"Women look better on their knees," he said. "I know you would."
He leaned on her arm, cupping her shoulder with an iron grip. She couldn't move.
A voice next to him barked, "Service your own harem, Leif."
The dark-sideburned man glided next to her, picked Leif's fingers off her shoulder, and grinned. He wedged himself between them. Mockingly, Leif raised his eyes in surprise.
Aimee wondered if she'd gone from the frying pan into the fire but she smiled back at him. She stood up and raised her hand until Thierry acknowledged her.
Aimee forced herself to grin. "Why don't the Jews get honest? They were only victims of wartime food shortage like everyone else."
Snorts of approval greeted her as she sat down. Besides her, she felt the warm body heat emanating from the one with sideburns.
"I'm Luna," she said.
"Yves," he said, without turning his head.
Thierry continued, "Leif will outline our plans for the next few days. He'll give the details of our evening mission and protocol for tomorrow's demonstration."
Leif strutted towards a blackboard standing under an original SS recruiting poster. To her horror, he outlined a plan to bash orthodox synagogues that night. She feared one would be Temple E'manuel.
Thierry sat down beside her. "I appreciate your bringing our literature. Ignore Leif's crudeness; he's better at planning and organization details."
He motioned to Yves. "Get the equipment ready."
Yves slid out of his chair and Aimee started to follow him.
Thierry leaned over to her. "Listen to this, it will be helpful for you."
Aimee nodded, trying not to squirm in her seat. Was Yves the video cameraman? If they were taping this meeting, she hadn't spotted the camera yet.
"Vans will transport us to the synagogue," Leif said in a tone devoid of emotion. "To do the job, it has to be in and out, quick and vicious."
Aimee wondered if that was how he treated his women. Instinct told her to find out which synagogue, tell Morbier, and get the hell out of there.
Thierry nodded approvingly at Aimee. "I bet you learn quick. You'll do better sticking with us than sticking something in your arm."
If those were my only choices, she thought, I'd pick junkie any day. Thierry seemed to be trying to help her, in his own Aryan way.
He went on. "A feeling of unity is born on our missions. We join together and accomplish our goals. We achieve satisfaction transforming ideas into concrete operations."
She sensed he was speaking of himself, as if he needed a cause to justify his existence.
"We attack first. No Aryan will be a victim anymore!" Leif yelled from the podium to the crowd, who roared approval.
"Our stomachs wrench," Thierry added. "But we do it out of love."
She sidled next to Leif to find out which synagogue he'd targeted. Now he wore a Tyrolean-style short jacket, epauletted with metal lightning bolts and iron crosses. Neo-Nazi meets Sound of Music, Aimee thought.
"Do we get to hurt anybody?" she pouted, loud enough so he could hear it.
"If you're lucky," he said, eyeing her up and down. "You look healthy enough to be a breeder sow."
The neon green light of the ClicClac sign shone through the window, giving his eyes a reptilian look. He was scary. She felt like a piece of meat about to be skewered.
But she clicked her heels together and stuck her arm out in a Sieg heil. "Is that right?"
"It'll do. Let's go," Leif said.
"All right! Where are we going?"
"That's for me to know and you to find out," he grinned. "Just Jew land. If you're a good girl you can kick somebody. C'mon."
"Cool, I gotta pee." She went towards the back door, passing a huddle of skinheads all in black leather.
Thierry grabbed her tightly by the arms. "That way." He pointed her in the opposite direction.
Great, Aimee thought, how do I get out of this one? Thierry sure is a piece of work and he's got his eye on me. She locked the door to the toilet and checked the battery pack of her tape recorder. Pencil thin and molded to the curve of her back, this state-of-the-art recording machine caught everything, even a yawn at fifty paces. She'd bought it at the spy store before the flics outlawed the place and closed it down.
Now if she just didn't sweat too much, since it was a highly moisture-sensitive device…She placed it in a plastic Baggie she carried, made a hole for the microphone cord, then taped it to her back. She pulled out the cell phone from her jeans pocket and punched in Morbier's direct line. Right now she didn't care if he'd been called off the Stein case, she needed backup. While she did that, she put the toilet lid down, stood on top of it, and peered out the narrow window. Down below she could see two vans under the streetlight next to glimmering rain puddles.
No answer.
There was a pounding on the bathroom door.
"Salope! Can't someone crap in peace?" she yelled.
The pounding stopped.
Finally a disembodied voice came on the line. "Yes?"
"Get me Morbier, it's urgent," she whispered.
"He's on call," the voice said. "I'll patch you through."
This was taking too long. "Hurry up," she said.
Click, click, and a hearty voice boomed, "Morbier."
Without benefit of introduction she began. "It's going down right now," she whispered slowly. "Two vans with skinheads are headed to attack synagogues in the Marais."
The pounding started again. Aimee flushed the toilet, clicked off the cell phone, and wedged it in her jeans pocket. She opened the door in time to see Leif, his back to her, helping Yves move something heavy in the dark hallway. Bumping noises echoed from the stairs and Aimee figured they were carrying equipment down. Next to her, a black-painted door stood ajar and she quickly scooted inside. Shelves of videos cataloged by date stood before her in the green-purple light from the blinking video sign. Which one?
Musty smells emanated from the threadbare carpet, which barely covered the worn tiled floor. Dates, Aimee thought, that's it! She scanned the shelves for the last two meetings, found them, and quickly stuck them inside her black leather jacket. Holding her breath, she zipped her jacket up, which sounded like a buzzing chainsaw in her ear. She held her breath but no one came in. Out in the hallway, more shuffling and dull thuds rose from the staircase.
She looked out and scanned the hall. Seeing no one, she tried the back door. Locked. Impossible to jimmy open without more noise than she felt prepared to make. All the windows faced the street, where the vans were parked. She edged down the stairs.
The party-like atmosphere still reigned as members congregated and moved towards the vans, formerly blue dairy trucks. The group numbered about twenty now. As she slowly backed out of the crowd towards the corner, Thierry caught her eye. He motioned to her.
"Carry this." He handed her a heavy gym bag. "Ride up front." He started herding the group into the vans.
In front, taking up most of the passenger seat, was a stocky skinhead with a shiny scalp dressed paramilitary style. He squeezed her knee. "Stick with me," he said.
"A privilege to be here." She removed his paw from her knee then executed a mock bow in the cramped front seat. "Don't they like me?"
"They're always suspicious of newcomers." He jerked his thumb towards the back of the van. "Everybody gets jittery when it comes to business." He grinned, showing decayed jagged stubs of brown teeth. "Ready for some fun? You're gonna like it, I know."
A whiff from his mouth caused her to look away. Uneasily, she speculated about her newcomer initiation. When Thierry told him to move over so Aimee could sit between them, she shook her head.
"Motion sickness, I need air on my face." She rolled the window down as far as it would go, which was barely more than a crack.
At least she was by the door. Thierry turned the heater on high and it hit her full blast. Conversation en route consisted of Thierry berating the paramilitary type for erasing some message from the answering machine. Sullen and surly, he ignored Thierry, his eyes focused on Aimee. She was starting to sweat inside her leather jacket. The two videos stuck to her like glue, spearing her lower ribs.