Murder in Bel-Air

by Cara Black

  Her gut twisted. Delorme had appeased and played world leaders against one another for years—moving pieces on the chessboard. Any cooperation felt dirty.

  “But the DGSE indicated Gérard Bjedje Hlili’s the contender carrying huge popular support.”

  “My contacts tell me he’s out for himself.”

  Meaning Delorme couldn’t control him like he had Mgwanga?

  She shifted in the gilt-back chair. “What’s to say the information’s still valid?”

  “Recent reports indicate a plane crash occurred in a remote site in the highlands. If you trusted me with the maps and coordinates, which I assume you have,” said Delorme, “we could have a ground unit liaise with paratroopers.”

  So he knew. How? She stared at him but said nothing.

  “If it’s difficult to get in, it’s ten times more difficult to get out alive and with equipment. You need our special forces. It’s what they do.”

  “And you want to give it to a spoiled Ivoirian general with Liberian sympathies?”

  “Mgwanga could get to it before we can. Time’s running out. Our focus is on maintaining stability in the country. Keeping it conflict-free in a time of transition.”

  Right.

  Getting out five hundred kilos of arms and ammunition, a.k.a. farm equipment, might prove tough for even him. And she had the map.

  She pretended to think about it. “We have nothing to talk about unless Sydney Leduc’s freed.”

  “Tant pis. Mgwanga doesn’t know her whereabouts. Neither does the DGSE.”

  She almost snorted. “Then we’re done here.”

  Delorme took off his black-framed glasses. Pinched the bridge of his nose. Emitted a world-weary sigh. “My conversations with both parties were conditional on her release. If either lied to me, they’d lose my protection. As I said, neither the DGSE nor the Ivoirian general knows of her whereabouts. I believe them.”

  Frustrated, she stood and shouldered her bag. “I can’t believe my grandfather worked with the secretariat. He would have never trusted someone like you.”

  She walked toward the door.

  “There was a bond, like it or not, mademoiselle,” he said. “Your grandfather and I fought together in the libération de Paris.”

  She stopped. Turned around, surprised.

  Delorme put his glasses back on and adjusted one of the earpieces. “You didn’t know? A small part of it, but we liberated the Mairie of Batignolles. Captured the Boches, found their hidden stash in the cellar, and met de Gaulle with vintage champagne. I respected Jean-Claude.”

  Despite everything he’d done, she believed him.

  “It’s time for you to do your duty.”

  Her mother had told her to do the right thing.

  “I won’t do anything dirty,” she said.

  “That’s the DGSE. They lie and manipulate.”

  “What you’re doing isn’t the same?”

  He watched her. Sensing her hesitation. “Your mother’s smart. She’s calling the shots. Probably holds the ace.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here at the table. Or walking around freely.”

  He made her skin crawl. Was she merely bait to hook her mother?

  And was her mother playing everyone, Aimée included?

  “Let’s say I’ve got a weakness for fascinating women,” he said. “Remember my help is valuable right now.”

  She cringed internally. Didn’t want to think about what his help might entail or cost.

  “Sounds like a threat,” she said.

  “Did I say that?”

  No way would this fossil control her.

  “You didn’t have to,” she said.

  She slammed the door behind her. Childish. But she was angry and scared. And she had no idea what to do.

  Friday, 7 p.m.

  Outside in the fresh chill, the sun’s last gasp fired a tangerine glow over the Grand Palais’s glass-tiled dome. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. A number she didn’t recognize.

  “I’m Michel, on the African desk at Agence France-Presse,” said a man’s voice. “Martine told me you’re need to know on the situation in Côte d’Ivoire.”

  Need to know? “Exactement.”

  “It’s unfolding.”

  “How?”

  “Our correspondent is embedded in the northern Nimba Highlands of Côte d’Ivoire,” said Michel. “A few weeks ago, he reported on a plane crash. Followed up by trekking to the site. Today, several sources led him to believe the plane’s cargo contained chemical weapons, including sarin. Reliable intel. However, he hasn’t been able to confirm this.”

