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April 2002 &bull 11:00 p.m.
Monday, Avenue Secré tan, Paris
April in Paris rarely feels like the song, thought Aimé e Leduc, shivering as she buttoned her leather jacket. Glocron&rsquo s cold, cavernous office, in a threadbare 1930s movie theater that had been chopped into workspaces, was embellished with faux rococo swirls and chipped plaster ceilings. It felt as aesthetically pleasing as an aircraft hangar.
Last time Aimé e would take a job like this. Too much working overtime. It didn&rsquo t help that this whole consulting gig was fake&mdash she was really here at this tech start-up on an undercover contract for the Ministry, trying to nail down evidence of a saboteur in the IT department in between her humdrum security work. Plus the added strain of constantly battling with her ex, Melac, the biological father of her daughter, over custody was taking its toll.
She hit save on her computer terminal and logged out of her security program.
To Aimé e, this odd open office plan had only one redeeming feature&mdash a view of the Marché Secré tan, a covered market where she used to go shopping with her grandfather, her hand in his, to buy rabbit from his favorite butcher. Now the dilapidated art nouveau covered market looked in need of some love. Just like her.
She packed up, rubbed her chilly hands. Thank God her workspace had an outlet for a portable heater. The other employees wore their coats indoors and huddled by the espresso machine for any kind of camaraderie.
Shouts and the scrape of chairs came from a terminal nearby. &ldquo Who cares about your disabled brother!&rdquo Pé pe, the wiry Basque programmer, was yelling at Isabelle, the cleaner. He twitched in anger. &ldquo Clumsy salope, you spilled my coffee over my printouts!&rdquo
Isabelle, her long dark braid clipped up, paused mopping the floor. Her silver nose ring glinted under the harsh fluorescent light.
Before Aimé e could stand up, Pé pe&rsquo d taken a swing at Isabelle.
Isabelle ducked. Not soon enough. His blow knocked the mop she&rsquo d held in her tattooed arm clattering to the floor.
Was the fool jacked up on caffeine or wired on something else&mdash like speed?
Aimé e rushed over, catching Isabelle before she hit back, and shoved the programmer back into his chair.
&ldquo Are you all right, Isabelle?&rdquo Aimé e asked, concerned. &ldquo Let me see your arm.&rdquo
&ldquo He barely grazed me,&rdquo said Isabelle, her eyes like daggers.
L&rsquo idiote&mdash the programmer didn&rsquo t know who he&rsquo d bullied.
Isabelle, a biker fille from up the canal, had gone to school with Aimé e&rsquo s cousin, Sé bastien. Both had been junkies who&rsquo d cleaned up, gotten straight. Staying clean was hard, but Aimé e&rsquo s cousin had done it. Aimé e sometimes wondered if Isabelle had gone back to her old ways.
Once a junkie . . . No&mdash think positive.
Isabelle looked healthier than Aimé e had ever seen her.
Aimé e turned to Pé pe and summoned authority in her voice. &ldquo Since when do you hit women?&rdquo
She pulled her digital camera out of her purse and started snapping photos of the mark on Isabelle&rsquo s arm.
He sputtered, &ldquo Hey, you can&rsquo t do that.&rdquo
&ldquo Too late. I have.&rdquo
&ldquo They&rsquo ll fire you when I report this, salope,&rdquo Pé pe said to Isabelle. He had spotty skin, potato ears, and a temper.
&ldquo Report what? You&rsquo re a lying weasel. I didn&rsquo t spill your coffee.&rdquo
&ldquo Et alors, aren&rsquo t you aware of the firm&rsquo s policies against violence?&rdquo said Aimé e.
&ldquo This isn&rsquo t over,&rdquo Pé pe said, grabbing his backpack and storming out. &ldquo You&rsquo ll never get that recommendation!&rdquo
Isabelle picked up her mop. Her hands were shaking. &ldquo Merde!&rdquo
&ldquo Isabelle, take a second. Calm down,&rdquo Aimé e said. &ldquo Tell me about your brother. Is this about him? Is he okay?&rdquo
Isabelle took a deep breath. &ldquo Muscular dystrophy. It&rsquo s getting worse. He&rsquo s going downhill.&rdquo
Aimé e vaguely remembered hearing Sé bastien mention it.
&ldquo I need a recommendation from my employer to qualify for adapted housing. Pé pe knows it, too.&rdquo
&ldquo I&rsquo m sorry,&rdquo said Aimé e.
&ldquo Pé pe pretends he cares, then attacks me. Just because I won&rsquo t go out with him.&rdquo
Mean to the bone.
