Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis (20 page)

The elevator door slid open and Nadia stepped inside.

“There are MondeFocus fliers in Monsieur Vavin’s office,” Aimée said.

Nadia glanced at her watch as the elevator door started to shut.

Aimée stuck her foot in the elevator door. “Did she bring them?”

“Why would she?”

Aimée thought quickly. “I thought maybe she met with him here to express her concerns.”

Nadia shrugged and pushed the button. “Maybe. She’s his niece.
Bonsoir.”

And the elevator door closed.

The connection!

Back in the meeting room, Aimée dumped out the contents of her bag. She rooted through her keys, a dog-eared encryption manual, a tube of mascara, her worn Vuitton wallet with her lucky Egyptian coin intact, and a disc of expired birth-control pills. She found what she was looking for on the back of her checkbook. Her copy of the ink marks she’d found written on Stella. Letters, numbers, like an equation. And part of a word . . . a name, a title? Then 2/12, part of a date.

She handed her checkbook to René. “Play with this.”

“It’s incomplete.”

“Right now it’s all we have to go on,” she said. “And Nelie is Vavin’s niece.”

René’s fingers paused on the keyboard.

Until they found Nelie, the numbers and word fragments would probably remain indecipherable.

Her cell phone vibrated on her hip.

“Did you forget, Aimée?” Martine said, her husky voice wavering. “We should be leaving for the oil conference reception.”

She’d have to hurry. “Sorry, I’ll meet you there. I’m running late.”

“You’re always late. But you’re lucky; this time everyone else will be, too. They’ve moved it. Again.”

“Not another bomb scare?”

She thought of Krzysztof and the bottle bombs. Was Morbier right?

“Alstrom picked a posh new venue for their reception.”

Aimée grabbed a pen. “Where?”

“Where else would you entertain world-weary oil execs? It’s at a shareholder’s place, the most exclusive private mansion in Paris. And it’s in your neighborhood. Hôtel Lambert.”

A few town houses down from her on the Ile Saint-Louis.

“Can you handle this, René?” She stepped into her semi-dried high heels, swiped lipstick over her lips, and blotted them with a piece of computer paper. “Copy the Mac’s hard drive and—”

“Why?”

She peered at her laptop. “With any luck, I’ll be able to corner de Laumain at the reception and find out what he has to say. First, I’ll get background on Alstrom from Martine’s young Turk journalist.”

“You’re leaving right now?

The dark blots of trees on Quai de la Tournelle swayed outside the window. The Ile Saint-Louis was a glittering cluster of lights just over the river. It wasn’t far and this wouldn’t take long.

“The Alstrom’s reception is right across the river. Let’s take the PC and leave together,” she said. Shadows had lengthened; the office seemed ominously deserted. “It’s not safe for you to work here alone.”

“I’ll leave as soon as I copy the Mac hard drive,” René said, rolling up his sleeves. “Go ahead. Just leave Vavin’s keys.”

MYRIAD DOTS OF light were reflected in the gelatinous waters of the Seine from Hôtel Lambert’s tall windows, which were illuminated by glittering candles. Aimée passed the place every day. Once, long ago, the mansion had been owned by a Polish prince who had hosted recitals by Chopin. Now the tenant, a penniless baron and friend of the grand family who owned it, kept the place running and hosted select corporate receptions and celebrations.

Aimee’s heel caught in a crack between cobblestones as she caught the attention of the broad-shouldered man wearing a headset. Strains of a cello faded in the wind from the Seine.

“I don’t see your name, Mademoiselle.” His heavy-lidded eyes were dismissive.

“Check the guest list again, please,” she said, peering around his shoulder for Martine.

“Leduc, Aimée?” He shook his head.
“Désolé,
Mademoiselle, now please move aside,” he told her, blocking the gate. A professional brush-off.

Martine appeared, breathless, flashing her press ID.
“L’Express
. Mademoiselle Leduc’s with
L’Express
, if you notice.”

He consulted the list again. “Of course.” He smiled, a smile that failed to reach his eyes, and waved her inside.

“Nice jacket. I saw one with feathers just like that at—”

“Plucked most of them off,” Aimée interrupted. “They made me sneeze.”

“Another find?”

“You could say that.”

