by A W Hartoin
“Un pour le travail et un pour personnels,” I said.
“Travaillez-vous à Paris?”
“Non. Aux États-Unis.”
He asked what my work was and I showed him my ACLS card. My ability to run codes satisfied him, but just barely. He cracked a rusty smile and waved us through. We walked down the long drive and stared up at the enormous building with its Mansard roof and arched entrance that reached all the way to the ridgeline. Louis XIV wanted it to impress and it certainly did. Only the Sun King would build an army hospital to look like a palace. He never did anything small or restrained.
This time, I wasn’t admiring the architecture. I was looking for Chuck. Thankfully, I didn’t find him.
“You’re going to have to carry Novak’s cell,” I told Aaron.
“Why?”
“Because if security gets nosy again and Chuck’s there, I’m toast.”
“Why do I have two cells?” he asked.
“One’s your backup,” I said.
“Weird.”
I was surprised he knew that. He didn’t seem to know that shaving the front two inches of his hair was weird. “I know, but Chuck’ll buy it if it comes from you.”
Aaron shrugged and I pulled out the vibrating phone. Novak wasn’t giving up.
“Keep an eye out for Chuck,” I said. “I’ve got to answer this.”
“Are you okay?” asked Novak in a rush when I answered.
“I’m fine. Why?”
“You weren’t answering. I thought the suits caught up with you.”
I scanned the building as we approached the entrance arch. We could see clear through to the inner courtyard past two dozen milling tourists. Chuck wasn’t there. “No suits. We’ve lost them.”
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Les Invalides. Walking in.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
A zing of fear zipped up my back. “You can’t. Chuck’s here.”
“I work for you and Chuck on the Marais matter.”
I blew out a breath. “I forgot. Can’t you just tell me over the phone?”
“My results aren’t digital and I’d like to meet this Chuck who you have to keep in the dark on so many things,” said Novak.
“Not so many things,” I said, walking through the enormous arched wooden doors.
“Okay. One very important thing. The Fibonaccis.”
“He’s a cop.”
“I know and an interesting cop, too.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Novak didn’t answer the question. “I’ll be there in two hours. I have to confirm something.”
“Where are you?” I asked.
“EDF.” He hung up and I gave the cellphone to Aaron.
“What’s EDF?” I asked him.
“Electric company.”
“I wonder what Novak’s doing there?” I turned right to the ticket office and trotted up the stairs. An arm shot out and grabbed mine. I screeched and prepared to punch, but it was only Chuck leaning on a pillar, looking much more relaxed than I felt. “Did you say something about Novak?”
“Don’t do that. Are you crazy?” I smacked his hand and his cheeks colored.
“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. You knew I’d be here,” he said.
“Yeah. You and three million other guys.”
“Got ya. No sneaking up. Now what was that about Novak?”
“He’s got something for us. He wants to meet here in a couple hours.”
“Something on the Marais apartment?” Chuck asked.
“I guess so. He didn’t say. It’s not digital, whatever it is.” I opened the glass door to the ticket office and was amazed, not for the first time, that it was empty. Three clerks looked up and I felt a bit of performance anxiety. French people behind desks always unnerved me even if they smiled, which was rare. I had to remind myself that they were never going to behave like Americans. I wasn’t going to get wide smiles and a call across the room asking if they could help us. The trio would stand there, patiently waiting with neutral expressions for us to come up in our own time. No eagerness would be felt or displayed. A hint of a smile would be nice though, a little tension breaker, although I was the only one who was tense. Chuck made a beeline for the brochures and Aaron looked disinterested as always.
“I’ll get the tickets,” I said.
The clerks spoke English, mercifully, and I got the tickets with a minimum of stress. It was my first time. The Girls usually bought tickets to practice their excellent French. I accepted our tickets and handed them out to Chuck and Aaron.
“What about those?” asked Chuck, pointing to the paper Napoleon hats on display.
I rolled my eyes. “Those are for the kids.”
“I want one,” he said.
“You’re messing with me, right?”
“No way. They’re cool. Aaron wants one.”
Aaron’s expression didn’t change. Want was putting it a bit strongly.
“I’ll ask them if you won’t,” said Chuck.
“You’re going to ask if you can have a paper Napoleon hat?” I asked. “You? Chuck Watts?”
“If we can have hats.”
“I have a hat,” I said.
“You can never have too many hats. Besides, we’re on vacation.”
I don’t know what to do with this.
“Okay. Go ahead and ask,” I said.
He did. I couldn’t believe it, but he did. Chuck rakishly leaned on the desk, flirted shamelessly, which was pretty much the only way he flirted, and he got three hats plus smiles from all three clerks. He did the impossible and I wasn’t grateful, especially when he popped a paper triangle into shape and said, “Take off your hat.”
“I’m good.”
Chuck’s face lit up. “Are you worried about what people are going to think?”
“Little bit,” I admitted.
“Come on.”
“No.”
He formed another hat and put it on his head. Sideways, of course. “We’re never going to see these people again. Who cares?”
“You’re killing me here.”
He put Aaron’s hat on and it actually improved the little weirdo by covering up the sad hair.
