deflating from rifle shots as it sagged into the courtyard hedge. The short figure in the shadow opened a coat revealing a semiautomatic, shooting at the roof.
She gritted her teeth, rolled over, and fired more rounds at the roof. She heard a scraping noise above her as a black-clad body thumped over the gargoyle's pointed ears, then the crunch of breaking bones as the body landed. Some vital organ burst, splattering matter over cobblestones and gravel.
'Aimee, get the hell out of here,' Rene's muffled voice came from inside the coat. 'Now!'
She ran over to him, trying to ignore the bloody mess in front of them. She looked long enough to see that it wasn't Morbier. Had her phone been tapped?
'Rene, my God what's happening?'
His arm was soaked dark red and he gasped, 'They're following you.' His hand covered his arm but she tried to pull it off to see. 'Don't. Pressure to stop the bleeding.' He smiled thinly and his green eyes closed. He opened them again with effort. 'Don't go back.' He moaned, then whispered, 'Don't trust anyone, it's too big.'
'Rene, I'll get you to the hospital. Sssh, be quiet until—'
'No, a bullet just grazed my arm.' He tried to sit up. 'Go quickly before they come. Take my keys, hide.' The wailing drone of a siren came from rue St. Antoine. He pulled keys out of his vest pocket. Panic flashed in his eyes.
'Why the paranoia? Morbier will—'
'It's a setup; don't'—Rene gulped—'go.'
She hesitated. 'But, Rene. . .'
'Goddamn it, got to stop them.' His eyes closed as he passed out.
Aimee backed slowly out of the courtyard as she heard the ambulance screech to a halt. From behind a moldy pillar she heard attendants running with a stretcher crunching over gravel. How did they know so quickly, she wondered. She peered from behind the fluted pillars and saw a Kevlar-suited swat team striding up to the huddled corpse. They leaned into their collars and she realized they were talking into small radios. She heard the static crackle as one of them stopped in front of her pillar and responded in a low voice.
'Negative. No sign of her.'
She recognized the dead shooter sprawled in his own bloody entrails; the swastikas tattooed across his knuckles looked familiar. She flashed on Mr. Lederhosen, Leif, as Thierry had identified him. The one who'd almost knifed her in the van, had chased her through the Marais, and was in the crowd when Cazaux appeared.
Turning towards the back exit, she broke into a run just beyond the last pillar and stopped abruptly, ready to sprint down the arched Place des Vosges through strolling passersby. A police riot van swayed out of narrow rue Birague and careened to a stop directly in front of her.
The burnt smell of roasted chestnuts wafted down the ancient arcade to where she stood, paralyzed. As the swat team streamed out of the van, she grabbed the elbow of a man next to her. Putting her arms around him, she burrowed into his wrinkled neck. His astounded elderly wife seemed about to bat her with a large handbag when Aimee feigned horror.
'I'm so sorry. Why, you look exactly like Grandpapa!' she exclaimed, keeping her head down.
Most of the swat team entered the Hotel Sully courtyard but a few had fanned out along the Place des Vosges. Aimee kept pace with the old couple as the indignant wife tried to move away from her.
'You greet your grandfather in that manner, young lady?' she inquired sarcastically.
The old man's eyes twinkled as his wife pulled at him. Ahead of Aimee, an accordion wheezed something familiar, echoing off the vaulted brick. At the east corner of Place des Vosges stood an Issey Miyake shop. Aimee swerved through the stainless-steel doors into a stark white interior as the old man winked goodbye.
Bleached white walls, floors, and ceilings provided a minimalist backdrop with nowhere to hide. Black clothing hung from ropes draped from the ceiling like so many dead bodies. Unless you wore black or white you were sure to stick out here, and Aimee's dusty and gravel-pitted blue jeans definitely stuck out. Behind the deserted counter were white smocks worn by the salespeople. She grabbed one and buttoned it over her jeans and denim jacket. She heard the whir of sewing machines from the back and slipped through white metal-mesh curtains before a salesperson came out.
The row of Asian seamstresses busy at their sewing machines didn't even look up as she entered. Many of them kept up low conversations while they guided the material under the punching needles. From the shop exterior she heard voices—loud, officious ones. If she took off the smock, her dirty jeans and scruffy denim jacket would be picked out in a minute. Bins of black and white items of clothing were overflowing and the seamstresses kept adding more finished pieces. Aimee bent over and picked up the bin nearest her. A seamstress looked up questioningly at her.
'Display sent me for floor samples,' Aimee smiled. 'The requisition order is in my van.'
'Inform the floor supervisor,' the seamstress said. Her thin black eyebrows arched as she looked Aimee over. 'Bring it on your way back.'
Aimee slid a few black pieces out before she closed up the bin and stepped behind the pile. She took off her jean jacket, slipped on a tailored, well-cut black wool jacket, then stepped out of her jeans into a form-fitting tight black skirt. She rifled through a hosiery bin and grabbed thin black-ribbed tights. Sample shoes and boots in assorted sizes were strewn helter-skelter on shelves. She tried several pairs of boots on but the only pair that remotely fit her were sexy suede high-heeled pumps. Not exactly what she'd pick for a great escape. She looked like this season's fashion victim but she'd blend in more than she ever had before. The challenge would be, could she run in such a tight skirt and heels?
She bunched her jeans into a ball. The workers' backpacks and handbags hung from hooks behind her. Quickly she emptied the contents of a stylish black leather bag onto the floor and scooped her cell phone, wallet, cards, tube of mascara and Glock, with one remaining bullet cartridge, into the bag. Next to the contents of the bag on the floor she slipped some hundred-franc notes with a scribbled 'Sorry, hope this covers it' in red lipstick on one of them. She unlatched the back workers' entrance as she heard a loud voice above the clicking sewing machines.
'Please give your attention to this officer. Have any of you seen. . .'
Not waiting to hear more, she slipped out into the night and the darkened Places des Vosges.
AIMEE'S HEEL S tapped a rhythm on the cobblestones as she searched for Rene's Citroen. Finally she found it on the rue du Pas de la Mule, which meant 'in the donkey's footsteps.' She and Rene always joked about that, but no smile came to her lips as she saw two policemen examining his vehicle. They weren't just giving it a ticket either.
Going to her office or flat would be stupid, she realized, and hiding at Rene's would be idiotic. Where could she find a place to hide that contained a computer? She ducked into the patisserie on the corner, bought a bag of warm chocolate croissants, and exited out the rear back to the Place des Vosges. She walked in her Issey Miyake designer suit, munching and looking in boutique windows, slowly working her way under the arcade towards the busy rue St. Antoine. In the children's playground, plainclothes police blocked her way by the side of the square, talking to the mothers, nannies, and assorted caregivers. Where could she go?
A group of tourists clustered in the doorway of the Victor Hugo Museum, which, Aimee noticed, the security forces ignored. All French national museums contained state-of-the-art computers, hooked on-line with government and educational ministries. This would be perfect—that is, if she could play tourist and sneak in the door.
She slipped among a trio of elderly ladies, greeting them like old acquaintances. She smiled and immediately began chitchat about the weather.
'Of course, being from Rouen,' Aimee said, 'I savor these ancient parts of the Marais.'
'But the Cathedral of Rouen,' one of the trio exclaimed, 'is such a gem! A perfect example of the best in medieval architecture! How could one compare this Bourbon king's imitation to that!' The old woman spoke passionately. She pointed at the seventeenth-century colonnades above them. Aimee knew little about architecture and nothing of Rouen. She wished she'd kept her mouth shut.
'Are you just joining the architectural tour then, dear?' an almost hunchbacked old woman asked. 'You've