Aimé e couldn&rsquo t believe the toxic work culture fermenting here.
After Sé bastien had gotten clean, Aimé e had guaranteed Sé bastien&rsquo s business. He&rsquo d branched out as a building contractor and now owned several framing shops. Sé bastien had been the one to steer Isabelle toward the program that matched her with this job&mdash the tech start-up got tax incentives for hiring locals. The locals benefited from jobs and access to fast-track housing. It was a win-win.
Too bad the boss, Robé rt, a preening narcissist, had no management skills to speak of. Just last week he&rsquo d reduced the intern program and frozen the promotions of five programmers, who&rsquo d then quit. Isabelle would not be able to count on him to be sympathetic.
&ldquo I&rsquo ll report Pé pe and back you up,&rdquo said Aimé e.
&ldquo You shouldn&rsquo t,&rdquo Isabelle said. &ldquo The boss is a salaud, I don&rsquo t want you in trouble.&rdquo
Defending Isabelle would be thorny&mdash Aimé e couldn&rsquo t afford to rankle Robé rt if she wanted to keep her undercover Ministry job. But she had to help Isabelle with this second chance.
&ldquo Excusez-moi.&rdquo Robé rt was striding toward them. The hanging fluorescent lights reflected off his rimless glasses. He wore a tight bargain Monoprix suit and clearly thought it looked good on him. &ldquo Pé pe&rsquo s filing a report against you,&rdquo he said to Isabelle. He probably didn&rsquo t even know her name. &ldquo Look, we can&rsquo t tolerate harassment from contract workers.&rdquo
Isabelle&rsquo s eyes welled. Aimé e wondered if she&rsquo d break out in tears or slug him. Before either could happen, Aimé e wedged herself between Isabelle and Robé rt.
&ldquo Harassment by whom?&rdquo She held up her camera for him to see. &ldquo I&rsquo ve recorded Pé pe&rsquo s demeaning insults here and documented his physically assaulting Isabelle. She will be filing a complaint and charges against him. This will go all the way up to the board of Glocron.&rdquo
No company board relished dealing with a problem like this. Robé rt knew that could impact their funding. He looked deflated.
Isabelle&rsquo s eyes widened. She was scared but defiant. She needed this job.
&ldquo But,&rdquo Aimé e added, thinking on the fly, &ldquo Isabelle might consent to continue working here if Pé pe took anger management classes and she was transferred to a different floor and office.&rdquo
Too harsh? Would this get her fired? Working undercover, Aimé e needed to stay under the radar.
Her handler in the Ministry was on her case every day.
But right now she couldn&rsquo t care less.
Robé rt steepled his fingers. &ldquo If we do that, she wouldn&rsquo t press charges or file a complaint?&rdquo
Isabelle&rsquo s jaw clenched but she nodded.
&ldquo I&rsquo ll get that in writing and have you sign it.&rdquo
With that, Robé rt hurried to his office.
&ldquo Merci, Aimé e,&rdquo said Isabelle. &ldquo I owe you.&rdquo
&ldquo Pas du tout,&rdquo Aimé e said. &ldquo The creep can&rsquo t get away with what he did. And he won&rsquo t. What&rsquo s your number?&rdquo
She wanted to follow up and make sure Isabelle didn&rsquo t suffer a fallout.
&ldquo Can you remember nobodylu?&rdquo she said, then spelled it out: &ldquo N-o-b-o-d-y-l-u?&rdquo
Aimé e nodded. &ldquo Why?&rdquo
&ldquo Easiest way to remember my phone number. 06 26 39 58.&rdquo She mimed typing it on a phone keyboard, which would spell the phrase. &ldquo Contact me any time.&rdquo
Aimé e went back to her desk, logged back on, downloaded the photos from her digital camera&mdash just in case&mdash trashed her junk mail and powered off her computer. As she was reaching for her bag, she found an envelope with Aimé e Leduc Dé tective Privé typed on the outside&mdash and URGENT written underneath in familiar hard-to-read scrawl. Looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, she opened the envelope.
We have to talk. There&rsquo s something you need to know. It&rsquo s important. Last time, Aimé e, and I won&rsquo t take no for an answer.
Melac, hounding her again. Chloé &rsquo s biological father wanted to move Chloé to Brittany. Melac also wanted to get back together, but that train had left the station long ago. Aimé e&rsquo d let nothing jeopardize her new relationship&mdash which was already tricky&mdash with Bellan, a divorcé who cared part-time for his three children.
