Murder in the Sentier

“Sign in, please.”

“Bien sur,” she said, and wrote “Martine Sitbon” with a flourish.

She passed through the double-swing doors he buzzed open for her. Photographers gripped portfolios, assistants scurried, and the world of breaking news engulfed her.

To the left, narrow linoleum-tiled stairs led down two dank flights. The cisternlike bowels of the building seemed much older than the modernized floors above. Sixteenth century, or even older, she thought.

At the microfiche desk, a pale-faced woman in overalls took her request.

“Attends, he’s on the phone,” she said, her tone listless. Maybe she’d worked down here too long.

By the time she nodded permission to go in, Aimee had written down her questions.

“First door on the right.”

Aimee held her breath as she entered an arched door. The vaulted rose brick walls and stone floor resembled a medieval abbey. Maybe, originally, it was.

Jacques Caillot sat at a stainless steel desk, halogen beams illuminating an old card file he was sorting. Aimee noticed the framed press clippings on the walls from Saigon, Lagos, and Kabul with his byline. There were even foreign press awards.

“Sorry to intrude, Monsieur Caillot,” she said. “I appreciate your seeing me.”

He looked up. “Sit down,” he said. “One moment, and I’ll be finished.”

The dim room and his greenish blue eyes reminded her of peering into an aquarium. She realized one of Caillot’s eyes focused in slow motion. He shut the card file, noticed her gaze.

“Venetian glass eye. Thanks to the IRA’s Enskillen Rembrance Day bombing in 1987,” he said with a lopsided smile.

“And I was one of the lucky ones. How can I help?”

“I’m researching European terrorism in the seventies for a Montreal journal,” she said. “I came across your article. It made me curious.”

She thrust the copy across his desk.

Caillot scanned the article, nodding. “Of course, I remember,” he said. “Does Lepic still man the Figaro night desk?” he asked without looking up.

He’d got her. She’d only known Martine and her assistant, Roxane, at Le Figaro. He’d tested her and he’d won.

“Tell you what,” she said, gambling. “You can kick me out, but I borrowed this ID from my friend Martine, the former Le Figaro editor.”

“And why, may I ask?”

“Because, Monsieur Caillot, there didn’t seem to be any other way to see you. You see this ‘couple in cahoots’ you described in the article are my parents.” She stood up. “No one will talk to me.” She sat back down, put her elbows on his desk, and leaned forward. “The only files available have been sanitized. At least your article makes me think so. So far, your piece has been the only one to surface.”

“You lied to get in here,” Caillot said, returning her gaze. His glass eye was fixed on a spot below the mole on her neck.

“D’accord,” she agreed. “But I didn’t know what else to do. I need to know about Action-Reaction, Haader-Rofmein terrorists still wanted by Europol, Romain Figeac, and agit888.”

“Impressive,” he said. “You’ve been doing some homework.”

Metal rods behind his back caught the light as he leaned forward. She realized he sat in a wheelchair.

“Not enough,” she said. “Help me out, please.”

“Why do you think I’m down here, Mademoiselle … what was your name?”

“Aimee Leduc.” She pulled out her detective’s badge and carte d’identite with the less than flattering photo. “I’m guessing, but after Enskillen you wanted to let it all settle. Write a book.”

“It’s being printed as we speak. You’re quick.” He gave her another lopsided smile. “Why should I help you, even if I could?”

“You didn’t get into reporting to stay safe,” she said. “It’s all about risks. Finding something, trying out hunches until one pays off. Like a detective.”

The lid over his glass eye quivered.

“What evidence did you find?” she said, leaning over his desk.

“Don’t badger me,” he said. “I’m a pro.”

She wanted to say, So am I, but she didn’t feel like one.

“Please tell me where you got your information,” she said. “Then I’ll leave you alone.”

“Know anybody at the DST?”

Her mind raced. “No one who likes me.”

He tented his fingers. Tapped his index fingers together.

“I’m curious what you’d do with the information,” he said, leaning back in his wheelchair, “if I had any to give.”

She had to make him understand. And there was only one way. Something she hated to do. Reveal herself to a stranger.

“Monsieur Caillot, one day, when I was eight, I came home from school and my mother was gone,” she said. “Papa burned her things. Told me we’d closed a chapter in our life and started another. Wouldn’t talk about her.”

She rubbed her goose-pimpled arms. “Years later, during a routine surveillance contracted for with our detective agency by the police, our van blew up. Papa died. No one gave me any reasons or answers. For years I’ve tried to find out who these terrorists were. All I reached was dead ends. My last shot, an informer in Berlin, gave me zip. But when I returned a few days ago, a former terrorist, Jutta Hald, appeared at my door—straight from a twenty-year prison sentence—telling me she’d been my mother’s cell mate in Fresnes.”

Jacques Caillot’s hands remained tented. His odd gaze never left her face.

“Somehow, searching for leads to my father’s death triggered the arrival of this terrorist who knew my mother. Then Jutta Hald was murdered. But that’s just the beginning, Monsieur Caillot,” she said. “Now it’s your turn. Tell me what you know and how you found it out.”

“But you still haven’t said what you’ll do with the information.”

“All I want to know is who was behind my father’s death and if my mother’s buried in some lime pit in a field or alive in Africa.”

“Africa?”

“It’s personal, Monsieur … I need to know if they’re connected …”

“You mean …?”

“If she caused my father to be killed.” There. She’d said it, then she hung her head. When she looked up, he hadn’t moved. “Guess I’m stubbborn, but I have to know and I won’t leave until you tell me.”

“There are a few life lessons I’ve learned,” he said. “Important ones: When you find the love of your life, never hesitate, grab her; brush and floss every night; and don’t mess with the DST.”

“Thanks for the warning,” she said. “I thought Papa’s files were at the police judiciare.”

“You’re not wearing a wire, eh?”

“Wired? Only on espresso,” she said. She stood up, took off her hat, and opened her backpack. “But you can check.”

He paused, then shook his head. “If you mention anything outside this thick-walled dungeon, I’ll deny it all.”

Dungeon was right.

“You have my word.”

Caillot took a deep breath. “Don’t think I’m proud of the afternoon I spent on rue Nelaton more than twenty years ago.” He shrugged. “But I was starting out, a hungry reporter, ready to chew on anything. Sounds trite, but live and learn.”

“Rue Nelaton,” Aimee said, “you mean where the DST’s housed in the former Elf Oil building?” Aimee had long since dropped off a request to see her father’s files at the Ministry of Interior located in the unmarked building