But she had Yuri’s cash in her bag. And no other way to find her mother. She needed to reach Luebet. Talk to him.
The train jerked. Brakes squealed. A moment later it shuddered to a halt in the tunnel, throwing Aimée and her fellow passengers against the seats. Lights flickered. Her arm cracked against a bar before she grabbed it. Bags skittered across the floor; an old woman cried out.
The train car plunged into darkness—like night. The air filled suddenly with the smell of burning rubber. A loudspeaker crackled and buzzed. “Mesdames, Messieurs, due to an accident grave de voyageur, there’s an interruption on the line. Service is at a standstill. We ask for your patience.”
A murmur rumbled through the passengers in the darkness. Aimée imagined the knowing looks they would share if they could see each other. “Accident grave de voyageur” was the standard euphemism for a track jumper. A suicide.
Notorious on the Number 6 line, which served three hospitals, one of them Saint Anne’s, the psychiatric facility.
This could take God-knows-how-long, she thought, rubbing her bruised arm and imagining the grim scene ahead. With her feet she felt for her bag, which had lodged under the next seat, then recovered her penlight. She shone it toward the old woman huddled on the floor, whimpering and gasping for breath. With another passenger, she helped the old woman to a seat and tried to calm her.
After what felt like a long time, the lights flickered. The doors cranked open to another wave of burning rubber odor. Passengers were instructed to step down in the pitch-black tunnel to the narrow service walkway hugging the wall above the track. Taking the old woman’s arm, she eased her down onto the dark ledge and guided her along the blackened tunnel walls. Ahead Aimée could see lights reflecting on the gleaming white tiles on the wall of the platform at station Edgar Quinet.
“Not far, Madame,” she said.
It looked like a messy accident, requiring a scooper train especially elevated to clean the electric rail lines. With sad incidents like this, it took forever to reestablish service and reroute the disrupted network. Usually they herded passengers back along the track walkway to the previous station to give room to the emergency crew. But Montparnasse, webbed by four lines, was a vast maze.
Enveloped in the close, stifling air shared by too many people, she wanted to get out. She had almost pushed ahead in line behind a mother helping her toddler when she froze at a shriek. To the side of the iron steps leading to the platform on the tracks lay a severed arm still in its pinstriped suit jacket.
Aimée gasped. The arm ended in a bloody clump where the shoulder had been. She averted her eyes too late. Bile rose in her stomach at the metallic scent of blood. Her gaze crept back to the hand, fixated on the pinkie ring. That large stone-like class ring in an engraved mount.
The driver and scurrying staff attempted to block the track view, to shield passengers from the scene and move them along. Mutters of “heart attack … slipped … quel dommage.” A frisson of fear prickled her neck.
By the time she mounted the Métro steps to the boulevard, she knew where she’d seen it before. She grasped the pole of an awninged market stall and gulped lungfuls of late afternoon air, hoping she was wrong. Feeling cold and alone in the middle of the bustle of merchants setting up for the evening market, she reopened the envelope. In the photo, Luebet’s hand was clearly visible on the canvas, complete with that distinctive, large-stoned class ring on his pinkie. He wouldn’t be dining at La Tour d’Argent tonight. Nor would Yuri.
She doubted he’d suffered a heart attack. More like been pushed. Again, she’d been too late.
Her gaze darted among the shoppers threading the stalls. Whoever had pushed Luebet could be watching her. Whoever had killed Yuri was clearly willing to kill again, and she’d retraced too many of his steps. Head down, she dove into the crowd.
Tuesday Early Morning, Silicon Valley
DAWN BLUSHED ROSE-ORANGE over the mountains fringing the bay and over the Buick logo still visible under the Tradelert sign. Five A.M. René, goosebumps running up his arms, had logged into Susie’s terminal using his sysadmin access. Nervous, he scanned yesterday’s protocols. He was drinking instant General Foods International café mocha cappuccino. Even though he’d doubled the packets, it still tasted like brown piss.
With that bad taste in his mouth, he dug deeper into the admin program to find who held the tokens for remote access. Susie had added him last night at 11:45 P.M.
He took one more sip. Clenched his teeth and started with her drawers. Manuals, zip drives. Finally he found the envelope marked René with his token.
He inserted the token, verified his log-in—she’d written in red marker with a heart—and accessed the whole program.
He’d entered Ali Baba’s cave. The workings, up-to-the-minute reports and scans—everything. With mounting anxiety he wondered why this access hadn’t been provided to him yesterday. It would have streamlined his work, saved him a lot of time. Had Susie forgotten or deliberately left him out? But those overheard words came back to him—the dwarf’s got no idea.
There had to be more tokens. After some searching in her drawer, he found one. Now he’d clone it and.…
“Early, eh? Didn’t see you.” A tall figure shadowed the breaking dawn. “Signed in yet?”
René smiled up at the blue-uniformed rent-a-guard. “They haven’t even printed my business card. I’m René Friant, chief technology officer.”
“Don’t see your name here, sir.”
He had to buy time. “You’re sure?”
René reached down to tie his shoe.
“Sorry, sir.” The guard came closer. “We’re obliged to check.”