by Gavin Reese
May 7, 4:03pm
13 Rue de Corbillon. Saint-Denis, France.
Gerard sat in the small parking garage office suite rented for his rogue operation. He’d watched the ten-monitor array for the last eight hours but gained no new information. Most of the neighborhood’s sleeping during the day and living a nightshift existence. Pretty smart thing for the parents, as I assume it’s easier to put a two-year-old on that schedule than for them to understand why they can’t eat or drink all day.
The suspect had already deviated from his established behavior pattern by attending that morning’s prayer in the downstairs mosque. Gerard hadn’t expected him to emerge for another few days, which elevated the probability that his actions could be imminent. Despite the elevated risk and necessity of closely surveilling the suspect, Gerard struggled to fend off the typical stakeout boredom of watching nothing happen. He reviewed his handwritten drawings and notes from yesterday’s venture into the apartment building. Within minutes of his departure, the newly hidden cameras had shown his target ascend to the fifth floor and enter #415, the uppermost northwest corner apartment. Gerard had since learned its only windows faced north, and several hours of scouting the neighborhood had failed to identify a safe hide sight that allowed him to see inside. I’ll try again tonight after I can better hide in the shadows and stairwells. If he’s switched his life around for Ramadan and his lights are on, I’ll see farther into the apartment. Still need a better spot than the top of the madrasa, though.
Gerard rotated his chair and looked at a corkboard on the wall where he’d hung a map and overhead Google Earth images of the building. He smirked at the realization that his pinned-up intel resembled the conjecture of a madman. I’m only missing the red yarn to connect the dots.
“What’s the next step,” Gerard asked himself and scanned the images hanging before him. Lucas will not allow his technicians to move the hardware and monitors again. A drone, perhaps? He dismissed the notion as too likely to spread panic and outrage through the neighborhood once someone spotted it.
Gerard’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket, and he retrieved and answered it without checking the caller ID. “Antlé.”
“Inspector,” Lieutenant Algeri hissed his title, “you didn't report in to Sergeant Le’roux. He claims not to have seen or heard from you since our conversation.”
Gerard reflexively straightened in his chair and tried to predict the outcome of his available options. “Forgive me, Lieutenant, I had a family emergency after you and I spoke, and I have to call off work.”
“Is everything all right?” His supervisor’s tone had softened, and Gerard wondered if the concern was genuine. “Should I send someone by your apartment to check on you and your family?”
“No, thank you, sir, it’s nothing like that, not an illness, exactly. I hope to return to work in the morning.”
“I hope for that, as well. Sergeant Le’roux and I will be awaiting you.”
“Thank you for your concern.”
“It is no matter. Our families and personal lives must always come first, no? After all, we wear the badge for only a short while, but our blood and kin are forever.”
“Yes, sir, they are. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” Is he talking about me, or did he just explain his motive for shutting down my investigation?
“If we miss each other, ensure that Sergeant Le’roux calls me right away to confirm you’re accounted for. I fear you’re treading on thin ice, Inspector Antlé, and I dearly hope you haven’t been foolish enough to have maintained an investigative presence in Seine-Saint-Denis.”
“Of course not,” Gerard lied.
“I’m glad to hear that.” A tense, uncomfortable silence developed between them. “If I send someone to assist you, where may they find you? I understand you’re separated from your wife, but it doesn’t appear you’ve updated the residence listed on your employment records. Is my information invalid and you’ve returned home?”
Gerard’s stomach dropped and his suppressed anger nearly boiled over. How the fuck does he know that?! Claudette and I have told almost no one! He cleared his throat and took a moment to compose himself before responding. There’s too much at stake to get fired today. “I don’t know where you learned the details of my personal life, but I’m staying with my brother, not that it matters to anyone but me and my family.”
“I mean no intrusion, Inspector. I’m sure you can understand we must be ever-prepared to assist our employees in every manner, especially with the ongoing anti-government protests. I meant no offense. Good day.”
Gerard disconnected the call, dropped the department’s cell phone on the desk, and exhaled in frustration. He clasped his hands together behind his head and stared at the visual representation of his conspiracy theory. How long can I keep this up? Le’roux’s a good cop, but he’s also got a family to worry about. How far am I willing to take this with no hard evidence that I’m right?
May 7, 9:58pm
Rue de la République. Saint-Denis, France.
Abdul Siddiqi strolled among his neighbors and his congregation along Rue de la République and wore a satisfied smile. My son is home from university for his summer internship, and Ramadan is upon us. God is great.
He had served this segregated community for four years. As he wandered among the throngs of diners, revelers, and scampering children, Abdul shook hands, exchanged well-wishes, and checked on the welfare of his followers. This neighborhood and its people had been infected for at least two decades, but it’s finally shifting to a path more compliant with Allah’s teachings.
Abdul stopped and stood with his back against a building on the south side of the street. He crossed his arms and just people watched. The spirited and joyous atmosphere on this first night of Ramadan reminded him of the nightly celebrations on this very street that had emerged during the Arab Spring. Our people have such a capacity for joy. It is good to see this, and to work toward making such contagious elation a more common occurrence here.
