Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

Wednesday, Early Evening

AIMÉE PULLED RENÉ’S raincoat tighter around her. The hem hit her at mid thigh but fit across the shoulders. She and René stood under halogen recessed lighting in front of the reception desk to the beige office suite. Vavin’s wing lay dark and deserted. She thought it unlikely that the flics had obtained a search warrant yet: even in high-profile murder cases it took hours. But she was afraid that Vavin’s killer might have bypassed security down below and preceded her even though she had Vavin’s keys. The sound of splashing and a muttered “Zut” interrupted her thoughts. She stopped in her tracks, put her hand on René’s shoulder, mouthed “Shh.”

The secretary was watering a potted palm. Why hadn’t she left for the day? Aimée racked her brain for the secretary’s name. Naomi?

“Bonsoir, your terminals seem to be malfunctioning again,” Aimée said. She noticed the secretary’s name on a memo pad. She had been close. “Nadia, meet René Friant, my sysadmin partner. You’re working late tonight.”

Nadia, in stylish narrow black-framed glasses, blinked. She took in René’s stature as she shook his hand. “But, Aimée, my computer’s working fine.”

“It’s always like that,” René said. “You won’t notice any problem until you access the server database.” He rolled his eyes. “By then, what a mess.”

Nadia set down the watering can, confused. “Go ahead.”

“We’ll start with Monsieur Vavin’s machine and tackle yours later.”

Aimée paused, as if she’d had an afterthought. “Hasn’t our tech associate called or stopped in yet?”

Nadia shook her head. “I’ve been here all day. Nobody called. Should they have?”

René said, “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it.” They walked rapidly to Vavin’s office.

“Smooth, René,” Aimée said. “Still taking your PI courses?”

“If I had the time, I would,” he said.

“Let’s make this quick. Before whoever murdered Vavin pays his office a visit.”

Vavin’s subdued office overlooked the dark trees on the boulevard facing the Faculté des Sciences. Aimée’s damp high-tops sank into the plush carpet. Nothing appeared to be out of place.

Aimée pulled out Vavin’s key ring and studied it. Two Fichet house keys and a third, a smaller one, which might be to his desk drawer.

She inserted the key into the lock on the side drawer. The key didn’t turn. She tried all the drawers. None of them opened. She scanned the minimalist-style office. No more furniture, not even a closet. The only place she hadn’t tried was the top drawer, which opened without a key. She slid it open. Pencils, pens, stapler, and Regnault stationery. A dead end.

“Nothing, René,” she reported.

A duplicate of the photo of Vavin’s smiling daughter on the rocking horse stared at Aimée from his desk. She imagined the knock at the door, the excited little girl running to answer it, her mother’s white face, and the girl tugging her sleeve, asking, “Where’s Papa?”

Then she succumbed to thoughts of Stella and warmth filled her. At least Stella was safe.

Vavin wouldn’t have hidden the key ring if it hadn’t been vital. Think. She took out the stationery from the wide drawer and felt around the interior. Smooth plywood. Cheap for this type of high-end desk. Then in the back her fingers found a clasp. She tugged it, heard a snap, and the plywood panel loosened. She slid it out and saw another panel with a lock. The drawer had a second level.

She inserted the key; it turned and the hidden compartment opened.

“Look, René.” Inside lay a laptop PC.

René consulted his notes. “His Mac’s on the systems inventory you made but not this one Let me check something.”

He lifted it out and whistled. “Alstrom gave Vavin a new toy. See,” he said, lifting the laptop up to show the asset tag near the serial number embossed with Alstrom on the underside of the machine.

Aimée’s cell phone vibrated.

“Oui?”

“Stella’s restless,” said Mathilde, the young babysitter. “I can’t get her to sleep.”

Aimée gripped the phone. A fever?

“Please take her temperature,” she said.

Stella’s cries sounded in the background.

René looked up, concerned.

“Loosen her shirt and the blankets, Mathilde,” Aimée said, thinking of what she’d read in the baby-care manual. “Try a cold compress on her forehead. And give her a bottle with sterilized water. I’ll wait.”

