Murder in the Bastille

The script must be Cyrillic. But she traced an upside down U, then numbers. Her stomach jolted.

The symbol for enriched uranium.

U-235.

Weapons grade enriched uranium.

Probably five or ten gram samples from the size of the beaker. Dangerous enough. More than lethal if enough samples were put together. Enough for a dirty bomb.

And the killer had the perfect cover for customs checks.

Of course he must have been here, unpacking a shipment. They’d interrupted him. She prayed he’d knocked Lucas out, not killed him. All she could do was to try to get him talking. Get him near her.

“I know how you did it,” she said, her voice steady. “Ingenious. And I have to say, I admire your plan. But why?”

The Mozart piano concerto rose in the background.

“You,” he breathed. “You’re the one.”

Her breath caught again as she recognized the voice. Shivers ran down her spine. The uranium . . . where was it? Had she touched it?

“I don’t understand. Why?”

“It’s my business,” said Malraux. “I sell and trade.”

“This isn’t smuggling Faberge eggs, antique icons, or fake Lee jeans,” she said. “Uranium and radiation kill people. Horribly.”

“Commodities,” he said. “They’re called commodities.”

“So you know the price of everything and the value of nothing.”

“I like that.”

“Oscar Wilde said it first.”

“But you’re wrong,” said Malraux. “I know the price and the value.”

Malraux’s tone, chillingly matter-of-fact, filled her with disgust and fear.

“It’s a business,” he said. “Like any other.”

“But Josiane found out, didn’t she? Somehow Vincent owed you. In return he let you use his e-mail account.”

She heard him sigh. “That part I’m sorry for,” he said, his voice softening, “I never wanted to hurt her. And if you hadn’t got in the way . . .”

“Me?” As if it were her fault?

“I was trying to talk Josiane out of writing her story. Make her listen to reason. This was the last shipment.”

It was always the last shipment, the last time, the last throw of the dice.

“Years ago, we were lovers,” he said. “But we were married to other people at the time. You know, regret lodged in my heart. Buried deep. Then when we met again after all those years at an Opera benefit . . . it was like we’d never been apart.”

Startled, Aimee listened. Had he been at least a little in love with Josiane? Had she fallen for him again, then discovered what he’d done? And paid with her life?

“I’m not a killer.”

“So how do you explain Mathieu?”

“He tried to stop me tonight; he’d grown a conscience.”

“Maybe over something else,” she said. “But I don’t believe he knew what you really were doing. You’d planned it all. From someone in your set you heard of the Beast of Bastille’s release.”

“My cousin’s married to his lawyer, Verges.”

Of course.

“So you staged a copycat murder and Vaduz conveniently died before he could deny murdering Josiane. All to conceal the fact that you had the uranium, sheathed in lead, hidden in the drawers of furniture.”

“Mademoiselle, you’ve got something under that messy head of hair after all.”

Now she wanted to punch him. But she had to get close enough first. Stay patient, keep him talking. Keep him talking until she could figure a way out.

She kept feeling around with her hands, away from Mathieu. Poor, sad Mathieu.

“I didn’t understand why Mathieu dealt with you,” she said. “But he had to. You had the sales connections.”

“And now I have the pieta dura. Mathieu tried to keep the real estate developers at bay so he could keep his atelier open,” said Malraux. “It’s over. He fought a losing battle. The smart choice would have been for him to join the winner.”

Her hands touched a large, cold, ceramic jug . . . beaded with chill liquid. Drinking water.

“But it’s so ingenious,” she said. “These antique pieces all have secret compartments, hidden places and false fronts, pillars that pull out. They’re so heavy anyway, adding sheets of lead wouldn’t matter.”

“Please know, that night, when I had you round the neck,” he said. “I couldn’t do it. You’re attractive, you know . . .”

She doubted that he had spared her deliberately. He made her sick.

“Then people came,” he said. “I heard Josiane run towards the atelier.”

The big work table crashed against her. Tools clattered onto the floor. Over Mathieu’s body?

She wondered if the lights were on? Malraux must have covered the windows. The atelier would have shades or wooden shutters. Mozart’s piano etude soared now. He must have turned up the volume . . . easier to kill her that way.

Where was her Beretta?

“I’ve dealt with this scientist for years,” said Malraux, his voice patient now. She heard him moving, hammering things. Shoving things across the floor. “We met when he wanted to sell some of his family icons. Later, his friends’ families’ icons. Then the country’s power shifted. This scientist liked heading a nuclear submarine plant, having a country dacha and driving a Lada. But the Soviet Union fell and there was no more gas for the Lada or food on the table. But he still has access to the top grade stuff . . . not orphaned uranium that was lost, stolen or abandoned, or spent nuclear fuel. He suggested it to me, he has the contacts here. All I did was arrange for transport. That fool Dragos thought he could double-cross me. Greedy. Look what happened.”

“Dead from radiation sickness.” She shook her head.

“People want my product. Finding buyers presents no problem,” he said. “It’s like in the war. My mother had paintings and art for sale to the highest bidder. Who didn’t? That was, anyone who wanted to survive. The Oberstampfuhrer dabbled in art. And in Maman. How else could she have kept the business? While Papa dabbled in everyone and everything. Clothilde was his mistress once.”

Perhaps that was why she’d pointed Aimee at the wrong person.

“Where’s Lucas?”

No answer. She heard rubbing and scraping. Tried to visualize where she was. Not far away from the heater. But were the lights on . . . was he watching her closely? Or was he more attentive to his uranium? Then her hand hit a pole . . . a lamp? It felt hot.

Now she had a plan. She had to keep him talking and get him to touch her.

“No one deals in the art world wearing white gloves.” A snicker. “Only the wealthy own art. The ones with power. They used to say if there were no Jews, there’d be no art collectors. Alors, before the war, it was true. In art, one trades with those in power. Let’s face it. You need bread you go to the boulangerie. To pass something down in the family, you go first to the art dealer, then the stockbroker. Nowadays they buy cars, computers, bigger houses—but the best investment, besides diamonds, is art. Look how it endures.”

She shuddered at his tone. He sounded as if he spoke about differences of investment opinion, not weapons grade enriched uranium capable of killing and irradiating a whole chunk of some city.

Lights blipped across her eyes . . . crinkled then waved. She steadied herself against the table.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he said.

“It’s my eyes . . . they make me dizzy.”

“Don’t worry, that won’t matter soon.”