AL07 - Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

“Let me.” Krzysztof moved in front of him.

He shoved Krzysztof’s arm away. “Ridiculous. Who let these people in here?”

Aimee saw pushing, a fistfight erupting, then Krzysztof lay on the floor.

“Et voila, the creme brulee’s finished.” The sous chef turned, his torch still lit and emitting a blue flame.

“Non,” she screamed. She had to get the bombs away from the fire, from the hot kitchen. Or they’d blow to kingdom come.

Terror stricken, she saw her father in her mind’s eye, the orange billowing heat and fireball explosion that had reduced him to charred cinders.

“Bombs! Get out,” she yelled as loud as she could above the din of the kitchen. “Run!”

“What the—?” A pan clattered. The hiss of escaping gas and steam filled the air, shouts of “Merde” accompanying it. Krzysztof had risen to resume battle with the chef while others stood, pots and knives in hand, paralyzed by annoyance and fear.

Panicked, she didn’t know where to turn. A chef stood blocking her way, frozen in horror.

“Move!”

She ripped the tape that was holding the wires to the underside of the chopping block and grabbed the colored plastic case. The only thing she could think of was to run to the service door. She shoved the door open with her hip and barreled onto the quai, bumping into a surprised group of white-aproned men who were taking a break, smoking.

“Eh, look where you’re going—”

“Security! Stand aside!” She ran the few steps across the narrow quai, past a surprised man walking his dog, and took the stone steps, running as fast as she could.

She splashed over to the riverbank, ankle deep in the rising water, and threw the pipe bomb as far as she could into the Seine. Then she dove back to the steps, crouched, and covered her head with her arms.

She waited but the only sound was of the lapping water. She breathed a sigh of relief. A close call. Until she saw bright yellow-orange bubbles coming to the surface.

From the bridge she heard a baby cry. Stella’s face flashed in front of her.

Then there was a deafening explosion, followed by a deep rumbling. The steps shuddered. Then the same thunderlike clap she’d heard in the Place Vendome when her father was blown up.

She lost her balance, reached out, and her fingers scraped across slippery moss. Water shot up in an arc, spraying the bridge; waves broke over her. She scrambled onto all fours, reached for the steps, trying to climb, her knees shaking. Another rumbling, followed by shaking, rocked the stones. Icy, stinking water burst over her, soaking her, and she was crying, sobs racking her body.

She became aware of people on the Pont de Sully shouting. Now billows of dark gray smoke rose from the surface of the Seine, forming a blanket of fog. Her shoulders were heaving; her dress clung to her dankly. Sirens wailed. She heard laughter from the bridge and then clapping. “Good show,” someone said. “Where are the fireworks?”

Only candlelight illuminated the darkened windows of the Hotel Lambert now as men in formal attire and elegantly gowned women stood on the dark balconies, a scene out of the past. Several other buildings had lost electric power as well from the explosion. Then a receding wave of icy water sucked at her, pulling her down again, and she gulped a mouthful of scummy water.

Choking and spitting, she lay on her stomach on the stones of the embankment and her arms flailed in the water as she fought against being sucked into the cold backwash of foam, twigs, and bits of sharp metal pipe. She tried to clutch the iron rungs of the ladder that led from the river to the bank. The current snatched her away. She had to swim.

She kicked, battling the current, but her eyes could make out nothing in the murky, dense blackness. She surfaced, sputtering, in the middle of the Seine. Shivering, treading the frigid water, she saw people running along the quai, and now lights blazing in the Hotel Lambert. The electricity had been restored. A low toot and the black hull of a Bateau-Mouche loomed. The whirling blades of the engine had been revved up to battle the choppy current. Her adrenaline kicked in and she swam, desperate to get out of the path of the boat. If she was sucked under, she’d be sliced like meat in the rotor blades. She heard shouts, took a deep breath, and dove, her arms numb, her legs cramping. So cold. She remembered Capitaine Sezeur’s words: twenty minutes in a wet suit was all the divers could handle.

The water, a foaming broth, swirled; the current seized her. Vibrations from the engine pounded in her ears. Now lights filtered through the dense greenish silt, and dead crawfish floated past her. She had to get free of the current; her lungs were bursting. Her feet hit something and she pushed off, away from the churning bubbles created by the motor.

She hit the surface, gulped air, and her head hit something hard. Her jacket sleeve caught and she was sucked down again.

Wednesday Night

RENE LOOSENED HIS damp shirt collar. Vavin’s hard drive and the laptop PC in its case hung from his shoulder. Just as he passed Nadia’s desk, he heard a ting from the elevator and the slow whoosh of the door opening. He froze. Security guards or . . . ? He didn’t wait to find out.

He searched for cover behind a potted palm, gathered his thoughts, and looked for the stairs. The last thing he needed right now was questions. He wouldn’t be able to fight his way out carrying a several-kilo laptop case with his aching hip.

Palm fronds brushed his nose. The moist terra-cotta planter was exuding moisture. He saw the red-lit EXIT sign to his right and knew two flights of stairs led down to the foyer. And escape.

There was a soft padding sound on the carpet, then the flash of a man’s blond head. He was going straight to Vavin’s office. Rene held his breath, waited until he heard the office door open, and made for the exit. He wouldn’t have much time after the mec discovered Vavin’s laptop was gone.

He opened the door, stood in the stairwell, and held the handle so the door would shut silently, then raced down the stairs, trying to ignore the sharp pains in his hip. The laminated ID hanging from his neck flapped against the jacket he carried folded over his shoulder, under the laptop-case strap.

At the front desk he smiled at the security guard, praying he could get away with this. The last time he’d stolen anything was a car magazine when he was fifteen. And he’d been caught.

His shoulders were just at the level of the counter, where a sleepy security guard nursed an espresso.

On tiptoes, Rene reached for a pen with which to sign out. The guard eyed him, taking in his size.

A few more minutes and he’d reach his car.

“Before you go, open your bag,” the guard said.

“I’m in a hurry, I’m sure you understand . . .”

The guard jerked his thumb. “You heard me. Standard procedure.”

Rene opened the laptop case.

“What’s that you’ve got?”

Rene debated fully waking him by telling him the truth.

“A rat’s nest,“ Rene said. “Terminal malfunction in the hardware. I’ve got to repair this back at the office.”

“No one informed me,” the guard told him, one eye scanning the video monitors.

Rene followed his gaze. On the monitor labeled SECOND FLOOR he saw a blond mec standing at the elevator bank.

“Nor me! Just happened.” Rene rolled his eyes. “Deadline, too! They need this back in a few hours.”

“Eh, you can’t take equipment without—”

“Look, this system needs to be up and running before the exec’s conference.”

“You need authorization.”

Perspiration dampened Rene’s collar.

“Then you tell the CEO why his computer doesn’t work when he arrives at his meeting in a few hours.” Sweat