by Cara Black
Aimee pulled up the bloody fingerprint from rue des Rosiers, then requested a match search on FRAPOL 1 with Cazaux's name. At the corner of the screen, the progress box blinked "Searching records." She drummed her chipped red fingernails on the ME's wood desk.
The alarm bleeped and she sat up, gripping the Beretta inside her leather backpack. Her fingers found the safety and flicked it off. She'd taken the handgun from the man in the police uniform outside Soli Hecht's hospital room. The office lights blacked out; only the red light on the surge protector wavered. Stay calm, she told herself, hugging the bag close to her.
From the hallway, a shadow moved, then a flashlight shone on the walls. The citrus scent gave him away before she heard him speak.
"Maybe you'd like to tell me what you're doing," he said.
A smoldering Rothmans orange cigarette butt landed on her keyboard, briefly illuminating it.
"I've got a gun," she said. "If I get upset I'll use it."
"Don't play with me, you don't have a permit," he chuckled. "This is France."
The fluorescent lights buzzed then flickered on. She looked straight into the green-gold eyes of Herve Vitold. Behind him in the hallway, Rene hung by his suspenders to a large circuit-breaker panel, plastic gloves stuffed in his mouth.
"Ms. Leduc, we meet again," Vitold said. He slid next to her in one fluid movement, his eyes never leaving hers.
"I knew you were too good-looking to be internal security," she said.
He moved so close she could see each hair on his upper lip. Almost intimate. His chest heaved rhythmically, which was the only way she could tell he was laughing. The Luger in his hand didn't move, though; it rested coldly against her temple.
"I've been waiting for you to break into FRAPOL 1 again," he said as he scanned the screen intently. "Your technique is good, I'll use it myself next time."
"You're the tidy-up man, eh?" she said. She knew that as soon as she got a match, he'd erase it, eradicate all traces.
He looked bored. "Tell me something new."
"You want to crash the whole system," she said. "Destroy all law enforcement files and the internal network of fingerprint and DNA identification, Interpol interfaces," she said. "Just to erase his fingerprints. But it won't work."
"Pity," he said. "You've got talent. Wasted talent."
"Each system has its own safeguard network. You'll never get past them." She wanted to keep him talking. "Any break-in attempt trips the system alarms. Freezes all access," she said. "You can't do it."
"But I can," Herve Vitold said. He smiled. "I designed the alarm alert for FRAPOL 1 and the defense ministry." Expertly, he snapped the cartridge in and out of the Luger with one hand. "Disarming them will be easy."
"Cazaux is finished," she said.
"Quit playing games," he said.
"Untie my partner," she said, glancing at Rene. "I'm getting upset."
Vitold ignored her. Rene flipped uselessly like a caught fish, his feet dangling above the scuffed floor, trying to bang the metal circuit breaker with his shoulders. Vitold backed up and pointed his gun at Rene's head. Rene's eyes blinked nonstop in panic.
"Be still, little man," Vitold said. With his other hand he opened a cell phone and pressed memory. "Sir, I've begun," he said.
"Didn't you hear me?" Aimee said.
Vitold sneered as he cocked the trigger by Rene's ear.
"Now I'm upset," Aimee shot through her leather bag, drilling him three times in his crotch. Disbelief painted Vitold's face before he doubled over, thrashing wildly. He yelped, dropped his cell phone, and collapsed in a bloody sprawl on the linoleum.
"See what happens when I get upset?" she said. She straddled Herve Vitold, his still surprised eyes focused upward. But his frozen stare told her he'd checked out.
She pulled the gloves out of Rene's mouth, then gently lifted him down.
Rene spit talcum powder out of his mouth and flexed his fingers. "And I thought Vitold liked you for your looks," he said.
"They never do," she said and pointed to the screen.
"Match Verified" had come up. She typed in Martine's E-mail address at Le Figaro and hit "Send." She picked up Vitold's Luger and his cell phone and brushed off her shirt. Before she could copy everything on a backup disk, the amplified clanging buzzer alarm sounded. Startled, Rene dropped his laptop. From the hallway, red lights flashed on and off. She picked up the laptop, slipped it inside her backpack, and slung that over her shoulder.
"Hurry!" she said, and canceled the command. She grabbed her backpack. "Go, Rene."