  Mon Dieu. And she’d told Saj to hold off on trying to crack that firewall. So stupid.

  “Who else knows about this?” she asked.

  “I just hung up with him. So far, it’s just us three.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I’m typing the release as we speak.”

  “Where’s the French military, the special forces?”

  “Six hours away from the site, according to his source.”

  “Who is . . . ?”

  “Can’t reveal. But put it together, eh?”

  “So . . . the rebels who found the plane,” she said, guessing, “stripped it and took the cargo?”

  She heard him typing. He didn’t negate it.

  “Any reports of illness?”

  “He thinks so. Local doctors more active than usual.”

  “Where’s the cargo?”

  “Good question. But signs are it’s not far from the crash site. Tell Martine we’re even now.”

  The phone went dead.

  Back upstairs in Ming’s shop, René was making marks on the topographical map. “We’ll use these as satellite coordinates.”

  “Don’t satellites constantly orbit?” said Aimée.

  “Nature of the beast,” said Saj. “It can take up to four days to get a specific visual.”

  “Then how does that help?”

  She’d filled in René and Saj on the latest.

  “The good thing is, we know the coordinates indicate a point in the nature reserve,” René said. “Here.”

  She compared the topographical map to the more detailed atlas map of the Nimba Highlands. Used Saj’s metal compass and drew a circle.

  René pulled at his goatee. Something he did when concentrating. “What do you see within five kilometers?”

  “Mountains, ravines, crevasses, water erosion, deep-pitted areas.” She scanned the legend. “Caves. Right here. Perfect hiding places.”

  “What we need is a satellite view of this five-kilometer radius.” René lifted the map and showed Saj.

  “On it, René,” said Saj. “See if Ming can get us another computer to hook up, and we’ll talk to my pal at SUNSAT. He’s in Johannesburg and loves to show off.”

  “You’ve got a friend in South Africa’s satellite system?” asked Aimée.

  “Lars used to run the imaging systems, CT and MRI technology in nuclear medicine, at Val-de-Grâce.”

  Saj knew the most incredible geeks all over the world.

  “CT”—her brain stuck on the abbreviation. Doctors used CT scans to diagnose conditions from torn ligaments to tumors. What was it Sydney needed a scan for originally?

  Saj handed her a memory card not much bigger than her thumbnail. The kind used in handheld PDAs, not that she could afford one. “I scanned the data, inputted everything on this. Less bulky.”

  “Brilliant.” She unstrapped her Tintin watch and taped the card to the back of the face. “Got a backup?”

  Saj pointed to his man bun.

  “Work this remotely okay, Saj?” she said. He nodded. “Scrub these hard drives. Burn the paper.”

&nb
sp; She grabbed her reserve scarf, a vintage Gucci, from her bag. “Gotta run.”

  René looked up from hooking up a cable. “Something wrong? Is Chloé okay?”

  “Fine. Martine’s teaching her Italian,” she called over her shoulder as she clattered down the stairs.

  Friday, 7:30 p.m.

  She jumped on line 8 and two stops later was running up the Métro stairs and into Hôpital Saint-Antoine. Ten minutes of searching took her to the oldest building, Bâtiment de l’Horloge—and down into its cavern-like bowels to porte 19—1er sous sol.

  Why were all places like this underground?

  She consulted the letter and smiled at the receptionist. “May I speak with Dr. Celine Pradel?”

  “You have an appointment for the evening clinic?”

  “Mais non, but my mother missed hers. I’m worried. May I speak with her doctor, just for a moment—”

  “Attends,” the receptionist said, cutting her off. “You want to reschedule for her?”

  “I’m not sure. Her doctor may have a different recommendation.”

  “Let me see if the doctor’s doing a consultation. She’s on evening-clinic rounds.”

