She'd left Rene a message telling him where she was meeting Morbier. Rene's cautionary tone pulsed in her brain and she felt open to attack. Threatening faxes, graffitied threats, and hostile cars forcing her off her moped hadn't disturbed her as much as the virus attack on their computer system. Computers were their meal ticket. Her Glock, loaded and ready in her jeans pocket, was molded to her hip.
A buttery caramel aroma drifted across the courtyard. Her mind darted to the warm, upside-down apple tart for which Ma Bourgoyne was famous. The restaurant lay past this narrow passage, under the shadowy arcade of Place des Vosges. She pulled out her cell phone and punched in Rene's number again. No answer.
As she turned to open her backpack, a hot burning stung her ear. Powdery plaster spit from the stone arch as a neat row of bullets peppered the wall.
She dove over the damp cobblestones and hugged a thick pillar, quickly grabbing the Glock from her pocket. If she hadn't turned, her brains would be splashed on the cobblestones right now.
She touched her ear, grazed by a bullet. Her shaking fingers came back sticky red and metallic-smelling. It hadn't even hurt. She was scared and didn't know where to go. Bullets that seemed to be coming from above her systematically blasted the pillar's edges. She was an easy target. Already the column had been shaved to a quarter of its size.
She gripped her pistol with two hands to steady her aim, took a deep breath, and fired a round at the roof. Counting her shots before she finished them, she sprang and somersaulted, still firing. Her left arm banged into the arched passage entrance and sharp pain shot through her back. She prayed her shoulder wouldn't go out on her now.
It had to be Morbier! He'd called to meet her at the cafe around the corner. Consistently he'd warned her off Lili Stein's investigation. He'd set her up. Rene was the only person, if he'd gotten her message, who'd know she'd be here.
Ahead, the dark passage lay deserted. Keeping under cover behind the crumbling colonnade, she reloaded the Glock. Was he shooting at her himself or had he gotten a B.R.I. marksman? Crouched in the shadow, she took aim at the courtyard in front of her. Her hand shook. She didn't know why he would betray her.
He'd strung her along and she hadn't even suspected him. What a traître! She'd trusted him, felt sorry for him. A colleague of her father's!
A puff of air whizzed by her cheek and plaster fell into her eyes. The sand and pebbly grit blinded her. She squirmed over the gravel towards the exit, trying not to go in a straight line. At least towards where she thought it was. Her tearing eyes finally blinked the sandy granules out. She realized she'd crawled to the opposite side of the wormholed doors that led to the Place des Vosges. Further from escape. A short figure pushing a baby stroller appeared near the door, about to enter the passage. Someone innocent was about to be killed; she had to warn them.
"Get out!" Aimee screamed at the figure with the stroller as she scooted backwards, propelling herself against the limestone wall. "Go! Run!"
She twisted back on her stomach and aimed below a dark-paned window. More puffs of ivory dust splattered in a row as her shots hit the colonnade. No thud, grunt, or low-lying shuffle. Nothing. Where were the shots coming from?
And almost too late, she looked up. To her left on another roof, a glinting barrel of a ground-sensor rifle poked over a gargoyle's ugly snout. Pointing at her.
Suddenly, the baby stroller reappeared, sliding into the courtyard. The stroller's wheels popped and hissed, deflating from rifle shots as it sagged into the courtyard hedge. The short figure in the shadow opened a coat revealing a semiautomatic, shooting at the roof.
She gritted her teeth, rolled over, and fired more rounds at the roof. She heard a scraping noise above her as a black-clad body thumped over the gargoyle's pointed ears, then the crunch of breaking bones as the body landed. Some vital organ burst, splattering matter over cobblestones and gravel.
"Aimee, get the hell out of here," Rene's muffled voice came from inside the coat. "Now!"
She ran over to him, trying to ignore the bloody mess in front of them. She looked long enough to see that it wasn't Morbier. Had her phone been tapped?
"Rene, my God what's happening?"
His arm was soaked dark red and he gasped, "They're following you." His hand covered his arm but she tried to pull it off to see. "Don't. Pressure to stop the bleeding." He smiled thinly and his green eyes closed. He opened them again with effort. "Don't go back." He moaned, then whispered, "Don't trust anyone, it's too big."
"Rene, I'll get you to the hospital. Sssh, be quiet until—"
"No, a bullet just grazed my arm." He tried to sit up. "Go quickly before they come. Take my keys, hide." The wailing drone of a siren came from rue St. Antoine. He pulled keys out of his vest pocket. Panic flashed in his eyes.
"Why the paranoia? Morbier will—"
"It's a setup; don't"—Rene gulped—"go."
She hesitated. "But, Rene. . ."
"Goddamn it, got to stop them." His eyes closed as he passed out.
Aimee backed slowly out of the courtyard as she heard the ambulance screech to a halt. From behind a moldy pillar she heard attendants running with a stretcher crunching over gravel. How did they know so quickly, she wondered. She peered from behind the fluted pillars and saw a Kevlar-suited swat team striding up to the huddled corpse. They leaned into their collars and she realized they were talking into small radios. She heard the static crackle as one of them stopped in front of her pillar and responded in a low voice.
"Negative. No sign of her."
She recognized the dead shooter sprawled in his own bloody entrails; the swastikas tattooed across his knuckles looked familiar. She flashed on Mr. Lederhosen, Leif, as Thierry had identified him. The one who'd almost knifed her in the van, had chased her through the Marais, and was in the crowd when Cazaux appeared.
Turning towards the back exit, she broke into a run just beyond the last pillar and stopped abruptly, ready to sprint down the arched Place des Vosges through strolling passersby. A police riot van swayed out of narrow rue Birague and careened to a stop directly in front of her.
The burnt smell of roasted chestnuts wafted down the ancient arcade to where she stood, paralyzed. As the swat team streamed out of the van, she grabbed the elbow of a man next to her. Putting her arms around him, she burrowed into his wrinkled neck. His astounded elderly wife seemed about to bat her with a large handbag when Aimee feigned horror.
"I'm so sorry. Why, you look exactly like Grandpapa!" she exclaimed, keeping her head down.
Most of the swat team entered the Hôtel Sully courtyard but a few had fanned out along the Place des Vosges. Aimee kept pace with the old couple as the indignant wife tried to move away from her.
"You greet your grandfather in that manner, young lady?" she inquired sarcastically.
The old man's eyes twinkled as his wife pulled at him. Ahead of Aimee, an accordion wheezed something familiar, echoing off the vaulted brick. At the east corner of Place des Vosges stood an Issey Miyake shop. Aimee swerved through the stainless-steel doors into a stark white interior as the old man winked goodbye.
Bleached white walls, floors, and ceilings provided a minimalist backdrop with nowhere to hide. Black clothing hung from ropes draped from the ceiling like so many dead bodies. Unless you wore black or white you were sure to stick out here, and Aimee's dusty and gravel-pitted blue jeans definitely stuck out. Behind the deserted counter were white smocks worn by the salespeople. She grabbed one and buttoned it over her jeans and denim jacket. She heard the whir of sewing machines from the back and slipped through white metal-mesh curtains before a salesperson came out.