by Cara Black
“She wanted to see you.”
Aimée stared, speechless. And the walls seemed to shift. Her lip quivered. This talk of her mother . . . was it true?
Morbier’s shoulders slumped. “She’d been deported, banned from reentry. It was dangerous for her. If she was in the crowd, he didn’t see her.”
Her mother had wanted to see her.
“That’s it.”
She found her voice, a whisper. “How did Papa know?”
“An arrangement, letters. He tore them up. End of story.”
His words cut her to the bone. She blinked, determined not to let him see her cry. Her mother had risked her freedom and had been in contact with her father . . . yet he’d never told her.
“I’ll question Gabriel,” Morbier said. “No promises.”
“Merci.”
Her throat tightened and she nodded. Morbier looked even older now.
She felt numb. She’d think about this later. She made her feet move. Now she had to protect Stella.
AIMÉE SQUARED HER shoulders and nodded to the policewoman behind the desk. She crossed the worn marble floor that smelled, as always, of industrial-strength pine-scented cleaning fluid. Each tap of her heels echoed off the limestone walls. Orla’s face in the morgue, an injured Nelie on the video, Stella’s flushed peach cheeks, and her own mother’s almost forgotten face spun in her head.
A few Commissariat casement windows were lit, and a blue-uniformed flic guarded the courtyard door at street level. She needed to clear her head, to try to fit the pieces together as she walked along the quai. The last vestiges of the night clung to the sky. Warm wind, the gravel crunching under her heels, the muted cry of a seagull.
But she couldn’t think straight. She’d been rocked to her core, set adrift, as the memories flooded her. She hunched down against a stone wall. The lone pigeon pecking on the gravel ignored her. She covered her face with her hands, tears wet her cheeks. Her mother had risked everything for a chance to see her and she hadn’t even known. Her father had never told her. Nor Morbier.
And Nelie . . . what was she risking to save her baby?
She was still overcome, her thoughts jumbled, when she heard the whoosh of a street-cleaning truck. She had no idea how long she’d sat there but her face and jacket were wet with tears. Stella, she reminded herself, she had to get back to Stella.
Aimée grew aware of the cell phone ringing in her pocket.
She answered it, wiping her nose. She heard loud buzzing.
“Where are you?” Claude’s concerned voice was breaking up into static. “I’m worried . . . looked for you . . .”
He’d deserted her, left her with those mecs. She’d thought he was different.
“I made a deal and got Krzysztof immunity; why didn’t you help me convince him to stay?” she asked. Why did you run away? she wanted to ask him, but she bit back the words.
“I couldn’t, Aimée,” Claude said. The line had cleared. ”I’m involved with the eco freedom trail. People depend on me, a whole network. I cannot get involved with the flics.”
A chain of safe houses for ecoterrorists on the lam, she realized. But then why wouldn’t Nelie have used it? Or maybe she had?
“Do you mean Nelie’s there—”
“No,” he interrupted. “She’s gone underground but no one knows where.”
The reason must have to do with Stella and the ink marks on the skin under her arm. She remembered Krzysztof’s words—Nelie had told him there was a doctor’s report
“Let me talk to Krzysztof.”
“He jumped off my bike and ran into the Métro. He said he’ll take care of it his way,” Claude told her. “I couldn’t stop him.”
He, too, had run like a scared rabbit.
The line was clearer now.
“Aimée, are you all right? What’s happened?” he asked, breathless.
“Why did this mec Gabriel demand Nelie’s baby?” she said.
In the silence she could hear the sputtering of the motorcycle engine.
“Who knows?
“France2 has news footage showing Nelie and Orla at the demonstration.”
“You saw it?”
“But there was no baby with them,” she said.
“The march erupted into chaos. But . . . ,”
Claude paused.
“He didn’t work alone, right? Now you may be in as much danger as Nelie and her baby.”
He was right.
“Gabriel didn’t believe that we would give him the disc; he wanted the baby. Otherwise why did he show up?” she said. “But at least we accomplished something: he’s headed across the river to La Santé.”
