by Cara Black
She pivoted on her heel. Saw the flash of a tuxedo jacket and got a brief look at the face of the man wearing it.
“The service stairs to the kitchen. Now.”
She thrust her champagne into Martine’s hand and crossed the creaking inlaid wood floor, passed the suave, smiling Deroche, opened a door in the carved paneling, and went down the steep sconce-lit winding stairs. She fished the miniscrew-driver out of her bag. Too bad the tip had broken off in Nelie’s door.
She had a bad feeling as heat rising from the kitchen enveloped her.
And then he stood on the step below her. Krzysztof.
“You lied to me,” she said.
“It’s going down.” His eyes bulged in fear.
“What’s going down?”
“Coming through,” said a waiter, passing them with a tray of toast slivers coated with foie gras.
“You have to help.”
Unease filled her. “Me? Why should I? Orla was your girlfriend but you wouldn’t even ID her body. You and Nelie planted bombs at the march and you’re wanted by the police.”
“You’re wrong!” Krzysztof interrupted. “Orla was not my girlfriend. Nelie’s hiding, but I would never expose her. I promised to keep quiet.”
“So you know where she is?”
He shook his head. His words came out in a rush. “We didn’t plant bottle bombs! We were framed. Saboteurs ruined the peace march.”
“How’d you get in here with all this security?” She saw the tuxedos hanging in a storeroom off the kitchen. “Wait . . . you came in with the caterers, didn’t you?”
He pulled at her sleeve. “Hurry,” he said, his voice tense, as he tugged her downstairs.
A distant memory bubbled up. Aimée had been in this kitchen before. She’d gone to school with the daughter of the Hôtel Lambert’s head chef. Sometimes, after school, the chef, who was from Brittany, baked Quimper biscuits for a treat. They’d been forbidden to wander upstairs but she remembered the white-tiled kitchen, enameled Aga stove, and the fragrance of hot butter. Now it was overrun by a crew of red-faced white-hatted chefs intent on adding decorative touches, sauce swirls, and radish florets to platters of dainty delights.
Krzysztof pulled her toward the walk-in pantry before they could be noticed.
“There are explosives here.” He held up a piece of waxed fuse. “I found this on the floor.”
Chills ran up her spine. Her first impulse was to yell, “Bomb” and get out. She was an idiot. Why had she followed him?
Before she could stop him, he had pushed her into a walk-in freezer and shut the door. She lowered her bag to the floor, pulling out her fist with the screwdriver in it, and confronted him. “You wouldn’t talk to me before. What’s your game . . . your demands . . . are you taking hostages?”
“I checked you out.”
“So you’re having second thoughts, feeling guilty?” She kept the screwdriver in her fist poised to defend herself should he attack her. “You’ve set explosives and now you want to stop them from going off?”
“What?”
“You’ll use me as a cover—”
“Listen to me, Halkyut Security’s involved,” he interrupted, handing her a battered business card on which someone had written the initial “G.”
She knew that Halkyut, a private firm, employed former intelligence officers and ex-military as security operatives. This situation was going from bad to worse.
“‘G’ stands for this mec, Gabriel, who brought the bombs here.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s a long story, but I found out that he bought pipe bombs from a person who lives in a squat.”
A high-level security firm buying bombs in a squat?
“And I’m the prime minister,” she said in disbelief.
He waved his hand. “He saw me and he recognized me. He’s checking out the kitchen. I know the explosives are here. I’m an amateur. I thought I could defuse the charge but . . .” He kicked an aluminum tray. “Look, I’m in over my head, I screwed up. I’m for peaceful protest, exposing the oil corporations . . . but not with bombs.”
Maybe an operative employed by Halkyut had been clever enough to use unsophisticated explosives to divert suspicion.
She reached for her cell phone. She’d left it in her bag on the floor; she didn’t want to bend down to rummage through it and give him an opening to attack her. “Let me use your phone. We have to evacuate everyone.”
