Cara Black - Murder in the Marais

"Any injuries?" she asked.

A stocky jumpsuited man shook his head.

"Much damage?" she said.

He shrugged. "Go figure. The next prime minister's around the corner and someone throws a bomb into our newspaper. But the upstairs offices weren't touched," he said.

She hesitated, then walked inside. The smells of cordite and burnt plastic mingled with the familiar scent of le vin rouge from the uniformed guard. He stopped her by the reception desk.

"I have an appointment with Martine Sitbon," she said, showing a fake press card.

He read it carefully. "Empty your bag."

She put her laptop on the counter and dumped the contents of her pack: wigs, tape recorder, cell phones, sunglasses, tubes of ultrablack mascara, and a battered makeup case. The Luger thumped out and shone dully in the chandelier light. "I have a permit." She smiled.

"Ah! Comme Dirty 'arry!" He fingered the piece. His tasseled loafers squeaked as he moved. "I'll hold the gun since our metal detector got damaged." He smiled back. "You'll get it on your way back. Fourth floor."

She wouldn't bother to debate, he'd pocket the Luger anyway. The blast had also ripped up part of the concrete steps, damaged the wooden atrium, and shaken off some sections of the lobby's ceiling. Dust covered the lobby furniture but the lift worked.

She had to work quickly: copy the proof she'd E-mailed and convince Martine to publish it, then confront Cazaux. He'd withdraw from the ministry and politics if he knew Le Figaro was going to expose his true identity. He couldn't deny living in Paris during the Occupation because she had Lili's class snapshot and the microfiche photo from the Jewish library showing him, Lili, and Sarah. Most of all, she had his bloody fingerprint at a fifty-year-old homicide.

Inside the lift she pressed 4, then pulled a blond hairpiece from her wig bag, clipped it on near her roots, then worked the hair into hers to look natural. She pinched her cheeks and swiped red lipstick across her mouth. As soon as she'd copied the download and briefed Martine, she'd figure some way into the gala next door and confront Cazaux.

The fourth floor held editorial offices; below, the copy room and printing press occupied the first three. As features editor, Martine occupied an office nestled in an unlocked suite of front offices.

Martine's leather jacket hung from the back of her chair. Red lipstick traces were on the cigarette burning in the ashtray next to her computer screen, which displayed the message "Download time remaining approximately three minutes."

All she had to do was find Martine and copy the disk. The computer on Martine's cluttered desk clicked faster.

"Martine."

No answer. Aimee's spine tingled. She heard a noise and turned.

The lobby guard stood at the door with the Luger aimed at her.

A deep voice came over the intercom. "Target One has been secured at the perimeter."

"The dwarf carrying computer printouts?" the guard asked.

"Affirmative," the voice said.

"What's Target Two's status, Colonel?"

"Inspector Morbier's unit is en route to demonstrations at the Fontainebleau periphery," the voice replied.

Plans of Cazaux's ambush died. Now she was on her own. They'd nabbed Rene and sent Morbier to the outskirts of Paris.

The computer whirred. "Download accomplished" flashed on the screen. The guard's shoes squeaked as he stepped to the terminal. The second lesson at Rene's dojo had been to react defensively and naturally. When he looked at the screen, she kneed him in the groin. As he bent over in pain, she jerked the mouse wire, then wrapped it tightly round and round his wrists. She glanced at the screen, hit "Copy," then tied his wrists to the armrest of Martine's chair and stuffed his mouth with pink Post-Its.

Garbled noises came from his mouth.

She eased out the Beretta from where it was taped to the small of her back and pointed it between his eyes.

"Shut up. Subtlety isn't my strong point." She straddled his leg, pulling open drawers in Martine's desk. She found postal tape in the drawer, then taped his ankles to the swivel-base chair.

"Copy completed" came up on the screen. She leaned over and hit "Eject."

The disk popped out. She yanked the mouse wire and looped it several more times around his wrists.

He struggled, his eyes bulging, and tried to spit out the Post-Its. His patent-leather shoes beat a rhythm against the desk.

"He's very proud of those shoes, Mademoiselle Leduc," a familiar voice said from the open office on the left.

Cazaux winked at her. He stood flanked by a pistol-toting bodyguard. The guard snatched the disk from her, handed it to Cazaux, and body-searched her.

The guard shimmied his hands over her body, then shook his head. "Nothing," he said after he had set her gun on Martine's desk.

"Have you grown more hair, Mademoiselle Leduc?" Cazaux said. "I remember it shorter."

Fear jolted up her spine.

The guard felt her hair, then ripped her hairpiece off. The small microphone clattered onto the floor. Cazaux nodded to the guard, who threw her laptop at the wall. He stomped it with his boots until little fiber-optic cables spurted out, like so much techno blood.

"You won't win, Cazaux," she said.

"Why not?" He held up the disk.

"Rene sent copies to every newspaper in Paris," she said.

"Go downstairs," he told the bodyguard.

He gestured towards the other office. "Let's discuss this privately."

Once inside, he locked the door and sat down, indicating for her to do so. "You're bluffing." He smiled. "But I would, too, if I was in your situation."

"Laurent de Saux is your real name," Aimee said.

"Well, young lady," he said. He smiled indulgently, as if humoring a child. "How could you prove that assumption?"

She glanced at her watch. "You better read the Sunday edition of Le Figaro to find out, which starts printing in thirty minutes."

"That's impossible." He chuckled. "Gilles is in my pocket. And your girlfriend Martine is sleeping off a tranquilizer." He leaned forward, resting his elbows in his lap, and stared at her. "Please sit down."

She kept standing.

"You've been a good sparring partner," he said. "This game doesn't exactly match my wits, but so far it's been mentally stimulating." Cazaux smiled expansively.

"This is only a game to you, isn't it?" she said. "Not real live people. Just objects you manipulate or remove to advance your position. Soli Hecht understood your thinking pattern. It's like a giant series of moves in megalomania chess."

"And you think you've engineered a checkmate…but how well I know," he sighed wearily. "How the corridors of power are lined with minor annoyances."

"You informed on your parents after you killed Arlette Mazenc," she said. "You probably watched them executed below your window on rue du Plâtre."

"What do you want?" he said. His eyebrows lifted in curiosity. "I've been watching you. I'm impressed. You're good, you know. How about a nice, fat EU contract designing software frameworks for participating countries? I'll make it happen. Or would you like to head the French government's on-line security division?"

He dangled impressive carrots.

"You should step down," she said, hesitating a fraction of a second.

He sensed weakness like a shark going in for the kill. "I know how you feel. You think I did wrong." His tone became soothing. "Sometimes we have to do things for the greater good." He shrugged. His eyes burned as he went on. "But now I'm almost at the peak. I'll scale it. The culmination of my life."

"Fifty years of lying and killing and you get to be prime minister?" she said.

His eyes narrowed. The moment had gone and he knew he'd lost any chance of recruiting her.