AL01 - Murder in the Marais

She watched Leah's TV screen display the LBN office number she'd given him as he typed from his keyboard. This generated several phone numbers on the screen that were phone numbers calling into the office that day. She copied them all.

'What is the number your husband would call from?' he said.

She made up a number and saw those numbers punched in, which resulted in 'no correspondence' flashing on the screen.

'Pardon, Madam. I'm afraid it wasn't your husband this time,' he said. She thanked him and hung up.

Next Aimee identified herself as a secretary with the LBN, calling to verify charges on their office bill. There were five phone numbers. The first number was a small office-supply store holding an account with Les Blancs Nationaux, the second was a local cafe that delivered pastries to them. Aimee seriously doubted if the skinny woman ate any.

The third and fourth were from Bank d'Agricole regarding account information. Aimee called the fifth number, which proved to be Jetpresse, a twenty-four-hour printing company in Vincennes. She had all but given up, but, to be thorough, she mentioned Thierry's name.

She was startled to hear the clerk begin apologizing. 'They're ready, Mademoiselle,' she said. 'Seems there was a mix-up, we apologize. We don't deliver, that's in our contract. Somehow that wasn't clear to you.'

'I'll pick them up,' Aimee said quickly. 'Er, what was the final count?'

'Let's see. Twenty-five editions, bound deluxe, of Mein Kampf,' the clerk said.

Aimee almost choked. 'I'll be there within the hour.'

Saturday Evening

AIMEE APPROACHED THE NEO-NAZIS congregating by the shuttered ClicClac video shop. She had slicked back her hair and donned her skinhead outfit. Her fingers, more for protection than decoration, were filled to the knuckle with silver rings. She wished her heart wasn't pounding so hard, keeping rhythm with the flashing purple-and-green neon sign over the storefront.

A balding Arab shopkeeper in a flowing gray robe swept the sidewalk near her in front of his produce shop. Strains of whining Arab music blared from inside.

'Your type, cherie?' several skinheads jeered. 'You like sharing the street, why not share the Arab's tent?'

She growled. The box with twenty-five editions of Mein Kampf was heavy. She'd liked to have thrown it in their leering faces. Instead, their taunts forced her to establish some Aryan credentials. Hating to do it, she jostled the storekeeper, then bumped into him.

'Abdul, keep to your side,' she said.

He kept his shiny head down and pushed his broom further away, mumbling something in broken French that she pretended not to understand. She kept advancing towards him, angling him into a corner. His head glistened with perspiration as he tried to sweep around her biker boots.

'Can't you speak French, Abdul?' Aimee said. 'Go back where you came from!' She kicked the broom from his hands.

He cowered against the shop door, while scattered cheers erupted among the skin-heads. He scurried back to his shop and closed his doors.

As she mounted the side steps of the ClicClac shop she heard, 'Who's the kick-ass Eva Braun?'

Many pairs of suspicious eyes checked her out. Her heart beat so fast she was afraid it would jump out of her chest. What if she had to do more than kick a defenseless Arab's broom away? She pushed that out of her mind as she joined a motley heavy-metal-type pair, their arms entwined, filing upstairs.

A panorama of shining Hitleriana greeted her as she entered an upstairs room. Blown-up photos of Adolf Hitler saluting to gathered masses and huge red swastikas covered the black walls along with a photo of barbed wire and wooden stalags with a red circle and line through it. The caption above it read AUSCHWITZ=JEW HOAX.

Where were the photos of the living skeletons in rags next to empty canisters of Zyklon B gas that had greeted the Allies who liberated Auschwitz? She figured details like that would probably be missing from the evening.

There was a photo of a Vietnamese whose brains were being blown out by an American officer and one of a toothless, grinning Palestinian boy, with burned-out Beirut in the background, pointing a machine gun at a corpse riddled with holes. But all in all, the vignettes of hate were predominantly Nazi.

Thierry Rambuteau, in an ankle-length black leather storm-trooper coat, stood at the front of the room. Despite his youthful shaved stubble, faded blue jeans, and hi-tech track shoes, he looked old for this crowd. Around his piercing blue eyes were age lines; he could be fifty, she thought. Something about Thierry was off, he didn't belong. Maybe it was his attempt at a youthful appearance or maybe that he had brains.

She shoved the box of Mein Kampfs on the table. Thierry nodded at her, indicating a seat he'd saved for her. She sat down. Many of the faces in the smoky room surprised her. Scattered among the shaved heads were truckers in overalls, a few professor types in corduroys, and what looked like several account executives in suits. But the crowd was mostly skinheads, average age mid-twenties, who milled around the room. Among the thirty or so assembled, most wore black, smoked, or were busy shoving cigarette butts in empty beer bottles.

She felt eyes on her and looked over at the man sitting beside her. He had dark sideburns, slicked-back hair, and wore a mousy brown sweater vest with black jeans cinched over nonexistent hips. His deep black eyes and curled lip were what got to her. Like metal filings to a magnet, she felt repelled and attracted at the same time. His eyes lingered a second too long before he averted his gaze. Behind that look she saw intelligence and felt animal attraction. Bad boys were always her downfall.

A table had been set up with stacks of free videos, a keg of beer and plastic cups, SS armbands, and Third Reich crosses on chains. There wasn't exactly a rush for the videos but the beer and crosses were going fast. She quickly snagged a pointy-edged cross to complete her fashion statement.

'Kameradschaft!' Thierry had moved to the dais. 'Welcome! Let us begin our meeting, as always, with our moment of reflection.'

Heads bowed briefly, then, on a signal Aimee didn't hear, loud shouts of 'Sieg heil' rang through the room in unison. Arms shot up in the Nazi salute.

Thierry saluted back. This quasi-religious brotherhood feeling sickened her. Even though she knew the philosophy of the neo-Nazis, it shocked her to watch them in action.

He launched into a diatribe about Jews being scum. She surveyed the crowd's reaction. Hate was reflected in every face. True, Thierry carried fervor and a certain charisma. He explained earnestly that scientists had proven that certain races were genetically inferior. A historic fact, he pointed out simply, shown by culture and society. She felt that Thierry had convinced himself of his own words.

Then the lights dimmed and the video was shown. This was no amateur home video, but a slick production costing real money. The title, in large letters, read 'The Hoax That Is Auschwitz.' Scenes of present-day Auschwitz, surrounded by bucolic farmlands tucked into a green pastoral valley, flashed by while a pleasant, businesslike voice narrated, 'As a nonpartisan group, we came to view the so-called 'death camp' using state-of-the-art equipment to detect mineral and bone content in soil compositions. After careful measurement in many areas of the camp where there had supposedly been gas chambers, we found no chemical residue or traces of Zyklon B gas. We discovered no evidence of mass graveyards, or anything resembling them, for that matter. The remaining compound buildings, of solid wooden construction, attest to its use as a work camp and to the skill of the German builders, in that they are still standing after more than fifty years.' The camera focused then on the railroad tracks that ended at the iron gate of Auschwitz with the slogan wrought in iron still above it: 'Arbeit macht Frei' —'Work Makes You Free.'

After the video, a skinhead wearing tight lederhosen and a leather vest exposing pierced nipple rings connected by chains shouted, 'I'm proud to be a member of the Kameradschaft.'