I sighed. “Fine, but if this makes it on the DBD site, you’re going to pay.”
He laughed and settled the heinous hat on my adorable cloche. “Awesome.”
I slung my purse over my shoulder and headed for the door. “I didn’t know you were a dork.”
“This isn’t dorky,” he said, catching up with me in two strides. “This is cool.”
We looked at Aaron, who trotted out the door. Total dork.
Chuck grinned at me. “Okay. It’s different on everyone. You, for instance, are hot and whimsical.”
“And you are?” I asked.
“Rakish and charming.”
“And humble, too.”
“Always. Which way should we go?”
“What do you want to see?” I asked.
“Everything,” he said.
Groan. So much armor.
“Armor?”
“Abso-friggin-lutely.”
We looked at the armor and then we looked at more armor. When we were done with that, there were swords and uniforms. Then Chuck decided we had to double back and look at Otto Heinrich’s display. It didn’t get much more impressive than Otto on his charger. The horse’s armor was particularly interesting. What kind of horse could carry its own armor and Otto in his? That guy was huge. Apparently, Chuck found this question fascinating, too. Pretty soon, he had a docent and pelted the poor guy with questions about weight and individual pieces.
I pointed to some benches at the end of the hall and he nodded, too busy with girth to notice much about me. I positioned myself behind another display so Chuck couldn’t get a clear view of me and called Novak on my regular phone.
“Where are you?” I asked when he picked up.
“I’m glad you called. I’m going
to be late. What part of the museum are you in?”
“Armor.”
“Still?”
“Chuck seems to think there’s going to be a test afterward.” I groaned and slipped off my shoes, rubbing my soles. Madam Ziegler was right; the shoes didn’t hurt. My feet were just sick of being walked on.
“My research says he’s not a museum type of man,” said Novak.
“Mine, too. When are you going to save me?”
“Give me an extra hour.”
“Why do you hate me?”
Novak laughed. “It will be worth it.” He hung up and I hid the phone a second before Chuck headed over.
“I’m done.”
I stretched. “Really? Are you sure you don’t want to count the rivets on that beaky helmet six rooms ago?”
“They didn’t have rivets.”
“Whatever.”
“Let’s check out the World Wars.” Chuck was bouncing on the balls of his feet like Aaron did when he was waiting for a food opinion.
“The wars it is.”
Chuck put my shoes back on after a complimentary foot rub and hauled me to my feet. We climbed the stairs to WWI because why take an elevator when you can march up stairs? We toured the WWI section and the horror of it depressed me as always. Then we went into WWII, an era that seemed so much more exciting and romantic. I’m sure it wasn’t if you had to actually live through it. I zeroed in on the Resistance section as I always did. Stella Bled Lawrence was a part of it and I always felt somehow connected to her when I looked at the coded letters and maps. She wasn’t there in the displays since her work was still classified, but I knew she deserved to be. Maybe someday there’d be a section on her exploits. The Girls would love that.
Chuck put an arm around my waist and I caught my breath.
“They have an Enigma machine here. Did you know that?” He was so excited and close, I had to say, “Really? Where?” even though I did know.
We looked at the Enigma machine and the code breaking display before working our way to the uniform part. Chuck found my favorite uniform first, a German uniform with giant basket boots for walking in snow.
“I wonder how in the hell he walked in those?” asked Chuck.
“Not very fast, I’m guessing.”
The Novak phone started vibrating in my purse and while Chuck looked at other displays, I called him back.
“I’m here at the tomb,” he said. “Can you tear them away?”
I wasn’t sure. Aaron was scowling at a display of ration cards and I think Chuck might’ve been counting medals on a general’s jacket.
“I’ll try.” I hung up and tucked the phone away. “We need to go.”
Chuck glanced back at me. “Did Novak call?”
“Yeah. He wants us to come to the tomb,” I said.
His eyes went back to the display and my hand went to my hip. “He’s doing us a favor.”
“Fine. Fine. But we’re coming back. I don’t want to miss anything.”
God forbid.
“Deal. Let’s go.”
I dragged Chuck and Aaron down the stairs and out of the building into the courtyard. Dragged is right. Chuck wanted to look at everything and there wasn’t even that much to see. I reminded him that Novak had information on the mysterious Marais apartment and it might be a clue to The Klinefeld Group. That got him going and we walked into the monument to Napoleon ten minutes later.
“Whoa,” he said. “This is huge.”
“I know. Novak’s waiting at—”
“Is that him?” asked Chuck.
It was Novak. Did the man own nothing but bizarre biking outfits? This one had orange and green tiger stripes and a little hat to match. No wonder Chuck spotted him from across the wide expanse, standing at the marble railing that overlooked the sarcophagus—or should I say sarcophagi, since Napoleon had six caskets like nesting dolls. One of anything was never enough for the great man, not even in death.
“That’s him,” I said, handing my purse to security. That guard was much less interested in security and barely glanced in my purse and he waved Aaron through without checking him at all.
“He doesn’t look like a cyber expert,” said Chuck.
“I don’t know what he looks like,” I said.
“At least I don’t have to worry about the competition.”
I glanced up at him, astonished. “Were you worried?”