“They want to blame the bombs on ecoterrorists, extremists. On me. They’ll forge a demand note and attribute it to me, create chaos, and blame the destruction on me.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“They did it before, at our peace march. Now the oil agreements are ready for signature,” he said. “It will happen unless certain evidence surfaces first.”
“I don’t get it,” she said.
“What can’t you understand? They want to silence all opposition. . . .” His forehead glistened with sweat. “The oil companies use Halkyut to hire infiltrators—wild men—so anyone who protests seems to be an extremist. Once this agreement is signed, there will be more contracts and the North Sea will be polluted further by nuclear wastes and other toxins.”
“But they just announced that they’ve dismantled their North Sea oil-rig platforms.”
“They lied. Nelie has the proof. It’s in black and white. But they’ve gotten to her.”
That corresponded with the statement by Deroche’s press attaché. And now she knew that Vavin was Nelie’s uncle.
“What do you mean ‘gotten to her?’”
“I think they took care of her, like they did to Orla. She and her baby have disappeared.”
Her pulse raced. “The baby . . .”
A man in a chef’s apron opened the freezer door. “What are you doing here?”
Aimée said the first thing that came to her mind. “I’m checking supplies.” She hit a side of hanging cured ham. “The maître d’ needs more jambon hors d’oeuvres upstairs.”
“When I’m good and ready. The smoked trout’s on my mind right now, if you please! Give me some room.”
They stepped back into the kitchen. The chef rushed over to a wire shelf, grabbed a package, and hurtled out past her.
Beyond them lay a box of Beurre de Breton on a wooden chopping block. Next to it, a sous chef was using a hand-sized butane torch to caramelize turbinado sugar on fifty or more porcelain ramekins of crème brûlée.
“Zut alors, Henri; hurry up with the crème brûlées!” a waiter shouted.
Bending, she saw pipes and wires encased in colored plastic, taped to the underside of the chopping block. Her heart stopped.
“There . . . look.” She pointed, her hand shaking.
Krzysztof’s eyes widened in terror. “The sous chef could set off the explosives by mistake. Distract him. I’ll disconnect the fuses.”
“Wait!” She tried to think. “There has to be a timing detonator,” she said. Touching the wires or fuses could activate it. “Everyone must evacuate. I’ll alert the bomb squad.”
She felt for her bag. Where was it . . . where the hell was her cell phone? They couldn’t risk everyone’s life . . . My God, Martine was upstairs!
“Non, cut the waxed wires,” he said.
“What?”
“No detonator. Keep it away from flame and static electricity; the old woman, the anarchist, told me. I’ll snip the fuse near the base; it’s the best way to prevent—”
“Mademoiselle, out of my way.” A large man stood in front of her. “The garlic’s burning, I need butter.”
“Let me.” Krzysztof moved in front of him.
He shoved Krzysztof’s arm away. “Ridiculous. Who let these people in here?”
Aimée saw pushing, a fistfight erupting, then Krzysztof lay on the floor.
“Et voilà, the crème brûlée’s finished.” The sous chef turned, his torch still lit and emitting a blue flame.
“Non,” she screame
d. She had to get the bombs away from the fire, from the hot kitchen. Or they’d blow to kingdom come.
Terror stricken, she saw her father in her mind’s eye, the orange billowing heat and fireball explosion that had reduced him to charred cinders.
“Bombs! Get out,” she yelled as loud as she could above the din of the kitchen. “Run!”
“What the—?” A pan clattered. The hiss of escaping gas and steam filled the air, shouts of “Merde” accompanying it. Krzysztof had risen to resume battle with the chef while others stood, pots and knives in hand, paralyzed by annoyance and fear.
Panicked, she didn’t know where to turn. A chef stood blocking her way, frozen in horror.
“Move!”
She ripped the tape that was holding the wires to the underside of the chopping block and grabbed the colored plastic case. The only thing she could think of was to run to the service door. She shoved the door open with her hip and barreled onto the quai, bumping into a surprised group of white-aproned men who were taking a break, smoking.
“Eh, look where you’re going—”
“Security! Stand aside!” She ran the few steps across the narrow quai, past a surprised man walking his dog, and took the stone steps, running as fast as she could.
