apartment. Warm, close air filled the room. Aimee took off her coat and scanned a pile of brochures. The World Wildlife Movement’s story about rhino abduction competed with pamphlets about other causes piled up on the parquet floor.
And then she saw the vinyl record jackets in the corner and recognized the woman. Brigitte Fache, a seventies pop icon who’d had a handful of record hits. She came from an aristo background and was still well connected with the
Brigitte resumed arguing into the cell phone. “They had no search warrant . . . what do you mean, who? I call that more than intrusion—it’s breaking and entering,” she said. “Not just harassment, it’s illegal.” She listened, then laughed, a short sardonic laugh. “So who raided our office, Brigadier, if you didn’t, eh? The sandman?”
She held the phone away from her ear, rolling her eyes at Aimee, who heard indecipherable words tumbling over the line. Brigitte exuded an air of entitlement. “We’ve organized a dozen rallies for which we’ve always obtained permits, put in place a first aid corps and a contingent of legal aid, but of course, that’s standard for a demonstration. Now, this candlelight march! We never sanction weapons. You’ve made a mistake.”
She listened to an explanation, then Brigitte’s palm slapped the metal file cabinet. “Proof? You call that proof, Brigadier?”
But her brow knit in worry. Outside the window, needles of rain beat down on the rising Seine.
“Krzysztof Linski’s not in our organization,” she assured the caller.
Her blunt-cut, unmanicured nails drummed the cabinet. The woman was lying, Aimee sensed it. But now she was forewarned; she wouldn’t mention Krzysztof as a contact.
Barefoot, Brigitte padded into the other room. By the time she returned, wearing a wool trouser suit, with a cigarette and without the cell phone, Aimee had her makeshift card ready.
“Aimee Leduc, freelancer, referred by Leon Tailet of
“How is Leon?”
Thank God she’d prepared and actually spoken to him on the phone.
“Rheumatism bothering him. As usual. You know, the damp in Brittany. But it didn’t stop him last week from attending the demonstration.”
Brigitte nodded, set the card on the desk, and rummaged through a worn black Day-Timer. Good thing she had a lot more on her mind than delving further into Aimee’s credentials.
“What do you want?”
“Tell me about Krzysztof Linski.”
“No comment.”
“Were you at last night’s march?”
Brigitte shook her head. “I couldn’t be there. I had to march in a protest at La Defense.”
Too bad.
“A young woman’s body was recovered from the Seine. She and Nelie Landrou were in your organization —”
“Who’s this article for?” Brigitte interrupted.
“Whoever will print it; the truth must come out. I’ve got contacts at
Brigitte’s phone rang. She glanced at her watch. “
Aimee couldn’t let her make her escape without getting any information. “A meeting concerning . . . ?”
“Alstrom’s filing a suit against us. They’re asking for an injunction and that’s just for starters.” Brigitte shook her head.
“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
Strange that an oil company would file suit against Monde-Focus and seek an injunction. Had things changed so much that an oil conglomerate could silence protests against it?
“Those with the most expensive lawyers win. We’re attempting to negotiate to prevent their enjoining our campaign.” Brigitte opened the door to the cold hall.
“How well did you know Orla Thiers?”
Brigitte looked down and when she did meet Aimee’s eyes, a sadness filled them. She started to speak then caught herself and sighed. “I’ll have more to say later.”
“Wasn’t she involved in the roadblock near the nuclear facility at La Hague? I’d like to speak with her friend, Nelie.”
“Nelie . . . the hanger-on? I haven’t seen her for a while.”
Odd. It sounded as if Brigitte didn’t know that Nelie had had the baby.
“How does Krzysztof Linski fit in?”
Brigitte’s eyes blazed back in fighting form. “He’s not part of our organization anymore.”
“But I thought . . .”
“He got us into this mess. He was a right-wing plant. That’s all I have to say.” Brigitte’s keys jangled in her hand. “Look, if you don’t mind . . .”
Aimee pressed on. “Who else can I talk to in your organization, please?”
“Can’t this wait?”
“In news, nothing waits or you won’t have a story.”
Aimee saw videotapes stacked on a cabinet arranged by title and date of demonstration. Surely the demonstration against the oil agreement would have been taped like the others. “Who filmed the march last night? Please, it would help so much to convey the mood of the event. Will you give me the name of the videographer?”
“Sure,” Brigitte said. “I’ll tell you on the way out.”
OUT ON QUAI D’ORLEANS, Aimee ducked, but not in time to avoid receiving the Peugeot’s diesel exhaust in her face as Brigitte gunned the motor and sped off. Notre Dame lay shrouded in mist on her right, and rain pelted the stone ramp angling into the Seine. She pulled her hood over her head, glad she at least had obtained a lead from Brigitte. Then she stumbled into a rut filled with water and her pants got sopping wet up to her knees. En route to the documentary filmmaker’s studio, she’d make a stop and buy an umbrella.
SOUTH OF GARE D’AUSTERLITZ, once an industrial area, cobblestone-surfaced rue Giffard still held traces of small workshops. Near Les Frigos, the old refrigerator warehouses that had served the train yards, two-story buildings housed artists, musicians and—judging by the graffiti—an anarchist or two. She read CLAUDE NEDEROVIQUE—DOCUMENTARY FILM PRODUCTION by the digicode at his door.
The grillwork gate stood ajar. Aimee pushed it open and entered a narrow courtyard roofed by grime- encrusted glass resembling a train station. Rain pounded relentlessly overhead.
She shook and folded her umbrella, remembering the radio alert she had overhead: traffic advisory warnings and closures of lanes bordering the Seine due to record rainfall.
She knocked. Her trousers and sodden leather boots were soaked through. No answer. She knocked again. Chills shot up her legs. What she wouldn’t give for a warm fire, dry clothes, and . . .
The door swung open. “Took you long enough!”
All she could see was a man’s head in shadow, haloed by the bright lights of the studio behind him. Guitar licks of the Clash met her ears. “Claude Nederovique?”
“Who’s asking?”
He wore torn denims and motorcycle boots. Wavy brown hair hung over one eye and the collar of his black leather jacket. She tried not to shiver, aware of the surprise on his face as he stepped back into the light. His dark eyes studied her. A bad boy, just her type.
