“Venetian glass eye. Thanks to the IRA’s Enskillen Rembrance Day bombing in 1987,” he said with a lopsided smile.
“And I was one of the lucky ones. How can I help?”
“I’m researching European terrorism in the seventies for a Montreal journal,” she said. “I came across your article. It made me curious.”
She thrust the copy across his desk.
Caillot scanned the article, nodding. “Of course, I remember,” he said. “Does Lepic still man the Figaro night desk?” he asked without looking up.
He’d got her. She’d only known Martine and her assistant, Roxane, at Le Figaro. He’d tested her and he’d won.
“Tell you what,” she said, gambling. “You can kick me out, but I borrowed this ID from my friend Martine, the former Le Figaro editor.”
“And why, may I ask?”
“Because, Monsieur Caillot, there didn’t seem to be any other way to see you. You see this ‘couple in cahoots’ you described in the article are my parents.” She stood up. “No one will talk to me.” She sat back down, put her elbows on his desk, and leaned forward. “The only files available have been sanitized. At least your article makes me think so. So far, your piece has been the only one to surface.”
“You lied to get in here,” Caillot said, returning her gaze. His glass eye was fixed on a spot below the mole on her neck.
“D’accord,” she agreed. “But I didn’t know what else to do. I need to know about Action-Réaction, Haader-Rofmein terrorists still wanted by Europol, Romain Figeac, and agit888.”
“Impressive,” he said. “You’ve been doing some homework.”
Metal rods behind his back caught the light as he leaned forward. She realized he sat in a wheelchair.
“Not enough,” she said. “Help me out, please.”
“Why do you think I’m down here, Mademoiselle … what was your name?”
“Aimée Leduc.” She pulled out her detective’s badge and carte d’identité with the less than flattering photo. “I’m guessing, but after Enskillen you wanted to let it all settle. Write a book.”
“It’s being printed as we speak. You’re quick.” He gave her another lopsided smile. “Why should I help you, even if I could?”
“You didn’t get into reporting to stay safe,” she said. “It’s all about risks. Finding something, trying out hunches until one pays off. Like a detective.”
The lid over his glass eye quivered.
“What evidence did you find?” she said, leaning over his desk.
“Don’t badger me,” he said. “I’m a pro.”
She wanted to say, So am I, but she didn’t feel like one.
“Please tell me where you got your information,” she said. “Then I’ll leave you alone.”
“Know anybody at the DST?”
Her mind raced. “No one who likes me.”
He tented his fingers. Tapped his index fingers together.
“I’m curious what you’d do with the information,” he said, leaning back in his wheelchair, “if I had any to give.”
She had to make him understand. And there was only one way. Something she hated to do. Reveal herself to a stranger.
“Monsieur Caillot, one day, when I was eight, I came home from school and my mother was gone,” she said. “Papa burned her things. Told me we’d closed a chapter in our life and started another. Wouldn’t talk about her.”
She rubbed her goose-pimpled arms. “Years later, during a routine surveillance contracted for with our detective agency by the police, our van blew up. Papa died. No one gave me any reasons or answers. For years I’ve tried to find out who these terrorists were. All I reached was dead ends. My last shot, an informer in Berlin, gave me zip. But when I returned a few days ago, a former terrorist, Jutta Hald, appeared at my door—straight from a twenty-year prison sentence—telling me she’d been my mother’s cell mate in Frésnes.”
Jacques Caillot’s hands remained tented. His odd gaze never left her face.
“Somehow, searching for leads to my father’s death triggered the arrival of this terrorist who knew my mother. Then Jutta Hald was murdered. But that’s just the beginning, Monsieur Caillot,” she said. “Now it’s your turn. Tell me what you know and how you found it out.”
“But you still haven’t said what you’ll do with the information.”
“All I want to know is who was behind my father’s death and if my mother’s buried in some lime pit in a field or alive in Africa.”
“Africa?”
“It’s personal, Monsieur … I need to know if they’re connected …”
“You mean …?”
“If she caused my father to be killed.” There. She’d said it, then she hung her head. When she looked up, he hadn’t moved. “Guess I’m stubbborn, but I have to know and I won’t leave until you tell me.”
“There are a few life lessons I’ve learned,” he said. “Important ones: When you find the love of your life, never hesitate, grab her; brush and floss every night; and don’t mess with the DST.”
“Thanks for the warning,” she said. “I thought Papa’s files were at the police judiciare.”
“You’re not wearing a wire, eh?”
“Wired? Only on espresso,” she said. She stood up, took off her hat, and opened her backpack. “But you can check.”
He paused, then shook his head. “If you mention anything outside this thick-walled dungeon, I’ll deny it all.”
Dungeon was right.
“You have my word.”
Caillot took a deep breath. “Don’t think I’m proud of the afternoon I spent on rue Nelaton more than twenty years ago.” He shrugged. “But I was starting out, a hungry reporter, ready to chew on anything. Sounds trite, but live and learn.”
“Rue Nelaton,” Aimée said, “you mean where the DST’s housed in the former Elf Oil building?” Aimée had long since dropped off a request to see her father’s files at the Ministry of Interior located in the unmarked building constructed over the Vel d’Hiver, the velodrome that held Jews before shipment to Drancy, then the long train ride to Auschwitz.
“Exactement,” he said. “They refer to it as politesse or good manners. Very simple, very civilized. Upon invitation, a journalist gets access to files the flics or the DST wants them to see. But the real agenda is that the story the flics want published gets published.”
“Selective leaks?”
“From selective files,” he said. “Your papa, a flic, would’ve understood. Take the agit888 file. They trailed Sartre for years; tapped his phone, noted whom he met, where he went. On the surface it looks suspicious, eh? A thick surveillance log, reels of phone tapes, hidden photos … and what did it show? Basically, that he and Simone de Beauvoir had an unsatisfactory love life and he was in trouble with his publisher. Missed his deadlines.”
That dovetailed with what Morbier had told her about Sartre and agit888. And it made sense.
“But my mother probably translated Sartre’s interview in the jail with Haader, and that’s part of the agit888 file, isn’t it?”
“Another nail in Sartre’s coffin, but she didn’t figure in the file or I would have written that.”
So the agit888 file led nowhere.
“What about my father?”
“Same analogy applies,” Caillot said. “Fingers pointed at him after an art heist. They left me in a room with his file and some Action-Réaction articles mentioning your mother. I figured they were helping me and I knew I’d have to repay them someday.”
“So they used you,” Aimée said.
“That’s clear now, but then …” His voice trailed off.