INSIDE THE HAMMAM-PISCINE, SAMIA slouched by the ticket booth overlooking the L-shaped pool. A thirties-style vaulted ceiling and salmon tiles housed the humid, chlorine-laced air. In the shallow end an old woman, her bathing cap’s tight strap separating the fleshy folds of her neck, bobbed up and down.
Aimee’s eyes darted around the nearly empty pool. She preferred the piscine at Reuilly; cleaner, newer, and a short bike ride from her flat. A middle-aged man, kneeling with a long handled net, was fishing for something on the dark green bottom.
“Do you have a car?” Samia asked. She’d changed into a narrow black trench coat.
Aimee nodded. Rene’s Citroen sat parked nearby.
“Let’s go,” Samia said.
Wary, Aimee noticed her fluttery eyelashes, the orange-dayglo fingernails. Morbier was right. She was young. And Aimee was supposed to be protecting her.
“Tell me where.”
“The circus,” Samia said.
Aimee followed Samia’s leather mules as they scuffed down the dank-smelling stone passage into the street.
In the Citroen, Samia’s gaze wavered as Aimee adjusted Renews customized seat and pedals.
“Which circus?” Aimee said, turning on the ignition and hearing the powerful hum of the engine.
“Cirque d’Hiver,” she said. “If you don’t hurry up, we’ll miss him.”
“Who?” Aimee asked, shifting the car down rue Oberkampf.
“The man you’re dying to meet.” Samia’s full lips were set in a firm line. “He wants to see you, too. Just to make sure.”
“Make sure of what?”
Samia shrugged. “To see that his wholesale line goes to good hands.”
Aimee kept her surprise in check. Samia had found this connection fast.
Something about it made her uneasy, nervous. Didn’t Samia know about the explosion?
“What about Eugenie?”
“My feelers are out,” Samia said. “She owes me money.”
Aimee wondered why the Maghrebin network hadn’t spread the news about Sylvie/Eugenie’s death. Odd—were they cagey because they’d sold the plastiquel
Aimee found no parking spaces anywhere and klaxons blared in annoyance. She ended up parking under an ARRET GENANT towing sign, among several other cars on rue Oberkampf. They reached the Cirque d’Hiver, a circular nineteenth-century building resembling a tent, topped by a bronze statue of an Amazon on the roof and two bronze warriors on horses over the entrance. Circus posters proclaiming past glories—the Bolshoi Circus, Chinese glass balancers, Mongolian contortionists, Hungarian jugglers, and Canadian trapeze artists—were pasted outside.
The Cirque d’Hiver brought back memories to Aimee: traditional Christmas day visits with her grandfather, chewing the fluffy pink barbes a papa which turned fuchsia in her mouth. The monkeys sitting on the accordionist’s shoulder as he played while strolling through the audience, the spotlight’s glare on the rhinestone-studded trapeze artists. As a child she’d loved the ink-black darkness and heat from the spotlights trained on the big ring.
“Do what I say,” Samia said, jolting Aimee from her reverie. Samia pulled her coat tight around her and stared at Aimee.
“So if we pass the test, the big man gives us a contract?” Aimee asked. “My client’s picky. He wants Duplo plastique.”
Samia looked at Aimee’s wrist and grinned.
“C’est chouette!” she said tapping Aimee’s new watch. “I need one,” she said and strutted toward the red entrance doors.
Samia was a kid. Aimee didn’t like this, but then she didn’t like much of what had happened so far.
The Cirque d’Hiver nowadays rented the hall for everything from fashion shows to rock concerts in its one-ring circus. Aimee wondered why they kept the circus posters, mostly from the sixties and seventies, behind smudged glass in the carpeted lobby. Neglect or nostalgia for former glory?
Muffled laughter and applause came from behind greasy-looking doors. A private show of Stanislav the Stupendous—Budapest’s third natural wonder, his name framed by tiny lights—was scheduled for the evening.
“Auditions for new acts,” boomed a bored woman at the barbe a papa concession. She exhaled a funnel of smoke rings into the air and shook her head. “Sorry. Pas possible. Too many guests disturb the animals’concentration.”
“We’re a late addition to the guest list,” Samia said, nudging Aimee.