The children were most swept up by the street-party atmosphere as they ran among the crowds, cars, and baby strollers, alternately giving chase and fleeing from their friends. Even the morose teenagers smiled more than usual. Abdul quietly thanked God for allowing his followers to rejoice in the collective and individual sacrifices of their faith and service to the one merciful and loving God. Ramadan remains my favorite celebration for many reasons, but this atmosphere is chief among them; this feeling, these moments, when we can celebrate and sacrifice together as a people united by servitude.
Contrary to the logical assumption that his presence might convey, Abdul disagreed with much of his congregation and the Muslim public on common Ramadan protocols. I understand why parents with young children switch their family to a night schedule. Comforting a hungry and thirsty two-year-old without food or drink is impossible without punishment. However, that effort contributes to their sacrifice and shows the sincerity of their faithful obedience. Those same parents then, in following the intended sacrifice, entitle themselves to the greatest blessings as a reward for their added burden.
Abdul checked his watch, having already been awake for most of the last eighteen hours. Afternoon naps between the prescribed prayers are rocket fuel for men in my position. Still, his bedside alarm would wake him at 4am, just in time to walk to his converted mosque and lead the fajr prayer at 4:35. Abdul yawned and accepted he couldn’t often stay out during the monthlong fast, but he thought it important for his congregation to see him this first night. Islam is an individual faith, so the people don’t need me to worship or obey God, but I hope that more of them grow to trust my worship, my word, and my counsel.
As he stood upright, an unfamiliar Caucasian emerged from a small crowd of aspiring diners outside a restaurant on the other side of the street. The stranger wore a black driver’s cap, dark gray slacks, and black dress shirt. A gray messenger bag slung across his chest. Unusual for French men to wear a worker’s hat at night. Is he ret
urning to some nearby home? Abdul searched his memory but found nothing familiar about the now-suspicious man.
Abdul considered the benign reasons such a man could be among them on this, the first night of one of their most sacred celebrations. He’s here either by pure accident or a specific purpose. Did he rent a room nearby unaware of the realities of the enclave, or perhaps departed the wrong Metro station? He could be lost, but, from this distance, he doesn’t appear drunk or impaired. What if he has a sinister, ulterior motive?
Leaning back against the wall, Abdul scanned the jubilant crowd for anyone else who appeared out of place and considered what to do. My people have been targeted and persecuted for fourteen-hundred years, ever since the Jews and Christians first denied Mohammed’s legitimacy. Whether they conspired against him will never be proven, but the denial and global persecution are undisputed.
A young couple, new parents in his congregation, stopped and engaged Abdul in a brief conversation about the mosque website. Abdul sought a reason to excuse himself, but they suddenly found other friends and strode off on their own. He required little time to reacquire the stranger.
The Caucasian smiled pleasantly enough, but he looked around as though worried about being discovered. He behaves like a shark that struggles to smile and make friends with the surrounding fish.
As the stranger passed by, Abdul followed him. Not too close or too long, but only enough to determine why he’s here.
May 7, 10:04pm
Rue de la République. Saint-Denis, France.
Not long after nightfall, Michael had stepped from a city bus at the intersection of Boulevard Carnot and Rue de Chaumettes. He’d spent the entire day moving in and out of the Seine-Saint-Denis neighborhood, familiarizing himself with the area, and getting occasional and repeated looks at the target apartment building. He now risked a more extensive and intimate stroll for detailed intel that cabs and public transit couldn’t offer. If the right opportunity presented itself, he would attempt entering Abrini’s building. I should have brought something bigger than this messenger bag. If I’m going to stay out for this long, I need to pack enough clothing to change my appearance a few times. The locals will notice seeing the same white face and clothing over and over again.
As expected, most of the nearby residents and shop owners he’d encountered were Middle Eastern, Muslim, or both, with a small spattering of older residents who'd likely lived there for decades and university students who hadn’t. Many of the signs displayed Arabic and French, although some left off the national dialect. Not especially welcoming. Most of the world wouldn’t know if they're walking into a restaurant, a bath house, or a mortuary.
As Michael had walked south toward Rue de la République, the sounds of crowds and playing children echoed off the tall stone buildings and the narrow, one-way residential street. Once he turned right onto that street, he saw the crowds he’d heard since leaving the bus stop, and the street fair atmosphere surprised him. The restaurants were filled, and many had lines spilling out onto the sidewalks. Competing Arabian music emanated from many of the establishments, and no one cared about the volume or the hour. The scene struck Michael like a Middle Eastern Mardi Gras without the booze and nudity.
Even without the draw of bars or dance clubs, throngs of people congregated on the sidewalks beyond those waiting for service in the restaurants. Celebration filled the air and reminded Michael of the Old Town Plaza from his childhood in Santa Fe on the first warm spring weekend. Feels like a long, cold winter has finally passed and the whole neighborhood is enjoying the outdoors together for the first time in months.
