'I knew your father, I trusted him.' Hecht gripped the edge of her desk.
'How did you know him?'
'A man of honor, he told me I could rely on you.' Soli Hecht hung his head. 'We had many dealings before the explosion. I need your expertise.'
She drummed her chipped red nails on her desk and pushed the painful memories aside. Steaming muddy liquid dripped into the waiting demitasse cup. 'Monsieur,
Aimee unwrapped a sugar cube and plopped it in her cup. 'I do computer security,' she repeated. 'Not missing persons.'
'He said you would help me. . .that I could always come to you.'
Short of going back on her father's word, one path remained.
'My word must be enough.' He extended his hand. 'As far as you are concerned, you don't know me. Agreed?'
She shook his gnarled hand.
'This will take several days? I was told it could be slow work.'
'Maybe a few hours. I type one hundred and twenty conventional words a minute.'
She smiled and sat down, shoved last night's faxes to the side of her desk, and leaned towards him.
'You were in school in America when I knew your father.'
Full of hope, she'd searched for her American roots and the mother who'd disappeared when she was eight. She hadn't found either. 'Briefly. I was an exchange student in New York.'
'Your father articulated his casework philosophy to me and I've always remembered it.'
'Things weren't usually what they seemed or he'd be out of business?'
Hecht nodded. 'You're independent, no ties or affiliations to anyone.' His crooked fist drummed the table. 'I like that about you.'
He knew a lot about her. She also had the distinct impression he was leaving something out. 'Our fees are seven hundred and fifty francs a day.'
Hecht nodded dismissively. Now she remembered. She'd seen his photo years ago when his evidence helped bring Klaus Barbie to trial.
'Look inside the folder,' Hecht said.
Aimee opened his file, noticing the digits and slash marks, a distinctive trademark of Israeli military encryption. Her expertise was in hacking into systems, huge corporate ones. But this code spoke of the Cold War—a slippery tunneling job. She hesitated.
'Two thousand francs are in the folder. Deliver your results to 64 rue des Rosiers to Lili Stein. She's home after her shop closes. I've told her to expect a visitor.'
Aimee felt she had to be honest; breaking an encrypted code had never taken her that long. 'You've given me too much.'
He shook his head. 'Take it. She has a hard time getting around. Remember, give this only to Lili Stein.'
She shrugged. 'No problem.'
'You must put this in Lili Stein's hands.' Hecht's tone had changed, from fervent to pleading. 'Swear to me on your father's grave. On his honor.' His eyes locked on to hers.
What kind of Holocaust secret was this? Slowly she nodded in agreement.
'We will have no more contact, Mademoiselle.'
Soli Hecht's joints cracked as he rose. His face wrinkled in pain.
'You could have faxed me this query, Monsieur Hecht. It would have saved you this trip.'
'But we've neither talked nor met, Mademoiselle Leduc,' he said.
Aimee bit back her reply and opened the door for him. Warped floorboards, a tarnished mirror, and scuffed plaster adorned the unheated landing. She buzzed for the turn-of-the-century wire elevator grating noisily up the shaft. Slowly and painfully he made his way to the hall.
Back in her office, she stuffed the francs into her pocket. The overdue France Telecom bill and horse meat for Miles Davis—pronounced Meels Daveez—her bichon frise puppy, would wait until she'd done the promised work.
Eurocom, the cable giant, had royally screwed up her finances by breaking Leduc's security service contract and hiring a rival Seattle firm, the only other firm that did the same work as she and her partner. She hoped there'd be enough money left to spring her suits from the dry cleaner's.
Her standard software keys enabled her to crack coded encryptions. They opened information stored in a database, in this case, she figured, a military one.
After punching in her standard key, 'Access denied' flashed on the screen. She tried another software key, Reseau Militaire, an obscure military network. Still the screen flashed 'Access denied.' Intrigued, she tried various other keys but got nowhere.
Morning turned into afternoon, shadows lengthened, and dusk settled.
After several hours she realized she would earn her francs on this one. So far, nothing worked.
LATER THAT EVENING, on one of her last decoding attempts, she used an old postwar retrieval key. She was surprised when the system responded, 'For access enter via auditory/visual format.' A rare but not unheard-of access path.
Nothing came up with audio. She opened the visual file using NATO documents decoding software. Suddenly her screen filled with black and white. After several seconds, she could clearly make out a photograph. No text appeared, only the photo. She enhanced the pixel quality, enlarging it as much as she dared without distorting the image.
The torn black-and-white snapshot with its smudged white margins showed a cafe scene next to a park full of children. People sat at the sidewalk cafe and stood in small groups. The ones standing were SS. Their backs were turned, but she recognized the lightning bolts on the sides of their collars.
No one looked at the camera. Most of the civilians wore dark shapeless clothes. A candid shot of occupied Paris. Almost half of the snapshot was torn away.
Shaken, she stared at the photo. She'd eaten at that cafe plenty of times, knew many of its habitues. But now she would always think of the Nazis who'd been there before her.
This marked the first time she'd cracked a code revealing a photo without text. How would this documentation be proof for the old woman? But that, she reminded herself, wasn't her job.
After saving the image, Aimee printed a copy. She couldn't help wondering what this woman's reaction would be.
With the photo tucked in her Hermes bag, a flea-market find, she wound a leopard-print scarf around her neck, belted her leather jacket, and locked the office door.
Below her office, she hailed a taxi that skidded to a stop on wet rue du Louvre. Late evening crowds filled the awninged sidewalk cafes. The Seine glittered on her right as the floodlit gray stone of the Pont Neuf flashed by.
The buildings changed as the taxi entered the Marais, the Jewish district, full of sixteenth-century
Her destination, 64 rue des Rosiers, stood above a dusty window lettered DELICES DE STEIN in faded gold, advertising kosher goods in Hebrew and French. Opposite stood a falafel stand with trays of chopped red cabbage, onions, and pickled carrots peeking out from under a striped canopy.
Dark green paint flaked off the massive arched entry doors in front of her. She made her way past a bicycle
