Too bad she couldn't persuade Rene to join her. Heat helped ease the hip displacement common to dwarves. But, of course, he was self-concious about his appearance.
The steamy shower stalls stood empty except for the mildewed tile and soapy aroma. She padded into the changing room, wrapping her old beach towel with ST. CROIX in faded letters around her chest. From her locker she pulled out her cell phone and punched in Rene's number. Then she stopped. He wouldn't be back yet from the martial-arts dojo where he practiced. She punched in the number again. This time she left a message. Her cell phone trilled and she answered eagerly.
"Leduc, I checked that demonstration you mentioned passing in Les Halles," Morbier said. "The group's called Les Blancs Nationaux, infamous for harassment in the Marais."
She cringed.
"What if a member of Les Blancs Nationaux followed her home?" he said.
Guilt caused her to hesitate. . .what if there was some link?
"You still there?" he said.
"What do you want me to do about it?" she snapped.
"Jump-start your brain and help me. I need more than info sharing."
There was no way to put him off. Besides, it would be a logical place for her to start.
Abstractedly, she dressed and applied makeup. After she shuffled everything into her gym bag, she looked in the mirror. Her feet were rooted to the damp floor in fear. She realized her black wool trousers were inside out and the label hung outside her silk shirt. Mascara had run on her pale cheeks and given her panda eyes. Her thin lips were smudged with red.
She looked like a scared clown. She didn't want to investigate neo-Nazi punks. Or this old woman's murder. She wanted to keep the hovering ghosts at bay.
Thursday Morning
HARTMUTH STARED AT THE fluorescent dial of his Tag Heuer watch—5:45 A.M. Place des Vosges, swathed in mist, lay below him. A lone starling twittered from his balcony ledge, lost when its flock headed south, Hartmuth imagined. He sipped his cafe au lait in the gray light. The aroma of buttery croissants filled his room.
He felt overwhelmed by regrets–his guilt in loving Sarah and most of all for not saving her all those years ago. A knock on the adjoining door of his suite startled him. He pulled his flannel robe around himself, redirecting his thoughts.
"Guten tag, Ilse." Hartmuth smiled as she entered.
Ilse beamed, eyeing the work pile on the desk. With her snowy white hair and scrubbed cheeks, a gaggle of grandchildren should be trailing behind her begging for freshly baked mandelgebäck. Instead, she stood alone, her stout figure encased in a boxlike brown suit with matching support hose, pressing her palms together.
Almost as if in prayer, he thought.
"A milestone for our cause!" she said, her voice low with emotion. "I am proud, mein Herr, to be allowed to assist you."
Hartmuth averted his eyes. She bustled over to close the balcony doors.
"Has the diplomatic courier pouch arrived yet, Ilse?"
"Ja, mein Herr, and you have an early meeting." She held out a sheaf of faxes. "These came earlier."
"Thank you, Ilse, but"—he raised his arm to ward off the faxes—"coffee first."
Ilse did a double take. "What's that on your hand?"
Startled, Hartmuth looked at the rusty crescents of dried blood in his palm. The fluffy white duvet cover on his bed was streaked with brown stains, too. He knew he clenched his fists to combat his stutter. Had he done this in his sleep?
Ilse's eyes narrowed. She hesitated, as if making a decision, then thrust the blue leatherette pouch at him. "Diplomatic courier pouch, sir."
"Ja, call me before the meeting, Ilse."
"I'll organize the trade comparisons, sir," she said, and closed the door of the adjoining room behind her.
Hartmuth punched 6:03 A.M. into the keypad attached to the pouch handle and then his four-digit code. He waited for a series of beeps, then entered his alphanumeric access code. He paused, recalling a time when a courier's honor had been enough.
A hasp clicked open, revealing new addenda restricting immigration. He shook his head, remembering. These were like the old Vichy laws, only then it had been quotas for the Jews.
The treaty mandated that any immigrant without proper documentation would be incarcerated, without benefit of a trial. He knew France's crippling 12.8 percent unemployment rate, highest since the war, was the reason behind this. Even Germany's unemployment statistics had grown alarmingly since the Reunification.
The phone trilled insistently next to him, jolting him back to the present.
"Grussen Sie, Hartmuth," came the unmistakable grating voice from Bonn. "The prime minister wishes to thank you for excellent work so far."
So far?
Mentally snapping to attention, Hartmuth replied, "Thank you sir, I feel prepared."
He wasn't prepared for what came next, however. "He is also appointing you senior trade advisor. Hearty congratulations!"
Stunned, Hartmuth remained silent.
"After you sign the treaty, Hartmuth," the voice continued, "the French trade minister will expect you to stay and lead the tariff delegation."
More surprise. Fear jolted up his spine.
"But, sir, this is beyond my scope. My ministry only analyzes reports from participating countries." He scrambled to make sense of this. "Wouldn't you call this posting to the European Union more of a figurehead position?"
The voice ignored his question. "Sunday at the Place de la Concorde, all the European Union delegates will attend the trade summit opening. In the tariff negotiations you will propel the new addenda towards a consensus. By that, we mean a unanimous approval. A masterful double stroke, wouldn't you agree?"
Hartmuth began, "I don't understand. Surely for an internal advisory post, this seems. . ."
The voice interrupted.
"You will sign the treaty, Hartmuth. We will be watching. Unter den Linden."
The voice cut off. Hartmuth's hand shook as he replaced the receiver.
Unter den Linden. Circa 1943, when Nazi generals realized Hitler was losing the war, the SS had organized into a political group, code word "Werewolf," to continue the thousand-year Reich. When they'd helped him escape death in a Siberian POW camp in 1946, these same generals had bestowed a new identity on him—that of Hartmuth Griffe, a blameless Wehrmacht foot soldier fallen at Stalingrad with no Gestapo or SS connections. This identity gave Hartmuth a clean bill of social health acceptable to the occupying Allied forces, a common though secret practice used to launder Nazi pasts. These "clean" pasts had to be real, so they were plucked from the dead. With typical Werewolf efficiency, names were chosen closest to the person's own so they would be comfortable using them and less prone to mistakes. How could the dead contest? But if, by chance, someone survived or a family member questioned, there were more mountains of dead to choose from. Besides, who would check?
The Werewolves demanded repayment, which translated to a lifetime commitment. Ilse was here to guarantee it.
He felt trapped, suffocated. He quickly pulled on his double-breasted suit from the day before, smoothing out the wrinkles, and strode into the adjoining suite. Ilse looked up in surprise from her laptop.
"I'll return for the meeting," he said, escaping before she could reply.
He had to get out. Clear out the memories. Breaking into a cold sweat, he almost flew down the hallway.