"I haven't gotten around to it yet," Rene moaned. "We're cooked! Our whole system's down."
Aimee quickly started the automated backup retrieval system, so files wouldn't be lost or deleted. Automated backup retrieval cost them a lot, but the system was guaranteed to be fail-safe.
She breathed a sigh of relief after she'd checked the system. "The fingerprints are saved."
Rene looked worried as he climbed down from his chair. "I think you kicked off some warning device in the FOMEX system."
"I think you're right." She glanced at her screen. "That means I dug deep enough to flip off an alarm."
For the first time she admitted to herself that she might be in over her head. Way over her head.
"Go home," Rene said, as he put on his coat. "I'm going to visit a friend who deals with this kind of thing. Just stay off the system and wait until you hear from me."
"I'm going to walk home," she said.
"Stay off the phone." He looked grim. "And make sure you're not followed."
AS SHE walked along the Seine kicking pebbles into the water, she checked to see that she wasn't being followed. Uneasily, she forced herself to mentally catalog her recent discoveries.
She'd discovered that a fifty-year-old bloody fingerprint found at the murder scene of Lili's concierge hadn't matched any Si-Po officers in occupied Paris. However, she knew that these officers had been listed as dead in the Battle of Stalingrad while they were still signing deportation orders for Jews in Paris. Her office had been broken into, files about Lili and a collabo taken, and a swastika painted on her wall along with a threat. She had heard Soli's last utterance in the hospital of "Ka…za" and was almost run over. Not to mention discovering Thierry's real parentage and Javel's statement about the Jew with the bright blue eyes. More of the puzzle pieces had surfaced-fragments and images. They all fit together. Only she didn't know how.
Now she needed to stir things up. Throw her idea in the frying pan and see what happened. Test her suspicions about Hartmuth Griffe. She pulled out her cell phone and called Thierry.
"Meet me in the rear courtyard of the Picasso Museum," she said.
"What for?" His voice sounded flat.
"Has to do with your parentage," she said slowly. "We need to-"
He interrupted excitedly. "Did you find out about my…" He paused. "The Jewess?"
"Look for me by the Minotaur statue. Behind the plane trees."
"Why?"
She explained her plan to him, then hung up.
As she crossed the Place des Vosges, she kicked the fallen leaves. She made another phone call to Hartmuth Griffe. This would definitely set wheels in motion. Whether they were the right ones remained to be seen.
THIS FORMER hôtel particulier, now the Picasso Museum on rue Thorigny, still maintained quiet niches of green comfort in the rear courtyard. At this time of year, the small courtyard was deserted of museum-goers. Crisp autumn air skittled leaves over Picasso's bronze figures reclining on the lawn. Several of his voluptuous marble Boisegeloup females bordered the limestone walls.
Thierry stood next to Aimee under a spreading tree, his legs apart, his face expressionless. "Him?"
She nodded. "Keep to the plan."
Hartmuth Griffe huddled on a bench beside the gilded Minotaur, pulling his cashmere coat around him. He stared as they approached.
"Thank you for coming, Monsieur Griffe," Aimee said.
"Your offer intrigued me, Mademoiselle Leduc." He inclined his head in a half bow. "Now what is so interesting for me to come out in this cold?" he said.
Aimee noticed how Hartmuth stared at Thierry's intense blue eyes. She motioned to Thierry. Thierry's arm shot out in a Sieg heil salute from his black leather storm-trooper coat. The worn leather crackled.
Hartmuth's eyes never wavered as he stood up. "So who are you, before I leave?"
Thierry smiled sardonically. "Right now, that's a good question."
Aimee stepped forward. "I have a request to make of you. This may appear audacious, and of course it is, but indulge me, please; it will all make sense later. Please remove your shirt."
"What if I say no?" Hartmuth said, standing and backing up into an ivy-covered trellis. He started towards a rear walkway.
Aimee blocked his exit. "Cooperation is better."
Thierry reached for Hartmuth's arms, holding him from behind. Hartmuth jerked and twisted.
"Struggling isn't wise," Thierry said as he pulled Hartmuth behind leafy bushes directly under the museum windows.
Behind the dense foliage, Aimee stuck her Glock in his temple. "I've asked you nicely. Now do it."
His face a mask, Hartmuth removed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, exposing his chest. Tan, muscular, and lean. Aimee draped the coat over Hartmuth's shoulders as she lifted his arm.
"Do you think I'm a drug addict, too? Needing a fix?" Hartmuth's eyes bored into Thierry's. "You two junkies work as a team, right? My wallet is in my pocket. Take the money and get out."
Aimee examined his arm carefully, as Thierry held him from behind. She pushed aside her disgust at discovering the telltale sign.
"What are you d-doing?" Hartmuth said. He jerked his arm back.
"That scar under your left arm comes from removing your SS tattoo, doesn't it?" she said. "Firing a pistol into your armpit so the muzzle flash would burn it-painful but better than the slow death from the Russians if they'd discovered it," she said.
Hartmuth simply stared at them.
"Please put your shirt back on; it's very cold out here," Aimee said. She had him now. Time to gamble that these men matched. But after reading Sarah's letter, she knew they would.
Thierry stared at Hartmuth.
"Who are you and what do you want?" Hartmuth asked. His eyes were cold.
"I don't know what I want," Thierry said.
She stepped forward. "He's your son."
Dumbfounded, Hartmuth's eyes became wide.
"I don't understand," Hartmuth began. "Is this a j-joke?"
"More a bizarre backfire. Tainted in the Aryan sense." Thierry emitted a brittle laugh.
"You expect me t-to…," Hartmuth said.
"Monsieur Griffe, if that is your name, I want answers," Aimee said. "Sit down."
Thierry pulled him down on the bench. His eyes never left Hartmuth's face.
Hartmuth shook his head back and forth, staring at Thierry. "What crazy idea are you trying to prove?"
"I had to be sure you were SS," she said.
"My record is clear," Hartmuth said. "This is absurd!"
Aimee thrust the faded blue sheet of paper, covered with spidery writing, at him. "Didn't I promise you interesting reading?" she said. "Read this."
Hartmuth read it slowly. His lower lip twitched once. Motionless, he reread the letter.
"Who gave this to you?" he asked Thierry.
"His stepmother left this to be read with her will."
"But why come to me?" His hands shook as he rebuttoned his cashmere coat.
"You tell us," she said.
Thierry, his arms folded, stared intently at Hartmuth. The only sound came from scraping gravel as Thierry crossed and recrossed his legs. Somewhere in the Marais, low and sonorous in the frosty air, a bell pealed. Hartmuth remained mute, almost paralyzed.
"You had to murder Lili Stein because she recognized you," Aimee said. "From the time you rounded up her family and all the Jews in the Marais!"
Hartmuth stood up. "I'm calling a guard."
Aimee held his arm. "Fifty years later, Lili sees your photo in the paper and knows you."
"You're making this up!" he said.
"Lili couldn't forget your face. You beat down the door and pulled her parents out of bed."
"I-I t-told you it wasn't like that," Hartmuth stumbled.
She noticed how he clenched and unclenched his hands.
"Coincidentally, in the alley behind your hotel, she recognized you." Aimee leaned into his face, pushing him back. "Or maybe she tracked you down. Followed you. 'Nazi butcher,' she screams, or 'Assassin.' Maybe she tries to attack you, gets scared, runs away. But you follow her and you have to keep her quiet like the concierge. Keep your past hidden."