels tapping crisp echoes against the stone steps. Anse followed behind, noticing that at every single corner she would turn her head slightly, sweeping her peripheral vision behind her—a habit formed over a long time, like an animal perpetually ready to bolt. The old music room sat at the dead end of a narrow lane, the paint on its doorplate half-peeled to reveal the wood grain underneath. A few empty flowerpots piled in the porch were filled with rainwater, dead leaves floating on the surface. She pulled out her keys, her hands shaking so badly she couldn't guide them into the keyhole. Anse didn't offer to help, just stood behind her and watched her shoulders tremble. The door swung open, releasing a wave of mildew and rosin scent. Inside sat a grand piano with a layer of dust blanketing its lid. A stub of a candle sat on the windowsill in the corner, its wax melted down into a frozen waterfall, scattered beside it were several broken strings coiled into irregular loops.

Madeleine sat down, lifted the lid, and let her fingers fall onto the keys. She played Bach's Chaconne, but at the third measure, she stopped. The keys produced a dull, muted thud, and then she collapsed over the keyboard and began to cry. Anse didn't move. He stood by the window, listening to her sobs—cries mixed with a lower frequency, like a tremor rising from deep underground, fear and revulsion intertwined like a tightly twisted hemp rope. He closed his eyes as that sound hummed inside his skull, parsing out the components of those emotions: fear, the kind of terror born from the dread of being discovered; and disgust, a loathing directed at herself, at why she had ever let things come to this. Pigeons outside the window were startled by the weeping, taking wing in a flurry across the rooftops, the sound of their flapping echoing through the dead alley before fading back into silence.

He walked over, drew a new string from her violin case, and replaced the old one for her. His movements were unhurried, his fingers winding the string around the tuning peg twice before tightening it, testing the tension, and then slackening it by half a turn. Her crying stopped. She raised her head, her eye sockets red, though the tears had dried.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"Doing what?"

"Not interrogating me, not forcing me, just changing my string for me," her voice was hoarse. "You know who I am."

"I know who you are," Anse tightened the peg, testing the tension with his fingers. "And I know what it feels like to betray trust."

Madeleine froze, her fingers tracing the keys, her fingernails scraping harshly across the ivory surface. "You've betrayed someone?"

"I have," Anse said. "More thoroughly than you can imagine."

She lowered her head, and the tears finally fell, landing on the keys and blooming into small, dark stains. "Then why don't you hate me?"

"Hating you won't do any good," Anse said. "I'm just waiting for you to tell me the truth."

Silence hung in the music room for a long time, broken only by the flutter of pigeon wings outside the window. Dust motes drifted lazily through the shaft of light leaking in through the window crack, looking like countless tiny golden particles. Madeleine's fingers began to stroke the hidden clasp of her violin case—a clasp she had touched many times before, but never opened. She said suddenly, "Alois. He never leaves a paper trail."

Anse didn't take the bait, waiting for her to continue.

"He's in Zurich, Bahnhofstrasse, at an underground money-laundering den," her voice dropped to a murmur, like she was talking to herself. "He only meets people there, nowhere else."

"The meeting passphrase?"

"I don't know," her gaze flickered toward the window. "Alois is a paranoid. He even synchronizes his watch to the church bells."

Anse noted the phrase. He stood up and straightened the lapel of his coat. Madeleine suddenly reached out and grabbed his cuff, her fingers icy cold, like they'd been dipped in well water. "Don't tell Leroy."

"Tell her what?"

"Tell her I cried," Madeleine's voice trembled. "Tell her I sold her out."

Anse looked down at her fingers. That hand was trembling, the skin over her knuckles turning white from excessive force. "Your tears were real," he said. "Your betrayal was real, too. But tonight, all I heard was the music."

Madeleine released her grip and lowered her eyelids, casting shadows beneath her eyes. "Alois hates surprises above all else," she blurted out. "Any unannounced visitor is treated as an enemy."

