Murder in Passy (21 page)

She staggered toward the pillars. Lucas took her hand. “Need some air?”

Lucas guided her around the red sofas and into the clear night … and the cobbled pavement rose to meet her flushed face.

* * *

S
HE CAME TO,
alerted by beeping near her ear.

Where was he? Dark shadows, a musty smell. Her hands and feet felt heavy, constricted.

“Lucas?”

“Over here.” A red-orange light flickered over his face. Another club? Or the rave?

She tried to get up. Her head swum. Then a happy warmness rippled over her.

“Ooops.” She hiccuped and laughed. “Got to get back.” She’d slip in the embassy’s rear entrance. Sneak in like last night. But she couldn’t move her legs.

Duct tape wrapped her ankles, her wrists.

“I don’t think so,” he said, putting a hood over her head.

Wednesday Early Evening

A
T THE RECEPTION,
Aimée accepted the flute of Kir Royale from Martine. The rose gold fizzed down her throat like raw silk, the hue matching the Monet beside her. “To think,” Martine said, pointing to the framed oil painting, a sunrise glinting on the river, “Monet’s critics dismissed this as ‘Impressionism,’ unworthy of even wallpaper. Ironic, eh, later they named the art movement after this painting.”

Aimée preferred the small oil by Berthe Morisot, two women and a small girl gazing from the hill at Trocadéro. The painting communicated an intimacy, a fleeting glimpse of a long-gone time, moments captured in fluid brush strokes of light and color.

She’d hadn’t sighted Agustino or Irati. Just a roomful of Impressionists, heavy on Monet, and security everywhere. No way to prevent this accord announcement, as far as she could tell.

“When’s Goikoetxea’s announcement, Martine?” she said. “Do you see him?”

Martine handed Aimée her Champagne. “Not yet. I’ll find out.”

Feeling out of place, Aimée glanced at the designer-dressed crowd milling in the circular exhibition room. Felt the undercurrent of excitement from the media, an expectant buzz in the low conversations, the clink of glasses.

Martine nodded to a group of journalists taking advantage of the well-stocked hors d’oeuvre table. Beyond the Marmottan’s tall doors, sheets of rain pelted the glistening grassy courtyard. Rumbling peals of thunder sounded. The flickering lantern light caught the water dripping from the scrolled metal balconies, the mossy limestone building foundation.

Martine put her arm on the Spanish military attaché’s elbow, guided him toward Aimée. “Carlos, it’s been too long.” The drill-bit—thin man in a black suit smiled. A professional smile below a thin black moustache. “What’s the holdup? Anything for me, off the record?”

“Martine.” He pecked her on both cheeks. “Of course,” he said. “Goikoetxea canceled.”

Canceled? Aimée’s shoulders stiffened. Martine shot her a keep-your-mouth-shut look.

“Trouble?” Martine said. “Stalled negotiations?”

“Let’s say the no-show of the party-girl princess impacted matters. A spoiled brat. Trying to launch her modeling career. Not the first time she’s pulled a disappearance.”

“You’re treating this like a stunt, then?” Martine said. “Carlos, what aren’t you telling me?”

“On the surface.” He shrugged then leaned closer. “And I never said this,” he said, his voice lowered, “but we’re keeping things under wraps for now. Possible kidnapping, but on a low alert. For now. You will remember: off the record.”

Aimée froze.

Another professional smile, and Carlos leaned closer. “We’re expecting a quick resolution and a positive slant, like always, from you.”

Martine nodded. “But I fail to see the connection to Goikoetxea’s announcement,” Martine said. “Wasn’t the princess just window-dressing?”

“Her father’s furious, knows she’ll turn up, press in tow, describing her escape from terrorists and get an
Elle
cover.”

Martine’s eyes narrowed. “Terrorists kidnapped the princess? You mean she’s leverage preventing the Basque announcement? That’s what you can’t say?”