They&rsquo d already talked about this ad nauseam, including yesterday&mdash a long conversation that had gone nowhere. She&rsquo d had enough.
Why had he left her a note at the office? Why not at home? The only thing she could think of was he was working nearby. Great.
Her phone rang. Melac. Again.
She hit the red button and sent him straight to voice mail where he belonged.
Monday Late Evening &bull Quai de la Loire
Melac clicked off his phone. Why wouldn&rsquo t Aimé e answer? The tarnished spring moon filtered through a wispy web of clouds. Pale pewter lights reflected on the choppy canal&rsquo s surface farther down the lamplit quai.
He ground out his cigarette on the stone bank with his toe. The place felt dark as a witch&rsquo s derriè re, as they said in Brittany.
He needed to stay alert.
Brrr. He rubbed his hands and paced in front of a weather-warped shed bearing a plaque with the Paris city motto, Fluctuat nec mergitur, Latin for It rocks but does not sink.
He didn&rsquo t like doing surveillance here&mdash he was exposed. An open target.
He climbed over a fence to get better reception and finally found it by the old bridge crossing the canal. The pulleys that controlled the lift deck, opening and closing the bridge twenty-five times a day, cast rippled shadows on the quai.
He called his liaison on the surveillance job but only got voice mail. Irritating. He hated working with amateurs. As soon as he&rsquo d put his phone back down, it rang. Fuming, he looked at the tiny screen.
It wasn&rsquo t Aimé e. It was the liaison whose line crackled and kept breaking up. This latest security contract was a pain, too. He hated surveillance and wished he were back working with his colleagues in counterterrorism. But surveillance work was the only way he&rsquo d get the steady paycheck he needed to guarantee shared custody of Chloé .
&ldquo Allô ?&rdquo
&ldquo Abort . . .&rdquo
He couldn&rsquo t hear the rest and stepped out of the wind to shelter by the ancient hydraulic lift bridge&rsquo s toll house.
&ldquo Abort why?&rdquo he said. The job was still an hour off. Tense, he looked around, alert to what had gone wrong.
The bridge railings were cast iron and finished in light blue. On either side the two old warehouses stood like hulking sentinels, narrowing the Bassin de la Villette.
The call broke up. Static.
Hinweis: Dieser Artikel kann nur an eine deutsche Lieferadresse ausgeliefert werden.
Monday, Avenue Secré tan, Paris
April in Paris rarely feels like the song, thought Aimé e Leduc, shivering as she buttoned her leather jacket. Glocron&rsquo s cold, cavernous office, in a threadbare 1930s movie theater that had been chopped into workspaces, was embellished with faux rococo swirls and chipped plaster ceilings. It felt as aesthetically pleasing as an aircraft hangar.
Last time Aimé e would take a job like this. Too much working overtime. It didn&rsquo t help that this whole consulting gig was fake&mdash she was really here at this tech start-up on an undercover contract for the Ministry, trying to nail down evidence of a saboteur in the IT department in between her humdrum security work. Plus the added strain of constantly battling with her ex, Melac, the biological father of her daughter, over custody was taking its toll.
She hit save on her computer terminal and logged out of her security program.
To Aimé e, this odd open office plan had only one redeeming feature&mdash a view of the Marché Secré tan, a covered market where she used to go shopping with her grandfather, her hand in his, to buy rabbit from his favorite butcher. Now the dilapidated art nouveau covered market looked in need of some love. Just like her.
She packed up, rubbed her chilly hands. Thank God her workspace had an outlet for a portable heater. The other employees wore their coats indoors and huddled by the espresso machine for any kind of camaraderie.
Shouts and the scrape of chairs came from a terminal nearby. &ldquo Who cares about your disabled brother!&rdquo Pé pe, the wiry Basque programmer, was yelling at Isabelle, the cleaner. He twitched in anger. &ldquo Clumsy salope, you spilled my coffee over my printouts!&rdquo
Isabelle, her long dark braid clipped up, paused mopping the floor. Her silver nose ring glinted under the harsh fluorescent light.
Before Aimé e could stand up, Pé pe&rsquo d taken a swing at Isabelle.
Isabelle ducked. Not soon enough. His blow knocked the mop she&rsquo d held in her tattooed arm clattering to the floor.
Was the fool jacked up on caffeine or wired on something else&mdash like speed?
Aimé e rushed over, catching Isabelle before she hit back, and shoved the programmer back into his chair.
&ldquo Are you all right, Isabelle?&rdquo Aimé e asked, concerned. &ldquo Let me see your arm.&rdquo
&ldquo He barely grazed me,&rdquo said Isabelle, her eyes like daggers.
