by Cara Black
“Hit squad? I don’t understand.”
“Hired killers.”
“At the mosque, I hear things. That’s all I know.”
Pause. Talk . . . why wouldn’t he talk? But she forced herself to take a breath, to curb her impatience. “Please, go on.”
He lowered his voice. “The Imam died two weeks ago. Such a good man. A Sunni, a liberal cleric who wanted to open Islam, to make discussions with the Shi’a mullahs and all sects.”
“Meaning?”
“Shi’a fundamentalists have taken over.”
She tried to figure out what lay behind his words. The rash of Metro bombings, the attack on the Marseilles airliner, the Le Monde article in which the government attributed terrorist attacks to several groups like the iKK Kurds or the radical Algerian GIA.
“A shield, was Tas’s word. Someone’s using the network.”
A shield, deflecting attention from their real purpose . . . she remembered Langois repeating Yves’s words . . . an insidious network.
“But Jalenka Malat’s a target. I found this in Tas’s wallet.” She showed him the scrap of paper.
He nodded. “I left it for Tas in the letter box.”
“Letter box?”
“Tas teach me. In letter box where he stayed.”
She tried to make sense of it.
“So because you missed meeting him on the platform and wanted him to meet you later, you threw pebbles at the window?”
He nodded, hefting the bucket. “But now I heard that Jalenka’s meeting a local Kurdish woman’s group before her talk. Early.”
Alarm bells rang. “At the Kurdish center?”
“Faroum!” The stocky man beckoned from train coupling. “Next train’s here.”
Aimée looked at her watch. “An assassination attempt?”
“Tas wondered too.”
She thrust her number and a phone card at him. “Don’t be afraid to call my cell phone number. The line’s secure, use this phone card if you hear anything. Anything at all.”
“But it’s too late.”
She stepped down to the train platform. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”
Wednesday Noon
NADIRA SMILED AT Monsieur Delbard as she climbed into the back seat of the air-conditioned chauffeur-driven car. “We’re feeding the ducks in Canal Saint-Martin. You’re so kind to give us a ride.”
“It’s on my way, Nadira,” he said.
She could never lay it on too thick for Monsieur Delbard. He was trim, if pallid. In his fifties, he wore a blue shirt and linen trousers, and his blue blazer hung from the window hook. “Paul loves the interesting places you take him.”
Juice from an orange segment dripped from the corner of Paul’s mouth. “We saved our old baguettes, Papa. Nadira says it’s better for the ducks. And ‘Waste not, want not.’”
“She’s right, Paul.” Monsieur Delbard flashed a huge smile at her and brushed back the hair from his graying temples.
“We’ll picnic, watch the barges go through the nine locks. Do you remember how many swing bridges we’ll see, Paul?”
He held up two fingers.
“So educational, too.”
“I’m applying to the Sorbonne teaching program next year,” she said.
She cast her eyes down as she’d seen cook do when suggesting she’d like to attend a pastry course. Impressed by the chef, who’d attained two Michelin stars, the frugal Delbards agreed. The cook holed up with her boyfriend at the hotel during the course and came back radiant. “Watch how I play it, Nadira. Learn.” And Nadira did.
“That’s my dream, Monsieur Delbard, to teach at a school for children with special needs.”
“Admirable. You’ll be wonderful.”
The Canal Saint-Martin wound alongside on the left framed by chestnut and plane trees. Two men sat with fishing poles watching the lock fill with water. Paul shouted with glee: “Look, Papa!”
The chauffeur parked the car and opened the trunk. He reached for the stroller, but Nadira stopped him. “Merci, but it’s tricky. Let me do it.”
She lifted it out, careful to compensate for the added weight of the rifle, and strapped Paul in.
“Have a wonderful evening, Monsieur,” she said.
He pressed a wad of francs into her palm, folded his hand over hers, and held it a moment longer than necessary. It was only a matter of time, she knew, until he hit on her as he hit on all the female staff. “Take a taxi back, Nadira, it’s so hot. My treat.”
She disengaged her hand. In her culture, no man touched a woman unless they were married. She felt defiled, but the mullah had given her dispensation to cover such situations. Her mission, he said, overrode the usual precepts.
She and Paul waved goodbye until the Renault disappeared along the quai.
Paul ate a sandwich, then fed the ducks, marveling at the lock man’s patient explanation of how the canal system worked. “It’s our route to the north and the Belgian waterways, petit, four and a half kilometers long.” He detailed a several-hour journey stretching from Bassin de Villette part of the way underground to the Seine.
“Nadira, I want to ride the peniche; you promised me a treat!”
“And you will get your treat, Paul.” She smiled at the perspiring older man and pressed ten francs in his hand. Now he’d remember them. “But today it’s too late. We’ll plan it and ask your Papa to join us. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Monsieur Delbard, busy at the office and with his new mistress, rarely at home even on the weekends, would weasel out of it.
Paul blinked. A bright little boy raised by nannies, he’d grown accustomed to the absence of his parents. “Papa would come?”
Even in this affluent family, she saw how he was neglected. Yet he’d be spared the half-bombed-out concrete blocks of her orphanage; would never hear the bleating cries of malnourished infants or shiver, sleeping on the cold stone floor in winter, enduring the constant ache of a hungry belly. All the fault of the Western Imperialists.
She had been chosen; she must concentrate on her mission, ignore the twinge of unease at her target: a Muslim woman.
Paul tugged her arm. “Let’s ask him right now. Call Papa.”
“And miss your surprise?”
Paul’s eyes lit up.