Now the only documentation with Cazaux's photo and fingerprint identification awaited downloading on Martine's computer at Le Figaro. But would that be enough?
Right now it would have to be. She'd copy and make a backup disk at Martine's office, but would be nervous until she could download the evidence on Cazaux. Their faces alternately blood red and splashed in blackness, Aimee and Rene jumped over Vitold's lifeless figure and sprinted down the hall.
In the vestibule, she grabbed two paramedics' vests and helmets with red crosses on them that hung from hooks. She threw one to Rene.
"This will get us through the crowd and past police lines," she said.
"From sewer rat to paramedic all in one day," he said. "Who said life wasn't an adventure? Now if I could just get some stilts, we wouldn't stick out so much."
A wheelchair was parked in the vestibule. "Get in," Aimee said.
"You've got it the wrong way round," he said. "Paramedics don't ride in these, patients do."
She pushed him down. "You're wounded in the line of duty, I'll do the talking."
Late Saturday Evening
THIERRY'S DAGGER GLINTED IN the sputtering candlelight. Cold air seeped from the ruined catacomb walls.
"You're handsome," Sarah said shyly. "I used to kiss your little feet and blow on your toes. You'd laugh and laugh, such dulcet tones."
"How touching!" he said. "A madonna and child fresco! We're back in the dirt, too."
Sarah looked down at worms wiggling blindly in the earth next to them. "Those who flee the past are doomed to repeat it. Is that what you think?"
Thierry's eyes were far away. "You abandoned me," he said in a little-boy voice.
She reached tentatively for his hand. "I didn't abandon you," she said. "I let you live."
"She used to tell me I was a casualty of war, some freak accident. Then she'd smile, torturing me, refusing to say any more."
Sarah shook her head. "My milk dried up and there was no food," she said. "At sixteen years old, I'd been branded as a collaborator. You had no chance with me! Nathalie had lost a child. She had milk and she wanted you. They were of the bourgeoise class, politically conservative. I was a Jew who consorted with a Nazi!"
"So it's really true," he said. He stuck his dagger in the packed earth and sank down beside her, looking dazed.
With her bound hands, she stroked his shoulders, afraid everything would end as suddenly as it had begun. Seeing her old lover and being trapped by her lost son stirred yearnings inside her. Impossible ones. That old deep hurt had opened again.
Her few loose fingers stroked his back. "We lived around the corner from here. One day I came home from my violin lesson, the courtyard was deserted. So was the building. Our Mezuzah, ripped from the front door, lay on the apartment floor. Papa had just had it blessed by the rabbi. That's how I knew. My parents warned me and fooled the Germans. They never came back. I never forgave them for leaving, I missed them so much. So I understand how you feel; a child whose mother leaves him will always think himself abandoned. If only. . ." She sighed deeply. "If only I had escaped. . .." Her voice trailed off.
"I can't believe I'm a Jew," he said.
"Nathalie promised me that she would tell you the truth. Not torture you with it," she said, her voice anguished. "What good comes of it? Give me the knife."
Thierry shot bolt upright, as if remembering his mission.
"Defilement of
the Aryan race merits summary execution," he said hotly. "You know that."
He pulled the dagger from the packed earth, slicing his wrist lightly. Sarah's hands shook. Thin beaded blood trailed over the tattooed lightning bolts on his hand.
"Please don't kill me," she begged. "Please, we need to—" A loud crack came as Hartmuth batted Thierry's hand. The dagger clattered, hitting the half-buried limestone arch beside them.
"Oh my God," Sarah screamed.
Hartmuth reached for her and stumbled over the mound of bones.
"I couldn't hurt her," Thierry faltered.
Hartmuth gripped a rotten wood post. Shocked, he stared at Sarah. Thierry cut the duct tape from Sarah's ankle and helped her up.
"I wanted to," he wailed. "I wanted to, but I couldn't, oh God."
"So pathetic," Hartmuth said in disgust, "there are no words. How can you threaten your own mother?"
"He's confused," Sarah pleaded. "Everything has turned upside down for him. He doesn't know who he is."
Hartmuth reached in his pocket. He pulled out a small pistol and leveled it at Thierry.
"No, please," she begged.