Martine took Aimée’s arm, steered her across the courtyard, and up the curving entry staircase. They entered an oval gallery under a painted ceiling lit by flickering candles in crystal holders. Waiters with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres wove in and out among men in formal black-and-white attire and the occasional robed sheikh. Pyramids of
fleurs de sucre
—lavender and rose crystallized flower petals—bedecked the white-linen-covered tables. Aimée spied vintage champagne magnums and headed in that direction.

“
Merci
,” she said, accepting two flutes of champagne, noting the Dom Pérignon label as she handed one to Martine and dropped a sugar-dusted rose petal in Martine’s glass. “But I still owe you,” Aimée said.

The fizzing velvet purred down her throat. Not bad. This crowd expected and got the best.

“Where’s your young Turk journalist?”

Martine scanned the groups of men in tuxedos conversing under a Louis XV chandelier that frothed with crystal. “Knowing him, upstairs with the big honchos.”

“No time like the present,” Aimée said. “I’ll fill you in en route.”

The walls of the wide staircase were crowded with a profusion of Flemish old masters, a lesser Rembrandt, a Corot, landscapes by Watteau, and a handful of Impressionist canvases. Better appreciated in a museum, Aimée thought, not hung in a hodgepodge on the wall.

“The owner’s great-uncle built the collection,” Martine said, awe in her voice. “In his heyday, he bought a painting every day.”

Aimée nodded. “But everything’s bequeathed to the Louvre now,” she said. “The baron, his tenant, rents the place out to help him pay the taxes.”

They entered the second-floor hallway, which opened onto oval Galerie d’Hercule, which was lined by rectangular windows, Corinthian columns, and stucco reliefs of Hercules’ exploits.

Aimée felt out of her league in this museum of a place. The talk around her was foreign, too. She caught snippets of conversation as they circulated. “Oil flow . . . black crude. . . . percentages.”

The
L’Express
journalist Martine guided her toward looked to be in his thirties. A shock of black hair nearly hid his darting eyes, and he wore a black jacket with a white shirt, but no tie.

“Aimée Leduc,” she said, extending her hand. “I’d appreciate it if you would let me see your notes.”

“Daniel Ristat,” he replied, enfolding her hands in his warm ones with a wide smile. “Get right to it, don’t you?”

She figured his smile and manner took him a lot of places. And he knew it.

“Guilty.” Next, she wanted to meet de Laumain. “Have you seen Monsieur de Laumain?”

He arched an eyebrow. “And you know the big players, eh? The old buzzard suffered an attack of gout. The disease of the rich.”

“Meaning?”

Ahead of her, a sheikh in a white robe, holding a glass of what looked like orange juice, walked by.

“Meaning that de Laumain left before I could interview him.”

Left after hearing of Vavin’s murder? She wondered who else she could question. They all oozed power and looked alike in their tuxedos. Even the sheikhs with their fruit juice resembled each other.

“But Deroche, Alstrom’s CEO, is standing right there.” Martine nudged her. Aimée noticed a smiling silver-haired man at the edge of the crowd, an executive who exuded authority even across the wide room. “And the press attaché looks nervous.” Martine indicated a woman with short hair in a severe navy blue suit,
publicité
pin clipped to her lapel.

Aimée was about to say that the press attaché’s nerves might be attributable to the murder of Vavin, Regnault’s publicity head, when the woman tapped an ivory-handled dessert knife against a champagne flute. “Attention, please.”

As the tinkle died, a hush descended over the well-dressed crowd.

“Monsieur Deroche, Alstrom’s director of operations, has asked me to convey to you his wishes for a wonderful evening.” The press attaché flashed a bright smile. “He’d hoped to make the announcement that I’m sure you’ve all been waiting for. We expect that we will be able to make it tomorrow. However, I can tell you now that out of its continued concern for the environment and as part of its ongoing program to safeguard it, Alstrom has completed the dismantling of all its North Sea oil rigs in the Baltic. Its waste-management operations have been transferred to the La Hague facility and new sites will be explored.”

The attaché waved her hand at Deroche, who raised his champagne glass. “
Santé,”
he said. “Enjoy . . . no one leaves until every magnum’s empty!”

Ripples of applause and laughter greeted his remark.

But both Martine and Daniel seemed amazed.

“Rumor says that the execution of the agreement between Alstrom and the government was postponed due to a bomb scare,” Daniel said, taking out a small notepad and jotting something down. “This sounds like a concession to the environmentalists.”