“I only have two hands,” Mathilde said, sounding flustered.

“Bien sûr, I’ll call you back. If nothing helps, I’ll take her to the doctor,” Aimée said and hung up.

Her mind jumped ahead. According to the manual, fever in a newborn could mean meningitis. Nom de Dieu . . . she couldn’t stay here and work if Stella’s life hung in the balance.

“Aimée . . . you with me?”

René was staring at her.

“Wait five minutes, eh? You gave Mathilde the right instructions,” he said, pulling out his car keys. “Wait a bit, but if Stella has a fever, take my car.”

She nodded. René was right. She had to focus. She had to get a grip; nothing else would make it up to Vavin.

“Vavin had access to Alstrom’s internal system via this PC,” she said. “Can you get into their system on his machine, René?”

“More important, can I access it in time?”

She’d given René a quick overview in the hallway.

“Whoever murdered Vavin did a sloppy job. But I bet it was for this—something on his computer involving his colleague’s e-mail.”

“Aren’t you jumping to conclusions?”

She didn’t have anything else to go on.

“Well, it’s a place to start, René,” she said. “But I’d feel better working in another office.”

BY THE TIME NADIA had opened the conference room, crowded with a suite of modern walnut furniture, René was right behind her, rolling in both computers on a wheeled trolley. Nadia paused at the door, a worried look on her face. “A flic just called. He wanted to visit concerning some incident having to do with one of our employees.”

Aimée’s shoulders tensed. Not standard procedure and they couldn’t have obtained a warrant so soon. “Did he identify himself?”

“I didn’t catch the name.”

René looked up and met Aimée’s eyes.

“I told him it’s impossible,” Nadia said. “He’ll have to visit during business hours with Monsieur Vavin in attendance.”

Aimée willed her hand to remain steady. “Bon, we’ll work on the system, nail the glitches.” She paused as if she’d just had an afterthought. “Did he mention any details? Or refer to a search warrant?”

Nadia’s thin eyebrows shot up and she shook her head. “I told him no one’s here; I was on the way out. Monsieur Vavin drops his daughter at her school on his way in, in the mornings, and arrives a bit late.” She shrugged. “The flic can wait.”

Aimée looked away. She couldn’t face Nadia. Or lie anymore.

“Thanks for letting us know,” René said, glancing at Aimée. “Have a good evening.”

Nadia shut the door behind her.

Either Nadia’s words had bought them time or whoever had called would arrive soon.

Aimée’s fingers ran over the smooth conference-table surface, planks in shades of light to dark walnut. Disparate yet fitting together in one piece. Like Vavin with Nelie? She’d seen MondeFocus pamphlets here, found an empty Alstrom folder in Nelie’s room, and the antiques dealer had seen them together. But she didn’t know how these pieces fit together.

“I failed Vavin, René. If only I’d talked to him . . .”

“Right now, do you know what’s the best thing you can do?” he said. “Help me find the password for this PC. Otherwise, I’ll have to use a brute force attack,” he said. “We can’t count on dumb luck; he may not have used the same password on this laptop. And what we’d need is back at the office.”

“Let me scout around.”

On Vavin’s Mac she accessed his user account with her sysadmin password. She scrolled through his activities and the functions he used on the computer. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? But then Vavin had been the boss. Why would she?

René tugged his goatee. “As I thought, he used another password. Found it?”

Appointments, meetings were noted on his calendar. All routine. Business lunches. No breakfast meetings, apart from one with de Laumain. No cache of passwords.

She shook her head. A big stumbling block and one they didn’t have time to chip away at. “If it’s buried in here, it could take hours to find.”

Her mind kept going back to his early morning call, claiming to be concerned about the firewall protection, as a pretext for accessing de Laumain’s e-mail. It all tied together.

She looked at her watch. Six minutes had passed. She hit the call-back button on her cell phone.

“Mathilde?”

“Stella’s a thirsty girl,” Mathilde said. “She drank a whole bottle.”

“No fever?”