  Several phone calls later, the receptionist waved her through. “Five minutes, eh. Squeezing you in. You’ll be quick, non? She’s got another appointment.”

  “Merci.”

  Dr. Celine Pradel, Aimée’s height, thin, and with a no-nonsense gaze behind her wire glasses frames, was reviewing a chart at a nursing station.

  “Doctor, my mother got a letter saying the machine malfunctioned during her CT scan. I had no idea she was scheduled for one, and I’m worried.” Aimée showed her the letter.

  “No problem. Check with her and reschedule.”

  “It’s not that, Doctor; I want to know why she needs a CT scan. Would you have that information?”

  “Ask your mother.”

  “I would. But she’s disappeared.”

  “Ah, that’s why you’re concerned.” Dr. Pradel clicked her pen. “Let me consult her chart.”

  For once, Aimée felt someone was listening to her.

  The doctor reached for a pile of files. Went through the Ls. “At this stage in her condition, the CT’s advisable.”

  “What condition?”

  “Patient confidentiality forbids me from discussing medical issues.”

  “You mean it’s serious.” The world seemed to go into slow motion, the scuffed green tiles swimming up at her, the fluorescent lighting pressing down. From the corridor she heard the rubber squeak of a gurney’s wheels as it whooshed by. “She’s dying?”

  “I didn’t say that.” The doctor took her arm. “Don’t worry.”

  Aimée wanted to grab the file. Read it. But the doctor had stacked it with others in a pneumatic chute, pressed a handle. It winged out of sight.

  “All those terrible things I said.” Aimée chewed her lip. “Those things I can’t undo. Can’t even say goodbye.”

  “I want to help, but I’m forbidden from telling you more. You understand, non?”

  “What if she’s too sick to take care of herself?”

  “You’re not making it easy, mademoiselle.”

  “Desolée,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears. “But what if it was your mother?”

  Aimée read and reread the name Dr. Pradel had written down. I referred her to a private clinique, she’d said. Have no idea if she followed up. And I never did this, comprenez?

  Friday, 8 p.m.

  The bland seventies building that housed le polyclinique on rue Taine gave no hint of the sleek, efficient institution inside, all calm ambient music and subtle pastel furnishings and a business-like nursing staff. As Aimée stood in front of the reception desk, two women in wheelchairs, chattering away, were pushed past her. One of their attendants nodded to the nurse. “Apéro time.”

  “C’est privé ici,” the nurse said when she turned back to Aimée. “We don’t release information on patients.”

  “D’accord. Can you just tell me if Séverine Lafont is a patient?”

  “And you are?”

  “Her daughter.”

  “I’ll need ID.”

  Aimée showed her.

  “That’s a different last name, mademoiselle.”

  Great. “That shouldn’t matter.”

  The nurse eyed the security guard who was emerging from the elevator. “I can’t help you, mademoiselle. The security guard will escort you out.”

  Time to improvise, worm out information, and find out where her mother was.

  She spotted the café on the corner across the street from the polyclinique. Traditional, with a glassed-in terrasse. At the outdoor tables squeezed up against a bike rack, those ladies in wheelchairs were enjoying a mild evening under the rising moon.

  Apéro time, all right.

  There was a third woman, also in a wheelchair, who seemed to have been waiting for them there. All three were laughing and smoking cigarettes on the lit terrasse. No attendants in sight.

  They reminded her of when she and Martine used to sneak behind the lycée to smoke.

  She sat down at a table next to the ladies. Ordered un diabolo menthe.

  “Naughty girls,” she said to the ladies with mock severity when the waitress was gone.

  “Pwah, they’re candy cigarettes,” said the one in a red scarf. “Don’t spoil the fun.”

  The crescent fingernail of an autumn moon hung above the grisaille rooftops.

  “Never.” Aimée grinned. “Teasing you, c’est tout.”

