Murder in Belleville

Aimee felt the air stir as the row of marksmen single-filed past her in their stiff military boots toward the roof. Another RAID team assembled near her. For a moment Aimee wanted to shout, “Do what your maman told you—get out, run like hell!” But she needed little Simone to guide them.

“Martine and I used to make pinkie promises. Can we pretend to do that over the phone?”

The phone tinkled, then scraped. “D’accord, Aimee. Pinkie promise.”

Aimee paused. Sardou nodded to her and motioned to keep talking. “Good, Simone. What was the secret?”

“That’s between you and her.”

“What do you mean, Simone?” Exasperated, Aimee managed to keep her voice level.

“Maman said, ‘Aimee knows how to do this, she’ll get us out.’”

“Do what, Simone?”

No answer.

“Allo? Simone?”

Simone must have set the phone down, because Aimee heard quick little footsteps, as if running, fainter and fainter. With difficulty she unclenched her fingers and handed her phone to Sardou.

Aimee watched Sardou, his head down deep in conversation with a blond-haired man.

“Pardon, Monsieur, may I talk with you?” she said.

Sardou looked up briefly, his eyes small and squinty in annoyance or anger.

“Simone is Ministre de Froissart’s daughter,” she said, “and Anais is his wife. Does he know?”

“That’s just been brought to my attention,” he snapped. “The minister’s en route.”

“Please, I have to go inside the ecole matemellel”

He seemed to ponder briefly, then shook his head. “Trained personnel will be more effective.”

“Anais wants me. Simone’s message …”

“Impossible,” he interrupted. “Only the bomb squad and the special mine sweeping unit can enter the target area.”

“I don’t like going over your head, Monsieur Sardou, but who’s your superior?”

“That would be me, Mademoiselle,” the blond man said, straightening up.

Startled, Aimee stared into the face of Guittard, the man who’d ushered Philippe back into the meeting. He wore a navy blue pinstriped suit and was holding a pair of padded overalls stenciled with BOMBE BRIGADE in large letters.

“Minister Guittard of the Ministry of the Interior,” he said. His hard green eyes crinkled in amusement. “I neglected to catch your name, Mademoiselle.”

“Leduc, Aimee Leduc. But we’ve met twice, Monsieur le Mmistre,” she said. “A week ago in Philippe de Froissart’s kitchen.” Already she liked him less than before, and that wasn’t much. It had nothing to do with his perfectly brushed hair or onceover look of appraisal.

“But of course,” he said, perplexed for an instant. “Aren’t you an actress?”

“Does this hostage situation involve the project you were meeting about in de Froissart’s office?”

“Aaah,” he nodded, recognizing her. “That was you. I don’t know what you mean.”

“That’s Philippe’s daughter in there. Does it have something to do with—”

“It’s the AFL, Mademoiselle.”

Guittard turned, stepping into overalls.

“Minister, there’s something only I can do.”

“Now what would that be?” He bent to snap on the overalls and cocked his head toward her. As if, she thought, encouraging whispered confidences. She imagined he spent most of his weekends in a country house.

“You heard what Simone said—”

“That you ‘know how to do this’?” he interrupted. “Enlighten me, please, as to what ‘this’is.”

“Believe me, if I could, I would,” she said. “For the life of me, I don’t know.” Her eyes lit up. “If the school has a computer, I can get in the system.”

Sardou shook his head. “The school’s philosophy dictates only wooden materials. No plastic, nothing machine made. An elite preschool, where the pampered ones are allowed to get dirty and elemental. They go home to the Barbies and computers.”

Minister Guittard rolled his French cuffs under the flak jacket. “Beside computers, what else can you do?” His amused expression had returned. An aide approached with a cell phone and handed it to him.

She thought back to the taxi ride with Anais, and Sylvie’s Fat’ma. The Fat’ma had turned into a dead end. But Aimee had discovered the “ST196” photos and Youssefa’s statement about the humanitarian mission being a sham. And she remembered Anais’s words in the clinic. “You’ve got to find out why … nothing will be over until then,” and her mention of the General.

“You’ve thought of something, haven’t you?” Guittard’s eyes bored into hers.

Aimee started guiltily. “Are you sure the school office has no computer?”

He turned to Sardou. “Find out.”

But maybe Anais had meant something totally different.

“Stay here. If you get any more ideas, tell the commissaire.” He trundled a headset over his head.

“Where are you going, Minister Guittard?” she said.

“To tempt the fox,” he said.

“How can you do that?”

The whirring of helicopter blades came from outside the foyer. Fine sprays of dust rose; heavy aviation fuel exhaust blew in from the street.

“With the golden goose,” he said.

The flash of photographer’s bulbs caught Guittard near the helicopter, and she figured he’d suited up specifically for the photo op. The man bundled out of the helicopter looked no more goose-like than golden. Wiry, tall, and with dark pouches under his eyes, he appeared more like an advertisement for the perfect Club Med candidate in need of serious vacances. His crumpled suit hung off his body, and the wind from the helicopter blades whipped his gray hair across his face. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.

“Who’s that?” someone asked.

“Bernard, the bad man, would be my guess,” she said.

Behind her an earnest Sardou spoke into his headset. He motioned her down the hall as the Guittard entourage mounted the stairway. Aimee figured they were going to freeze her out of the action. She had to remedy that.

A RAID worker in a Kevlar suit escorted her to a deserted part of the landing, around the corner, and away from the crowd. She stumbled on purpose and grabbed his vest for balance, pocketing his ID badge.

“Ca va?” he asked, not unkindly.

“Merci, I’m so clumsy,” she said.

He left her there. For the first time she realized that she had no bomb protection, not to mention being the only woman.

Shunted out of the way, Aimee started planning her own route into the school building. Nobody would help her; she’d have to figure one out herself.

Midday Monday

BERNARD BERGE STOOD IN the scurrying sea of police activity. Around him buzzed two-way radio static, the clomp of boots, and the low, meaningful hum of whispered asides. If only he could get his fingers to work and put this headset on, his lifeline, they’d called it, whereby he’d be assured of constant communication with the negotiating team.

“What do I say—I mean to the hostage taker’s demands?” His hands trembled attempting to mount the headset.

“Discuss the ramifications,” Minister Guittard said, snapping his flak jacket closed and turning to his