“Her temperature’s normal,” Mathilde said.

“You’re sure?”

“Of course, I took it twice, Aimée,” Mathilde said.

Aimée let out a slow breath of relief. “Merci, Mathilde. She likes to be held and rocked, try that. I’ll stay in touch.”

She hung up.

René had plugged into an outlet, powered up the PC, and was clicking over the keyboard. “Here’s some good news,” he said. “The flics use one tech for several units. They’re overwhelmed, so my friend tells me.”

A feeling she could relate to right now.

“So unless they suspect right away that the murder was connected to his work, they won’t come for his Mac hard drive until tomorrow.” He stared at her. “Whoever called Nadia wasn’t a flic. They’d ask for the system administrators first to avoid shutting down the system. That’s us. In the meantime, Alstrom could cancel his access. And if I do find the password and log on, they’ll know; there will be a record.”

More complicated with every step.

“If Alstrom denies access, wouldn’t that mean they know he’s dead?” René asked.

“We won’t know until you try,” she said. “Your pager’s on, René?”

He nodded.

She pulled up the e-mail she’d forwarded to Vavin and opened it: Regarding understanding reached in yesterday’s meeting with the vice minister of Interior and Alstrom’s bureau chief, you have the go-ahead to draft a public statement to that effect for Alstrom’s review. We’re sending statements describing the draft terms and expect you to set up a campaign enlisting public and industry support for the North Sea Oil Platform Agreement.

“This makes sense if Alstrom . . . wait a minute, sounds like they’ve already got the green light from the Ministry.”

She pulled up Vavin’s next e-mail: Regarding investigative reports you requested, unnecessary until after agreement is ratified.No further action on your part deemed necessary.

“Or, in other words, quit poking around,” she said. “They plan on inking the agreement before the investigation reports come in.”

“Maybe Vavin had grown a conscience,” René said.

His words hung in the air.

She stared at him and thought of Vavin’s daughter’s photo, his words—“ . . . like every parent, I want my child to grow up in a clean world.”

“Or he had a weight on his conscience and was about to blow the whistle,” she said.

“Speculation, Aimée,” René said. His fingers raced over the keys. “It’s impossible to prove his biggest client had him killed over these e-mails.”

True.

“Companies hire ex-military or former intelligence officers to do their dirty work,” she said. “What if Vavin had found incriminating reports in the computer files at Alstrom?”

“Even harder to prove.”

René had a point. He shook his head. “Alstrom wouldn’t leave the minutes of these meetings in their system.”

Her pulse quickened. “But what if they were in a rush and had a lot more on their minds than worrying about someone snooping in their secure internal system, René?”

De Laumain . . . Vavin’s desire to read his e-mail had caused him to call her. And gotten him killed?

“The proof is on either his Mac or this PC . . . I have a hunch.”

“Makes it like finding a grain of sand at the beach,” René said.

Shadows slanted across the conference table. Outside the window, she saw the distant dark waters of the Seine. Cars crawled over the Pont de Sully, their red brake lights like a string of jewels.

They needed help, she realized.

“Isn’t Saj back from his meditation retreat?”

“Good idea,” René said. “Two of us will work faster for sure.”

She rang Saj, heard the tinkling strain of sitar music on his voice-mail greeting, and left him a message.

“Looks like an all-nighter, René. Let’s copy Vavin’s hard drive and take the laptop PC with us.”

“Take the PC?”

“Should we leave it for the killer?”

“How many laws have you broken so far?” He flicked a piece of lint from his vest.

Running away from the scene of a crime, she thought, would be one. “We have the perfect cover. After all, we’re Regnault’s sysadmin and can plead ignorance concerning the PC.”

René rolled his eyes.

She reached in her purse and her hand brushed a cotton ball that smelled like Stella’s baby lotion. She felt a jolt in her rib cage. Somewhere there was a connection. She had to think.

How had Vavin known Nelie . . . how?

She ran out into the hallway to Nadia’s empty desk. The hall was dark. She heard the elevator approaching.

“Nadia?”

She ran to the elevator.