"If she's Jew scum," Thierry said, bewilderment shining in his haggard face, "so am I."
"Sit down, Thierry," Aimee said, interrupting the strange scene. Holding Vitold's black Luger, she climbed down the bits of wood jutting out from the caked dirt in the cavern walls. Rene followed behind her.
"It's under control," Hartmuth growled. "Put your gun away."
"You first," she said.
Hartmuth hesitated. Sarah put her hand tentatively on his arm. "You don't need this," she said. Slowly, he lowered the gun.
Aimee reached the catacomb floor, where her heels sank promptly into the dirt. The last ladder rung splintered. She turned and caught Rene before he landed on a pile of rubble and bones.
"Come here, Thierry," she said.
Thierry perched on a rotten timber, his eyes twitching. "Let's play possible scenarios," he said, his voice rising in a high pitch.
"Thierry, calm down," Aimee said. "You need time to work things out."
He ignored her. "Son tries to knife long-lost mother because she's a Jew pig," he said. He stood up, his face contorted in the flicker of light. "Father shoots son because he's a two-bit Nazi wannabe. Father puts bullet in his own brain because long ago he disobeyed the Führer." He laughed manically. "I like it. Let me do the honors." He reached out to Sarah.
Aimee moved towards him but Hartmuth had leveled his gun.
"Leave her alone!" Hartmuth yelled.
Thierry stumbled.
Too late. Hartmuth shot, but not before Sarah had flung herself in front of Thierry. The shot reverberated, almost deafening Aimee as Sarah's body slammed into the earth wall. Blood spurted from her chest as she thudded to the ground, clutching at her heart.
Aimee grabbed Hartmuth's arms, while Rene quickly took the gun from him. Rumbling rose from deep in the cavern as bones and pebbles slid down the walls. The wood posts trembled above them. Dirt showered over Aimee's face.
She ran to a moaning Sarah, wanting to cover her ears and shut out this woman's agony. Instead, she knelt, attempting to staunch the blood pooling in a dirt puddle.
Hartmuth fell to his knees. "What have I done?"
"Maman," Thierry said. "You saved me." He knelt and stroked her clammy forehead.
Sarah's breathing came in shallow gasps as Aimee propped her head up.
"My baby," Sarah crooned, pulling him close. "My baby."
Aimee applied direct pressure to the hole in Sarah's chest.
"Hold on, Sarah."
"The ambulance is on its way," Rene said, putting the cell phone in his pocket. "It won't be too soon either." He looked nervously above him.
"Sarah, you can make it," Aimee said. "Just a little bit longer."
Sarah nodded. "Thierry, your Jewish name is Jacob, the healer of men." She smiled weakly. "After your grandfather."
Hartmuth remained in a heap near the bone mound, curiously immobile. Aimee realized he was in shock. His eyes focused somewhere distantly in the catacombs.
"Thierry?" Sarah wailed as her eyes clouded, gripping him tightly. "My son!"
"Bring your father, Thierry," Aimee said. She gestured towards Hartmuth. "Reunite them." She didn't need to add "before it's too late."
Hartmuth meekly knelt with Thierry. Aimee gently put Sarah's head in his lap. Wordlessly, he caressed her face as Thierry gripped his shoulders and looked away.
"I need your help, Rene." Aimee whispered instructions while she pulled him aside.
As she climbed up the ladder, her last glimpse was of a weak, smiling Sarah being held by Hartmuth and Thierry illuminated by a flashlight beam.
THE MEDICAL crew couldn't get Sarah to let go of Thierry until Morbier arrived. Finally she let go. He nodded to the attendants, who slipped her onto a stretcher they'd unfolded.
Panic sparkled in Sarah's eyes. "I gave them all the food!" she screamed, now struggling to get away from Hartmuth. "We're hungry. S'il vous plaît, my baby is hungry!"
"Take any statements?" Morbier swiveled his head, addressing the young uniformed sergeant at the scene.
The sergeant shook his head.
Morbier leaned closely over Hartmuth's outstretched palm. He sniffed. "Notice the residue oil from the bullet chamber?" He pointed at the glove. "Your theory, sergeant?"
The uniform shook his head again and cleared his throat unsteadily.
"Strong smell of gunpowder on his right hand." Morbier cocked his eye down at the sergeant, now taking notes on a pad hastily produced from his pocket.
