“Everything’s unclear,” he said, rubbing his eyes. He shook his head. “The
The smell of burnt grease hovered near the marble staircase. Someone had forgotten to shut off their stove. Aimee struggled to look away from Yves’s face. A man motioned to Yves from the barricades. “There’s my colleague. I’ve got to go,” he said. “But I know where to find you.”
“Don’t count on it, Yves,” she said turning away, now determined. “If you can’t speak the truth, forget me.”
“The less you know the better,” Yves said. “The other part doesn’t work.”
“What doesn’t work?”
“Trying to forget you.”
Why did everyone have secrets and keep her in the dark?
“I forgot you until you popped up in my flat,” she said, unable to meet his gaze.
“Liar.”
But she’d turned and strode toward a knot of men in the foyer. By the time she looked back, he was gone.
Technicians and RAID teams speaking into headsets hurried past her. The hell with Yves. She had to get back on track, talk to the head honcho to find out how to help Anais.
“Who’s the commissaire in charge here?” she asked.
“Mademoiselle Leduc, I understand a hostage has been in contact with you,” the clipped voice of Hubert Sardou, a former commissaire in the Twentieth Arrondissement, came from behind her. His long, sallow face hovered near hers.
“Please elaborate as to whom and when,” he said.
She recalled Sardou, once a colleague of her father’s, from his three-inch platform shoe, which fooled few as to his clubfoot. But now he wore the distinctive badge identifying him as part of DST, the French Internal Security Service. “Hubert feels he must prove he’s the equal to the rest of us,” her father had said. “Every day.”
“Seems the AFL wants a bigger audience,” he said.
In stunned disbelief she stepped back. “But the AFL policy is peaceful.” Aimee wondered if Hamid’s power had been usurped by factions. Or if the “ST196” photos played into this.
“We believe an AFL member’s holding everyone in the school hostage, but so far,” Sardou shrugged, “there’s been no contact.” Sardou crinkled his face, whether in distaste or indigestion, she found it hard to tell. “We’ll take it from here. Your cell phone, please,” he said, snapping his fingers at her.
“Won’t help much,” she said, keeping her expression neutral with effort and handing it to him. “Dead battery.”
Sardou studied her phone, raised it in the air, and barked,
Aimee could have sworn everyone in the foyer reached in their pocket to check. The French obsession with phone communication produced a matching battery. Sardou inserted it, beckoning to a man with NEGOTIATOR in large black letters on a flak jacket. An officer copied down the number while another hooked a wire from the cell phone into a tape recorder. Several pairs of headphones were connected, and the commissaire donned one quickly.
“Call Anais, tell her—and this is very important—to identify which room they’re being held hostage in. An experienced negotiator wants to speak with him.” He hit Call Return and nodded to Aimee as he handed her the phone.
She heard the phone ring several times before it was answered.
“Anais?”
No answer, only heavy breathing.
“This is Aimee, Anais’s friend. Who is this?”
Sardou nodded, then put his finger to his lips.
A sob erupted, sniffles, then a child’s voice lisped. “I made pee-pee … on my new dress. Maman will be mad at me!”
Surprised looks painted the commissaire and police officers’faces. The negotiator put his hand forward but Aimee shook her head.
“Simone?” Aimee asked. “I’m Aimee, remember me? I’m your maman’s friend.”
Loud crying answered her. Obviously Simone knew her mother was in the building. Had Anais come to see Simone after being released from the clinic?
Aimee kept her voice even. “Simone, that’s happened to me before too. I’ll clean your dress. Where are you?”
“Can you?” The sobbing ceased.
“Of course. I’ll do a good job,” Aimee said. “No one will know the difference. Where’s your maman?”
“The clown took her.”
“A clown?”
“He took her away.”
“Took her where?”
Aimee looked to Sardou, who signaled to keep talking. Outside the window, apart from the sun-dappled trees, no sign of life showed behind the school windows. Near Aimee in the foyer, a line of marksmen stood, checking their rifles and telescopic sights.
“Maman gave me her phone. The clown got angry with her and pushed her. She whispered it was part of the game, we were playing hide-and-seek with him, so we should all run away.”
Aimee wondered what had happened to Anais.
The commissaire’s face tightened. A worried expression appeared in the negotiator’s eyes.
“Where are you and the other children now?” Aimee asked.
“I’m in the closet under the stairs. Everyone else ran away with my teachers,” she said. “The clown looked funny. Not like a real clown.”
“What do you mean, Simone?”
“He didn’t have balloons,” she said. “Only fat sticks that you can light like candles. He said they’ll go
Aimee froze. How would they defuse a terrorist carrying dynamite in a preschool full of hiding children?
Sardou barked an order to the waiting marksmen, who straightened to attention. Blue lights flashed outside in the narrow street as a truck screeched to a halt. That meant only one thing in Paris these days: the bomb squad. Aimee forced herself to keep her voice steady.
“Simone, you’re being such a big girl! Can you remember if your maman said something? Maybe something the clown wanted?”
“He wants Bernard, the bad man. If Bernard comes we get a big
She heard sniffling. “You’re so brave, Simone. I’ll get you an ice cream too. Did you see where they went?”
She heard rustling. Aimee figured Simone was shaking or nodding her head. “Can you tell me yes or no, Simone?”
“Up the stairs. I thought he was going to hurt her, but she said it was part of the game. I must remember one thing.”
“One thing?”
“It’s secret.”
Aimee’s knuckles were white from gripping the phone so hard. Her hands trembled. “Of course! But I can keep a secret, I’m your
“How do I know you can keep a secret, Aimee?” lisped Simone.
