AL07 - Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

would culminate two blocks away in a peace vigil on the grounds of l’Institut du Monde Arabe, the cultural foundation where the conference was being held. A multistory building part library, museum, and seminar center, l’Institut du Monde Arabe’s countless bronze light-sensitive shutters imitated the moucharabiya, an Arab latticework balcony. Another Pompidou design project not working half the time.

He looked for Orla, who’d promised to provide them with more information, but she was late as usual. A camera truck from France2 pulled up. He brightened; now they’d get coverage on the television news. The word would spread.

Fellow Sorbonne students wearing bandannas strummed guitars, and the old Socialists, always ready for a demonstration, circulated bottles of red wine among those standing in loose ranks. Handheld candles illuminated expectant faces. He smiled at his fellow organizer, Gaelle, who had draped a red-and-white Palestinian scarf over her tank top. She raised her fist in a power salute, grinning back as he dumped an empty candle box in a bin.

“My press contact’s coming. I told him you’d convinced Brigitte and the MondeFocus to sponsor this demonstration,” Gaelle said, her face flushed with excitement.

Perfect, everything was running according to plan. His nervousness evaporated. Now he was sure everything would work. He’d followed the right channels, applied for and obtained a permit. There was not even a flic or a police car in sight.

A girl with long blonde hair smiled and kissed him on the cheek, her scent of patchouli oil surrounding them both. “Comrade, help out a minute, won’t you?”

He caught a whiff of kerosene and hoped no one had brought a lantern. Their march was supposed to end in a silent protest illuminated only by hundreds of flickering candles as they submitted their alternative proposal. A lantern would ruin the effect.

She smiled up at him and slung her backpack strap over his shoulder. “Take this, will you? I’ve got to carry the rest of the candles.” The clink of bottles came from within the backpack. She winked. “I’ve brought something to quench our thirst while we keep vigil.”

He hesitated and shrugged. “Why not?” He hefted the bag. Voices around him rose in song and he recognized “The Internationale,” the old Socialist anthem. He found himself stepping out in time with the singing. And then she vanished, dropping behind the ranks of marchers, as someone hugged him.

The group linked arms and strode over the cobbles. Beside him, Gaelle held the green STOP THE OIL DRILLING banner aloft.

As they marched, their voices and laughter echoed off the stone buildings. Their candles flickered in the soft breeze from the Seine. His uncle’s speech came to his mind. Proud of his ancestry? This made his heart swell with pride.

They reached the corner and rounded it. Ranks of uniformed CRS, Compagnies Republicaines de Securite, an armed riot squad, stood in front of l’Institut du Monde Arabe.

This made no sense to Krzysztof. They were marching peacefully to protest oil pollution.

He paused in midstep, as did the others. The CRS was drawn up in riot formation. The revolving police-car lights cast a bluish light that was reflected by the clear shields they held positioned in front of them.

This was only his second demonstration and he almost jumped out of his skin as a Mercedes limo screeched down the institute’s exit ramp and tore off toward the Seine.

“Merde,” Gaelle said at his side, “the bigwigs are taking off before we can present our proposals. The pigs!”

Krzysztof exchanged a confused look with Claude, a tall, leather-jacketed documentary filmmaker who stood on the sidelines.

“Get this on film, Claude!” he called.

Claude raised his fingers in a V, video camera crooked between his neck and shoulder. “Got it, from the beginning!” Claude considered himself a master of cinema verite. His ten-year-old documentary of activists fighting the building of African oil platforms was already considered a classic.

The marchers were at a standstill. Strategize, Krzysztof told himself. They had to strategize and keep the momentum going.

“Gaelle. Over here.” He made his way through the crowd, toward plane trees with peeling bark. Amid the planters holding bushes he set the backpack down.

The CRS loudspeaker broke the silence. “Advance no further.”

“Everything’s legal,” Gaelle shouted back, “approved by the—” Her voice was drowned by the clanking of the metal-heeled boots of the CRS scraping against the cobblestones.

“This is an unlawful assembly. Your permit has been revoked,” the loudspeaker blared. “Put down your weapons.”

Their permit revoked? Weapons?

“We’re conducting a sanctioned peaceful assembly,” Krzysztof shouted. MondeFocus only countenanced peaceful lawful demonstrations.

All of a sudden, a figure ran toward the front line of marchers, cradling something to her chest. “Wait . . . !”

Before he could see who it was, the stark white glare of police searchlights blinded him. He shielded his eyes.

“Krzysztof!”

He recognized Orla’s voice. But more blinding light prevented him from seeing her.

“Look, Orla’s arrived,” Gaelle said.

“This is your last warning.” Static crackled from the loudspeaker.

He stepped back in a panic. “But I obtained the permit. How could they revoke it?” he asked, dazed.

“They can’t do this,” Gaelle told him.

“Of course not. No one informed me!”

“Lies!” The crowd started chanting, their voices mounting in the humid air.

“They’ll have to understand,” Gaelle said, desperation in her voice, as she broke past the marchers and ran ahead.

The CRS advanced in a single rank, clear shields positioned in front of their faces.

Gaelle raised her candle and took a step forward, into the boulevard.

What was she doing? The CRS came closer, truncheons raised. He could see their features behind their clear shields. He sprinted forward. She took another step.

“Gaelle, non!” He reached for her arm.

People behind him shoved forward and he tripped, losing his balance. The banner fell. He was pressed against a stone bollard.

“We’re presenting a peaceful petition—”

The rest of Gaelle’s words were lost in the bone-cracking whack of a truncheon. She crumpled to the ground. For a moment, all was silent, then cries of horror rose around him. Blood spurted from Gaelle’s head, drenching her scarf. And Krzysztof was pushed to one side in the melee as the crowd surged around them.

Monday Night

AIMEE ANSWERED THE door, her hands shaking. The Chanel dress she wore was now caked with clumps of beige formula.

“About time, Rene!”

Her partner, Rene Friant, a dwarf, all of four feet tall in his tailored Burberry raincoat and custom-made shoes, stared at her.

“Interesting fashion statement. Sorry I’m late,” he said, hanging his coat on a chair. “They cordoned off the bridge because of some MondeFocus demonstration.” He sniffed. “Did Miles Davis have an accident?”

“I need your help, Rene,” she said.

“System up and running, right? Is this about tomorrow’s meeting . . . ?” He paused, his eyes searching hers. “Don’t tell me you missed the deadline.”

“Come here.” She took his hand and led him down the hall.