"Sir, I. . .," he began.
"Gather the evidence," Morbier snarled.
"Let's get up." Morbier gently took Thierry's arm. "You can ride to the hospital."
Empty and spent, Thierry climbed out of the catacombs. "Why couldn't I believe her?"
Morbier grimaced, handcuffing Hartmuth's wrists behind him. He muttered under his breath. "This is for your own protection, Monsieur." Hartmuth remained mute, staring vacantly.
"Does he mean why couldn't he believe Aimee?" Morbier looked at Rene.
Rene nodded.
"Take him to the station," Morbier directed.
The sergeant saluted, hustling Hartmuth forward and up a makeshift ladder.
"Why don't you tell me about Aimee's plan?"
Rene smiled grimly. "I thought you'd never ask."
"Where is she?"
"Partying," Rene said.
Surprised, Morbier dropped his cigarette.
"We're invited," Rene said.
AIMÉE KNEW if a person had been listed as dead and wasn't, he or she needed an identity. Thousands of refugees, during and after the war had lost identity papers since buildings with records were bombed, their countries gobbled up or renamed. These people were stateless. A piece of documentation had been created, called the Nansen passport, to legitimize their existence. If she found this proof, she'd have him.
She headed for the elegant Musee Carnavalet, which was located around the corner from the catacombs and housed in the former hôtel particulier of Madame de Sevigne. The museum courtyard was open. Inside the deserted marble-ceilinged restroom she switched on her laptop but realized the battery had died. She found a socket, plugged it in, and breathed a sigh of relief when she logged on.
She hacked into the Palais de Nationalite files and found him. Laurent Cazaux had been approved for a Nansen passport in 1945. But her triumph felt hollow. She had to stop him. Quickly, she downloaded the application and approval forms.
She pressed the redial button on Herve Vitold's cell phone.
"Meet me alone, Cazaux. L'Academie d'architecture bureau, at midnight," Aimee said into the phone. "If you want to make a deal."
SEARCHLIGHTS SCANNED in pewter strokes across the sky. The sliver of a moon drooped low over the Seine, hardly a ripple on the surface. Aimee rubbed her arms in the frosty chill.
Before her, the win
dows of l'Academie d'architecture in Place des Vosges glowed with the light of hundreds of hand-lit tapers. A stream of dark limousines deposited guests at the entrance of the former seventeenth century Hôtel de Chaulnes. Tonight's commemorative gala was in honor of Madame de Pompadour, the true arbiter of style at the French court, who still influenced what passed for elegant today.
She, along with the rest of Paris, knew Minister Cazaux was scheduled to begin the celebration by attending the fashion show. Her rough plan, formulated in the Musee Carnavalet's restroom, several blocks away, held major obstacles. First of all, she had to surprise him at the gala before their midnight appointment and force him to reveal his guilt in public. But that seemed minor, since she had no invitation to this heavily guarded soiree. However, before that she needed to meet Martine at Le Figaro and copy the disk with her proof.
As she rounded the corner, her heart stopped. The bomb-squad truck straddled the sidewalk. Workers swept up glass blown out from the wrought-iron entrance doors of Le Figaro's brown brick facade. She wondered if Martine had been hurt.
"Any injuries?" she asked.
A stocky jumpsuited man shook his head.
"Much damage?" she said.
He shrugged. "Go figure. The next prime minister's around the corner and someone throws a bomb into our newspaper. But the upstairs offices weren't touched," he said.
She hesitated, then walked inside. The smells of cordite and burnt plastic mingled with the familiar scent of le vin rouge from the uniformed guard. He stopped her by the reception desk.
"I have an appointment with Martine Sitbon," she said, showing a fake press card.
He read it carefully. "Empty your bag."
She put her laptop on the counter and dumped the contents of her pack: wigs, tape recorder, cell phones, sunglasses, tubes of ultrablack mascara, and a battered makeup case. The Luger thumped out and shone dully in the chandelier light. "I have a permit." She smiled.
"Ah! Comme Dirty 'arry!" He fingered the piece. His tasseled loafers squeaked as he moved. "I'll hold the gun since our metal detector got damaged." He smiled back. "You'll get it on your way back. Fourth floor."