“Nadia?”

And then the bathroom door opened to the sound of water flushing and there was Nadia, wiping her hands on a towel, having just changed into black yoga pants and a sweatshirt.

“I just wondered,” Aimée said, choosing her words. “Nelie, this girl in the photo”—she pointed to Nelie’s face—“she’s with MondeFocus. Did she visit Monsieur Vavin this week?”

Nadia shook her head. “I’ve no idea. Sorry, I have to hurry to my yoga class.”

The elevator door slid open and Nadia stepped inside.

“There are MondeFocus fliers in Monsieur Vavin’s office,” Aimée said.

Nadia glanced at her watch as the elevator door started to shut.

Aimée stuck her foot in the elevator door. “Did she bring them?”

“Why would she?”

Aimée thought quickly. “I thought maybe she met with him here to express her concerns.”

Nadia shrugged and pushed the button. “Maybe. She’s his niece. Bonsoir.”

And the elevator door closed.

The connection!

Back in the meeting room, Aimée dumped out the contents of her bag. She rooted through her keys, a dog-eared encryption manual, a tube of mascara, her worn Vuitton wallet with her lucky Egyptian coin intact, and a disc of expired birth-control pills. She found what she was looking for on the back of her checkbook. Her copy of the ink marks she’d found written on Stella. Letters, numbers, like an equation. And part of a word . . . a name, a title? Then 2/12, part of a date.

She handed her checkbook to René. “Play with this.”

“It’s incomplete.”

“Right now it’s all we have to go on,” she said. “And Nelie is Vavin’s niece.”

René’s fingers paused on the keyboard.

Until they found Nelie, the numbers and word fragments would probably remain indecipherable.

Her cell phone vibrated on her hip.

“Did you forget, Aimée?” Martine said, her husky voice wavering. “We should be leaving for the oil conference reception.”

She’d have to hurry. “Sorry, I’ll meet you there. I’m running late.”

“You’re always late. But you’re lucky; this time everyone else will be, too. They’ve moved it. Again.”

“Not another bomb scare?”

She thought of Krzysztof and the bottle bombs. Was Morbier right?

“Alstrom picked a posh new venue for their reception.”

Aimée grabbed a pen. “Where?”

“Where else would you entertain world-weary oil execs? It’s at a shareholder’s place, the most exclusive private mansion in Paris. And it’s in your neighborhood. Hôtel Lambert.”

A few town houses down from her on the Ile Saint-Louis.

“Can you handle this, René?” She stepped into her semi-dried high heels, swiped lipstick over her lips, and blotted them with a piece of computer paper. “Copy the Mac’s hard drive and—”

“Why?”

She peered at her laptop. “With any luck, I’ll be able to corner de Laumain at the reception and find out what he has to say. First, I’ll get background on Alstrom from Martine’s young Turk journalist.”

“You’re leaving right now?

The dark blots of trees on Quai de la Tournelle swayed outside the window. The Ile Saint-Louis was a glittering cluster of lights just over the river. It wasn’t far and this wouldn’t take long.

“The Alstrom’s reception is right across the river. Let’s take the PC and leave together,” she said. Shadows had lengthened; the office seemed ominously deserted. “It’s not safe for you to work here alone.”

“I’ll leave as soon as I copy the Mac hard drive,” René said, rolling up his sleeves. “Go ahead. Just leave Vavin’s keys.”

MYRIAD DOTS OF light were reflected in the gelatinous waters of the Seine from Hôtel Lambert’s tall windows, which were illuminated by glittering candles. Aimée passed the place every day. Once, long ago, the mansion had been owned by a Polish prince who had hosted recitals by Chopin. Now the tenant, a penniless baron and friend of the grand family who owned it, kept the place running and hosted select corporate receptions and celebrations.

Aimee’s heel caught in a crack between cobblestones as she caught the attention of the broad-shouldered man wearing a headset. Strains of a cello faded in the wind from the Seine.

“I don’t see your name, Mademoiselle.” His heavy-lidded eyes were dismissive.

