After pulling on her oversize wool sweater, she carried the laptops, individually, to her home office. Her desktop computer held more memory and within thirty minutes, she had all three computers working on projects. Both laptops steadily ran software encryption programs to access the link bank that paid into Sylvie’s offshore account.
Aimee sat at the large computer, delving into the AFL’s financial source. The only account she located was an AFL business account in the Credit Agricole for less than a quarter of a million.
“AFL’S ACCOUNT IS CHUMP change compared to Sylvie’s!” Rene said thirty minutes later on the phone. His voice rose. “Why don’t you talk with Philippe?”
“Believe me, I’m trying,” she said.
“Can you hyperlink it over to me?” he asked. “I’d like to try something.”
“Be my guest,” she said.
Miles Davis growled and pawed at her window frame.
The sun had risen in golden glory over the Seine. Dawn painted the rooftops. Below her window she saw several men in blue jumpsuits with German shepherds along the quai. Her heart raced. They watched her window.
“Rene, I don’t like what’s happening outside my window,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Can you meet me in the office?” she said. “I’m leaving now.”
She E-mailed Sylvie’s and the AFL’s account information to her office, called a taxi, and put her laptop in her bag. She left the lights on and a bowl of food for Miles Davis, put on a black curly wig, and a long raincoat over her leather one. As the taxi pulled up on the curb of quai d’Anjou, she ducked into the taxi’s backseat.
SHE WANTED a cigarette desperately. Instead she entered the Pont Marie Metro, slid her ticket into the turnstile, and marched toward the nearest platform. Before the stairs, she pulled off the wig, slipped out of the raincoat, and dumped them in the trash bin.
She joined the early Monday morning commuters riling past her. The voices of panhandlers singing for a handout echoed off the tiled walls.
She sat down on the plastic molded seat, watching and thinking. Were those Elymani’s cohorts outside her window or men sent by Philippe?
She leaned against the Metro wall map, the station names erased by the rubbing of countless fingers. A shiny red Selecta vending machine on the platform blocked her view of the other end. But after five minutes she figured she’d lost the men tailing her.
She punched in her office number.
Rene’ answered on the first ring.
“You might want to get over here, Aimee,” he said.
“I’m doing my best,” she said. “What’s happened?”
“Things have gotten dicey,” he said, his voice low. “Thanks to Philippe.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a big
“Compliance?”
“Some ordinance infraction,” Rene said. “Has to do with the space we rent and the tax we pay.”
“Tell me, Rene,” she said. “Does the mec have a shaved head and fish eyes?”
“Exactly,” Rene said.
“Tell him our last adjustment should suffice,” she said. “Matter of fact, let me tell him.”
She heard the muffled sound.
“Claude, what’s the problem?”
“I represent the tribunal verifying rent according to space and convenience,” he said. “Your last
“Not according to their report,” Aimee said. “Take it up in the appeals section.”
“I already have,” he said.
Her reply caught in her throat.
Dede marched along the opposite Metro platform, his boots echoing off the tiled walls with their giant arching posters. Muk-tar’s clones eased among the commuters. Coming right toward her.
“Claude, this is between Philippe and me,” she said, scanning the crowds. “Tell Rene I might be held up, but I’m on the way.”
She clicked off. She sat in the middle of the platform, a few seats taken up by an older woman and high school students. Commuters in business suits clustered around her but would board the next train. Granted, they’d be looking for a black-haired woman first, but
Should she rush into a car when it pulled into the station? The ominous bulge in the coat pockets of the two
BERNARD PAUSED AT THE massive doors of Notre-Damede la Croix. Charcoal stubble shadowed his chin, he’d worn the same suit for two days.
This time his entry to the church had been barred. Cameras whirred and flashed, reporters stuck microphones in his face, and news cameras captured the event. Captured every tic and twitch in his face. Uniformed CRS flanked the steps in formation behind him. For once the April sun glared mercilessly, illuminating the square, the protesters, the police, and the reporters. The protesters loudly chanted, “Don’t break up families—let them stay!” to drown out the reporters.
Guittard had ordered Bernard to empty the church, put the
Bernard couldn’t really hold Hamid; the man had papers, and so far he’d broken no law. Bernard didn’t want any of them bound for prison; they’d become martyrs for the cause and defeat the purpose. Of course Guittard didn’t agree.
In the hubbub and turmoil surrounding him Bernard felt curiously detached, as if he hovered cloudlike above, watching the scene unfold.
The bull horn was thrust into his hand. Nedelec, poised and immaculate in a Burberry raincoat, nodded at him. Bernard stared, immobile. He was aware of Nedelec’s thin moustache, and the set jaw of the CRS captain.
Bernard opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Nedelec elbowed him discreetly.
“Monsieur Mustafa Hamid,” Bernard began, his mouth dry and his voice a whisper. “Monsieur Hamid, the authorities have reexamined all the immigration cases.” Bernard cleared his throat, spoke louder. “So far they’ve determined permission to stay will be granted to thirty or forty percent of the
No response.
