“Yessir.” FitzWilliams’s cheeks were flaming. His voice seemed caught in his throat. “Definitely my bad. Won’t happen again, I assure you.”
Hendricks cleared his throat. “Now,” he said, “what’s your problem?”
Five, Rue Vernet, which housed the Monition Club, was a large, vaguely medieval-looking building constructed of pale gold stone. To one side there was a sunken formal garden with curving gravel paths looping back on themselves, lined with sheared boxwood hedges. In the center was a boxwood fleur-de-lis, ancient symbol of the French royal family. There were no flowers, giving it an austere beauty all its own.
Soraya allowed Aaron to take the lead, standing just behind and to one side of him as he rang the front doorbell. Amun stood directly behind her, so close she could feel his heat. It was odd how the three of them had become a triangle simply because Amun had willed it into being.
As the door opened and they were led inside, she wondered whether her love for Amun was real or imagined. How could something that had seemed so real last week dissolve into a mirage? She was appalled at the thought of how easy it was to fool yourself into believing an emotion was authentic.
They were led through the interior of the building by a young woman unremarkable in every way: medium height, medium build, dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, a detached expression that squeezed all personality from her face.
Soft indirect light illuminated their way down corridors lined in expensive wood and small framed illuminated manuscripts, which were hung at precise intervals. Their footfalls made no sound on the plush charcoal-colored carpet into which they sank as if in a marsh.
At length, the young woman stopped before a polished wooden door and rapped softly. She responded to an answering voice and opened the door. Stepping aside, she waved them into the suite beyond.
The first room of the suite appeared to be a study as well as an office. It was dominated by a hardwood refectory table and floor-to-ceiling library shelves filled with oversize tomes, some of which looked very old. A number of chairs upholstered in fragrant leather were scattered around the room. To one side was a large globe showing the world as it was known in the seventeenth century. Beyond this space was another distinct room that appeared to be a living room in a residence, modern and lighter in tone and decoration than the study.
When they entered, a man atop a low rolling stepladder twisted his torso, peering at them over a pair of old-fashioned half spectacles.
“Ah, Inspector Lipkin-Renais, I see you have brought reinforcements.” Chuckling lightly, he came down off his perch and approached their group. “Director Donatien Marchand, at your service.”
Amun shouldered past, interrupting before Aaron could complete introductions. “Amun Chalthoum, head of al Mokhabarat, Cairo.” His stiff, formal bow had about it a vaguely threatening aspect that caused Marchand a brief hesitation, a startle in the depths of his black eyes, before his mouth returned to its business-like smile.
“I understand you’ve come about M. Laurent’s unfortunate demise.”
Aaron cocked his head. “Is that how you would characterize it?”
“Is there another way?” Marchand meticulously dusted off his fingertips. “How may I help you?”
He was a shortish man whom Soraya judged to be in his mid- to late fifties, but quite fit. His long hair was graying at the sides, but his widow’s peak was still pure black. It possessed the peculiar metallic gloss of a raven’s wing, spinning invisible light into an oil slick of colors.
Aaron consulted his notes. “Laurent was run down on Place de l’Iris, at La Défense, at eleven thirty-seven in the morning.” He looked up abruptly into the director’s eyes. “What was he doing there?”
Marchand spread his hands. “I confess I have no idea.”
“You didn’t send him to La Défense?”
“I was in Marseilles, Inspector.”
Aaron’s smile was sharp as an arrow. “M. Laurent had a cell phone, Director. I assume you do, too.”
“Of course I do,” Marchand said, “but I didn’t call him. In fact, I had no contact with Laurent for a number of days prior to my leaving for the south.”
Soraya noticed that Amun seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. He had broken away and was studying the books that lined the director’s study.
Aaron cleared his throat. “So what you’re claiming is that you have no knowledge of what business M. Laurent had in the Île de France Bank building two days ago.”
Very clever, Soraya thought. Aaron waited until now to mention the Île de France Bank.
Marchand blinked as if blinded by a very strong light. “I beg your pardon?”
“Until M. Laurent’s murder—”
“Murder?” Marchand blinked again.
Now Aaron had him, Soraya thought.
“Until his murder, M. Laurent was your assistant, is that not correct?”
“It is.”
“Well, then, M. Marchand. The Île de France Bank.” There was a slight edge to Aaron’s voice, and he had picked up the pace of his questioning. “What was M. Laurent doing there?”
Marchand’s voice turned abrupt, waspish. “I have already told you, Inspector.” He seemed to be losing his temper, which was the point.
“Yes, yes, you claim you don’t know.”
“I don’tknow.”
Aaron consulted his notes, flipped a page, and Soraya felt a little spark of glee rise up in her. Aaron opened his mouth. Here it comes, Soraya thought.
“Your answer interests me, Director. My research has revealed that much of the funding for this branch of the Monition Club comes from accounts in the Brive Bank.”
Marchand shrugged. “What of it? A number of our senior members have their accounts at Brive. These men are large annual donors.”
“I applaud their altruism,” Aaron said lightly. “However, after no little digging it has come to my attention that the Brive Bank is a subsidiary of the Netherlands Freehold Bank of the Antilles, which, in turn, is owned by, well, the list goes on and on and I don’t want to bore you. But at the end of the list is the Nymphenburg Landesbank of Munich.” Here Aaron took a breath, as if to emphasize the exhaustion brought about by the amount of digging he’d had to do.
“Is Nymphenburg Landesbank wholly owned? Indeed it is. And for a time this stopped me in my tracks. But then I decided to turn my supposition upside down. And what do you know? Early this morning I discovered that for the past five years the Nymphenburg Landesbank of Munich has been quietly buying up pieces of…” Now he shrugged. “Need I say it, Director?”
Marchand was standing stock-still, his hands in midair. Soraya, looking at them, had to give the man credit: His hands were rock-solid, not a tremor to be seen.
Aaron grinned. “Nymphenburg Landesbank now owns a controlling interest in the Île de France Bank. The takeover was devilishly difficult to detect mainly because both the Landesbank and Île de France are private institutions. As such, they are not required to divulge changes in policy, key personnel, or control.”
He stepped toward Marchand a pace and lifted a forefinger. “However, it occurred to me that there might be another reason for my difficulty in unearthing the connection.”
The silence grew so thick that finally Marchand said through gritted teeth, “And what would that be, Inspector?”
Aaron closed his notebook and put it away. “ À bientôt, M. Marchand.” Until next time.
With that, he turned on his heel and left. Soraya followed in his wake, but not before grabbing a handful of Amun’s jacket and dragging him away from his study of the book spines.
Outside, the sun was shining and the birds were chirping, flitting from tree to tree.
“How about some lunch?” Aaron said. “My treat.”
“I’m not hungry. I’d rather get back to our hotel room,” Amun replied.