“Check the guest list again, please,” she said, peering around his shoulder for Martine.

“Leduc, Aimée?” He shook his head. “Désolé, Mademoiselle, now please move aside,” he told her, blocking the gate. A professional brush-off.

Martine appeared, breathless, flashing her press ID. “L’Express. Mademoiselle Leduc’s with L’Express, if you notice.”

He consulted the list again. “Of course.” He smiled, a smile that failed to reach his eyes, and waved her inside.

“Nice jacket. I saw one with feathers just like that at—”

“Plucked most of them off,” Aimée interrupted. “They made me sneeze.”

“Another find?”

“You could say that.”

Martine took Aimée’s arm, steered her across the courtyard, and up the curving entry staircase. They entered an oval gallery under a painted ceiling lit by flickering candles in crystal holders. Waiters with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres wove in and out among men in formal black-and-white attire and the occasional robed sheikh. Pyramids of fleurs de sucre—lavender and rose crystallized flower petals—bedecked the white-linen-covered tables. Aimée spied vintage champagne magnums and headed in that direction.

“Merci,” she said, accepting two flutes of champagne, noting the Dom Pérignon label as she handed one to Martine and dropped a sugar-dusted rose petal in Martine’s glass. “But I still owe you,” Aimée said.

The fizzing velvet purred down her throat. Not bad. This crowd expected and got the best.

“Where’s your young Turk journalist?”

Martine scanned the groups of men in tuxedos conversing under a Louis XV chandelier that frothed with crystal. “Knowing him, upstairs with the big honchos.”

“No time like the present,” Aimée said. “I’ll fill you in en route.”

The walls of the wide staircase were crowded with a profusion of Flemish old masters, a lesser Rembrandt, a Corot, landscapes by Watteau, and a handful of Impressionist canvases. Better appreciated in a museum, Aimée thought, not hung in a hodgepodge on the wall.

“The owner’s great-uncle built the collection,” Martine said, awe in her voice. “In his heyday, he bought a painting every day.”

Aimée nodded. “But everything’s bequeathed to the Louvre now,” she said. “The baron, his tenant, rents the place out to help him pay the taxes.”

They entered the second-floor hallway, which opened onto oval Galerie d’Hercule, which was lined by rectangular windows, Corinthian columns, and stucco reliefs of Hercules’ exploits.

Aimée felt out of her league in this museum of a place. The talk around her was foreign, too. She caught snippets of conversation as they circulated. “Oil flow . . . black crude. . . . percentages.”

The L’Express journalist Martine guided her toward looked to be in his thirties. A shock of black hair nearly hid his darting eyes, and he wore a black jacket with a white shirt, but no tie.

“Aimée Leduc,” she said, extending her hand. “I’d appreciate it if you would let me see your notes.”

“Daniel Ristat,” he replied, enfolding her hands in his warm ones with a wide smile. “Get right to it, don’t you?”

She figured his smile and manner took him a lot of places. And he knew it.

“Guilty.” Next, she wanted to meet de Laumain. “Have you seen Monsieur de Laumain?”

He arched an eyebrow. “And you know the big players, eh? The old buzzard suffered an attack of gout. The disease of the rich.”

“Meaning?”

Ahead of her, a sheikh in a white robe, holding a glass of what looked like orange juice, walked by.

“Meaning that de Laumain left before I could interview him.”

Left after hearing of Vavin’s murder? She wondered who else she could question. They all oozed power and looked alike in their tuxedos. Even the sheikhs with their fruit juice resembled each other.

“But Deroche, Alstrom’s CEO, is standing right there.” Martine nudged her. Aimée noticed a smiling silver-haired man at the edge of the crowd, an executive who exuded authority even across the wide room. “And the press attaché looks nervous.” Martine indicated a woman with short hair in a severe navy blue suit, publicité pin clipped to her lapel.

Aimée was about to say that the press attaché’s nerves might be attributable to the murder of Vavin, Regnault’s publicity head, when the woman tapped an ivory-handled dessert knife against a champagne flute. “Attention, please.”