  The third woman, who was wearing a black hat and designer sunglasses, was watching Aimée. She noticed the woman’s clenched hands on her teacup, knuckles white. The clubbed fingertips. The thin face caught in the streetlight glow. Aimée became aware of a faint drifting scent. Muguet. Lilies of the valley, the scent of the perfume her mother always wore.

  A little smile appeared on the woman’s face. She gave a slight shake of her head as Aimée’s mouth opened.

  Keep quiet.

  She did. Trying to remain patient while the two old biddies sipped tisanes, gossiping about the doctors, complaining about the food. Aimée tapped her heels, her diabolo menthe long gone.

  Finally, the attendants reappeared, one flicking a thread of tobacco from his lip. The two women finished their candy cigarettes and complained of the chill. A minute later, the attendants wheeled them back across the street.

  “Not here.” Aimée’s mother clenched her knuckles.

  “Why didn’t you tell me—” Aimée began.

  “Were you followed?”

  Impatient, Aimée ran her chipped onyx-lacquered nails over the marble-top café table. “Not recently.” She thought back to the doctor’s office, meeting René and Saj, before that at the ministry office with Delorme. Hadn’t spotted a tail.

  “Who has been tailing you?”

  “Who hasn’t? The DGSE, the CIA, the Crocodile’s mercenaries . . . Tell me what’s going on.”

  Another little smile. “I’m handling it.”

  Aimée noticed the wool blanket over her mother’s lap. Why was she wearing sunglasses at night?

  “Just like that?” Aimée said. “You’re ill. I can tell.”

  “Right now, you need to tell me what you found.”

  “Clubbed fingertips are a sign of serious lung disease—emphysema,” Aimée said, pointing to Sydney’s fingers. Her voice quavered. “There’s an oxygen tank behind your wheelchair. I assume your CT scan was to follow up on a questionable chest X-ray.”

  Sydney Leduc expelled air. “One year of premed and you know everything, eh?”

  She blinked in surprise. Were they going to get into a fight? “You’ve been here this whole time of your own will?”

  “Basically.”

  “Why
did you just vanish without telling me?”

  Sydney shook her head. “Not now, Amy.” Only Aimée’s mother used that American name for her.

  “You worried me to death, and you say, ‘Not now’?” Then it dawned on her. “Did you want me to believe you were in danger because you knew that was the only way to get me involved? Did you plot this with Lacenaire? He gave me a note from you.”

  “Lacenaire’s a liar and a lackey. I never gave him a note for you.”

  And she’d fallen for it. What a chump. Yet she couldn’t afford not to at the time. “And I believed him.”

  Sydney lowered her large sunglasses and scanned the street. “It wasn’t meant to go this way. But you’re the only one I trust.”

  Aimée took a breath. The streetlight caught the hollow cheekbones in her mother’s pale face. “Trust?” Anger vibrated in her voice. “You put this on my plate, led me into danger on a wild-goose chase. What do you even know about these people?”

  “Germaine was desperate. I have connections, and I thought I could help her.”

  “But what’s Gérard Hlili’s cause to you?”

  “Professional. I hated that they’d involved you already.”

  Involved her? “Who? I don’t understand.”

  “Never mind who. The bastards broke our agreement. They were watching you. You needed tools.” She lowered her glasses and surveyed the street again. “Look, tell me what happened with Germaine. We do that first, okay?”

  Aimée nodded. Why did she feel like a little girl again? She pushed that aside. Related how she’d traced the key to the mausoleum in the cemetery, what Germaine had stashed there, how GBH had held her captive.

  “I knew you’d find him.”

  “I wanted to do the right thing. But I don’t trust him.”

  “Why?”

  “After badmouthing the DGSE, he joked and backslapped them as he got into their car freely. But Germaine gave her life to get him those documents.”

  A muffled cough. “I know. She underestimated this job.”

  She did? “Then why didn’t . . . Were you too sick?”

  A brief nod. “Go on; what was on that plane?”