Aimee slipped a hundred-franc note across the counter. “Of course,” she said, “we won’t disturb their concentration.”
The cigarette hung from the side of the woman’s mouth. Her blue shadowed eyes narrowed as she looked Aimee up and down. “We all need to live, eh?” she said, pocketing the note. “Enjoy the show,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the doors.
They walked by gilt-edged walls with plaster chipped in a few places. The cirque seemed frayed at the edges.
But despite the deserted foyer, they weren’t alone. She felt eyes following her.
Inside, she and Samia stopped, gripped by the scene under the elaborate chandeliers. Four children and four men in brown leather rode motorcycles into the ring. They parked their bikes and the men lay on top of them and juggled the children with their feet.
Scattered applause burst from the few onlookers in the worn red velvet seats. Samia tugged Aimee’s arm and motioned for her to join the front row. They sat down, their faces highlighted by the ring lights. Aimee was struck by the soft contours and sharp edges shadowed in Samia’s face. As if she were mixte, French and Algerian. Awe shone in her eyes.
Several large men in well-cut suits, one chewing a licorice stick, were seated to their right. Peering closer, Aimee realized that the stockier men on the aisle casually surveyed the crowd and exits.
The occasional tilt of their necks, and the thin wires trailing from their ears into their collars indicated that they wore radio receivers. Sophisticated security, she thought. What circus aficionados were they guarding?
“Wait five minutes,” Samia whispered. “Then go to the bathroom.”
“Why?”
“It’s a test,” Samia interrupted, standing up. She brushed imaginary lint from her coat, licked her finger, and wiped her brow with it. Then she was gone.
A large brown Siberian bear wearing a cone-like silver wizard’s hat pedaled a tiny bicycle into the ring. The trainer’s whip slapped the sawdust, creating dust puffs ahead of the bear in his line of vision. She wondered what the bear would do if he got out of line. Tear up the tiny bike, wreak havoc in the crowd, and other things she didn’t like to contemplate. Like Sylvie’s murderer had done.
Aimee heard loud, sustained clapping from the licorice-chewing man. Several guffaws sounded from the suits, who’d risen and enveloped him in a protective cocoon.
The suits sat back down, and some of the men evaporated toward the lobby. Aimee noticed that another man had joined the licorice chewer, addressing him as “General.” He also sat stiffly. Light glinted off their lapels, and then she realized that they wore medals and were in some kind of stiff uniform. Russians, maybe?
Her idea was quickly dispelled when a man bearing a tray of small, steaming tea glasses appeared. She could smell the mint from her seat. A Moroccan delegation playing hooky from state affairs? Diplomats didn’t wear uniforms, but the military did.
The General leaned forward, his posture stiff but his eyes alight. He chewed the licorice in time to the crashing cymbals beaten by a sad-faced clown, in a black-and-white Pierrot costume, standing in the center. Aimee realized that the bear’s paws pedaled in time to the cymbals.
Aimee stood up and made her way to the lobby. On the rest-room door hung a sign saying CLOSED FOR CLEANING. Aimee stuck her head in.
“Samia?”
No answer. Just the drip of water echoing off the tiles.
She wondered if this was a setup. Going in would be inviting trouble. Yet she worried about Samia.
She walked toward the red velvet drapes at the backstage entrance, giving herself time to think. This part of the cirque lay deserted except for a sixties-style vacuum cleaner, chromed and sturdy, propped against the wall next to assorted pails and detergents. In the dim light she could make out an exit door.
And then, on her left, Aimee heard the unmistakable sound of a safety being clicked off. Her pulse jumped as she dodged and reached for her Beretta. But from behind a large warm hand enclosed hers. She never managed a scream since another one clamped over her mouth.
She back-kicked her heel and tried to twist away. Her head Car a Black was slammed against the woodwork, hard. The pressure, like a band of white heat, tightened around her head.
Too bad her kicks landed in the air, not in the groin of whoever or whatever gripped her in a headlock. She jacknifed her body, turning until her spike heels impacted hamstring hard muscle. She heard the growl of pain, and ground her heels in harder.
Something glittered. For a brief moment she saw a huge hand, with a diamond ring shaped like a star. Then she twisted and kicked again. Anything to release that pressure on her head. She screamed, trying to get attention or help.
