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Authors: Cara Black

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BOOK: Murder in the Marais
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"I didn't say that." He shook his head.

She started towards the door.

"Yet." He smiled.

"Remember why I got out of this field?"

"That happened five years ago," he said after a pause.

"I've quit this kind of work, I do corporate investigation," she said. "Why can't you ever look at my hand? If you don't answer me I won't consider working with you." She gripped the edge of his desk, her knuckles white.

His voice sounded tired. "Because if I look at that burn mark, everything comes back. I see your bloody. . ." He covered his eyes, shaking his head.

"You see Papa burning on the cobblestones, thrown by the blast against the pillar in Place Vendôme. Our surveillance van, a smoking rubble from the bomb. And me screaming, running in circles, waving my hand, still gripping the molten door handle."

She stopped. Several plainclothes types hurriedly put their heads back behind their computers. She recognized some of their faces.

"I'm sorry, Morbier." She nudged the base of his chair with her foot. "This doesn't usually happen. Nightmares generally take care of it."

"There's one remedy for shell shock," he said after a while. "Climb into the trenches again."

But he didn't know Soli Hecht had already thrown her back in.

A
IMÉE WALKED
along the Seine, speculating about the photo fragments. The sunlight glittered feebly off the water and a fisherman's nearby bait bucket stank ripely of sardines.

She trudged over the grooves worn in the stone staircase to her dark, cold apartment, unable to get Lili Stein's corpse out of her mind.

She'd inherited the apartment on the Ile St. Louis from her grandfather. This seven-block island in the middle of the Seine rarely, if ever, had seen real estate change hands during the last century. Drafty, damp, and unheated, her seventeenth century
hôtel particulier
had been the mansion of the Duc de Guise. He'd been assassinated by Henri III at the royal chateau in Blois, but she'd forgotten why.

The ancient pearwood trees in the courtyard and the view from her window overlooking the Seine kept her there. Every winter, the bone-chilling cold and archaic plumbing almost drove her out. The year before, she'd pitched an army surplus tent around her bed that held the heat in nicely. She couldn't afford repairs or the monstrous inheritance taxes due if she sold her apartment.

Miles Davis licked her in greeting. In her tall-windowed kitchen, she turned on the faucet jutting out of the old blue-tiled backsplash. She washed her hands, letting the warm water run over them a long time.

Mechanically she opened her small 1950s refrigerator. A moldy round of Brie, a six-pack of yogurt, and a magnum of decent champagne that she would pop the cork on some day took up one shelf. Beneath a bunch of wilted spinach was a white-papered package of raw horse meat that she spooned into Miles's chipped bowl. He gobbled it up, wagging his tail as he ate. She chiseled the mold off the Brie and found a baguette, hard as a crowbar, in her pantry. She left it there and found some crackers. But when she sat down, she couldn't eat.

She put on two pairs of gloves, leather over angora. Downstairs in her apartment foyer, she pulled her
mobylette
from under the stairs, checked the oil, and hit the kick start. She headed over the Seine towards Gare de Lyon and her favorite
piscine
for swimming. Reuilly wasn't crowded at this time, its humid aqua blue phosphorescence splashed jellylike against the shiny white tiles.

"Bad girl." Dax, the lifeguard, waved his finger. "Didn't see you yesterday."

"I'll make up for it. Fifteen extra laps." She dove into the deep lap lane, her mind and body ready to become one with the heavy warm water. She loved the tingly sensations in her arms and legs until her body temperature stabilized with the water. She established her rhythm: stroke kick breathe kick, stroke kick breath kick, completing lap after lap.

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

H
ARTMUTH 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.

He turned the corner, abruptly bouncing into a stocky black-suited figure ahead of him.

"
Ça va,
Monsieur Griffe? So wonderful you are here," said Henri Quimper, rosy-cheeked and smiling.

Too late to escape. Henri Quimper, Hartmuth's Belgian trade counterpart, embraced and kissed him on both cheeks. He nudged Hartmuth conspiratorially. "The French think they can put one over on us, eh?"

Hartmuth, his brow beading with sweat, nodded uneasily. He had no idea what Quimper meant.

Heralded by prodigious clouds of cigar smoke, a group of delegates walked towards them down the hall.

Cazaux, the French trade minister and probable appointee for the prime minister, strode among them. He beamed, seeing Quimper and Hartmuth together.

"Ah, Monsieur Griffe,
bienvenu!
" he said, greeting Hartmuth warmly and gripping his shoulder. His cheeks were mapped by spidery purple veins. "Spare me a few words? All these meetings. . ." Cazaux shrugged, smiling.

Hartmuth had forgotten how Frenchmen punctuated their sentences by throwing their arms in the air. The muscles in Cazaux's ropy neck twitched when he spoke.

Hartmuth nodded. He knew the election was to take place the next week, and Cazaux's party was heavily invested in the trade issue. Hartmuth's job would be to bolster Cazaux by signing the trade agreement. The Werewolves had ordered it.
Unter den Linden.

Cazaux and Hartmuth moved to an alcove overlooking the limestone courtyard.

"I'm concerned," Cazaux said. "This new addendum, these exclusionary quotas—frankly, I'm worried about what might happen."

"Minister Cazaux, I'm not sure of your meaning," Hartmuth replied cautiously.

"You know and I know parts of this treaty carry things a bit far," Cazaux said. "I'll speak for myself. The quotas border on fascism."

Mentally, Hartmuth agreed. After being in diplomatic circles for so many years, however, he knew enough to keep his real feeling to himself. "After a thorough review I'll have a better understanding," he said.

"I feel our thinking is probably very close on this," Cazaux said, lowering his voice. "A dilemma for me because my government prefers to maintain the status quo, reduce unemployment, and pacify
les conservatives
. This treaty is the only way we can pass economic benefits on throughout Europe, standardize trade, and get uniform guidelines."

"I understand," Hartmuth said, not eager for Cazaux's added pressure. No more needed to be said.

The two men rejoined Quimper and the other delegates in the hall. More kissing and jovial greetings were exchanged. Hartmuth excused himself as soon as it was diplomatically possible and escaped down the staircase. He paused on the marble landing, a floor below, and leaned against an antique tapestry, a forested scene with a naked wood nymph stuffing grapes into her mouth, juice dribbling down her chin.

As he stood there, alone between floors, Sarah's face appeared to him in a vision, her incredibly blue eyes laughing. What he wouldn't give to change the past!

But he was just a lonely old man full of regrets he'd tried to leave behind with the war. I'm pathetic, he thought, and waited for the ache in his heart to subside to a dull throb.

BOOK: Murder in the Marais
6.17Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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