“What do you mean?” Something had changed in Claude’s voice.
“Gabriel skipped a meeting with his parole officer, so he’ll be locked up,” she said.
Her head ached, the muscles in her legs had cramped, and tiredness flooded her body.
“Claude,” she said. “I have to go.”
“You’ve gotten under my skin,” he said, his voice low and hesitant. “I’ve never met anyone like you. We’re alike, you know . . . we share so much.”
She wished she weren’t attracted to him.
“Stay at my place. At least I know you’ll be safe with me,” he said. ”I’ll make sure of that.”
She pictured his warm studio, imagined his arms around her, his musky sandalwood scent. But with René and Saj working on the incriminating files and the babysitter having to leave, her duty was clear. She had to care for Stella; she had to protect her.
“Merci, but I can’t, Claude,” she said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Promise me you’ll come to stay with me?”
How could she? With Stella?
“Aimée, you asked me to trust you. Now I’m asking you to trust me.”
“I want to.”
“Then you’ll come?” he breathed into the phone.
“I don’t know, Claude.”
Before she could change her mind, she turned off the phone. Aimée stood and made her tired legs walk. A block later she found a cruising taxi. She collapsed against the leather seat and then realized her wallet was empty.
At the Paribas cash machine, with the taxi waiting on the curb, she took out half of what Vavin had given her. She had to pay Mathilde overtime. They’d barely limp by for the rest of the month unless René worked wonders and snagged the Fontainebleau account.
Conscious of the blur of the street lamps on the quai, the almost-deserted, rain-chased streets, the hint of dawn in the faint ribbon lightening the sky, she leaned back. At least she could tip the taxi driver who’d gotten her to Martine’s in record time.
She took a deep breath, trudged up the red-carpeted stairs, and rang Martine’s bell.
Martine opened the door In a leopard-print silk robe, cigarette dangling from her mouth, relief in her eyes. “You’ve got more lives than a cat! You scared me, Aimée. I thought—”
“Next time keep your phone on, Martine,” Aimée said.
“Damn thing’s battery ran down.” Martine hugged her hard and put the cigarette between Aimée’s lips. “Want a hit? You deserve it. Believe it or not, Jadwiga Radziwill, the celebrated anarchist, provided an interesting take on your explosion.”
“I thought she was dead,” Aimée said.
“At first, with all that makeup, it was hard to tell. But Deroche broke a sweat talking to her, then summoned his minions to a hurried caucus. I love to see those CEOs . . . well, you can tell me about it.”
All Aimée wanted was to see Stella and sleep.
“In the morning I will, I promise. And I need to meet with Daniel Ristat. But right now I need—”
“To sleep, d’accord.” Martine kept her arm around Aimée as she walked her down the hall and then helped her out of her clothes. “Mathilde’s asleep. Shall I wake her?”
The last things Aimée remembered were putting francs into Mathilde’s bag and then curling up on the Babar sheets next
to a sweet-smelling Stella.
Thursday Morning
HE STARED AT the headlines of Le Parisien displayed at the news kiosk. MYSTERY WOMAN SAVES A HUNDRED LIVES—EXPLOSION ROCKS THE SEINE.
Merde! He flicked his cigarette onto the pavement, ground it out with his foot, and read the article. The woman, who was wearing a feather-trimmed jacket, and claimed to be affiliated in an unexplained manner with the press, has not been found. The Brigade Fluviale continues to dredge the Seine. . . .
Another screwup.
He’d told Halkyut to quit recruiting lowlifes. Had they listened? Not according to the front-page article. Le Monde, a more news-oriented publication, said: Oil conference: Alstrom presence plagued by eco-group militants, bomb scares, and oil platform pollution rumors.
The man reached into his blue trouser pocket, took out a coin, and threw it on the counter.
“Genocide in Rwanda, impending Metro strike . . . but this . . . at least there’s some good news in the world, eh, Monsieur?” the smiling vendor said.