She splashed over to the riverbank, ankle deep in the rising water, and threw the pipe bomb as far as she could into the Seine. Then she dove back to the steps, crouched, and covered her head with her arms.
She waited but the only sound was of the lapping water. She breathed a sigh of relief. A close call. Until she saw bright yellow-orange bubbles coming to the surface.
From the bridge she heard a baby cry. Stella’s face flashed in front of her.
Then there was a deafening explosion, followed by a deep rumbling. The steps shuddered. Then the same thunderlike clap she’d heard in the Place Vendôme when her father was blown up.
She lost her balance, reached out, and her fingers scraped across slippery moss. Water shot up in an arc, spraying the bridge; waves broke over her. She scrambled onto all fours, reached for the steps, trying to climb, her knees shaking. Another rumbling, followed by shaking, rocked the stones. Icy, stinking water burst over her, soaking her, and she was crying, sobs racking her body.
She became aware of people on the Pont de Sully shouting. Now billows of dark gray smoke rose from the surface of the Seine, forming a blanket of fog. Her shoulders were heaving; her dress clung to her dankly. Sirens wailed. She heard laughter from the bridge and then clapping. “Good show,” someone said. “Where are the fireworks?”
Only candlelight illuminated the darkened windows of the Hôtel Lambert now as men in formal attire and elegantly gowned women stood on the dark balconies, a scene out of the past. Several other buildings had lost electric power as well from the explosion. Then a receding wave of icy water sucked at her, pulling her down again, and she gulped a mouthful of scummy water.
Choking and spitting, she lay on her stomach on the stones of the embankment and her arms flailed in the water as she fought against being sucked into the cold backwash of foam, twigs, and bits of sharp metal pipe. She tried to clutch the iron rungs of the ladder that led from the river to the bank. The current snatched her away. She had to swim.
She kicked, battling the current, but her eyes could make out nothing in the murky, dense blackness. She surfaced, sputtering, in the middle of the Seine. Shivering, treading the frigid water, she saw people running along the quai, and now lights blazing in the Hôtel Lambert. The electricity had been restored. A low toot and the black hull of a Bateau-Mouche loomed. The whirling blades of the engine had been revved up to battle the choppy current. Her adrenaline kicked in and she swam, desperate to get out of the path of the boat. If she was sucked under, she’d be sliced like meat in the rotor blades. She heard shouts, took a deep breath, and dove, her arms numb, her legs cramping. So cold. She remembered Capitaine Sezeur’s words: twenty minutes in a wet suit was all the divers could handle.
The water, a foaming broth, swirled; the current seized her. Vibrations from the engine pounded in her ears. Now lights filtered through the dense greenish silt, and dead crawfish floated past her. She had to get free of the current; her lungs were bursting. Her feet hit something and she pushed off, away from the churning bubbles created by the motor.
She hit the surface, gulped air, and her head hit something hard. Her jacket sleeve caught and she was sucked down again.
Wednesday Night
RENÉ LOOSENED HIS damp shirt collar. Vavin’s hard drive and the laptop PC in its case hung from his shoulder. Just as he passed Nadia’s desk, he heard a ting from the elevator and the slow whoosh of the door opening. He froze. Security guards or . . . ? He didn’t wait to find out.
He searched for cover behind a potted palm, gathered his thoughts, and looked for the stairs. The last thing he needed right now was questions. He wouldn’t be able to fight his way out carrying a several-kilo laptop case with his aching hip.
Palm fronds brushed his nose. The moist terra-cotta planter was exuding moisture. He saw the red-lit EXIT sign to his right and knew two flights of stairs led down to the foyer. And escape.
There was a soft padding sound on the carpet, then the flash of a man’s blond head. He was going straight to Vavin’s office. René held his breath, waited until he heard the office door open, and made for the exit. He wouldn’t have much time after the mec discovered Vavin’s laptop was gone.