Aimée’s heart quickened. Agustino knew. But how? Foreboding filled her.

“If the kidnapping becomes official, her father refuses to cooperate,” said Carlos. “He insists on handling the Euskadi Action demands via his own channels. Goikoetxea’s livid, insists we’re playing into their hands, but we’ve been told to cooperate. If her father fails, we expect the terrorist demands to be made public within three hours. But if that happens.… ” He shrugged. “Might as well forget it. And I didn’t say that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Martine purred. “I protect my sources.”

Given the attaché’s attitude, no one was treating this as a priority. Or could. They were just going through the motions for now.

“Meet my friend Aimée. She didn’t hear that either,” Martine said, turning.

But Aimée had melted into the crowd.

* * *

A
T THE CLOAKROOM,
she reclaimed her coat. She had to find Agustino and confront him.

At least the downpour had abated. Fresh damp smells of vegetation greeted her; moonlight illuminated the droplets on the plastic covering her scooter.

“Aimée, wait.” Under the dripping tree branches, Martine, coatless, hurried toward her, a cell phone to her ear. “Word’s come down, via the ambassador’s aide. The whole negotiation was tetchy from the start.”

“Didn’t I tell you, Martine? Agustino warned me they’d stop the agreement. This connects to Xavierre’s murder, and I’ve got to find out how.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I know—”

“I need another slant for my story,” Martine interrupted.

“What story?”

“So far it’s unofficial, but Euskadi Action demands the release of French Basque prisoners and to put Goikoetxea’s peace referendum to a ‘lawful unrigged election’—their words—or Princesse Maria, who was to appear tonight, will never appear again.”

So that was the plan. A sinking feeling in her stomach told her Irati was part of it. But her own mother … ?

“Aimée, the princess’s father’s advisory to the prison board,” Martine said. “No one has much hope, since those prisoners got life for school bus bombings, a rash of them several years ago. Dicey.”

René’s cousin? she wondered.

“I’ll get you more, Martine,” she said. “Information to get Morbier released. I just need to—”

“Mademoiselle?” She heard the muted thump of approaching footsteps on the damp pavement. “We’d like a word,” said a bland-faced man with short cropped hair stepping into view. Several more like him fanned out, encircling her and Martine, their gazes boring into her.

A Citroën four-door with blackened windows pulled up with a screeching of brakes.

“This way.” He gestured to her, then Martine. “Guess she’ll need to come with us too.”

“Why?”

One of the bland-faced crew hulked over her. She couldn’t read his eyes and didn’t relish a ride and questioning. “Don’t you know this woman, Mademoiselle?”

“Soon everyone will,” Aimée said, thinking fast, prodding Martine. “Show him your press card, Martine.”

“I’m a journalist covering this event.” Martine flashed her press badge. “Radio France.”

“I can read,” he said.

“Any comment?” Martine said, pulling out a small notebook. “Like which branch you work for and why you want to take my friend and me for questioning?”

No one had ever asked him that before, Aimée could tell. Assault teams were trained to act, follow procedure, not deal with the press. Or think. Their bosses did that. His right eyelid quivered.

“I ask the questions here.”

“Bon.”
Aimée smiled.
“Détective privé.”
She displayed her card. “Let’s try for polite. Your turn. Show ID.”

A thin wire trailed from an earpiece to his collar.

“In this situation, we’re not required.… ” He paused, barked a short
“Oui”
into a microphone tucked under his jacket collar, and turned. The others joined ranks around him as he spoke into a cell phone.

Great. She pictured hours of questioning. And hoped to god they hadn’t recognized her from the market.

Martine slipped her ID back into her purse. Her hands shook. “This charade can go on only so long, Aimée. My boss—”

“For you,” the bland face interrupted. He held his thin silver cell phone out to Aimée.

“Who wants to speak to me? Why?”

“My patron.” He gestured her away from Martine. “In private.”

Her throat caught. What choice did she have?

“Oui?”
she managed.

