Murder in the Marais Read Online Free PDF Page B

Ilse."
    "I'll organize the trade comparisons, sir," she said, and closed the door of the adjoining room behind her.
    Hartmuth punched 6:03 A.M. into the keypad attached to the pouch handle and then his four-digit code. He waited for a series of beeps, then entered his alphanumeric access code. He paused, recalling a time when a courier's honor had been enough.
    A hasp clicked open, revealing new addenda restricting immigration. He shook his head, remembering. These were like the old Vichy laws, only then it had been quotas for the Jews.
    The treaty mandated that any immigrant without proper documentation would be incarcerated, without benefit of a trial. He knew France's crippling 12.8 percent unemployment rate, highest since the war, was the reason behind this. Even Germany's unemployment statistics had grown alarmingly since the Reunification.
    The phone trilled insistently next to him, jolting him back to the present.
    " Grussen Sie, Hartmuth," came the unmistakable grating voice from Bonn. "The prime minister wishes to thank you for excellent work so far."
    So far?
    Mentally snapping to attention, Hartmuth replied, "Thank you sir, I feel prepared."
    He wasn't prepared for what came next, however. "He is also appointing you senior trade advisor. Hearty congratulations!"
    Stunned, Hartmuth remained silent.
    "After you sign the treaty, Hartmuth," the voice continued, "the French trade minister will expect you to stay and lead the tariff delegation."
    More surprise. Fear jolted up his spine.
    "But, sir, this is beyond my scope. My ministry only analyzes reports from participating countries." He scrambled to make sense of this. "Wouldn't you call this posting to the European Union more of a figurehead position?"
    The voice ignored his question. "Sunday at the Place de la Concorde, all the European Union delegates will attend the trade summit opening. In the tariff negotiations you will propel the new addenda towards a consensus. By that, we mean a unanimous approval. A masterful double stroke, wouldn't you agree?"
    Hartmuth began, "I don't understand. Surely for an internal advisory post, this seems. . ."
    The voice interrupted.
    "You will sign the treaty, Hartmuth. We will be watching. Unter den Linden. "
    The voice cut off. Hartmuth's hand shook as he replaced the receiver.
    Unter den Linden. Circa 1943, when Nazi generals realized Hitler was losing the war, the SS had organized into a political group, code word "Werewolf," to continue the thousand-year Reich. When they'd helped him escape death in a Siberian POW camp in 1946, these same generals had bestowed a new identity on him—that of Hartmuth Griffe, a blameless Wehrmacht foot soldier fallen at Stalingrad with no Gestapo or SS connections. This identity gave Hartmuth a clean bill of social health acceptable to the occupying Allied forces, a common though secret practice used to launder Nazi pasts. These "clean" pasts had to be real, so they were plucked from the dead. With typical Werewolf efficiency, names were chosen closest to the person's own so they would be comfortable using them and less prone to mistakes. How could the dead contest? But if, by chance, someone survived or a family member questioned, there were more mountains of dead to choose from. Besides, who would check?
    The Werewolves demanded repayment, which translated to a lifetime commitment. Ilse was here to guarantee it.
    He felt trapped, suffocated. He quickly pulled on his double-breasted suit from the day before, smoothing out the wrinkles, and strode into the adjoining suite. Ilse looked up in surprise from her laptop.
    "I'll return for the meeting," he said, escaping before she could reply.
    He had to get out. Clear out the memories. Breaking into a cold sweat, he almost flew down the hallway.
    He turned the corner, abruptly bouncing into a stocky black-suited figure ahead of him.
    " Ça va, Monsieur Griffe? So wonderful you are here," said Henri Quimper, rosy-cheeked and smiling.
    Too late to