She tried to roll, but her legs didn’t obey.
And then she poked and jabbed back, flailing at the air until she hit something soft like tissue. A man’s cry reached her. She’d either gotten him in the eye or the nuts. Either way it had to hurt. But she was down on the floor, face to face with a hideous forties red floral carpet. Now her legs responded. She tried to push off the floor.
“Bent al haram,” a voice hissed in her ear.
With as much force as she had, she elbowed behind her and scrambled to her feet. She heard him crash into the metal pails and swear. Running and falling, she kept on going.
A loud roar sounded, like a high-speed TGV. Her chest reverberated as something punched her in the back. And she knew she’d been shot. The bullet-proof vest hadn’t absorbed the whole of the bullet’s impact. A burning sensation stung her hip. She stumbled but caught herself.
Wall plaster rained over her black leather. Don’t think about the bullets, she told herself as terror gripped her—keep running. Don’t stop. There were loud shouts, the sounds of someone running into the metal buckets. Applause reached her ears, the performance was over, patrons streamed into the lobby.
Screaming and barreling past the velvet curtains, Aimee ran into something large and furry. The Siberian bear growled, and then all she heard was white noise.
AIMEE GREW aware of an odd taste in her mouth, grit on her face, and something wet on her chin. Drool. And slits of fractured darkness. Prickly stubs poked her ears and nose, sweet and crinkling. Hay.
By the time she realized she was under a burlap bag, she was ripping her way out with torn red fingernails. Her head throbbed. The ground shook. The earth was moving—not the way she liked it to.
At least the leather jumpsuit had protected her. The bear was gone.
Then she remembered.
She’d crawled into a feed trough for animals—the first thing she’d stumbled across after the stage entrance. She untangled her legs and reached for her bag, still strapped over her shoulder. Her side pulsed with pain. She took short breaths—big ones hurt—afraid to touch the spot where her bullet-proof vest had failed.
Despite her sore head and body, the ground shaking helped her get up quickly. Grabbing a ledge beside her, she plowed into the tail of a wrinkled gray elephant. She scooted out before the stamping feet got any closer. The elephant’s trunk picked up the burlap, tossed, then stomped on it. Just in time, Aimee thought, trying to ignore her splitting headache.
A trainer led a pair of chestnut mares over the cobblestones. He clucked and said some soothing words. She followed the trio past the sign ENTREE DES ARTISTES and nipped into the first empty stall. It had a waist-high wooden partition and was vacant except for a pile of fragrant hay.
She knelt down and felt her head, gingerly. A bump had blossomed like a big onion. Carefully she smoothed her hair and unrolled a gray parachute silk raincoat from her bag. Her legs wobbled.
From the neighboring stall, she heard a horse slurping water and flicking its wire-haired tail against the buzzing flies. She slid out of her slingbacks, which had somehow stayed on her feet, and into her red Converse hightops and laced them quickly. For the last touch, she donned a pair of large-framed horn-rimmed glasses. Before her head split in two, she was going to go back inside and find who’d whacked her. But first she needed to deal with the bullet throbbing in her side.
At the Cafe des Artistes facing the cobbled back lane behind Cirque d’Hiver, she leaned against the bar. She ordered a pastis and aspirine from Ines, a pudgy woman, who sat doing a crossword in the corner.
“Slice of horsemeat works better on a shiner,” Ines said, shoving two white pills across the soggy bar.
Aimee popped the pills and took a big swig of pastis, not feeling convinced.
Ines stared at Aimee. “Trapeze artists swear by it,” she said. “Order steak tartare and I’ll throw in the frites.”
Soon she had a horse steak on her temple and the cell phone in her other ear.
No answer at Samia’s. No Yves at her apartment.
She hobbled into the small bathroom, rolled down her jumpsuit, and assessed the damage. The Kevlar vest had absorbed most of the bullet, except for the painful shrapnel embedded a centimeter or so in her hip. The hollowed-out bullet had fractured on impact. Blood oozed stickily, making her feel faint in the close-quartered bathroom. She had to pull it out.
Her tweezers were history, lost at the yard getting the moped started. The only tool she could think of was the sugar tongs on the zinc counter. She had to do better than that.
Aimee stuck her head out.