“A real bright spot.” He almost ripped Le Monde as he unfolded the front page, looking for the story and its continuation. He read:
Oil conference executives, attending a reception at the historic Hôtel Lambert, hosted by Mathieu Deroche, CEO of Alstrom, expecting to hear an oil rights agreement with the Ministry announced, watched in horror as a woman disposed of explosives in the Seine. The third bomb threat in two days, and the murder of an executive of Regnault, Alstrom’s high-powered publicity firm, sent shock waves through the oil-producing community. The second bomb threat, a hoax, at l’Institut du Monde Arabe, was attributed to MondeFocus, which denied responsibility, and has now been blamed on a splinter peace group. However, insiders reveal that a bomb threat delivered to M. Deroche was meant to highlight the questionable practices of Alstrom, France’s largest refiner of petroleum. An oil conference source expressed disbelief that a peace organization would use such “terrorist tactics,” insisting an inquiry be launched into Alstrom’s recent freighter accident in the North Sea. Preliminary explosive experts’ findings reveal that the unsophisticated pipe bombs used lacked a timing ignition device, indicating that the danger was in part simulated. Unconfirmed reports indicate that static electricity was the cause of the ignition. An unnamed MondeFocus spokesman said, “Disinformation and bomb hoaxes were used by Alstrom to distract attention from the underlying issues of toxic waste and environmental pollution.”
The man crumpled the paper, tossing it into a nearby trash bin. He had to fix everything himself. He patted the Beretta in his inside jacket pocket and blended in with the commuters rushing down the Metro steps.
Thursday Late Afternoon
THE CAFÉ WAS crowded and noisy; Aimée held Stella in her arms. A few hours ago, she’d visited a pediatrician, who, after examining Stella, had pronounced her healthy and fever free. For two hundred francs more, he’d prescribed antibiotics for Aimée and asked no questions as to why she needed to ward off the Seine’s microbes. She’d slept half the day, soaked in the tub at Martine’s, and borrowed a black velvet pantsuit and cap. Rested now, despite an undercurrent of anxiety, she tugged the little hat onto Stella’s head and scanned the other customers in the café.
A milk steamer hissed, competing with the conversations at the zinc counter. Delivery truck drivers in blue work smocks threw back espressos and bières, a pinstripe-suited Ministry type stood reading Le Monde, an office worker on a break in a pencil-thin skirt spoke on her cell phone, and a gray-haired, elaborately coiffed woman held a cigarette between her beringed fingers, Bon Marché shopping bag at her feet, and blew smoke rings in the air.
The man she was waiting for hadn’t arrived.
She sat back. This café-tabac, across from the Institut Océanique, was filled with locals. No one would look for them here.
The cell phone in her jacket pocket vibrated. With the phone crooked between her neck and shoulder, she laid Stella on the booth’s leather seat.
“Aimée, what happened to you last night?” René said with irritation. “I left you messages—”
“Sorry, René. I set off some fireworks, then took a swim,” she said. “It seemed better to lie low and call you when I—”
“That was you?”
“Let’s say it was an alter ego,” she said. “Has Saj found anything promising?”
“We used the dial-up system and accessed Vavin’s password and account.”
“Brilliant, René.”
“I said I would, Aimée,” René reminded her. “Now Saj is working from the PC’s hard drive backup. But I’m working on the Fontainebleau contract again. One more time. They’re ready to sign.”
He meant he had a “paying” job; she heard the implied criticism in his voice.
“The computer’s been put back in Vavin’s office,” René said.
She heard a pause at the other end.
“But my log-in using Vavin’s password will show up, Aimée. It’s just a matter of time until the techs at Alstrom discover the intrusion.”
“Right, but they can’t prove you did it,” she said. She had to reassure him and so she said the only thing she could think of.
“Of course not,” René said. “We ‘visited’ the travel agency next door and luckily their telephone was still connected so we used it to dial up.”
René constantly amazed her.
