disagree,” Martine said. “ Tiens , don’t get me started. What do you need?”
“A lot of things. Info on the connections between Haader-Rofmein and Action-Réaction gangs.”
“Time traveling? Blast from the past?”
“My mother. Kind of like that.”
“Let me look.” Aimée heard tapping as Martine’s long nails sped over the keyboard. The phone line clicked. “Hold on,” she said.
“Any man in your life?” Martine asked, sighing as she returned. “But then you’re different from me. I’d be crawling the ceiling.”
“Well, I met this suit,” Aimée said hesitantly. “A golden boy from the Bourse, but I doubt he’s interested in me.” She felt too embarrassed to even mention that his uncle was also a possibility.
“Aren’t you, what do they call it … evolved?” Martine breathed into the phone. “Call him.”
“Seems too ‘nice,’ but he has got a Harley.”
“Impressive,” Martine said. “You know capitalists have some good points.”
“We met under adverse conditions,” Aimée said.
“Doesn’t matter … you met!”
Another click on the line.
“It’s Jérôme, I have to get off,” Martine said. “About your mother, I’ll dig around.”
A IMÉE’S CELL phone rang.
“Allô?” “Christian Figeac called,” René said. “His financial advisor sprang him from the Commissariat. He felt contrite, says his father used to keep tapes in some panel.”
“Panel … where?”
Why hadn’t Christian mentioned this before?
Irritated, she paused in front of a busy tabac , taking in the late afternoon paper’s headlines: WORLD TRADE ORGANIZATION PROTEST and TERRORIST THREATS OF POISON GAS with photos of demonstrators being hauled away from the Palais des Congrès. When she saw the photo of a man captioned “Spokesman for Action-Réaction,” she slipped four francs into the vendor’s hand and folded it under her arm.
“The tapes are behind the desk in his father’s study. But he’s gone, he’ll return later,” René was saying. “He said he’d forgotten about them since his father kept most things at the bank or with his publisher.”
These tapes might contain information about her mother … why hadn’t Christian remembered sooner?
“I’ll stop at Romain Figeac’s, then come to the office.”
“I’m driving to Media 9,” he said. “A negotiation question and since you weren’t there …”
She heard the complaint in his voice.
“Hold out for the exclusives,” she interrupted. “We wouldn’t want to design and implement a security system with our blood, sweat, and tears, only to see them hire a cheap-upkeep server to continue our work … and watch it crash.”
“True,” René said. “But I could use some help.”
“ Bien sûr , don’t worry, I’ll tackle my desk soon,” she said. “But be careful, René, not like last time with Euroworld, eh? We’ve learned our lesson.”
S HE NEEDED to get into Christian Figeac’s atelier and she didn’t want to wait for him.
In her apartment, she opened the worm-holed armoire and pulled out her kit. She’d find the hiding place for the tapes without anyone’s being the wiser. It was her father’s favorite tactic. She hoped Christian wouldn’t mind.
She hung up her linen jacket and put on a blue service jacket and a cap with L’eau de France’s logo of the Seine snaking across it. She struggled into the blue twill pants. Maybe she should try Morbier’s pills. Every time she quit smoking she felt it in her hips!
“ O UI?” ANSWERED a reedlike man wearing an apron double-tied around his waist who stood at the concierge’s door. A burnt vanilla aroma wafted from the interior.
“ Bonsoir , Monsieur, sorry to interrupt your dinner,” she said, setting down her tool bag. She handed him a card reading PLOMBERIE DELINCOURT 24/7 SERVICE .
From inside his hallway a television blared Questions pour un Champion , the quiz show on France3.
“Monsieur Figeac called about a blockage. He’s
“A lot of things. Info on the connections between Haader-Rofmein and Action-Réaction gangs.”
“Time traveling? Blast from the past?”
“My mother. Kind of like that.”
“Let me look.” Aimée heard tapping as Martine’s long nails sped over the keyboard. The phone line clicked. “Hold on,” she said.
“Any man in your life?” Martine asked, sighing as she returned. “But then you’re different from me. I’d be crawling the ceiling.”
“Well, I met this suit,” Aimée said hesitantly. “A golden boy from the Bourse, but I doubt he’s interested in me.” She felt too embarrassed to even mention that his uncle was also a possibility.
“Aren’t you, what do they call it … evolved?” Martine breathed into the phone. “Call him.”
“Seems too ‘nice,’ but he has got a Harley.”
“Impressive,” Martine said. “You know capitalists have some good points.”
“We met under adverse conditions,” Aimée said.
“Doesn’t matter … you met!”
Another click on the line.
“It’s Jérôme, I have to get off,” Martine said. “About your mother, I’ll dig around.”
A IMÉE’S CELL phone rang.
“Allô?” “Christian Figeac called,” René said. “His financial advisor sprang him from the Commissariat. He felt contrite, says his father used to keep tapes in some panel.”
“Panel … where?”
Why hadn’t Christian mentioned this before?
Irritated, she paused in front of a busy tabac , taking in the late afternoon paper’s headlines: WORLD TRADE ORGANIZATION PROTEST and TERRORIST THREATS OF POISON GAS with photos of demonstrators being hauled away from the Palais des Congrès. When she saw the photo of a man captioned “Spokesman for Action-Réaction,” she slipped four francs into the vendor’s hand and folded it under her arm.
“The tapes are behind the desk in his father’s study. But he’s gone, he’ll return later,” René was saying. “He said he’d forgotten about them since his father kept most things at the bank or with his publisher.”
These tapes might contain information about her mother … why hadn’t Christian remembered sooner?
“I’ll stop at Romain Figeac’s, then come to the office.”
“I’m driving to Media 9,” he said. “A negotiation question and since you weren’t there …”
She heard the complaint in his voice.
“Hold out for the exclusives,” she interrupted. “We wouldn’t want to design and implement a security system with our blood, sweat, and tears, only to see them hire a cheap-upkeep server to continue our work … and watch it crash.”
“True,” René said. “But I could use some help.”
“ Bien sûr , don’t worry, I’ll tackle my desk soon,” she said. “But be careful, René, not like last time with Euroworld, eh? We’ve learned our lesson.”
S HE NEEDED to get into Christian Figeac’s atelier and she didn’t want to wait for him.
In her apartment, she opened the worm-holed armoire and pulled out her kit. She’d find the hiding place for the tapes without anyone’s being the wiser. It was her father’s favorite tactic. She hoped Christian wouldn’t mind.
She hung up her linen jacket and put on a blue service jacket and a cap with L’eau de France’s logo of the Seine snaking across it. She struggled into the blue twill pants. Maybe she should try Morbier’s pills. Every time she quit smoking she felt it in her hips!
“ O UI?” ANSWERED a reedlike man wearing an apron double-tied around his waist who stood at the concierge’s door. A burnt vanilla aroma wafted from the interior.
“ Bonsoir , Monsieur, sorry to interrupt your dinner,” she said, setting down her tool bag. She handed him a card reading PLOMBERIE DELINCOURT 24/7 SERVICE .
From inside his hallway a television blared Questions pour un Champion , the quiz show on France3.
“Monsieur Figeac called about a blockage. He’s
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