“Would you have a first-aid kit?” she asked, her smile weak.
Ines took one look at Aimee and said, “Stay there.” She came back with a first-aid kit and a small shot glass.
“Drink this,” Ines said.
Aimee gulped and felt the malt whiskey burn down her throat, scalding and welcome.
“Would a doctor help—?”
Aimee reached for the kit. “I can handle this.”
Ines nodded, her expression unchanged as she took in Aimee’s bloody condition. “How about I catch you if you fall over?”
“Deal,” Aimee said. “But only if you give me another shot of whatever that was.”
Ines brought the bottle, another shot glass, and joined her. They stood in the small rest room, Aimee perched against the old marble sink and Ines leaning against the wall.
“During the battle for Paris, there was street-to-street fighting here,” Ines said, watching Aimee pull out the cotton and antiseptic, then dab the blood away. “The circus animals had been slaughtered for food long before, but my mother refused to kill our ferret.”
“Ferret?” Aimee asked, sticking the long-handled tweezers into alcohol. She liked hearing Ines talk; it helped keep her mind off what she had to do.
“Funny little thing,” she said. “But for my mother it was kind of a principle. She’d be damned if she’d let the boches eat it or tell her to get rid of it. That simple!”
“What happened?” Aimee asked, dabbing alcohol around the ugly chunk of shrapnel protruding from above her hip, where her Kevlar vest had stopped.
“Stupid thing got incinerated by a panzer with a flamethrower,” Ines winked. “Maman was mad for days. I think she’s never forgiven the boches for that.”
“Where was your father?” Aimee asked, gripping the chunk with her tweezers and taking as big a breath as she could. She pulled, and gasped at the searing pain.
“Never came back from the work camp near Dusseldorf,” Ines said. “We’re not really sure where he ended up. That had something to do with Maman’s anger.”
Aimee didn’t get it out on the first try. Or the second. The stubborn thing had lodged deep from the force of a Magnum. The searing pain would be nothing, she knew, compared to the infection if she couldn’t get the thing out in one piece.
“You’re feisty, I can tell,” Ines said. “And you act tough. Weren’t you watching your tail?”
Thanks for rubbing it in, Aimee wanted to say.
Determined this time, she caught the piece and pulled it out slow and straight, trying to last through the knife-edge pain.
Right away Ines slid a large gauze wrap around it. “Tape it closed, and you’ll be fine,” she said. “I only helped because you looked like you might topple.”
“Right.” Aimee leaned against the cold marble wall until she’d stopped shaking.
“All kinds come here; the mecs, the scammers, small-time hus; tiers,” Ines said. “For a smart-looking one, seems like you made a mistake.”
Ines had a wealth of information and advice.
“I trusted the wrong person,” Aimee said.
Samia had set her up, and she, a stupide, had walked right into it. Eagerly. She was supposed to protect Samia, but she was the one who got shot with a bullet in her hip.
Ines nodded. “See,” she said, pointing in the mirror. “No trace.”
The lump had gone down. And the pounding in her head had subsided to a reasonable ache. She’d taped her side tight, wrapping several strands of tape back and forth. She retired the glasses, pulled out her makeup, and did a repair job on her eyes. Kohl and lots of concealer.
Aimee noticed Ines watching her. Back in the cafe Aimee sat down and tried Samia on the cell phone again. No answer.
“Magnesium,” Ines said, slipping her a green salad. “You need it.”
“Merci,” Aimee said. She picked at the salad and Frites and kept trying Samia’s number. She was thinking of the elephants. One of whom could have crushed her into burlap pulp.
“How about the General?” Aimee asked. “Have you heard of him?”
“How about you’re out of your league?” Ines said, grinning.
Was the pastis clouding her perception or had Ines turned more smartass?
Not to mention the downright humiliation. First she got ambushed; then a woman old enough to be her mother reiterated how dumb she’d been.
“Make that out of your division,” Ines said, her eyes crinkling.
Now Ines was making fun of her.
Pathetic.
She closed her eyes and laughed.
“Speaking of the General, he’s way out of my universe,” she grinned. “But if I don’t find him, he’ll do this again.”
Ines brought her crossword and sat down next to her.
“Why didn’t you say so?” she said. “He comes in those cars with the special license plates—”
“Diplomatic plates?” Aimee interrupted.
