by Cara Black
He’d found her.
She was alive. Blood pounded in Aimée’s every vein.
Alive. Her mother was alive. He’d found her.
That had to mean she was coming back.
Lungs bursting, she reached the Place Vendôme—the Ritz, the Chanel boutique, the jewelry stores all surrounding the cobbled square and the iron pillar built by Napoléon commemorating his victories, melted from the battle cannons.
Her Papa’s van—she saw it, parked near the column—white, anonymous like a service vehicle. He’d be inside, using the long-range camera for surveillance, recording the cars, the stream of people. Waiting for his target.
Like so many times before. The usual.
As she was about to step off the pavement, a blinding flash erupted into a white-yellow fireball of light. The explosion shook the soles of her feet, ran up her legs, her whole body. A pressure wave sucked and then released her with a hot blast, singeing her eyebrows.
She stumbled back, then felt as though she’d been lifted off her feet. She was flying. When she came to—seconds or minutes later, she didn’t know—she was a few meters away from where she’d been standing. Her back had hit a stone bollard; a sharp pain coursed up her spine.
And she saw billowing smoke, people running, their mouths open as if they were screaming. But she couldn’t hear a thing. All she knew was her mouth was dry, her throat burned from the smoke. Coughing, she pulled herself up. Smelled burned flesh.
Non, non. Somehow she ran. She was screaming “Papa, Papa!” but she couldn’t hear herself.
The van’s door handle came off in her hands. Searing heat. The lenses of her father’s glasses lay shattered on the cobblestones. His foot, still in his shoe, beside it. A howling wail came up from inside her. She was crying and reaching for his—his—but people were pulling her back. Firemen were hosing the cobbles down. And then she knew no more.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Dot, Max, Barbara, Heather and Susanna. For all the wonderful help from Bill Whetstone, jeweler and gemstone expert magnifique, cat maman Jean Satzer; Marc Weber, the founding curator, Internet History Museum; the patient and generous techmeister Allan Schiffman. Merci’s in Paris go to: Guy Pradines, Police Judiciare 8th arrondissement; Stephané Pervieux of the Brigade de Répression du Proxénétisme; incredibly generous Arnaud Baleste; JC Mules, former Brigade Criminelle; Thierry Boulouque; Dr. Christian de Brier; Ancien secrétaire général et cofondateur de la Compagnie nationale des Experts de Justice en Criminalistique. Toujours Anne-Francoise Delbegue, Dr. Philippe Bray, Carla Bach, Berdj Achdjian, Jean Abou, Christophe, Martine, Mary Kay Bosshart, Celia Canning, and dear Julie McDonald. To Andi and Isabelle who took me to “Chambly” and Colette and the late Jacques Gerbault, who shared his story. Always to James N. Frey, wonderful Katherine Fausset, Bronwen, Rachel, Rudy, Amara, Abby, Paul—the whole Soho family, and Juliet Grames, editor extraordinaire. Jun and my son, Tate, without whom nothing happens.
