She headed for the elegant Musee Carnavalet, which was located around the corner from the catacombs and housed in the former hôtel particulier of Madame de Sevigne. The museum courtyard was open. Inside the deserted marble-ceilinged restroom she switched on her laptop but realized the battery had died. She found a socket, plugged it in, and breathed a sigh of relief when she logged on.
She hacked into the Palais de Nationalite files and found him. Laurent Cazaux had been approved for a Nansen passport in 1945. But her triumph felt hollow. She had to stop him. Quickly, she downloaded the application and approval forms.
She pressed the redial button on Herve Vitold's cell phone.
"Meet me alone, Cazaux. L'Academie d'architecture bureau, at midnight," Aimee said into the phone. "If you want to make a deal."
SEARCHLIGHTS SCANNED in pewter strokes across the sky. The sliver of a moon drooped low over the Seine, hardly a ripple on the surface. Aimee rubbed her arms in the frosty chill.
Before her, the windows of l'Academie d'architecture in Place des Vosges glowed with the light of hundreds of hand-lit tapers. A stream of dark limousines deposited guests at the entrance of the former seventeenth century Hôtel de Chaulnes. Tonight's commemorative gala was in honor of Madame de Pompadour, the true arbiter of style at the French court, who still influenced what passed for elegant today.
She, along with the rest of Paris, knew Minister Cazaux was scheduled to begin the celebration by attending the fashion show. Her rough plan, formulated in the Musee Carnavalet's restroom, several blocks away, held major obstacles. First of all, she had to surprise him at the gala before their midnight appointment and force him to reveal his guilt in public. But that seemed minor, since she had no invitation to this heavily guarded soiree. However, before that she needed to meet Martine at Le Figaro and copy the disk with her proof.
As she rounded the corner, her heart stopped. The bomb-squad truck straddled the sidewalk. Workers swept up glass blown out from the wrought-iron entrance doors of Le Figaro's brown brick facade. She wondered if Martine had been hurt.
"Any injuries?" she asked.
A stocky jumpsuited man shook his head.
"Much damage?" she said.
He shrugged. "Go figure. The next prime minister's around the corner and someone throws a bomb into our newspaper. But the upstairs offices weren't touched," he said.
She hesitated, then walked inside. The smells of cordite and burnt plastic mingled with the familiar scent of le vin rouge from the uniformed guard. He stopped her by the reception desk.
"I have an appointment with Martine Sitbon," she said, showing a fake press card.
He read it carefully. "Empty your bag."
She put her laptop on the counter and dumped the contents of her pack: wigs, tape recorder, cell phones, sunglasses, tubes of ultrablack mascara, and a battered makeup case. The Luger thumped out and shone dully in the chandelier light. "I have a permit." She smiled.
"Ah! Comme Dirty 'arry!" He fingered the piece. His tasseled loafers squeaked as he moved. "I'll hold the gun since our metal detector got damaged." He smiled back. "You'll get it on your way back. Fourth floor."
She wouldn't bother to debate, he'd pocket the Luger anyway. The blast had also ripped up part of the concrete steps, damaged the wooden atrium, and shaken off some sections of the lobby's ceiling. Dust covered the lobby furniture but the lift worked.
She had to work quickly: copy the proof she'd E-mailed and convince Martine to publish it, then confront Cazaux. He'd withdraw from the ministry and politics if he knew Le Figaro was going to expose his true identity. He couldn't deny living in Paris during the Occupation because she had Lili's class snapshot and the microfiche photo from the Jewish library showing him, Lili, and Sarah. Most of all, she had his bloody fingerprint at a fifty-year-old homicide.
Inside the lift she pressed 4, then pulled a blond hairpiece from her wig bag, clipped it on near her roots, then worked the hair into hers to look natural. She pinched her cheeks and swiped red lipstick across her mouth. As soon as she'd copied the download and briefed Martine, she'd figure some way into the gala next door and confront Cazaux.
The fourth floor held editorial offices; below, the copy room and printing press occupied the first three. As features editor, Martine occupied an office nestled in an unlocked suite of front offices.
Martine's leather jacket hung from the back of her chair. Red lipstick traces were on the cigarette burning in the ashtray next to her computer screen, which displayed the message "Download time remaining approximately three minutes."
All she had to do was find Martine and copy the disk. The computer on Martine's cluttered desk clicked faster.
"Martine."
No answer. Aimee's spine tingled. She heard a noise and turned.
The lobby guard stood at the door with the Luger aimed at her.
A deep voice came over the intercom. "Target One has been secured at the perimeter."
"The dwarf carrying computer printouts?" the guard asked.
"Affirmative," the voice said.
"What's Target Two's status, Colonel?"
"Inspector Morbier's unit is en route to demonstrations at the Fontainebleau periphery," the voice replied.
Plans of Cazaux's ambush died. Now she was on her own. They'd nabbed Rene and sent Morbier to the outskirts of Paris.
The computer whirred. "Download accomplished" flashed on the screen. The guard's shoes squeaked as he stepped to the terminal. The second lesson at Rene's dojo had been to react defensively and naturally. When he looked at the screen, she kneed him in the groin. As he bent over in pain, she jerked the mouse wire, then wrapped it tightly round and round his wrists. She glanced at the screen, hit "Copy," then tied his wrists to the armrest of Martine's chair and stuffed his mouth with pink Post-Its.
Garbled noises came from his mouth.
She eased out the Beretta from where it was taped to the small of her back and pointed it between his eyes.
"Shut up. Subtlety isn't my strong point." She straddled his leg, pulling open drawers in Martine's desk. She found postal tape in the drawer, then taped his ankles to the swivel-base chair.
"Copy completed" came up on the screen. She leaned over and hit "Eject."
The disk popped out. She yanked the mouse wire and looped it several more times around his wrists.
He struggled, his eyes bulging, and tried to spit out the Post-Its. His patent-leather shoes beat a rhythm against the desk.
"He's very proud of those shoes, Mademoiselle Leduc," a familiar voice said from the open office on the left.
Cazaux winked at her. He stood flanked by a pistol-toting bodyguard. The guard snatched the disk from her, handed it to Cazaux, and body-searched her.
The guard shimmied his hands over her body, then shook his head. "Nothing," he said after he had set her gun on Martine's desk.
"Have you grown more hair, Mademoiselle Leduc?" Cazaux said. "I remember it shorter."
Fear jolted up her spine.
The guard felt her hair, then ripped her hairpiece off. The small microphone clattered onto the floor. Cazaux nodded to the guard, who threw her laptop at the wall. He stomped it with his boots until little fiber-optic cables spurted out, like so much techno blood.
"You won't win, Cazaux," she said.
"Why not?" He held up the disk.