Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,86
straw hat held in one hand and a duty-free bag in the other. Her heart jumped. She wanted to hug him.
“Forget something?” she said, finding her voice.
His brow knit in worry and pain.
“My common sense, Aimée. Mind setting your gun down? Look, I need to get the relay codes … don’t have time.…”
His words tore her heart. Apparently he wouldn’t be staying.
“So the corporate jet’s waiting at Orly, eh? Need to rush back to your millions?”
He shook his head. “I don’t like them dirty, Aimée. Look, I’ve got four hours, maybe six.…”
Her hurt bubbled to the surface. “Before you leave again?”
He limped inside and pulled out his laptop from the duty-free bag. “If I don’t stop them, I’m in a little trouble.”
His tone made her stand still. “Sounds like big trouble, René.”
“Tradelert’s front running and I secured the back door in their damn system. Now if I don’t disable it.…” He hobbled to his desk. Must be his hip, she thought. “Please just let me work. I need my tools here. Can I explain later?”
“Go ahead,” she said, surprised. “Why the sombrero?”
“Mexico City.”
“I thought you.…”
“Long story, Aimée. I’ve had ten hours on the flight to prepare,” he said. “Think I’ve found a shortcut to rewind the algorithms, circumvent the disabler. But it’s all contingent on the clone providing me access. From here.”
She understood less than half of what he’d just said.
“If I don’t execute preventive measures, Wall Street will come after me and it’ll be all my fault. Not now, maybe tomorrow.…” He opened his desk drawer. “Then I’ll leave.”
Aimée bit her lip. She’d never seen René so upset. Or with a stain on his jacket. “Can I help?”
René connected his laptop to the terminal, his eyes never leaving the screen. “Call Saj. Tell him I need his eyes and his old relay and delay codes. Use my car.”
His car. Aimée looked away.
She heard a buzz—the alarm had been disabled. Saj walked in with Maxence. “I forgot my herbs … René!” He shot Aimée a look.
She shrugged.
“Long time no see, René. At least three days.”
René kept his eyes on the screen. “Still have your relay and delay programs here?”
“Bien sûr,” Saj said.
“Let me help too, René,” Maxence said, smiling. “No luggage? Means you’re going to stay a while, I hope.”
René looked up. His green eyes widened at Saj’s neck brace, his arm in a sling. “Saj? Mon Dieu, are you all right?”
“Did you tell him, Aimée?”
“Not now, Saj.”
A knowing look passed over René’s face. “My car? Never mind, are you okay?”
“All systems go,” Saj said, rubbing his good hand. “Two seconds for me to dig out that program. But I think you’ll be more interested in the newer version.”
Glancing at the time, Aimée reached for her scarf and left them to it.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, on rue Delambre, she pushed open the tall green door into a courtyard. She felt like she’d stepped back in time. A cold dampness crept up her legs. Ivy trailed the walls of faded tea-stain-colored stuccoed workshops, timbered two- and three-storied ateliers roofed by zinc tiles. Tall windows, like dead eyes in the twilight, faced northern exposure—as favored by artists. Skylights dotted the slanted roofs, glowing patches swept by the beacon light of the Eiffel Tower. A mustard-colored cat padded over the wet cobbles at her approach. Strains of a high-pitched binioù kozh bagpipe trailed from the Ti ar Vretoned, the Breton cultural center at the heart of the courtyard.
She wondered why Dombasle insisted on meeting here. What happened to the vernissage? Inside the large hall of the Breton cultural center, children held hands in a wide circle, dancing, concentration on their faces. The girls wore lace caps, kicking and performing intricate back steps. The sheepskin pipes wheezed in the background.
“Any luck on the white van?” Aimée said, sidling up to Dombasle by the Breton-language bulletin board.
“The traffic chief’s daughter-in-law went to school with my sister,” he said. “Life’s a gratin, non? The white van with corresponding license plates clocked Avenue du Général Leclerc’s traffic cameras at Alésia five times within an hour.”
That confirmed what she’d thought. He’d come through. “Et voilà.”
The music and the dancers’ pounding feet made it hard to hear. She edged closer and caught Dombasle’s scent. A woodsy musk … Aramis? Stupid, she needed to focus.
“Morgane’s on parole,” Dombasle said. “A single mother, eager to talk.”
“She confessed?”
“Nothing we can use.”
Would Aimée have to drag each word out of him? But she smiled. “Meaning?”
“Luebet hired her to organize the job. She admitted to