As the tinkle died, a hush descended over the well-dressed crowd.

“Monsieur Deroche, Alstrom’s director of operations, has asked me to convey to you his wishes for a wonderful evening.” The press attaché flashed a bright smile. “He’d hoped to make the announcement that I’m sure you’ve all been waiting for. We expect that we will be able to make it tomorrow. However, I can tell you now that out of its continued concern for the environment and as part of its ongoing program to safeguard it, Alstrom has completed the dismantling of all its North Sea oil rigs in the Baltic. Its waste-management operations have been transferred to the La Hague facility and new sites will be explored.”

The attaché waved her hand at Deroche, who raised his champagne glass. “Santé,” he said. “Enjoy . . . no one leaves until every magnum’s empty!”

Ripples of applause and laughter greeted his remark.

But both Martine and Daniel seemed amazed.

“Rumor says that the execution of the agreement between Alstrom and the government was postponed due to a bomb scare,” Daniel said, taking out a small notepad and jotting something down. “This sounds like a concession to the environmentalists.”

Aimée’s cell phone vibrated.

“Allô?”

“Turn around,” a man’s voice said. A familiar voice.

“Who’s this?”

“Face the windows on the north side.”

Bomb scares . . . all the bigwigs . . . a sniper? A frisson of fear rippled over Aimée’s skin.

She pivoted on her heel. Saw the flash of a tuxedo jacket and got a brief look at the face of the man wearing it.

“The service stairs to the kitchen. Now.”

She thrust her champagne into Martine’s hand and crossed the creaking inlaid wood floor, passed the suave, smiling Deroche, opened a door in the carved paneling, and went down the steep sconce-lit winding stairs. She fished the miniscrew-driver out of her bag. Too bad the tip had broken off in Nelie’s door.

She had a bad feeling as heat rising from the kitchen enveloped her.

And then he stood on the step below her. Krzysztof.

“You lied to me,” she said.

“It’s going down.” His eyes bulged in fear.

“What’s going down?”

“Coming through,” said a waiter, passing them with a tray of toast slivers coated with foie gras.

“You have to help.”

Unease filled her. “Me? Why should I? Orla was your girlfriend but you wouldn’t even ID her body. You and Nelie planted bombs at the march and you’re wanted by the police.”

“You’re wrong!” Krzysztof interrupted. “Orla was not my girlfriend. Nelie’s hiding, but I would never expose her. I promised to keep quiet.”

“So you know where she is?”

He shook his head. His words came out in a rush. “We didn’t plant bottle bombs! We were framed. Saboteurs ruined the peace march.”

“How’d you get in here with all this security?” She saw the tuxedos hanging in a storeroom off the kitchen. “Wait . . . you came in with the caterers, didn’t you?”

He pulled at her sleeve. “Hurry,” he said, his voice tense, as he tugged her downstairs.

A distant memory bubbled up. Aimée had been in this kitchen before. She’d gone to school with the daughter of the Hôtel Lambert’s head chef. Sometimes, after school, the chef, who was from Brittany, baked Quimper biscuits for a treat. They’d been forbidden to wander upstairs but she remembered the white-tiled kitchen, enameled Aga stove, and the fragrance of hot butter. Now it was overrun by a crew of red-faced white-hatted chefs intent on adding decorative touches, sauce swirls, and radish florets to platters of dainty delights.

Krzysztof pulled her toward the walk-in pantry before they could be noticed.

“There are explosives here.” He held up a piece of waxed fuse. “I found this on the floor.”

Chills ran up her spine. Her first impulse was to yell, “Bomb” and get out. She was an idiot. Why had she followed him?

Before she could stop him, he had pushed her into a walk-in freezer and shut the door. She lowered her bag to the floor, pulling out her fist with the screwdriver in it, and confronted him. “You wouldn’t talk to me before. What’s your game . . . your demands . . . are you taking hostages?”

“I checked you out.”

“So you’re having second thoughts, feeling guilty?” She kept the screwdriver in her fist poised to defend herself should he attack her. “You’ve set explosives and now you want to stop them from going off?”

