Cara Black - Murder in the Marais

He moved so close she could see each hair on his upper lip. Almost intimate. His chest heaved rhythmically, which was the only way she could tell he was laughing. The Luger in his hand didn't move, though; it rested coldly against her temple.

"I've been waiting for you to break into FRAPOL 1 again," he said as he scanned the screen intently. "Your technique is good, I'll use it myself next time."

"You're the tidy-up man, eh?" she said. She knew that as soon as she got a match, he'd erase it, eradicate all traces.

He looked bored. "Tell me something new."

"You want to crash the whole system," she said. "Destroy all law enforcement files and the internal network of fingerprint and DNA identification, Interpol interfaces," she said. "Just to erase his fingerprints. But it won't work."

"Pity," he said. "You've got talent. Wasted talent."

"Each system has its own safeguard network. You'll never get past them." She wanted to keep him talking. "Any break-in attempt trips the system alarms. Freezes all access," she said. "You can't do it."

"But I can," Herve Vitold said. He smiled. "I designed the alarm alert for FRAPOL 1 and the defense ministry." Expertly, he snapped the cartridge in and out of the Luger with one hand. "Disarming them will be easy."

"Cazaux is finished," she said.

"Quit playing games," he said.

"Untie my partner," she said, glancing at Rene. "I'm getting upset."

Vitold ignored her. Rene flipped uselessly like a caught fish, his feet dangling above the scuffed floor, trying to bang the metal circuit breaker with his shoulders. Vitold backed up and pointed his gun at Rene's head. Rene's eyes blinked nonstop in panic.

"Be still, little man," Vitold said. With his other hand he opened a cell phone and pressed memory. "Sir, I've begun," he said.

"Didn't you hear me?" Aimee said.

Vitold sneered as he cocked the trigger by Rene's ear.

"Now I'm upset," Aimee shot through her leather bag, drilling him three times in his crotch. Disbelief painted Vitold's face before he doubled over, thrashing wildly. He yelped, dropped his cell phone, and collapsed in a bloody sprawl on the linoleum.

"See what happens when I get upset?" she said. She straddled Herve Vitold, his still surprised eyes focused upward. But his frozen stare told her he'd checked out.

She pulled the gloves out of Rene's mouth, then gently lifted him down.

Rene spit talcum powder out of his mouth and flexed his fingers. "And I thought Vitold liked you for your looks," he said.

"They never do," she said and pointed to the screen.

"Match Verified" had come up. She typed in Martine's E-mail address at Le Figaro and hit "Send." She picked up Vitold's Luger and his cell phone and brushed off her shirt. Before she could copy everything on a backup disk, the amplified clanging buzzer alarm sounded. Startled, Rene dropped his laptop. From the hallway, red lights flashed on and off. She picked up the laptop, slipped it inside her backpack, and slung that over her shoulder.

"Hurry!" she said, and canceled the command. She grabbed her backpack. "Go, Rene."

Now the only documentation with Cazaux's photo and fingerprint identification awaited downloading on Martine's computer at Le Figaro . But would that be enough?

Right now it would have to be. She'd copy and make a backup disk at Martine's office, but would be nervous until she could download the evidence on Cazaux. Their faces alternately blood red and splashed in blackness, Aimee and Rene jumped over Vitold's lifeless figure and sprinted down the hall.

In the vestibule, she grabbed two paramedics' vests and helmets with red crosses on them that hung from hooks. She threw one to Rene.

"This will get us through the crowd and past police lines," she said.

"From sewer rat to paramedic all in one day," he said. "Who said life wasn't an adventure? Now if I could just get some stilts, we wouldn't stick out so much."

A wheelchair was parked in the vestibule. "Get in," Aimee said.

"You've got it the wrong way round," he said. "Paramedics don't ride in these, patients do."

She pushed him down. "You're wounded in the line of duty, I'll do the talking."

T HIERRY'S DAGGER GLINTED INthe sputtering candlelight. Cold air seeped from the ruined catacomb walls.

"You're handsome," Sarah said shyly. "I used to kiss your little feet and blow on your toes. You'd laugh and laugh, such dulcet tones."

"How touching!" he said. "A madonna and child fresco! We're back in the dirt, too."

Sarah looked down at worms wiggling blindly in the earth next to them. "Those who flee the past are doomed to repeat it. Is that what you think?"

Thierry's eyes were far away. "You abandoned me," he said in a little-boy voice.

She reached tentatively for his hand. "I didn't abandon you," she said. "I let you live."

"She used to tell me I was a casualty of war, some freak accident. Then she'd smile, torturing me, refusing to say any more."

Sarah shook her head. "My milk dried up and there was no food," she said. "At sixteen years old, I'd been branded as a collaborator. You had no chance with me! Nathalie had lost a child. She had milk and she wanted you. They were of the bourgeoise class, politically conservative. I was a Jew who consorted with a Nazi!"

"So it's really true," he said. He stuck his dagger in the packed earth and sank down beside her, looking dazed.

With her bound hands, she stroked his shoulders, afraid everything would end as suddenly as it had begun. Seeing her old lover and being trapped by her lost son stirred yearnings inside her. Impossible ones. That old deep hurt had opened again.

Her few loose fingers stroked his back. "We lived around the corner from here. One day I came home from my violin lesson, the courtyard was deserted. So was the building. Our Mezuzah, ripped from the front door, lay on the apartment floor. Papa had just had it blessed by the rabbi. That's how I knew. My parents warned me and fooled the Germans. They never came back. I never forgave them for leaving, I missed them so much. So I understand how you feel; a child whose mother leaves him will always think himself abandoned. If only…" She sighed deeply. "If only I had escaped.…" Her voice trailed off.

"I can't believe I'm a Jew," he said.

"Nathalie promised me that she would tell you the truth. Not torture you with it," she said, her voice anguished. "What good comes of it? Give me the knife."

Thierry shot bolt upright, as if remembering his mission.

"Defilement of the Aryan race merits summary execution," he said hotly. "You know that."

He pulled the dagger from the packed earth, slicing his wrist lightly. Sarah's hands shook. Thin beaded blood trailed over the tattooed lightning bolts on his hand.

"Please don't kill me," she begged. "Please, we need to-" A loud crack came as Hartmuth batted Thierry's hand. The dagger clattered, hitting the half-buried limestone arch beside them.

"Oh my God," Sarah screamed.

Hartmuth reached for her and stumbled over the mound of bones.

"I couldn't hurt her," Thierry faltered.

Hartmuth gripped a rotten wood post. Shocked, he stared at Sarah. Thierry cut the duct tape from Sarah's ankle and helped her up.

"I wanted to," he wailed. "I wanted to, but I couldn't, oh God."

"So pathetic," Hartmuth said in disgust, "there are no words. How can you threaten your own mother?"

"He's confused," Sarah pleaded. "Everything has turned upside down for him. He doesn't know who he is."

Hartmuth reached in his pocket. He pulled out a small pistol and leveled it at Thierry.

"No, please," she begged.

"If she's Jew scum," Thierry said, bewilderment shining in his haggard face, "so am I."