“No one likes him,” Ines shrugged. “That’s all I know.”
Aimee wrote down her number on a napkin, then stood up to leave. “Call me if he comes again, please.”
“Watch your tail,” she replied.
AIMEE WAS feeling better. “Feeling better” was a relative term, but the painkiller was taking effect. She crossed the narrow street and entered the back of the cirque.
In the circus ring she passed a fire-eater using his toes to adjust the blaze angle on a gasoline can pump. Heat emanated, and he sucked the air. She stood back in awe as the fire-eater blew billowing yellow-white flames over the sawdust. As he turned she saw a hose snaking up the back of his skinny T-shirt.
The rehearsal audience had thinned to technicians. Aimee searched for the licorice-chewing man and his crew but was disappointed. Gone. She walked amid the red velvet seats where they’d sat. Nothing. Not even a cigarette stub.
“I need an assistant,” said a deeply accented voice from the small stage.
She looked up to see the speaker’s lined face, caked with flesh-colored makeup. Tall and gaunt, he wore a turban with a gleaming cabochon in the center and a black satin cape. He cocked his large head, fixing his gaze on her. “Will you assist me?”
“I’ll try,” she said, aglow with the sudden sparkle of circus wonder. It was the same way she’d felt sitting with her grandfather, who’d whispered “Watch, Aimee … look at the magician’s sleeves… can you see how he does it?” But she never had, could never see the sleight-of-hand trick.
He brandished an iridescent scarf, waved it in the air, and balled it up. He clapped his hands and showed her. Empty.
“Smoke and mirrors, right?” she asked.
“I have no smoke,” he said. “And at my age—no mirrors, please!”
His black satin cape flashed as he pulled the scarf from behind her ears.
Her mouth fell open. How did he do that?
He grinned at her reaction.
“Stanislav the Stupendous?” she said.
He bowed. “The third wonder of Budapest is available for parties, business luncheons, or that special affair needing just the right touch.”
“You’re not part of the cirque?”
“My act requires a more intimate surrounding,” he said, gesturing toward the tiered red velvet seats. “We close off part of the cirque, making a half circle, and I perform on that platform.”
A workman hammered ringside.
“Those men who sat over there,” she said, gesturing toward the spot where the military types had sat. “Know where they are? I’m supposed to meet them …” she trailed off, hoping Stanislav would finish it for her.
“The General?” he said.
Aimee nodded.
“Funny bird, that one,” Stanislav said. “My following is loyal.”
“The General’s a fan of yours?”
“I’m big with the Algerians.”
Algerian military? Aimee held her surprise in check.
The workman appeared and tapped his wrist, vying for the magician’s attention. “You’ve been a delightful assistant, Mademoiselle, but I must rehearse, if you’ll excuse me,” Stanislav said in a practiced breathless tone, indicating that he was too busy and rushed to have even a smidgen more time.
Aimee stepped from the sawdust over the raised ring, puzzling how to elicit information about the General.
“You’ll think me helpless, but the purse with my address book was stolen, and I’m at sea how to find him,” she said stepping back into the ring.
“I wish I could be more helpful,” Stanislav said, following the carpenter.
She sniffed around backstage, but no one knew of the General—or if they had, they wouldn’t tell her. Even the grinning horse trainer who said, “I keep my eyes on beautiful females.” He winked. “Like you.”
AIMEE DROVE to Samia’s apartment. No answer. The ham-mam was closed, and it began to rain. Her head ached, and her spirits matched the grey drizzle. She sat in Rene’s car near Place Jean Timbaud, the rain spattering on the windshield. People emerged from the Metro, turning up their collars, and running down the street. She must have nodded off, because the next thing she knew, there was a loud tap on the passenger window.
“Allez-y!” A green-suited egoutier shouted, his dark face beaded with rain. “Move along. Quit blocking the truck.”
“Pardon,” she said, turning on the ignition. The Citroen roared to life, and she hit the wipers.
That’s when she saw Samia, scurrying out of the dingy hotel on Impasse Ouestre. She shifted into first and cut Samia off before she could enter Jean Timbaud.
“Get in!” Aimee said, leaning over and pushing the door handle open.