He opened the door, stood in the stairwell, and held the handle so the door would shut silently, then raced down the stairs, trying to ignore the sharp pains in his hip. The laminated ID hanging from his neck flapped against the jacket he carried folded over his shoulder, under the laptop-case strap.
At the front desk he smiled at the security guard, praying he could get away with this. The last time he’d stolen anything was a car magazine when he was fifteen. And he’d been caught.
His shoulders were just at the level of the counter, where a sleepy security guard nursed an espresso.
On tiptoes, René reached for a pen with which to sign out. The guard eyed him, taking in his size.
A few more minutes and he’d reach his car.
“Before you go, open your bag,” the guard said.
“I’m in a hurry, I’m sure you understand . . .”
The guard jerked his thumb. “You heard me. Standard procedure.”
René opened the laptop case.
“What’s that you’ve got?”
René debated fully waking him by telling him the truth.
“A rat’s nest,“ René said. “Terminal malfunction in the hardware. I’ve got to repair this back at the office.”
“No one informed me,” the guard told him, one eye scanning the video monitors.
René followed his gaze. On the monitor labeled SECOND FLOOR he saw a blond mec standing at the elevator bank.
“Nor me! Just happened.” René rolled his eyes. “Deadline, too! They need this back in a few hours.”
“Eh, you can’t take equipment without—”
“Look, this system needs to be up and running before the exec’s conference.”
“You need authorization.”
Perspiration dampened René’s collar.
“Then you tell the CEO why his computer doesn’t work when he arrives at his meeting in a few hours.” Sweat trickled down René’s shoulders.
“Let me see your ID,” the guard said.
René held up the extra laminated badge Aimée had given him. “I’m a network system administrator. Get it? If I can’t deliver, it’s your job on the line.”
“Cool your heels, petit.”
Several men and women in blue work smocks had lined up behind René, grumbling. “What’s the holdup? We’ve clocked out.”
Behind him, he saw the orange light of the descending elevator.
René reached for a pen. “Where do I sign?”
HIS UPPER LIP still beaded with perspiration, René walked toward the budd
ing trees in front of the Faculté des Sciences. He nodded to Saj, who was waiting under a lamppost, light gleaming on his bleached-blond dreadlocks, and opened the door of his parked Citroën, putting the laptop case on the leather seat.
“Namaste,” Saj said, placing the palms of his hands together in greeting.
“Namaste.” René returned the gesture. “Thanks for meeting me. Let’s go.”
“What’s with the slash on your bumper?” Saj asked.
“A big rig near the Périphérique got too close for comfort.” René’s hands were shaking so much he didn’t think he could drive. He opened the car door, leaned down, and somehow adjusted the seat controls and pedals for someone Saj’s height. “Do you mind driving?”
“To what do I owe the honor?” Saj said. “You’ve never even let me touch the steering wheel before.”
René climbed into the passenger seat. Lampposts shone on the bridge. He touched the floppy discs in his pocket for reassurance.
“Move it, Saj. Get us out of here.”
“René, you just missed big fireworks downstream on the Seine.” Saj gunned the engine. “You look nervous. What’s up?”
The Citroën shot over the Pont de Sully.
“It’s not every day I steal a laptop and a dead man’s hard drive.”
SEATED IN FRONT of his terminal in Leduc Detective’s office, René tugged at his goatee anxiously. He and Saj had copied Vavin’s hard drive to a backup disc. Now for the tough part—cracking Vavin’s password so they could get into the Alstrom files if the Alstrom system hadn’t already shut down his access.
He lowered his orthopedic chair and checked the mail piled in front of the frosted-glass door of Leduc Detective. Bills and more bills.
Saj asked, “Got the software installed?”
René nodded.
Saj sat cross-legged in a white flowing shirt and drawstring muslin pants, bent over the Alstrom laptop’s screen.
Breaking into systems was Saj’s specialty and he was a master at it.
Pain pulsed in René’s leg. There was still no word from Aimée. He’d left several messages. He wondered if she’d spoken with de Laumain. Or, worst-case scenario, if she was keeping vigil at the hospital by the side of a feverish Stella.