What kind of Holocaust secret was this? Slowly she nodded in agreement.

"We will have no more contact, Mademoiselle."

Soli Hecht's joints cracked as he rose. His face wrinkled in pain.

"You could have faxed me this query, Monsieur Hecht. It would have saved you this trip."

"But we've neither talked nor met, Mademoiselle Leduc," he said.

Aimee bit back her reply and opened the door for him. Warped floorboards, a tarnished mirror, and scuffed plaster adorned the unheated landing. She buzzed for the turn-of-the-century wire elevator grating noisily up the shaft. Slowly and painfully he made his way to the hall.

Back in her office, she stuffed the francs into her pocket. The overdue France Telecom bill and horse meat for Miles Davis-pronounced Meels Daveez-her bichon frise puppy, would wait until she'd done the promised work.

Eurocom, the cable giant, had royally screwed up her finances by breaking Leduc's security service contract and hiring a rival Seattle firm, the only other firm that did the same work as she and her partner. She hoped there'd be enough money left to spring her suits from the dry cleaner's.

Her standard software keys enabled her to crack coded encryptions. They opened information stored in a database, in this case, she figured, a military one.

After punching in her standard key, "Access denied" flashed on the screen. She tried another software key, Reseau Militaire, an obscure military network. Still the screen flashed "Access denied." Intrigued, she tried various other keys but got nowhere.

Morning turned into afternoon, shadows lengthened, and dusk settled.

After several hours she realized she would earn her francs on this one. So far, nothing worked.

Wednesday Evening