Samia blinked, like a deer caught in the headlights. She tried to back up, but her heels slipped and she grabbed the door.
“I can’t—”
The garbage truck’s horn blared.
“Hurry up, we need to talk,” Aimee said.
Samia looked for an escape. The rain beat harder. Her only option was the passage she’d emerged from.
“Now!” Aimee yelled.
Either the rain or Aimee’s voice convinced her to get in and slam the door. They took off down Jean Timbaud. Aimee reached Passage de la Fonderie, a narrow ivy-walled lane, and pulled in. She parked and turned off the ignition.
“You don’t look too good,” Samia said.
“Smart girl,” Aimee said, reaching for Samia’s bag. She turned the beaded pink bag upside down. “Considering I got shot, I don’t think I look half bad.”
Samia’s eyes widened.
“Smart girls don’t betray their friends.”
“You’re not my friend,” Samia said, but she winced when she spoke. She brushed her shoulders, sending a wet spray over the upholstery.
“Even for an acquaintance, that’s not very nice.”
Samia looked down, “I’m sorry. They just said … well, you weren’t supposed to get hurt.”
“Why do I have a hard time believing you?”
“Just warn you off, they said,” she said, her voice sullen.
“Who?”
“Let me out.”
The passage was quiet except for occasional footsteps. The fogged Citroen’s windows shielded them from prying eyes.
Aimee had to get Samia to talk.
“What does bent al haram mean?”
“Bent al haram?” Samia said, closing her eyes as if in deep thought.” ‘Interfering slut’ comes pretty close.”
Great.
“Doesn’t the General like me?”
Samia reached for the door handle, but Aimee pulled out her Beretta.
“It’s been a rough afternoon, Samia,” she said. “Time for you to brighten my day.” With her other hand she poked around the strewn items from Samia’s bag. A package of pink condoms, hotel keys, an illustrated ten-franc pocket romance, and a pearl hair clip. Aimee shook the bag again, and a hand of Fat’ma tumbled out. Just like Eugenie/Sylvie’s.
“Where did you get this?”
“The Fat’ma?” Samia asked.
Aimee nodded.
“Belonged to my mother,” she said. “Lots of people have them.”
“Like who?” Aimee asked.
“You probably can’t even use that,” Samia said, looking in the visor mirror at the Beretta, and ignoring the question.
“Even if my aim was bad, it’d be hard to miss with you so close,” Aimee cocked the trigger. “Want to find out?”
Samia flinched.
“Some flic taped us talking,” Aimee lied. Anything to get Samia to talk. “He’s watching you on video surveillance. He wants my hide, but I think he’s nailed yours already. He’s just waiting, Samia.”
Samia’s bravado shriveled.
“Sergeant Martaud?”
Aimee nodded. The stale air inside the car and Samia’s perfume were getting to her.
“Is the General’s number in here?” Aimee asked, holding up a pink fur address book. “I’ll deal directly with him.”
Samia blinked in fear. “They’re big—”
“Who?”
“Leave it alone,” she said.
“Samia, don’t you see my finger’s still on the trigger?” she said.
“You don’t know about—” she stopped.
“About what?”
Samia’s lips tightened.
“Fine, I’ll let Martaud know Zdanine supplies the plastique” Aimee sighed, pocketing the address book. “That will get me off his hook.” She turned the ignition key. “Since Zdanine’s claiming sanctuary in the church, you’re the perfect connection.”
It was a guess, but by the look on Samia’s face it hit home.
“Attends,” Samia said. “I called a number. That’s all.” Her chest heaved. She faced Aimee, her eye makeup smeared. “You leave my kid out of it, comprisl”
Aimee wondered why Samia would say that—was her young son used to keep her in line? A pang of remorse hit her for using Samia, a mother who couldn’t have been more than eighteen.
“Zdanine used you, didn’t he?”
“Only two times,” she said. “That’s why I didn’t believe you.”
“You want to believe Zdanine instead of me …” Aimee let that trail in the air.
Silence except for the steady thrum of rain on the windshield.
“Something’s about to happen, isn’t it?”
Samia shrugged.
“What’s Eugenie’s connection?”
Samia rubbed the foggy window and turned away. “What time is it?”
