READY FOR THE DRIVE into Paris, Stefan eased the old Mercedes onto the
The opening strains of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon” rippled over him. The notes calmed him, transported him back to the commune. To the crisp autumn day when the Pink Floyd record played continuously like a theme song. Back to the day Ulrike tore the joint from his hand and shoved a Mauser in it.
“Time for you to join the Revolution,” she’d said, throwing an ammo clip onto the sheets next to a long-haired girl. “Not sleep with it.”
It was either that or leave the commune. Time to go the
Ulrike’s eyes, dark and flat, were hidden behind the sun glasses she always wore. To conceal her intellect, he realized. Or the fact that she’d cofounded and edited the radical German paper
Mousy and awkward, at times painfully shy when in front of the group, Ulrike, with her distinctive patchouli fragrance, kept her distance from Ingrid and Marcus, the rock star revolutionaries.
Yet Ulrike needed their in-your-face terrorist pranks and brazen lifestyle to publicize the Revolution. They needed her brains and media prominence for credibility. Molding urban guerrillas to fight the Revolution was the only thing they agreed on.
The endless ideological conflicts, studying Marx and Mao, bickering over who slept with whom, Marcus’s ranting if he couldn’t get his drugs, Jutta’s sullenness, all drained Ulrike. Stefan sensed that right away.
He looked up to her. She’d cultivated him after a demonstration in Colmar. “You have potential,” she’d said. “The Revolution needs people like you.” He was eighteen, she twenty-eight, a mother of twins, who’d given up her children and life for the cause. Like Ingrid. But Ingrid was different, stone cold and calculating.
“Go downstairs, Stefan, help pack the van,” she’d said that day. “We’re going to visit our brothers.”
“Brothers?” he’d asked as he struggled into his faded, patched jeans. The glamour was fading from his Revolution.
“Action-Reaction,” she said. “Our French brothers and sisters.”
Stefan shrugged. He had a hard time keeping up with the various radicals.
“Ever been to Paris?”
Stefan shook his head.
Her mouth crinkled in a small smile. “Join the Red Army and see the world.”
Stefan remembered their 1972 Paris visit, full of endless espresso, Moroccan hashish, and sleeping on the floor in an intellectual writer’s fancy apartment. What a contrast, he’d thought, to nearby rue Saint Denis, where every kind of hooker waited in the crumbling doorways.
They had been hosted by the writer’s wife, an American actress and Revolutionary wanna-be. She supplied them with wine and champagne, played with their guns, and popped pills.
Her young child, his overalls dirty and torn, followed her around. She’d pay attention to him sometimes, blowing hashish smoke in his face to keep him quiet. Stefan remembered Ulrike’s stricken look at this. But Ulrike kept quiet. The actress wrote big checks for their cause, found them a safe house, and slept with some of them.
Action-Reaction’s organization proved loose. But they were passionate and had a certain Gallic flair. Dogma’s for the
Stefan liked that.
He’d also liked Beate, a long-haired American hanger-on. Like Ulrike, she showed a certain
He’d met leftist students in Action-Reaction. Ones who kick-started the cause through terrorism, but a decade later were the main force behind the Green Party. He’d even recognized a Maoist years later on the news; he’d toned down, bought a suit, and joined the ministry.
But he’d never told Beate, or Ulrike, the plans Marcus outlined for him.
“How about a drink?” Marcus had asked him one afternoon.
They’d gone to a nearby cafe where cart pullers stood drinking
“Here’s your urban guerrilla future,” he’d said, introducing him to a
Jules smelled of Gitanes. His shaggy hair in a stylish cut hit his shoulders. A Che Guevara T-shirt peeked from under his slim-fitting jacket. Another French
“Marcus spoke of you.” Jules shook his hand, then pulled him close. “I like you already.”
The radioactive look in Jules’s eyes nailed him. Restless and lethal.
“We’re doing something big,” Jules said, dinging his glass with his finger. The insistent
The bewilderment on Stefan’s face and a warning look from Marcus made Jules simplify.
“I hear you’re good with engines. You’ll drive the getaway car.” He winked and raised his cloudy amber glass.
Now, as he drove into Paris, Stefan realized he’d guessed wrong. Jules was an
Paris had changed over the years, he thought, but it still made him nervous. He shuddered, easing the old Mercedes into the parking spot. Time for his quarterly visit. Time to pick up some goodies. The older he got, the more careful he grew. No big amounts to attract attention. Just a little at a time.
He adjusted his Basque beret, donned dark glasses and a brown raincoat. Outside the car, he walked fast, his hands swinging by his sides.
For all he knew, some off-duty
He bought a mixed floral bouquet. Like always. Inside the cemetery gate, he took a deep breath. Not to worry, he told himself, patting the tools inside his pocket. This wouldn’t take long.
Flowering plane trees swayed in the weak breeze. Distant traffic and shouts of children in the nearby playground hummed in his good ear.
He walked down the path to the mausoleum, pulled the grill gate open.
The coffin was there. He raised the lid. It was empty.
He stood stock-still. Shock waves hit his heart.
Where?
He collapsed onto the sandy gravel.
Who? Had Jules taken it?
AIMEE KNOCKED ON THE Figeac apartment door. The Polish cleaning woman who answered surveyed her with narrowed eyes. She had a weathered face with high cheekbones and was wearing a short blue skirt and rolled-down ankle socks with sandals. Radio talk blared in the background.
