AL07 - Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

“Next time keep your phone on, Martine,” Aimee said.

“Damn thing’s battery ran down.” Martine hugged her hard and put the cigarette between Aimee’s lips. “Want a hit? You deserve it. Believe it or not, Jadwiga Radziwill, the celebrated anarchist, provided an interesting take on your explosion.”

“I thought she was dead,” Aimee said.

“At first, with all that makeup, it was hard to tell. But Deroche broke a sweat talking to her, then summoned his minions to a hurried caucus. I love to see those CEOs . . . well, you can tell me about it.”

All Aimee wanted was to see Stella and sleep.

“In the morning I will, I promise. And I need to meet with Daniel Ristat. But right now I need—”

“To sleep, d’accord.” Martine kept her arm around Aimee as she walked her down the hall and then helped her out of her clothes. “Mathilde’s asleep. Shall I wake her?”

The last things Aimee remembered were putting francs into Mathilde’s bag and then curling up on the Babar sheets next to a sweet-smelling Stella.

Thursday Morning

HE STARED AT the headlines of Le Parisien displayed at the news kiosk. MYSTERY WOMAN SAVES A HUNDRED LIVES—EXPLOSION ROCKS THE SEINE.

Merde! He flicked his cigarette onto the pavement, ground it out with his foot, and read the article. The woman, who was wearing a feather-trimmed jacket, and claimed to be affiliated in an unexplained manner with the press, has not been found. The Brigade Fluviale continues to dredge the Seine. . . .

Another screwup.

He’d told Halkyut to quit recruiting lowlifes. Had they listened? Not according to the front-page article. Le Monde, a more news-oriented publication, said: Oil conference: Alstrom presence plagued by eco-group militants, bomb scares, and oil platform pollution rumors.

The man reached into his blue trouser pocket, took out a coin, and threw it on the counter.

“Genocide in Rwanda, impending Metro strike . . . but this . . . at least there’s some good news in the world, eh, Monsieur?” the smiling vendor said.

“A real bright spot.” He almost ripped Le Monde as he unfolded the front page, looking for the story and its continuation. He read: Oil conference executives, attending a reception at the historic Hotel Lambert, hosted by Mathieu Deroche, CEO of Alstrom, expecting to hear an oil rights agreement with the Ministry announced, watched in horror as a woman disposed of explosives in the Seine. The third bomb threat in two days, and the murder of an executive of Regnault, Alstrom’s high-powered publicity firm, sent shock waves through the oil-producing community. The second bomb threat, a hoax, at l’Institut du Monde Arabe, was attributed to MondeFocus, which denied responsibility, and has now been blamed on a splinter peace group. However, insiders reveal that a bomb threat delivered to M. Deroche was meant to highlight the questionable practices of Alstrom, France’s largest refiner of petroleum. An oil conference source expressed disbelief that a peace organization would use such “terrorist tactics,” insisting an inquiry be launched into Alstrom’s recent freighter accident in the North Sea. Preliminary explosive experts’ findings reveal that the unsophisticated pipe bombs used lacked a timing ignition device, indicating that the danger was in part simulated. Unconfirmed reports indicate that static electricity was the cause of the ignition. An unnamed MondeFocus spokesman said, “Disinformation and bomb hoaxes were used by Alstrom to distract attention from the underlying issues of toxic waste and environmental pollution.”

The man crumpled the paper, tossing it into a nearby trash bin. He had to fix everything himself. He patted the Beretta in his inside jacket pocket and blended in with the commuters rushing down the Metro steps.

Thursday Late Afternoon

THE CAFE WAS crowded and noisy; Aimee held Stella in her arms. A few hours ago, she’d visited a pediatrician, who, after examining Stella, had pronounced her healthy and fever free. For two hundred francs more, he’d prescribed antibiotics for Aimee and asked no questions as to why she needed to ward off the Seine’s microbes. She’d slept half the day, soaked in the tub at Martine’s, and borrowed a black velvet pantsuit and cap. Rested now, despite an undercurrent of anxiety, she tugged the little hat onto Stella’s head and scanned the other customers in the cafe.

A milk steamer hissed, competing with the conversations at the zinc counter. Delivery truck drivers in blue work smocks threw back espressos and bieres, a pinstripe-suited Ministry type stood reading Le Monde, an office worker on a break in a pencil-thin skirt spoke on her cell phone, and a gray-haired, elaborately coiffed woman held a cigarette between her beringed fingers, Bon Marche shopping bag at her feet, and blew smoke rings in the air.

The man she was waiting for hadn’t arrived.

She sat back. This cafe-tabac, across from the Institut Oceanique, was filled with locals. No one would look for them here.

The cell phone in her jacket pocket vibrated. With the phone crooked between her neck and shoulder, she laid Stella on the booth’s leather seat.

“Aimee, what happened to you last night?” Rene said with irritation. “I left you messages—”

“Sorry, Rene. I set off some fireworks, then took a swim,” she said. “It seemed better to lie low and call you when I—”

“That was you?”

“Let’s say it was an alter ego,” she said. “Has Saj found anything promising?”

“We used the dial-up system and accessed Vavin’s password and account.”

“Brilliant, Rene.”

“I said I would, Aimee,” Rene reminded her. “Now Saj is working from the PC’s hard drive backup. But I’m working on the Fontainebleau contract again. One more time. They’re ready to sign.”

He meant he had a “paying” job; she heard the implied criticism in his voice.

“The computer’s been put back in Vavin’s office,” Rene said.

She heard a pause at the other end.

“But my log-in using Vavin’s password will show up, Aimee. It’s just a matter of time until the techs at Alstrom discover the intrusion.”

“Right, but they can’t prove you did it,” she said. She had to reassure him and so she said the only thing she could think of.

“Of course not,” Rene said. “We ‘visited’ the travel agency next door and luckily their telephone was still connected so we used it to dial up.”

Rene constantly amazed her.

“Worst-case scenario, we’ll spin the break-in as ‘in the public interest,’” she said.

“You don’t mean that law whistle-blowers use, citing special journalistic privileges or whatever?”

“That’s only if we get caught, Rene,” she said. “And I’m about to meet a L’Express journalist.”

“Saj tunneled into some Ministry meeting minutes in Alstrom’s storage database. He’s not sure but—”

She heard the clicking of keys on the laptop under Rene’s fingers.

“We’re looking for what exactly?” he asked.

“A doctor’s report from La Hague. And pollution statistics. You know, like a second pair of books accountants keep. The real set.” She had an idea. “Ask Saj to find Alstrom’s file of independent contractors.”

“Tall order, Aimee. He’s slogging through their records and he says it’s a huge job.”

“What about checking Alstrom’s accounts payable? See if Halkyut’s on the list; no one works for free.”

“Halkyut?” Rene said louder. “The spies for hire?”

“One of Halkyut’s employees has been after Stella.”

“What aren’t you telling me, Aimee?”

“I made it hot for him,” she said.

In the literal sense, but she didn’t think it wise to give Rene the details. “He’s in La Sante right now. I’ll fill