“What do you want?”
“Tell me about Krzysztof Linski.”
“No comment.”
“Were you at last night’s march?”
Brigitte shook her head. “I couldn’t be there. I had to march in a protest at La Défense.”
Too bad.
“A young woman’s body was recovered from the Seine. She and Nelie Landrou were in your organization—”
“Who’s this article for?” Brigitte interrupted.
“Whoever will print it; the truth must come out. I’ve got contacts at L’Humanité,” Aimée hastened to add. It was a Communist rag, but that should appeal to Brigitte.
Brigitte’s phone rang. She glanced at her watch. “Merde, the meeting started five minutes ago,” she said, grabbing her bag and keys. “Sorry.“
Aimée couldn’t let her make her escape without getting any information. “A meeting concerning . . . ?”
“Alstrom’s filing a suit against us. They’re asking for an injunction and that’s just for starters.” Brigitte shook her head.
“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
Strange that an oil company would file suit against Monde-Focus and seek an injunction. Had things changed so much that an oil conglomerate could silence protests against it?
“Those with the most expensive lawyers win. We’re attempting to negotiate to prevent their enjoining our campaign.” Brigitte opened the door to the cold hall.
“How well did you know Orla Thiers?”
Brigitte looked down and when she did meet Aimée’s eyes, a sadness filled them. She started to speak then caught herself and sighed. “I’ll have more to say later.”
“Wasn’t she involved in the roadblock near the nuclear facility at La Hague? I’d like to speak with her friend, Nelie.”
“Nelie . . . the hanger-on? I haven’t seen her for a while.”
Odd. It sounded as if Brigitte didn’t know that Nelie had had the baby.
“How does Krzysztof Linski fit in?”
Brigitte’s eyes blazed back in fighting form. “He’s not part of our organization anymore.”
“But I thought . . .”
“He got us into this mess. He was a right-wing plant. That’s all I have to say.” Brigitte’s keys jangled in her hand. “Look, if you don’t mind . . .”
Aimée pressed on. “Who else can I talk to in your organization, please?”
“Can’t this wait?”
“In news, nothing waits or you won’t have a story.”
Aimée saw videotapes stacked on a cabinet arranged by title and date of demonstration. Surely the demonstration against the oil agreement would have been taped like the others. “Who filmed the march last night? Please, it would help so much to convey the mood of the event. Will you give me the name of the videographer?”
“Sure,” Brigitte said. “I’ll tell you on the way out.”
OUT ON QUAI D’ORLÉANS, Aimée ducked, but not in time to avoid receiving the Peugeot’s diesel exhaust in her face as Brigitte gunned the motor and sped off. Notre Dame lay shrouded in mist on her right, and rain pelted the stone ramp angling into the Seine. She pulled her hood over her head, glad she at least had obtained a lead from Brigitte. Then she stumbled into a rut filled with water and her pants got sopping wet up to her knees. En route to the documentary filmmaker’s studio, she’d make a stop and buy an umbrella.
SOUTH OF GARE D’AUSTERLITZ, once an industrial area, cobblestone-surfaced rue Giffard still held traces of small workshops. Near Les Frigos, the old refrigerator warehouses that had served the train yards, two-story buildings housed artists, musicians and—judging by the graffiti—an anarchist or two. She read CLAUDE NEDEROVIQUE—DOCUMENTARY FILM PRODUCTION by the digicode at his door.
The grillwork gate stood ajar. Aimée pushed it open and entered a narrow courtyard roofed by grime-encrusted glass resembling a train station. Rain pounded relentlessly overhead.
She shook and folded her umbrella, remembering the radio alert she had overhead: traffic advisory warnings and closures of lanes bordering the Seine due to record rainfall.
She knocked. Her trousers and sodden leather boots were soaked through. No answer. She knocked again. Chills shot up her legs. What she wouldn’t give for a warm fire, dry clothes, and . . .
The door swung open. “Took you long enough!”
All she could see was a man’s head in shadow, haloed by the bright lights of the studio behind him. Guitar licks of the Clash met her ears. “Claude Nederovique?”
“Who’s asking?”
He wore torn denims and motorcycle boots. Wavy brown hair hung over one eye and the collar of his black leather jacket. She tried not to shiver, aware of the surprise on his face as he stepped back into the light. His dark eyes studied her. A bad boy, just her type.
Merde! The one time she forgot to retouch her mascara. Or reapply lipstick.
“Brigitte at MondeFocus gave me your address.”
“Excuse my rudeness,” he said, his voice low. “I’m expecting the AGFA film shipment. They’re late. As usual.”
“Do you have a moment?” She’d seize this opportunity before his delivery arrived. “I’m writing an exposé of violence at the MondeFocus anti–oil agreement vigil. Brigitte said you shot some great videotape.”
Stretching the truth never hurt.
Silence except for the rain. She tried again. “I realize it’s a bad time,” she apologized.
“You’re shaking,” he said, taking her arm. “Why your pants are soaked! Come in.”
The studio was lined with a bank of high-tech equipment: videotape recorders, monitors, camcorders. In contrast, old film-splicing machines and reel-to-reel spools sat atop high cabinets. An inner door led to a small room bathed in red light, emitting the acrid smell of film developer.
“Excuse the mess,” he said, shoving cardboard cartons aside with his boot. “But I’m glad to take a break. I’m editing my Rwanda documentary. The Hutus and the Tutsis: genocide, ghost villages, and no one cares.”
Pain and determination layered his voice. For a moment he looked lost and then he turned away.
“I’ll make it brief,” she said. She edged toward a strobe light, feeling awkward. “Here’s my card. Again I apologize.”
He glanced at it. “Pas de problème. I did shoot some video footage that might interest you. Can you give me a minute?”
She nodded, reaching into her backpack for a notebook.
He gave her a crooked smile, a nice smile, then took off his jacket and pulled a cell phone from his faded gray corduroy shirt pocket. Suddenly businesslike, he went to the red-lit darkroom to speak into the phone.
On the studio walls hung black-and-white blowups of barefoot African child soldiers in tattered uniforms, AK-47s slung over their shoulders. None looked more than ten years old. A shantytown—skyscrapers in the distance—a cluster of huts with cardboard and metal siding, dogs, garbage strewn on the dirt street. She looked closer, horrified to see that the dogs were sniffing at bodies. A baby, flies on its open mouth, lay next to a metal gasoline jerrican, ESSO printed on it. Her insides wrenched.
No wonder oil protesters like Krzysztof were passionate. Another photo titled Sorbonne ’68 showed a cloud of tear gas engulfing miniskirted and bell-bottomed students. A 1987 film poster for Guido and the Red Brigade with a shot of the Roman Coliseum was inscribed Claude Nederovique, writer and producer in red letters below. She felt like a voyeur seeing the most brutal side of injustice. Just a shallow urbanite worried more about her lipstick than the suffering of the world.
“Quite a body of work.” She didn’t know how to express her feelings . . . her horror at these views of evil.