Aimée’s cell phone vibrated.

“Allô?”

“Turn around,” a man’s voice said. A familiar voice.

“Who’s this?”

“Face the windows on the north side.”

Bomb scares . . . all the bigwigs . . . a sniper? A
frisson
of fear rippled over Aimée’s skin.

She pivoted on her heel. Saw the flash of a tuxedo jacket and got a brief look at the face of the man wearing it.

“The service stairs to the kitchen. Now.”

She thrust her champagne into Martine’s hand and crossed the creaking inlaid wood floor, passed the suave, smiling Deroche, opened a door in the carved paneling, and went down the steep sconce-lit winding stairs. She fished the miniscrew-driver out of her bag. Too bad the tip had broken off in Nelie’s door.

She had a bad feeling as heat rising from the kitchen enveloped her.

And then he stood on the step below her. Krzysztof.

“You lied to me,” she said.

“It’s going down.” His eyes bulged in fear.

“What’s going down?”

“Coming through,” said a waiter, passing them with a tray of toast slivers coated with foie gras.

“You have to help.”

Unease filled her. “Me? Why should I? Orla was your girlfriend but you wouldn’t even ID her body. You and Nelie planted bombs at the march and you’re wanted by the police.”

“You’re wrong!” Krzysztof interrupted. “Orla was not my girlfriend. Nelie’s hiding, but I would never expose her. I promised to keep quiet.”

“So you know where she is?”

He shook his head. His words came out in a rush. “We didn’t plant bottle bombs! We were framed. Saboteurs ruined the peace march.”

“How’d you get in here with all this security?” She saw the tuxedos hanging in a storeroom off the kitchen. “Wait . . . you came in with the caterers, didn’t you?”

He pulled at her sleeve. “Hurry,” he said, his voice tense, as he tugged her downstairs.

A distant memory bubbled up. Aimée had been in this kitchen before. She’d gone to school with the daughter of the Hôtel Lambert’s head chef. Sometimes, after school, the chef, who was from Brittany, baked Quimper biscuits for a treat. They’d been forbidden to wander upstairs but she remembered the white-tiled kitchen, enameled Aga stove, and the fragrance of hot butter. Now it was overrun by a crew of red-faced white-hatted chefs intent on adding decorative touches, sauce swirls, and radish florets to platters of dainty delights.

Krzysztof pulled her toward the walk-in pantry before they could be noticed.

“There are explosives here.” He held up a piece of waxed fuse. “I found this on the floor.”

Chills ran up her spine. Her first impulse was to yell, “Bomb” and get out. She was an idiot. Why had she followed him?

Before she could stop him, he had pushed her into a walk-in freezer and shut the door. She lowered her bag to the floor, pulling out her fist with the screwdriver in it, and confronted him. “You wouldn’t talk to me before. What’s your game . . . your demands . . . are you taking hostages?”

“I checked you out.”

“So you’re having second thoughts, feeling guilty?” She kept the screwdriver in her fist poised to defend herself should he attack her. “You’ve set explosives and now you want to stop them from going off?”

“What?”

“You’ll use me as a cover—”

“Listen to me, Halkyut Security’s involved,” he interrupted, handing her a battered business card on which someone had written the initial “G.”

She knew that Halkyut, a private firm, employed former intelligence officers and ex-military as security operatives. This situation was going from bad to worse.

“‘G’ stands for this
mec,
Gabriel, who brought the bombs here.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s a long story, but I found out that he bought pipe bombs from a person who lives in a squat.”

A high-level security firm buying bombs in a squat?

“And I’m the prime minister,” she said in disbelief.

He waved his hand. “He saw me and he recognized me. He’s checking out the kitchen. I know the explosives are here. I’m an amateur. I thought I could defuse the charge but . . .” He kicked an aluminum tray. “Look, I’m in over my head, I screwed up. I’m for peaceful protest, exposing the oil corporations . . . but not with bombs.”

Maybe an operative employed by Halkyut had been clever enough to use unsophisticated explosives to divert suspicion.

She reached for her cell phone. She’d left it in her bag on the floor; she didn’t want to bend down to rummage through it and give him an opening to attack her. “Let me use your phone. We have to evacuate everyone.”

“They want to blame the bombs on ecoterrorists, extremists. On me. They’ll forge a demand note and attribute it to me, create chaos, and blame the destruction on me.”