it seemed, were the location of choice for the Council. The satellite office, as Gabriel had called it, was located inside the Musée de l’Orangerie, a small, but remarkable impressionist gallery located in the Jardin des Tuileries. It is a memorable destination for a number of reasons, but for me it is because it is home to the “Nymphéas,” the eight legendary murals featuring water lilies by Monet. As I strolled out of the Concorde metro station adjacent to the Tuileries at dusk, I was looking forward to seeing the muted tones of the paintings again, set as they are in twin oval-shaped rooms with nothing to distract you from their peaceful views.
Following the directions that had been emailed to me, I approached the front door of the museum and flashed a badge that had been sent by courier to the apartment. Ingenious in its design, it appeared to be a kind of temporary badge issued to visiting scholars and professionals. The guard briefly looked at the badge and waved me in. I used my skills to locate Gabriel, pressing hard for him to send word about where they were gathered.
“Come to the bookstore,” was his crisp reply inside my head, and I walked down a set of stairs to the second level, where a large gift shop occupied most of the space.
Gabriel appeared through the crowd, his ID clipped to his shirt pocket. He could have been any diligent docent, a retired teacher or accountant giving his time to the public. He smiled and beckoned silently to me to follow him. He walked toward the rear of the shop and opened a door that was almost hidden in the corner between two sets of bookshelves. Once we passed through the door, a familiar-looking scene revealed itself, very similar to the Council offices in San Francisco. Another array of desks and touchscreens occupied the space, only this time the faces of people staring into them appeared graver and more serious than they had been back home.
We continued to a small conference room. Gabriel waved me in and followed, shutting the door before he turned to face me.
“Ça va?” he asked, as we stood regarding one another.
“Comme si, comme ça,” I said. “I mean, I’m as good as I can be. You?”
“The same,” he said, “I have not slept well since we arrived.”
I experienced a tinge of guilt as I thought of my rooftop meal, the late night at the jazz club, and my encounter with the brothers. It was all I could do to stay awake as dawn approached. But I realized for Gabriel, his mind still stuck on the loss of Aidan, peace would not return for some time.
“What have you learned?” I asked, pushing the image of my abruptly halted threesome from my mind.
“Nothing, everything,” he said, distracted. The door to the room opened, and Madeline walked in.
“Bon après-midi,” I said, grasping her hand. I was impatient, and regarded her for only a moment, before pressing Gabriel with the question at hand.
“When can we confront Nikola?”
“We must be careful, Olivia,” Gabriel said. “Nikola is a member of the Council and next in line as deputy.”
“Careful? He killed Aidan, he almost killed us.”
“Perhaps, but we have no proof,” Madeline said. “At least not enough yet to ask Zoran to dismiss him as deputy.”
“And what if Zoran is in on this too?”
“Olivia,” Gabriel said, “Aidan’s phone shows a half-dozen texts and calls exchanged with Nikola earlier in the day before the bombing. The day before, there are another six-to-ten calls recorded on his phone. There is no communication between Aidan and Zoran. No emails, no phone calls and no texts. If Aidan suspected Zoran was involved, he would have contacted him.
“Well at least we know more than we did before we left for Paris,” I said. “What else?”
“Aidan’s laptop had a series of files with Interpol notices containing information about Serbian mafia figures who are wanted across the globe,” Peter said. “The man you saw visiting Nikola is listed on one of the bulletins.”
“Nikola had to have known his friend was a wanted man,” I said. “Perhaps that’s why they tried to blind me that day during the robbery, so I couldn’t see what they looked like.”
Gabriel began to pace the room, his hands buried deep inside his chinos. “These are only theories,” he said. “But it’s not evidence that he killed Aidan. There is nothing to tie him to the bombings...rien!”
“We need to find something,” I said. “It’s out