L&rsquo idiote&mdash the programmer didn&rsquo t know who he&rsquo d bullied.
Isabelle, a biker fille from up the canal, had gone to school with Aimé e&rsquo s cousin, Sé bastien. Both had been junkies who&rsquo d cleaned up, gotten straight. Staying clean was hard, but Aimé e&rsquo s cousin had done it. Aimé e sometimes wondered if Isabelle had gone back to her old ways.
Once a junkie . . . No&mdash think positive.
Isabelle looked healthier than Aimé e had ever seen her.
Aimé e turned to Pé pe and summoned authority in her voice. &ldquo Since when do you hit women?&rdquo
She pulled her digital camera out of her purse and started snapping photos of the mark on Isabelle&rsquo s arm.
He sputtered, &ldquo Hey, you can&rsquo t do that.&rdquo
&ldquo Too late. I have.&rdquo
&ldquo They&rsquo ll fire you when I report this, salope,&rdquo Pé pe said to Isabelle. He had spotty skin, potato ears, and a temper.
&ldquo Report what? You&rsquo re a lying weasel. I didn&rsquo t spill your coffee.&rdquo
&ldquo Et alors, aren&rsquo t you aware of the firm&rsquo s policies against violence?&rdquo said Aimé e.
&ldquo This isn&rsquo t over,&rdquo Pé pe said, grabbing his backpack and storming out. &ldquo You&rsquo ll never get that recommendation!&rdquo
Isabelle picked up her mop. Her hands were shaking. &ldquo Merde!&rdquo
&ldquo Isabelle, take a second. Calm down,&rdquo Aimé e said. &ldquo Tell me about your brother. Is this about him? Is he okay?&rdquo
Isabelle took a deep breath. &ldquo Muscular dystrophy. It&rsquo s getting worse. He&rsquo s going downhill.&rdquo
Aimé e vaguely remembered hearing Sé bastien mention it.
&ldquo I need a recommendation from my employer to qualify for adapted housing. Pé pe knows it, too.&rdquo
&ldquo I&rsquo m sorry,&rdquo said Aimé e.
&ldquo Pé pe pretends he cares, then attacks me. Just because I won&rsquo t go out with him.&rdquo
Mean to the bone.
Aimé e couldn&rsquo t believe the toxic work culture fermenting here.
After Sé bastien had gotten clean, Aimé e had guaranteed Sé bastien&rsquo s business. He&rsquo d branched out as a building contractor and now owned several framing shops. Sé bastien had been the one to steer Isabelle toward the program that matched her with this job&mdash the tech start-up got tax incentives for hiring locals. The locals benefited from jobs and access to fast-track housing. It was a win-win.
Too bad the boss, Robé rt, a preening narcissist, had no management skills to speak of. Just last week he&rsquo d reduced the intern program and frozen the promotions of five programmers, who&rsquo d then quit. Isabelle would not be able to count on him to be sympathetic.
&ldquo I&rsquo ll report Pé pe and back you up,&rdquo said Aimé e.
&ldquo You shouldn&rsquo t,&rdquo Isabelle said. &ldquo The boss is a salaud, I don&rsquo t want you in trouble.&rdquo
Defending Isabelle would be thorny&mdash Aimé e couldn&rsquo t afford to rankle Robé rt if she wanted to keep her undercover Ministry job. But she had to help Isabelle with this second chance.
&ldquo Excusez-moi.&rdquo Robé rt was striding toward them. The hanging fluorescent lights reflected off his rimless glasses. He wore a tight bargain Monoprix suit and clearly thought it looked good on him. &ldquo Pé pe&rsquo s filing a report against you,&rdquo he said to Isabelle. He probably didn&rsquo t even know her name. &ldquo Look, we can&rsquo t tolerate harassment from contract workers.&rdquo
Isabelle&rsquo s eyes welled. Aimé e wondered if she&rsquo d break out in tears or slug him. Before either could happen, Aimé e wedged herself between Isabelle and Robé rt.
&ldquo Harassment by whom?&rdquo She held up her camera for him to see. &ldquo I&rsquo ve recorded Pé pe&rsquo s demeaning insults here and documented his physically assaulting Isabelle. She will be filing a complaint and charges against him. This will go all the way up to the board of Glocron.&rdquo
No company board relished dealing with a problem like this. Robé rt knew that could impact their funding. He looked deflated.
Isabelle&rsquo s eyes widened. She was scared but defiant. She needed this job.
