The life of an evil mastermind is solitary. The hours are long, the nights are dark, and making friends is not something I prioritize. Everyone I meet is another possible victim. I’m a succubus. I tempt them with what they want most. I seduce, I make promises. I tantalize and deceive, con and cajole. And they come running, ready and eager to give me everything. It’s been years since I had a real challenge.
But Sherlock might just be more of a challenge than I thought, I muse, as I look down at the huge sword leaning against the empty seat next to me. Turns out traveling with a deadly weapon the size of a toddler is even more challenging than traveling with an actual toddler, as evident by the two police officers that boarded the train on the last stop and are now talking to the conductor in hushed tones, sneaking not so stealthy glances in my direction. Next time, Sherlock better hide his tracking device in something a little less cumbersome.
I sigh as I get up and start down the aisle, away from the law enforcement and what’s sure to be a minor international incident. I’m technically not allowed into France anymore, following a slight dispute over whether or not I was behind the widely publicized heist on Banque de France in Paris a few years ago. It was never proven I did it, but I have a one with a hell of a lot of zeros behind it on an off-short bank account that tells the real story. Behind me I hear someone yell “Arrête !”, and I promptly fail to do so.
As the train glides to a smooth stop at Gare du Nord, I get out and easily lose the blubbering idiots in the crowd of people at the railway station. The living, breathing thing that is the wonderful city of Paris welcomes me back. I’ve been missed. Paris, in all its beauty, is a restless and impudent lover, and I can feel her laugh and clap her hands in delight as I tell her about my grand plan. The heist of all heists. I’ve been planning this for a long time, and now, everything is finally coming together. It’s a first, and will go down in history as the boldest theft ever committed.
I can’t help but smile to myself as I think about my plan. But first, I have to make a stop. I’ve yet to have lunch, and I head toward Montparnasse. Located at the intersection of Boulevard Raspail and Boulevard du Montparnasse, I find my old hangout, Café Le Select. I grab my old corner table and order the Croque Monsieur from an arrogant waiter who clearly has someplace better to be, much like every other Parisian who is forced to do menial labor. I like him immediately.
I have a bite of the food, and it’s just as good as I remember it. I eat in silence, reading Hemingway. With a fountain pen, I make a note in the book, then underline a passage that I think suits the occasion. All too soon, it’s time for me to go. I pay for my food and get up. At the table, I leave the katana and the book. A message for Sherlock, who, if my calculations are correct, should have arrived in Paris by now and is probably on his way over to the café.
I start walking up Boulevard du Montparnasse. Up ahead, hiding behind a bend in the road, is the Eiffel Tower. For now. Tonight, there will be a blackout in Paris, and in the morning, tourists and Parisians alike are going to have the surprise of their lives. And Paris, my fickle mistress, will be one tourist attraction short of a sightseeing tour.
This post was written for Nicky and Mike's 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing III. To see the other posts for today, please visit We Work For Cheese. *