“You do that.”
Out on the pavement, she stood with the smokers, her phone to her ear, and grinned at him. A moment later she’d edged out of view behind an old couple walking a labrador. She crossed the pavement and reentered the ministry. One minute later she’d found the marble bust of a lush-wigged Talleyrand. The man got around.
She stuck the press pass in her pocket, pulled out her clear-framed glasses and the soft leather Villeroi bag that almost melted under her touch. Folded the file with the Paris Match under her arm, put her phone to her ear and joined several people going into a door.
A guard was checking security passes. Merde! She mingled, talking intently and in a low voice into her phone, which she’d put on mute. Moved forward with the crowd.
“Pass, Mademoiselle?”
She looked down at her chest. “Mon Dieu, must have left it on my desk. Upstairs. Pardonnez-moi.” She spoke into the dead phone. “Un moment, Monsieur Leseur.” She cupped the phone with her hand as if to muffle the words to the speaker on the other end. “Monsieur Leseur needs his file right now. Can I just bring it to him?”
The guard motioned for her to wait.
“Oui, Monsieur, you mean le ministre needs it?” she said in a loud voice, back into the phone. “But I forgot my pass, and I’m hoping this nice gentleman will …”
People behind her shuffled their feet. A few coughed. Even the guard was annoyed at the line.
He waved her through.
She followed the two women ahead of her with their heads bent in conversation. Halogen light strips illuminated the coved stone walls of the surprisingly broad tunnel. A young buck, messenger bag strapped around his chest, wheeled by on his trottinette, a silver metal kick scooter, his Converse-clad foot pushing off the ground with a rhythmic cheut. A warren, this place, with tunnels branching off right and left, signposted for the cafeteria, the Assemblée Nationale.
She kept her eyes peeled for Leseur, thought up a story. Ahead of her she saw a sign reading: ASCAN. ASSOCIATION SPORTIVE ET CULTURELLE DE L’ASSEMBLéE NATIONALE. OPEN TO DéPUTéS, ASSISTANTS ET FONCTIONNAIRES DE L’ASSEMBLéE, AUX FONCTIONNAIRES ET AGENTS PUBLICS DE L’ADMINISTRATION.
And then in small letters it read: AND OUTSIDERS.
Well, she qualified as an outsider. So did any member of the public—that’s if anyone could find this place. Didn’t she pay their salaries with her taxes? Time she collected.
“Bonjour.” She smiled at the young woman at the desk. “Désolée to bother you, but it’s urgent. I have a time-sensitive file for Monsieur Leseur. Please notify him—he’s on the squash court.”
“Monsieur Leseur? Non.”
“But I was told—”
“Escrime. The fencing court.” She picked up the phone. “A file regarding …?”
A swordsman. If she got his ear, it would only be for a few minutes. “From the press briefing. He’ll understand.”
The woman at the desk nodded. “Go ahead to the old arsenal.”
“Merci.”
In a large windowless room painted white, with fencing-club flags hanging from the walls and white lines painted on the blue floors, helmeted and grille-masked figures parried and thrust, riposte after riposte. A metallic smell hung in the close air. It was like stepping into the eighteenth century, except that each time the sword tip touched an opponent, bright purple bulbs lit up on their vest.
“Mademoiselle?”
Roland Leseur, in a form-fitting grey fencing outfit, helmet hanging from a strap on his arm, stood at the men’s locker-room door, waiting for her. The clashing of swords, the almost balletic steps, the grunting and tang of sweat sent a shiver of unease up her back. “They know not to disturb me here.”
“I’m new, Monsieur,” she said, saying the first thing that jumped into her mind. She held up the file. “May we talk in private, please?” she said.
His brow furrowed in annoyance. “In here.” He checked inside the men’s locker room for people, then closed the door after she entered. “Make this quick, my partner’s waiting.” Leseur stood in the narrow changing-room aisle beside a metal locker, open to reveal his jacket hanging up, a briefcase, keys, wallet, a cell phone. He flipped open his briefcase and took out a pen. “You need something signed? Why didn’t Juliette bring this down herself?”
“Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur, but …”
“Please show me what I need to sign.”
“See, not sign,” she said. “This.” She put the Paris Match on a bench and pointed to the splash on Pascal’s death.
Annoyance turned to wariness.
“You lied to find me.” His low voice vibrated with anger. “Why are you here? Tell me who you are before I have you thrown out.”
She stuck her Leduc Detective business card into his gloved hand.
“Forgive me. It was the only way I’d get a moment of your time, and it’s a matter of life and death,” she said, speaking fast. “My father investigated the homicide of Djanka Constantin in 1978. They pulled him off the case, but he never forgot it. Later he was killed in a bomb explosion—murdered to keep him quiet about whatever he had learned about Djanka Constantin.”
He shook his head. “Not my concern, Mademoiselle.”
“Your brother Pascal’s body and Djanka’s were discovered only hours apart,” she said. “Information has come to light that strongly suggests that the two deaths are connected.”
“Stop right there.” He stepped back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do, Monsieur,” she said. “A painful event. I’m sorry to insist, but—”
“My brother took his own life,” he said, his voice wooden. “I’m not interested in all these lies and slander appearing years later. Now if you’ll move aside and let me return to the piste.”
How could she keep him there?