Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis Read Online Free PDF Page A

white-coated medics lifting a stretcher on which Gaelle lay into the ambulance.
    More people were crawling behind the planters, shoving the hastily erected barricades down.
    He followed a police truck down an adjoining street. He ran, dodging a taxi. His thin-soled, lace-up suede boxing boots made little sound as he pounded the pavement. Sirens echoed as more police trucks approached. He turned right and almost ran into a patrol of blue-uniformed flics guarding the street. He ducked into an arched doorway, thankful that they hadn’t seen him.
    He caught his breath. Terrified, sick to his stomach, he waited. Five, ten long minutes, dripping and shivering in the humid air.
    He had to salvage their campaign. To do something. They’d been sabotaged but he wouldn’t let whoever did this get away with it. They had proof of the oil company’s falsifications, but the evidence they’d compiled wouldn’t be safe at the MondeFocus headquarters. After finding bottle bombs, the flics would obtain search warrants and search the office.
    Who could have set them up? He pulled out his cell phone, tapped in the MondeFocus number . . . he had to warn Brigitte. There was no answer and the machine didn’t pick up. She must not have returned yet from the protest at La Défense. He couldn’t wait any longer. He peered out again. One of the flics ground out a cigarette with his foot.
    If only they’d move on. He needed to safeguard the files at the MondeFocus office, and he’d have to enlist help. His mind raced. When Brigitte returned, they’d put their heads together and come up with a new plan. Tomorrow was not too late to submit their alternatives to the oil executives. And after this near riot, they would certainly get press coverage. Something could still be salvaged.
    The office was close, just over the short Pont de la Tournelle, on Ile Saint-Louis. Almost where he’d started from on this disastrous evening. His jacket had half dried by the time the flics left to patrol the next street. He hugged the walls, crossed Boulevard Saint-Germain with his head down, then paused on the bridge leading to Quai Tournelle at the floodlit, needle-like monument of Sainte Geneviève. The Seine ran dark and viscous below.
    Ahead lay a few lit windows in the Polish Foundation and he debated for a moment seeking refuge there. But his uncle would ridicule him after berating him for leaving the reception in the first place. His adrenaline had surged when he’d had to get away, and now his emotion had turned to anger. The CRS had beaten Gaelle, lied about the permit, and dispersed their march. Someone had set them up by planting bottle bombs. The blonde’s face flashed in front of him. He had to be sure not only of who had betrayed them, but of why.
    Krzysztof’s lungs heaved as he pressed the numbers on the digicode for the office of MondeFocus. The olive green door clicked open and he ran past a wheeled shopping cart, taking the stairs two at a time as he raced up the winding staircase. The MondeFocus office door stood ajar, a slant of light illuminating the black-and-white diamond-patterned tiles of the landing.
    Too late. He was too late.
    He leaned against the door, his shoulders sagging. Inside, desk drawers had been dumped on the floor, papers strewn. The floppy-disc box was empty; the copy machine that stood on a makeshift slat of lumber across two sawhorses was open. Had they gotten to the file cabinet? A brief ray of hope flickered inside him. He rooted in the drawers of the cabinet: all their vital evidence, oil platform drilling statistics, petroleum percentages, all gone.
    Then he heard voices and footsteps and looked up. Brigitte, the director, burst into the office. Fine lines webbed the corners of her mouth and she looked tired, showing the age she normally managed to hide. She stopped when she saw him, surprise and fear on her face. “We heard on the radio . . . what are you doing?”
    A long-haired man in overalls and a stocky