Michael’s presence drew attention from many within the crowds as he moved toward his turn at the next intersection. Despite having been a racial minority for the five years he served parishes in Ecuador and Columbia, this was the first time he remembered making people nervous. I wanna say it doesn’t matter and that people are just people, but this feels like being a cop again, like when we had to go on late-night bar checks. Everyone in the place turns around to see why the hell you’re there, the music stops, and you can feel the escalating tension. Then, the piano player switches to a minor key and shit gets Western.
Michael kept a casual but deliberate watch on the crowd, which alternately parted to let him through or forced him into the street whenever the sidewalk exceeded its capacity. He couldn’t tell if anyone followed him, and he couldn’t risk appearing too attentive. If I’m nervous and vigilant, they’ll assume there’s a reason for it. I can’t get into the building tonight, but I still need to blend in long enough to escape.
May 7, 10:15pm
Rue de la République. Saint-Denis, France.
Abdul Siddiqi strolled along the south sidewalk and mingled with the crowds there, while his target strode along the sidewalk across the street. He didn’t mind that the man moved faster, but he wanted to keep him in sight to learn where he went and why he might be in their neighborhood.
He shook hands with a few men and exchanged greetings but excused himself and blamed his need for a few hours of rest. Ever gracious, his parishioners took no offense at his departure. I now hope this man gives up his secrets before I reach my apartment building.
The Caucasian stranger now led Abdul by forty or fifty meters, so he hastened his stride until he matched the stranger’s pace. I’m unlikely to make him nervous, not from this distance and among these crowds. As the man drew closer to Rue du Corbillon, the street upon which Abdul’s mosque stood, he grew more concerned about the stranger’s dress and the bag slung tightly across his back.
Without a conscious understanding of what had changed, Abdul sped up and jogged toward the stranger. He saw the concerned looks from the surrounding crowds, but he had to stop the man from approaching his mosque.
May 7, 10:17pm
Rue de la République. Saint-Denis, France.
Michael kept to the north side of the street and strode on toward Rue de Corbillon. Rather than restaurants, retail stores occupied most of the surrounding ground floors, and a small market stood on the south side of the street just ahead. Something between the size of a food cart and a small bodega, Michael imagined the place couldn’t hold a dozen people at once. A group of four young men stepped out onto the sidewalk and noticed Michael as they did so. All four wore green or brown linen gowns and white skullcaps. Their jubilant conversation stopped, and they stared at him in silence. They’re the personification of MAM in army jargon. Military Age Male.
Michael couldn’t tell, at this lighting and distance, if surprise or animosity drove their behavior change. He continued walking east but veered to his left. Whatever they think they’re gonna do, I can’t let them encircle me.
The apparent leader glanced down the street, from where Michael had just come, and then moved to intercept him with the other three in tow. He glanced back and saw an older, middle-aged man rushing toward him. There’s my answer. His potential escape routes and opportunities rapidly closed around him.
“HE, toi!” The leader pointed at him when Michael didn’t respond. “Oui, toi!” As he grew closer, the man’s thick “unibrow” and a large mole on his left cheek became visible under the ambient streetlight.
Michael didn’t understand the words themselves, but their collective intent was clear. He had only a moment to decide how to play this, and there was no outcome that allowed him to merely continue on his way. The hard, hastening klops of heavy sandals propelled him into action.
Michael cinched his messenger bag strap even tighter and sprinted off in the same direction he’d been walking. All five gave chase, but Michael hoped his sudden speed and their footwear would collectively allow his escape. Michael rushed past Rue de Corbillon, where he had wanted to turn back north, and didn’t yet look back. He pumped his arms, leaned forward, and gave his legs every bit of steam and momentum he could muster.
Michael continued on at full bore until accumulating lactic acid burned his legs. He’d sprinted several hundred yards with
out any evasive movement. As he slowed, Michael glanced back and saw his pursuers scattered along several residential blocks, but none of them ran any longer and the closest adversary remained seventy yards away.
Although he slowed, Michael feared that walking might inspire them to try catching him. Now I have distance and I need to get out of sight. Let them focus on something else, like talking up their bravery. He turned left at the next intersection, ran north, and crossed to the darker side of the street where nearly bumper-to-bumper parked cars and the unlit east sidewalk would aid his escape.
As Michael reached the next intersection, he stopped in a dark, recessed doorway and looked back. He nudged the concealed pistol in the front of his waist, grateful it hadn't fallen out on the street in his wake. Three of the four men gathered beneath the streetlights a full block behind him. One bent at the waist just trying to breathe, one held his hands up on his head, and the third pointed farther up the street at the west sidewalk. None of them showed the interest or ability to pursue him farther.
Michael slipped around the corner and again moved from their line of sight. As he sped up to a light jog, he considered how much worse that could have gone. I don’t know how long I can fight four men without shooting them, and if one of them had caught me, I’d have had to hurt him badly enough to discourage the other three. Either result means the whole neighborhood would look for me and I couldn’t come back. This way, everyone lives to fight another day.