“For once, wouldn’t you prefer to get paid for investigating, Mademoiselle Leduc? Colonel Valois speaking.” A crisp man’s voice spoke. Was he with GIGN, who operated under the Gendarmerie, a military branch under the Ministry of Defense? Or with RAID, their rival police equivalent out of Les Invalides?

“Quite a few of us in the Gendarmerie have a police background and training,” the voice continued. “I had occasion to liaise with your father on several incidents.”

Stunned, the slick phone slipped in her moist palm. She gripped it before it fell.

“Meaning?”

“Think of it as eyes on the ground in a consultant role,” Colonel Valois’s voice continued. “Mademoiselle Leduc, it’s kept quiet, but we employ people such as yourself in that capacity. Think of working for us as an occasional sideline, a supplement to your income. On a case-by-case basis, of course, and no worry about paperwork. Direct payment into a special account. Untraceable.”

She gasped. Had her father worked with this man?

“I don’t understand,” she said, trying to catch Martine’s gaze.

“But I think you do.” Pause. “Let’s just say an active splinter ETA organization came to EPIGN’s attention in the last month.”

EPIGN—the elite military sub-unit, rarely in the news. A skilled special-operations group operating within the better-known GIGN. The men in the car at the market. Her spine tingled.

“Our branch would appreciate your cooperation.”

Meaning they were as desperate and clueless as she was?

“My father never mentioned you,” she said, stalling, thinking of the implications. Morbier’s words played in her head: “Trust no one.” Had they screwed her father? And were about to do the same to Morbier?

“Think about it, Mademoiselle Leduc,” he said. “I’ll be in touch. Don’t worry, I can always find you.”

She tried to control her shaking hands as she passed back the phone. The man’s bland expression didn’t change.

The men piled into the car. She watched until the brake lights turned the corner.

“Whatever you said …” Martine swallowed. “… worked.”

“The EPIGN wants to recruit me.”

Martine blinked.

“He asked me to think about it,” she said.

An hour, a day? she wondered.

“Rumor goes they make it impossible for you to refuse.”

Like her father? “Not my thing, Martine.”

“Think of it this way, Aimée,” Martine said. “The EPIGN’s active in Basque territory. Even have a HALO detachment specializing in VIP protection.” Martine shot her a look. “But it was sloppy work allowing the kidnapping. Matter of fact, they blew it. Figures. All that training on emergency response goes to their head. Now they need you.”

“But I screwed up, Martine,” she said. “I didn’t protect Xavierre. Her murder’s connected. She’s the link. Now the princess.”

“Put it in perspective,” Martine said. “ETA needs to prove the princess is alive. That’s the first step in any negotiation. This could take days, make for a nice long feature.”

Aimée didn’t return Martine’s grin.

“It’s your
derrière
you need to watch.” Martine handed Aimée a tissue. “Clean up your mascara: you’ve got raccoon eyes.”

Aimée wet the tissue with her tongue and dabbed under her eyes. And the wheels clicked. The museum surveillance cameras. She scanned the museum’s entrance, but the cameras were obscured by hanging branches. Another look revealed that the town house cameras opposite were trained in other directions.

“But the cameras would have caught the kidnapping.”

Martine shrugged. “The princess was a no-show. Nothing on tape.”

Merde.
She’d wasted time already, and she needed backup. She pulled out her phone and spoke to her cousin Sebastian, arranging to meet in twenty minutes.

She keyed her scooter’s ignition.

“The ambassador agreed to sign a vaguely worded promise,” Martine said. “But no way can he or the girl’s father authorize a prison release just like that. Or snap their fingers and hold a new election.”

Martine lit a cigarette. Smoke hovered, dissipating under the bare branches like mist. “Aimée, find me another angle to this kidnapping.”

“Doesn’t sit right, does it?” Aimée pulled on her Blue Fever helmet. Oil-slicked rainbow puddles bled into the cracks between the uneven cobbles.