&ldquo But,&rdquo Aimé e added, thinking on the fly, &ldquo Isabelle might consent to continue working here if Pé pe took anger management classes and she was transferred to a different floor and office.&rdquo
Too harsh? Would this get her fired? Working undercover, Aimé e needed to stay under the radar.
Her handler in the Ministry was on her case every day.
But right now she couldn&rsquo t care less.
Robé rt steepled his fingers. &ldquo If we do that, she wouldn&rsquo t press charges or file a complaint?&rdquo
Isabelle&rsquo s jaw clenched but she nodded.
&ldquo I&rsquo ll get that in writing and have you sign it.&rdquo
With that, Robé rt hurried to his office.
&ldquo Merci, Aimé e,&rdquo said Isabelle. &ldquo I owe you.&rdquo
&ldquo Pas du tout,&rdquo Aimé e said. &ldquo The creep can&rsquo t get away with what he did. And he won&rsquo t. What&rsquo s your number?&rdquo
She wanted to follow up and make sure Isabelle didn&rsquo t suffer a fallout.
&ldquo Can you remember nobodylu?&rdquo she said, then spelled it out: &ldquo N-o-b-o-d-y-l-u?&rdquo
Aimé e nodded. &ldquo Why?&rdquo
&ldquo Easiest way to remember my phone number. 06 26 39 58.&rdquo She mimed typing it on a phone keyboard, which would spell the phrase. &ldquo Contact me any time.&rdquo
Aimé e went back to her desk, logged back on, downloaded the photos from her digital camera&mdash just in case&mdash trashed her junk mail and powered off her computer. As she was reaching for her bag, she found an envelope with Aimé e Leduc Dé tective Privé typed on the outside&mdash and URGENT written underneath in familiar hard-to-read scrawl. Looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, she opened the envelope.
We have to talk. There&rsquo s something you need to know. It&rsquo s important. Last time, Aimé e, and I won&rsquo t take no for an answer.
Melac, hounding her again. Chloé &rsquo s biological father wanted to move Chloé to Brittany. Melac also wanted to get back together, but that train had left the station long ago. Aimé e&rsquo d let nothing jeopardize her new relationship&mdash which was already tricky&mdash with Bellan, a divorcé who cared part-time for his three children.
They&rsquo d already talked about this ad nauseam, including yesterday&mdash a long conversation that had gone nowhere. She&rsquo d had enough.
Why had he left her a note at the office? Why not at home? The only thing she could think of was he was working nearby. Great.
Her phone rang. Melac. Again.
She hit the red button and sent him straight to voice mail where he belonged.
Monday Late Evening &bull Quai de la Loire
Melac clicked off his phone. Why wouldn&rsquo t Aimé e answer? The tarnished spring moon filtered through a wispy web of clouds. Pale pewter lights reflected on the choppy canal&rsquo s surface farther down the lamplit quai.
He ground out his cigarette on the stone bank with his toe. The place felt dark as a witch&rsquo s derriè re, as they said in Brittany.
He needed to stay alert.
Brrr. He rubbed his hands and paced in front of a weather-warped shed bearing a plaque with the Paris city motto, Fluctuat nec mergitur, Latin for It rocks but does not sink.
He didn&rsquo t like doing surveillance here&mdash he was exposed. An open target.
He climbed over a fence to get better reception and finally found it by the old bridge crossing the canal. The pulleys that controlled the lift deck, opening and closing the bridge twenty-five times a day, cast rippled shadows on the quai.
He called his liaison on the surveillance job but only got voice mail. Irritating. He hated working with amateurs. As soon as he&rsquo d put his phone back down, it rang. Fuming, he looked at the tiny screen.
It wasn&rsquo t Aimé e. It was the liaison whose line crackled and kept breaking up. This latest security contract was a pain, too. He hated surveillance and wished he were back working with his colleagues in counterterrorism. But surveillance work was the only way he&rsquo d get the steady paycheck he needed to guarantee shared custody of Chloé .
&ldquo Allô ?&rdquo
&ldquo Abort . . .&rdquo
He couldn&rsquo t hear the rest and stepped out of the wind to shelter by the ancient hydraulic lift bridge&rsquo s toll house.
&ldquo Abort why?&rdquo he said. The job was still an hour off. Tense, he looked around, alert to what had gone wrong.
The bridge railings were cast iron and finished in light blue. On either side the two old warehouses stood like hulking sentinels, narrowing the Bassin de la Villette.
The call broke up. Static.
Hinweis: Dieser Artikel kann nur an eine deutsche Lieferadresse ausgeliefert werden.