“For a moment you were so helpful,” Aimee said. She leaned over, the Beretta still in one hand. “Who murdered Sylvie?”
“Sylvie … who’s that?”
Anger flared in Aimee, then died. Why would Samia know about her double life?
Aimee turned Samia’s chin toward her.
“Was it the General?” she asked.
“Who’s Sylvie?” Samia blinked several times.
Exasperated, Aimee pounded the steering wheel.
“What does Eugenie have to do with it?”
“She stayed at the apartment.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Who met her there?” Aimee said, knowing she had to pull information from Samia. Bit by painful bit.
“People dropped things off,” Samia said, wiping her face. “I’ve told you nothing. Nothing.”
“Of course you haven’t,” Aimee said soothingly. “Is someone making you afraid to tell me what you know?”
“The Maghrebins used that place. They scare me,” she said. “I told Zdanine, I don’t want to mix with them. He does.”
“What for?”
“They have places like that,” Samia said. “You know, all over. Like an octopus.”
Aimee remembered the flyer with “Youssef’ written on it. She felt as if she were grasping for straws.
“Did Eugenie mention Youssef?” she asked.
“Youssef? I think so: Someone called Zdanine while I was there. But I only met Eugenie once,” Samia said. “That’s all.”
“Did Eugenie give you this?” Aimee asked, holding up the pearl hair clip.
“I owe her a hundred francs,” Samia said, her voice contrite. “Look, it’s Marcus’s birthday. He’ll be hurt if I don’t make the school party. Didn’t even have time to buy him a present.”
Samia looked as if the world had fallen on her shoulders.
Aimee slipped the Beretta into her bag. She looked at her watch.
“Here,” she said, unstrapping the happy-face watch. “This suits you more than me. Give it to your son.”
Samia blinked and looked unsure.
“Take it,” she said. “Just don’t set me up again.”
“Chouette!” Samia’s face burst into a big smile. A big-kid smile, happy with a new toy, putting it on eagerly. “Merci!”
Aimee was amazed how childlike Samia seemed when her defenses were down. For a moment Aimee saw the young girl whose mother probably worked horizontak, who’d grown up in a housing project and then hooked up with a maggot like Zdanine. It reminded her of what Moliere had said about writing: First you do it because you like it, then you do it for some friends, then you do it for money.
Samia had pulled the visor down and begun wiping off her makeup in the mirror.
“I need to get to Gare du Nord,” she said. “Catch the 1:30 train for Marcus’s party.”
Of all the things Samia had told her, she believed this 100 percent.
“Tell me more en route to the station,” she said, turning on the ignition. “What’s your connection to Morbier?”
“Who?”
Surprised, Aimee kept driving. She decided to describe him, so if Samia had seen him she wouldn’t necessarily know he was a flic.
“Morbier’s an old mec, salt-and-pepper hair, moustache, and he wears suspenders over his big gut.”
“Sounds like one of my mother’s friends,” Samia said. “She knew lots of old farts.”
Aimee picked up on the past tense.
“Knew?”
“Passed away,” Samia said.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Curious, she wanted to explore more. At least find out why Morbier wanted her to protect Samia. She circled Place de la Republique, then gunned up boulevard de Magenta.
“What was your mother’s name?” she asked.
“Fouaz, like mine,” Samia said, her mouth crinkling in a sad smile.
Aimee was about to ask more when Samia turned to her.
“Keep this between us, but fifty thousand francs buys a hostage situation.”
Aimee’s heart skipped. Her fingers clenched the steering wheel. “Go on.”
Samia’s face, now scrubbed clean of makeup, made her look younger than she probably was. A demure peach skirt and twinset emerged from under the black coat. Aimee wondered how Samia placated her conscience, if she had one.
“Who orders this plastique?”
“Zdanine says it’s Balkan crazies who like to blow each other up,” Samia said. “They do that shit all the time anyway.”
Aimee nodded. Too bad it wasn’t true in her case.
“Was it Duplo last time?” Aimee asked, hoping against hope that Samia knew.
“Semtex duds out sometimes, unreliable. The fundamentalists don’t seem to mind,” Samia said matter-of-factly. “Zdanine uses Duplo—only quality, he says.”
“What about the General?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“But why pick Eugenie?”