Anse nodded and walked toward the door. As he pushed it open, he glanced back. Madeleine stood in the shadows of the music room, the piano lid half-open, her fingers resting on the keys, her eyes gleaming as if calculating something. He didn't linger, stepping out into the rainy Paris night. The rain had grown heavier than it was at dusk, fine threads of water weaving diagonally down as the halos of streetlights dissolved into hazy blurs in the downpour. The bells of Sacré-Cœur struck the hour, and beneath their chime, he caught a low-frequency hum vibrating from the direction of Zurich, like a guitar string being pulled taut somewhere out of sight.

He gripped the Zurich tram ticket in his pocket, its corners already curled up, bearing yesterday's date. He remembered Madeleine mentioning that Alois synchronized even the church bells—what did that mean? That paranoid money-laundering architect, which clock tower was his watch set against? Anse folded the ticket and tucked it back into his pocket. Raindrops landed on his eyelashes, and he squinted toward the north. In the direction of Zurich, there was no light on the horizon, only a heavy blanket of leaden grey. The café at the corner was already closed, a vague advertisement plastered across its rolling metal shutter as rainwater streamed down the iron, glinting with fragmented light beneath the streetlamp.

He stepped into the rain, his footsteps swallowed by the downpour. The bells of Sacré-Cœur were still echoing, but in his ears, there was something extra woven into the sound—like a string, deep inside some underground den, being gently plucked by an unseen hand.

He crossed the slick cobblestone path and turned into a narrow alley. A streetlamp at the mouth of the alley flickered, its halo filled with fine, dense rain. He stopped in front of an iron door, a brass plaque beside it bearing the words "Clock Repair" with the paint already peeling.

He raised his hand and knocked. Three times, evenly spaced, the last one slightly heavier. Footsteps sounded from behind the door—hesitant, yet resolute. The latch turned, and the door cracked open to reveal a pair of grey-blue eyes.

"Yesterday's clock was three minutes slow," Anse said. It wasn't a passphrase; it was a probe. Those eyes blinked, and the gap widened slightly. Anse stepped inside. Clocks were everywhere in the room—wall clocks, mantel clocks, pocket watches—their ticking rising in an overlapping chorus like an unconducted symphony.

"Alois doesn't like inaccurate clocks," the owner of the grey-blue eyes said. He was young, with silver-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, slender fingers, and light calluses on his fingertips from years of handling metal. "But every clock here is accurate. That's why he never comes."

Anse sat down at the desk. Spread across the tabletop was a map of Zurich with several locations marked in pencil. He recognized one of the markings: the entrance to the underground vault of UBS. "Whose clock is he fixing?" Anse asked.

The youth didn't answer, merely reaching into a drawer to pull out a pocket watch. A line of microscopic text was engraved inside the case cover, so fine it looked like it was scratched by a needle tip. Anse leaned in to look—it was a date, followed by a string of coordinates. The date was tomorrow. The coordinates pointed to the old town of Zurich, an address he had never visited.

"This watch was dropped off by Alois last month," the youth said. "He said that when the watch ticks down to that date, someone will come to collect it. Whoever comes will be carrying an envelope."

Anse stared at the pocket watch, its second hand moving silently. He listened to the rain outside blending with the ticking inside. Then there was another sound, extremely low and distant, like a string being plucked deep underground.

"He doesn't even trust the person delivering the watch," Anse said.

"He doesn't trust anyone," the youth removed his glasses and wiped the lenses. "But he trusts clocks. Clocks don't lie."

Anse placed the pocket watch back on the table. He stood up and headed for the door. The youth didn't stop him, merely saying, "Tomorrow, the clock will reach that date. Will you go?"

Anse didn't answer. He pushed the door open and stepped back into the rain. Behind him, the clocks in the room continued to tick away, like countless pairs of eyes watching him from the dark. He tightened his grip on the tram ticket in his pocket, its paper edge already half-soaked.

Which clock tower were Zurich's clocks following?

He recalled Madeleine's flickering eyes, and her warning that Alois hated surprises above all else. That paranoid designer, who synchronized even the church bells—could he already know that someone was walking into his city carrying yesterday's ticket?

The rain grew harder. Anse quickened his pace. Beneath the sound of the rain, he could hear that string growing tighter, like a countdown pendulum suspended right above his head.