“Worst-case scenario, we’ll spin the break-in as ‘in the public interest,’” she said.
“You don’t mean that law whistle-blowers use, citing special journalistic privileges or whatever?”
“That’s only if we get caught, René,” she said. “And I’m about to meet a L’Express journalist.”
“Saj tunneled into some Ministry meeting minutes in Alstrom’s storage database. He’s not sure but—”
She heard the clicking of keys on the laptop under René’s fingers.
“We’re looking for what exactly?” he asked.
“A doctor’s report from La Hague. And pollution statistics. You know, like a second pair of books accountants keep. The real set.” She had an idea. “Ask Saj to find Alstrom’s file of independent contractors.”
“Tall order, Aimée. He’s slogging through their records and he says it’s a huge job.”
“What about checking Alstrom’s accounts payable? See if Halkyut’s on the list; no one works for free.”
“Halkyut?” René said louder. “The spies for hire?”
“One of Halkyut’s employees has been after Stella.”
“What aren’t you telling me, Aimée?”
“I made it hot for him,” she said.
In the literal sense, but she didn’t think it wise to give René the details. “He’s in La Santé right now. I’ll fill you in after I meet the journalist.”
She eyed the café-tabac lace-curtained door again. He was late. He had to show. And if he didn’t come? She pushed the thought away. If she’d read him right, he wanted to make his name, and a scoop like this would do it.
Something still bothered her.
“We have to find out what those marks I copied from under Stella’s arm mean.”
Nelie must have been desperate; she hadn’t taken the time to diaper Stella but she had scribbled letters and numbers on her skin. Yet she must have realized that the marks would rub off soon, or be washed off.
“What’s the big secret, Aimée?”
“No big secret, René,” she said. “Right now, those ink marks—the letters and numbers that were written on Stella—seem to be the key.”
“Deciphering an alphanumeric strand is a big headache.”
It could take an hour. Or twelve. Or forever.
She thought hard. “Say Vavin discovered proof that Alstrom had falsified their reports and it’s hidden in this equation. What if he told this to Nelie . . .”
“And it got him killed?” René finished for her. “We went through this last night. Big stretch.”
Stella began to cry. A
imée put the baby over her shoulder and patted her back.
“How’s Stella?” René asked in a gruff tone that didn’t hide his concern.
“The doctor examined her; she’s fine,” she told him.
A dark-haired man entered the café, working his way past those in line buying telephone cards, and waved at her. Finally.
“The L’Express journalist’s here,” Aimée said, waving back. “I’ll get his fax number. When you find the reports, you can fax them, and if I play it right, he’ll nail them in print.”
“Play it right, Aimée,” René said and hung up.
Daniel Ristat, cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth, edged through the line at the counter looking every bit the handsome Left Bank journalist and knowing it. More than one woman glanced up from her magazine and gave him the eye.
“Je m’excuse,” he said, setting his laptop on the table in front of Aimée. His snobbism evaporated when he saw Stella. He ground his cigarette out and waved the smoke away. “The baby, smoke . . . I’m sorry. She’s a beauty!”
He sat down, a smile in his eyes.
“What’s her name?”
“Stella, meet Daniel Ristat.”
He took Stella’s fingers in his big ones and gazed at her. Stella wrinkled her nose, curled her finger around his, and gave a halfhearted cry. Amazed, Aimée saw that Daniel Ristat’s face had changed. The trendy journalist was putty in her small hands. This little ravissante was a natural coquette, born to it.
“Martine never mentioned your child. I had no idea,” he said. Amid the noise of conversations, the télé above the counter with horse races blaring, the clatter of cups stacked on the espresso machine, he only had eyes for Stella. “You’re so lucky.”
Aimée winced.
“My wife and I can’t have children. We’re trying to adopt but the waiting list is two years long. Or longer.” He shrugged. “Famille d’accueil recommends we become foster parents to gain priority.”
Despite his male-model looks and air, something about him told her he’d make a wonderful papa.