“That was a one-off.” Samia’s eyes slit in suspicion. “He sells to outsiders. No locals.” She shook her head. “Don’t look at me. Zdanine was in the church—he couldn’t have blown her up.”
Rain coursed down the windshield in silvered rivulets, like mercury. Aimee flipped the wipers faster. Samia’s casual tone made her angry. But she had to play it cool or Samia would bolt.
“It’s scary,” Aimee said, staring meaningfully at her. “I mean, look what can happen.”
“Just don’t rub anyone the wrong way,” Samia said, but her lip quivered. She looked uneasy. “I called a pager number—that’s all I did.”
“When?”
“They said, ‘Call in four hours—if no answer, try in another two hours.’ Someone called back with a delivery location.”
Aimee pulled in to the taxi line. She had an idea.
“Contact Zdanine before you go.”
Samia took Aimee’s phone and called Zdanine.
Samia’s voice changed; not just the cloying, soothing line to a pimp but an earnest overtone as if convincing him. For a full two minutes she argued, her words a mix of gutter French, verlan, and Arabic.
Abruptly she snapped Aimee’s phone shut.
“What happened?” Aimee asked.
“He’ll come around,” she said.
Aimee didn’t care about Zdanine’s list of potential clients; she wanted the suppliers who’d been at the Cirque d’Hiver.
“Zdanine says it’s too dangerous, doesn’t he?”
Samia shook her head.
“What then?”
“He thinks your cut’s too big,” she said. “It should be split so he gets a nice slice. After all, he says, he’s Khalil’s cousin, and the contacts are his.”
Spoken like a true pimp, Aimee thought. If Samia translated correctly. Outside in Place Napoleon III, people emerged from Gare du Nord, opened their umbrellas, and ran to the taxi line.
“Nothing happens until I wire Khalil to front the money,” Aimee said. “How do I know your people can deliver the plastique?
“They’re not my people,” Samia said, “I told you, I don’t like them. Zdanine does the connection.”
“Until you give me the supplier’s name, I don’t cough up the front money.”
Samia shrugged. She buttoned her coat and gripped the door handle before she turned back.
“What’s the number?”
Samia opened the car door. A sheet of rain sprayed in. “Marc’s school is outside Paris, not far. I’ll be back soon.” Samia slammed the door shut and disappeared toward the train platforms in the cavernous station.
Aimee lowered her forehead onto the steering wheel. This stank. Samia had made a deal. Aimee felt it in her bones.
Here she sat at a taxi line outside Gare du Nord, the windows fogged, and no closer to Eugenie or the explosive suppliers than before.
Her gloom matched the gray sheeting rain whipping across the square. Extraordinary—she couldn’t remember when April had been this wet. It had rained incessantly all week. She took several deep breaths and thought. If those men were the explosive suppliers, why wait for Samia to get back?
She switched on the ignition and took off back down boulevard de Magenta. In record time, she parked in Cite de Crussol, on one of the passages branching from behind Cirque d’Hiver.
She punched in Morbier’s number. He answered after several rings.
“Morbier, call it intuition, but Samia’s playing me,” she said. “Your little friend got me shot!”
“Shot?”
“I pulled the shrapnel out but—”
“She’s young, Leduc,” he said. “And the young don’t know left from right.”
“No conscience, more like it,” she said.
“Bien sur,” he said. “Tell me about it.”
She explained about Cirque d’Hiver and her abrupt departure at Gare du Nord. “I didn’t like the big guys in the circus.”
“Nice groundwork and setup,” he said.
She paused, surprised at his comment. He rarely said anything complimentary. “But I’m still in the dark. Samia became helpful too quickly.”
“She’ll come through,” he said.
She wondered why he kept excusing her.
“Why do you let her off the hook so easily?”
“No questions, remember?” he said. “Marcus must be six or seven, eh?”
His comment didn’t surprise her. Morbier had an immense memory, like her father and those of his generation possessed. No computer files or central storage systems; they kept it all in their head: a mec’s street record, an unsolved murder in their arrondissement years back, whose palm oiled the important palms, a pimp’s harem, and their children’s names.
“Where are you going now?” Morbier asked.
“To church,” she said. “Zdanine might be more helpful.”
“Will he talk to you?”
“I won’t know until I try.”