“What?”

“You’ll use me as a cover—”

“Listen to me, Halkyut Security’s involved,” he interrupted, handing her a battered business card on which someone had written the initial “G.”

She knew that Halkyut, a private firm, employed former intelligence officers and ex-military as security operatives. This situation was going from bad to worse.

“‘G’ stands for this mec, Gabriel, who brought the bombs here.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s a long story, but I found out that he bought pipe bombs from a person who lives in a squat.”

A high-level security firm buying bombs in a squat?

“And I’m the prime minister,” she said in disbelief.

He waved his hand. “He saw me and he recognized me. He’s checking out the kitchen. I know the explosives are here. I’m an amateur. I thought I could defuse the charge but . . .” He kicked an aluminum tray. “Look, I’m in over my head, I screwed up. I’m for peaceful protest, exposing the oil corporations . . . but not with bombs.”

Maybe an operative employed by Halkyut had been clever enough to use unsophisticated explosives to divert suspicion.

She reached for her cell phone. She’d left it in her bag on the floor; she didn’t want to bend down to rummage through it and give him an opening to attack her. “Let me use your phone. We have to evacuate everyone.”

“They want to blame the bombs on ecoterrorists, extremists. On me. They’ll forge a demand note and attribute it to me, create chaos, and blame the destruction on me.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“They did it before, at our peace march. Now the oil agreements are ready for signature,” he said. “It will happen unless certain evidence surfaces first.”

“I don’t get it,” she said.

“What can’t you understand? They want to silence all opposition. . . .” His forehead glistened with sweat. “The oil companies use Halkyut to hire infiltrators—wild men—so anyone who protests seems to be an extremist. Once this agreement is signed, there will be more contracts and the North Sea will be polluted further by nuclear wastes and other toxins.”

“But they just announced that they’ve dismantled their North Sea oil-rig platforms.”

“They lied. Nelie has the proof. It’s in black and white. But they’ve gotten to her.”

That corresponded with the statement by Deroche’s press attaché. And now she knew that Vavin was Nelie’s uncle.

“What do you mean ‘gotten to her?’”

“I think they took care of her, like they did to Orla. She and her baby have disappeared.”

Her pulse raced. “The baby . . .”

A man in a chef’s apron opened the freezer door. “What are you doing here?”

Aimée said the first thing that came to her mind. “I’m checking supplies.” She hit a side of hanging cured ham. “The maître d’ needs more jambon hors d’oeuvres upstairs.”

“When I’m good and ready. The smoked trout’s on my mind right now, if you please! Give me some room.”

They stepped back into the kitchen. The chef rushed over to a wire shelf, grabbed a package, and hurtled out past her.

Beyond them lay a box of Beurre de Breton on a wooden chopping block. Next to it, a sous chef was using a hand-sized butane torch to caramelize turbinado sugar on fifty or more porcelain ramekins of crème brûlée.

“Zut alors, Henri; hurry up with the crème brûlées!” a waiter shouted.

Bending, she saw pipes and wires encased in colored plastic, taped to the underside of the chopping block. Her heart stopped.

“There . . . look.” She pointed, her hand shaking.

Krzysztof’s eyes widened in terror. “The sous chef could set off the explosives by mistake. Distract him. I’ll disconnect the fuses.”

“Wait!” She tried to think. “There has to be a timing detonator,” she said. Touching the wires or fuses could activate it. “Everyone must evacuate. I’ll alert the bomb squad.”

She felt for her bag. Where was it . . . where the hell was her cell phone? They couldn’t risk everyone’s life . . . My God, Martine was upstairs!

“Non, cut the waxed wires,” he said.

“What?”

“No detonator. Keep it away from flame and static electricity; the old woman, the anarchist, told me. I’ll snip the fuse near the base; it’s the best way to prevent—”

“Mademoiselle, out of my way.” A large man stood in front of her. “The garlic’s burning, I need butter.”

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

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

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

“Et voilà, the crème brûlée’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 Vendôme 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 Hôtel 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 Hôtel 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.