"Someone's ransacked my office!" she said. "Can you fax those sheets again?"
"Aimee, be careful, I'm serious," Martine said, all in one breath. "Give me the exclusive on this one, please? With this story I'd get into editorials and off my back with Gilles."
"You sleep with Gilles to keep your job?" Aimee couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice. "Of course, this story is yours." She paused. "But no print yet, nothing. I've got to document everything airtight. Do we have an understanding?"
"D'accord," Martine spoke slowly. "It's not that bad with Gilles, we have an arrangement. I know I'm good at what I do but I've never been like you, Aimee. You don't need a man."
"I wouldn't call screwing the neo-Nazi hunk I met at an LBN meeting a smart relationship choice. That's a whole other story."
"Probably spices up his performance," Martine giggled. "I'm still checking one name."
A ring and click signaled a fax coming in. "Is this from you, Martine?"
"Yes. Don't forget—this is my story," Martine said.
The smell of paint was stronger now and came from near the fax machine. Aimee walked around her office partition to confront a terrifying image. A black swastika was painted on the wall, angled and off center like the one incised in Lili's forehead. Next to it were three words in dripping red paint:
YOUR TURN NEXT!
WEDNESDAY
Wednesday Morning
AIMÉE PERCHED ON THE thick black velvet sofa in her red suit, the one she could afford to pick up from the dry cleaner's. She had begrudgingly slipped a few hundred franc notes to the hotel clerk. Plush hotels rated high bribes; it was the cost of doing business.
"Mademoiselle Leduc?" came a deep voice in heavily accented French. "You wish to have a word with me?"
Hartmuth Griffe gave a modified bow, and looked expectantly into her face. He fit perfectly in the Pavillion de la Reine lounge among the discreet clink of crystal and silver. Suave, tan, and very handsome. Curt Jurgens and Klaus Kinski, move over, she thought.
"Herr Griffe, please sit down. I know you have a long day ahead of you. Would you care for coffee?" Aimee spread her arms, indicating the plush sofa.
"Actually, I'm running late," he said, glancing at her cafe au lait on the table and his watch at the same time.
"Just a quick one. I know you're extremely busy." Aimee caught the waiter's eye and pointed at her cup. She gestured towards a deep burgundy leather armchair. "Please."
"Only for a few moments then," he said. "Of what do you wish to speak?"
She wanted to stall him until he got his coffee.
Loudly she demanded, "Quickly! For the monsieur, s'il vous plaît!"
Immediately, a cafe au lait in a Limoges cup and a bountiful fruit tray appeared.
"Compliments of the hotel," the manager said, almost scraping his chin on the table with a low bow.
"Merci," Hartmuth said, reaching for his cup.
She tried not to look at his hands. Tried not to stare at the pigskin leather gloves he wore. Most of all, she tried to hide her disappointment at not being able to lift his fingerprints. She decided to get to the point.
"Did you know Lili Stein?"
"Excuse me, who?" Hartmuth Griffe stared at her.
She noticed the creamy foam in his cup trembled slightly.
"Lili Stein, a Jewish woman maybe a few years younger than you." She paused.
"No." He shook his head. "I'm in Paris for the trade summit. I know no one here."
She sipped, watching his eyes as they met hers. His stare had grown glassy and removed.
"She was murdered near this hotel," Aimee said, slowly setting her cup down on the table. "Strangled. A swastika was carved in her forehead."
"I'm afraid I don't know that n-name," he said. He blinked several times.
She heard the stutter and saw his mouth quiver at the effort to stop it.
"Her family said she'd been very scared before it happened. I think she knew secrets." Aimee watched him. "But you've been to Paris before, maybe you met her then, non?"
It was a long shot but worth a try.
"You've mistaken me for someone else. This is my first time in Paris." He stood up quickly.
Aimee stood up also. "Here is my card. Odd bits and pieces lodged in one's memory tend to emerge after conversations like this. Call me any time. One last question. Why are you listed as dead in the Battle of Stalingrad, Herr Griffe?"
He looked truly surprised.
"Ask the war office. All I remember is seeing bodies stacked like cordwood in the snow. Mounds of them. Frozen together. Kilometers of them, as far as the Russian horizon."
Then Hartmuth stiffened like a rod, as if he remembered where he was.
"But go ahead, Mademoiselle Leduc, and pinch me, I'm real. If you'll excuse me." He clicked his heels and was gone.
She slumped on the velvet sofa. Did he wear those gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints? All she knew was that something was bottled up inside him. Tight and close to explosion.
Aimee finished the fruit platter; it would be a shame to waste raspberries in November. But she'd learned at least one thing. He was either an incredible liar or a mistake had been made. She opted for the former. After all, he was a diplomat and a politician.
HORDE S OF protesters chanting, "Not again, not again!" blocked her way to the Metro. Buses lined narrow rue des Francs Bourgeois, the air thick with diesel fumes and high tempers. Aimee wished she could get past the seventeenth-century walls, high and solid, hemming her and passersby in to the sidewalk.
Police encased in black Kevlar riot gear squatted between the Zionist youth and skinheads screaming, "France for the French." A light drizzle beaded in crystalline drops on the clear bulletproof shields of the police, who crouched like praying mantises.
Ahead, a polished black Mercedes limousine, stuck in the Hôtel Pavillion de la Reine courtyard, caught Aimee's eye. The driver gestured towards the narrow street, arguing with a riot-squad member. The smoked window rolled down and Aimee saw a veined hand stretch out.
"Phillipe, please, I want to walk," came the unmistakable voice. She remembered the last time she had heard it—on the radio after she discovered Lili Stein's body.
The highly waxed door opened and Minister Cazaux, the probable next prime minister of France, emerged into the stalled traffic. The plainclothes guards rushing to surround his tall, bony figure caught the crowd's attention.
"S'il vous plaît, Monsieur le Ministre, these conditions—" a bodyguard began.
"Since when can't a government servant walk among the people?" Cazaux grinned. "With the treaty about to be signed, I need every chance to hear their concerns." He winked at the small crowd around the car, his charm melting many of them into smiles as he moved among them shaking hands, totally at ease with the situation.
He smiled directly at Aimee, who'd become awkwardly wedged among the hotel staff. He appeared younger than he did in the media but she was surprised at his heavy makeup. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle. I hope you will support our party's platform!"
Cazaux grasped her hands in his warm ones, as she winced at the sudden pressure.
"Je m'excuse." He pulled back, glancing at her hand.
His charm was laserlike. Once appointed he would be prime minister for five years.