“It occurred to me, but I’m over it.”
I had to lead Chuck around the railing. His head seemed permanently pointed at the dome and he kept bumping into people. “Look where you’re going.”
“How many tombs are in here?” he asked. “I thought it was only Napoleon.”
“There’s a bunch of generals and some other Bonapartes,” I said as we reached Novak.
“First time at the dome church?” asked Novak.
“How can you tell?” I grinned at him. “It’s a good thing there’s not a dress code.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my outfit.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Only to the colorblind.”
Novak laughed and Chuck tore his eyes away from the magnificence, sticking out his hand. “Chuck Watts. Thanks for taking on this case for us.”
“You’re welcome. Any friend of Spidermonkey’s is a friend of mine,” said Novak. “I have some information I’d like you to see.”
“Let’s do it.” Chuck turned and happened to look down into Napoleon’s tomb. “Whoa. I thought he was a little guy.”
“Only in stature,” I said. “We’ll go down in a minute.”
“We can go down there?”
“Sure.” I headed for a bench that some Brits, fully decked out in the red and gold of the Manchester United, vacated. They almost made Novak’s orange and green seem reasonable. Almost.
I sat down, chilling my bum instantly, and the guys took the spots on either side of me. Aaron wandered off, probably thinking of the wonders of duck fat.
“What have you got?” I asked.
Novak took an adorable little backpack off his back and pulled out a sheath of papers. “You remember when I told you that the Marais apartment is a dead zone?”
“Yeah. Isn’t it?” I asked.
“It is, but that’s not the end of it. Dead zones use utilities. It’s just not recorded, so no one can track the usage.”
Chuck nodded. “I get it. If you’re squirreling someone away, like a political prisoner, for instance, you wouldn’t want anyone to know how many people you had by how much water was being sucked up.”
“Exactly.”
“But water is being used,” I said.
“And electricity and gas. Usually,” said Novak.
“Usually?”
“You got me to thinking with your dates. That address has been dead for the twenty years of records I accessed.”
“So?” asked Chuck.
I smiled. “So Werner Richter knew about the apartment in 1963 and his brother thought it had something to do with his death. I bet the apartment was dead even back then.”
Novak nudged me. “That’s what I thought, too. The apartment was secret. The wife and daughter weren’t to go there or know anything about it.”
“Are there more records?” asked Chuck.
“Not that I could access online, but I have a friend at EDF. They’ve been in business since 1946.”
Novak’s friend was a very good friend and he let Novak into corporate headquarters. Five hours of digging through files in the basement and then more digging into billing gave Novak the info he needed. Well…not the info, but a lead. A very good lead. Electricity was being used in the Marais apartment, but not a lot. Novak’s friend said that, in his opinion, no one was living there and there are electric heaters, only used enough to keep the pipes from freezing. And, more importantly, someone was paying the bills.
“Please say The Klinefeld Group,” I said.
“Sorry. No,” said Novak. “Obsidian Inc.”
“Who�
�s that?”
“From what I can tell, it’s a shell corporation based in Switzerland.”
Chuck put his elbows on his knees and gazed at the marble railing. “Who owns it?”
“I haven’t been able to find that out yet. The Swiss are very good at keeping secrets, but I will break through…eventually.”
“So what’s with the papers?” I asked.
“These are the usage details, gas, electric, and water. I thought you would have to see it to believe it.” Novak passed me the sheath and I scanned them. No water used. No gas used. 1999. 1983. 1972. 1961. It kept going and going to 1946. The account was setup at almost the same time EDF was formed.
“Who’s Marcel Paul?” I asked, looking at the name at top of the last paper.
“He founded EDF.”
“That’s interesting,” I said, staring at that date in May 1946.
“What is it?” asked Chuck.
“Apparently, the Marais apartment has been a dead zone since 1946,” I said.
Chuck stood up and started pacing. “Who would do that? It’s crazy. Certifiable.”
“Marcel Paul set it up,” I said. “It doesn’t say why. What do we know about Paul?”
Novak shrugged. “He was a politician, a communist. A little controversial.”
“Could he have been a Nazi collaborator?” I asked.
“Not possible. He was part of the Resistance. He tried to assassinate Hermann Goring.”
“Holy crap. He was in Valkyrie?”
“I think it was a separate attempt, but I can find out if you’d like. He was arrested and sent to Buchenwald.”
I leafed through the papers again. “So he wouldn’t have anything to do with The Klinefeld Group, assuming we’re right and they have some Nazi connection through Jens Waldemar Hoff.”
“Stella was in the Resistance,” said Chuck. “I wonder if she knew Paul.”
“Stella?” asked Novak.
“Stella Bled Lawrence,” I said. “I doubt it. The Resistance wasn’t really centrally organized, more like small cells.”
“I can investigate her,” said Novak.
“I’d rather have you on Obsidian, Inc.”
He nodded. “I’ve already discovered they have been paying the taxes on the property all these years.”
“That’s a lot of money to pay for an apartment nobody’s using,” said Chuck. “We have to find out who they are.”
“I will do my best to find out.” Novak got up and stretched. “And now I will go for a café. Care to join me?”