She kicked off the stroller brake and pushed Paul over the cobblestones. Perfect timing. Fifteen minutes later, they passed the fun fair on Place Franz Liszt, a small carousel with red and blue cars, a dart balloon booth and a barbes de papa stand.
She paused, wiped her perspiring forehead, and shook the Orangina before she handed it to Paul. The half of a sleeping pill she’d put inside had dissolved. “Here you go. Now if you’re a good boy and listen to Nadira, we’ll come back.”
“But I want to ride now . . . you promised me a treat!” His blond hair lay matted on his flushed forehead; his lips were swollen in a pout. “Now!” His little voice raised in a whine. “I’m hot.”
“Drink this; you’ll cool down.”
“Non.” He unbuckled the stroller strap and scrambled out before Nadira could catch him. He kicked at her, and his whine escalated into a scream. “You promised!” Doting grandparents under the shade of the trees turned their heads. Her careful plan was deteriorating by the second. Paul was making a scene and her few minutes of leeway were evaporating.
She got down on her knees. “Paul, drink this. Then we’ll come back. I promise.”
He burst into tears and lay on the pavement, kicking. She had to salvage this. She hated Madame Delbard for forcing her to bring Paul. A spoiled, selfish Western woman whose husband cheated on her with regularity and whose child she regarded as a trinket.
“Bon. Drink this and you may have one ride,” she said, her voice stern.
Paul sat up, surprised at her tone. Nadira never spoke like that. He wiped his eyes.
“Do you understand, Paul?”
He nodded.
At the ride’s end, his eyes were gl
azed and she had to lift him out of the car. One of the watching grandmothers clucked knowingly. “The heat gets to the little ones.” Nadira just smiled.
Her timing was off now, she had to hurry. She’d change her plan, switch to the alternate, and, if necessary, improvise. She’d been trained to improvise, and with Paul now asleep in the stroller, she’d manage.
On rue Lafayette, she entered a narrow seam in between 19th-century Haussmann-designed buildings which led to the triangular space fronting the Institut Kurd. A group of women in Kurdish baggy pants, tunics, and scarves mingled with those in Western dress, filing up the outside stairs to the Institut. Nadira joined them and, declining the offered assistance of several of the woman, lifted the stroller into the foyer. Instead of joining the crowd heading to the theater, she veered into the exhibition room lined by cases of books and Kurdish tapes, off which there was a small office. Leyla stood at her desk, gathering papers.
“Bonjour,” Nadira said, smiling.
Leyla returned her smile. “Welcome. I noticed your name on our guest list. I’m so glad you made it for this earlier talk. More intimate . . . but excuse me, I have to hurry. I’m introducing her. . . .”
“The boy I babysit’s exhausted,” she said. “It’s so crowded in there. All the chairs are taken, so I can’t hold him. Someone told me they don’t allow strollers. May I ask a favor?” She didn’t give Leyla time to answer. “Can he stay here?”
“Well, we’ve never done that,” Leyla said, raising her eyebrows. “It’s such a small space. . . .”
“I’ll check on him often; if he wakes up, we’ll leave,” she said. “I’m thrilled to hear even a bit of her talk. Please, otherwise I’ll have to miss it.”
Leyla hesitated, torn between saying no and her hurry to leave.
“Please, I promise he won’t touch anything or be a bother.”
Leyla smiled and shrugged. “I wouldn’t want you to miss this. Just keep an eye on him.”
“I so appreciate it, Madame,” Nadira said. “Go ahead, I’ll make him more comfortable.”
Leyla left, and Nadira closed the office door. She pulled the plastic bags from under the stroller. From one she took the chador, draped the black folds over her tank top and jeans, and, using it as cover, with her back to the door, took the Lego backpack with the rifle pieces and gripped it to her body under her left arm.
Paul’s measured breaths reassured her. She left.
Instead of entering the crowded room and giving her reservation ticket, she asked the pink-scarved ticket taker for the restroom. She was directed behind a screen to a row of doors. She thanked her and waited until her view was blocked, then took the stairs. Avoiding the library and those working there, she turned right into a narrow hallway and followed it as it curved around to the left until she found the restroom. In it was the stall with a toilet and a long rectangular window.
She unfurled her chador, set the rifle pieces on the tiled floor, and climbed onto the toilet seat. She applied WD40 to the window, which had taken her several tries to open last time. Now it opened on her first try.
Not even twenty yards away, across a small oblong courtyard in which a lone tree stood, lay the theatre. The windows were wide open. Through the farthest window, she saw a wooden podium with a microphone on it. On a cloth backdrop were the words KURDISH WOMAN’S LEAGUE WELCOMES JALENKA MALAT MP in bright green and red script.
Sunlight reflected off the windows. Inside, veiled heads leaned toward each other in conversation. Laughter and words in Kurdish and Turkish drifted out the window. Veiled women talking together, comfortable and familiar. Like home.
She ground her teeth, gripped by doubt . . . she, a Muslim, was about to shoot another Muslim woman. The mullah’s words came back to her: “We trust in Allah to show the way; never question his teachings. We are his servants, we are his instruments.” But weren’t mullahs human, people who could make mistakes? she’d asked Ruhal once. And he’d answered “But if innocents are killed, they will go to heaven. The mullah will have the price of their life on his head. And he will pay. Not you; you are the instrument.”
She stepped down from the toilet, assembled the stock, barrel, forearm, scope, mount, and silencer. Not an easy job with her hands shaking. She re-checked the bullet chamber. Full.
She glanced at her watch, her upper lip beaded with perspiration in the heat. Her body was baking in the chador. Three minutes, according to the schedule. She again stood on the toilet, set the rifle end on the wooden windowsill, crouched, and looked through the crosshairs of the sight. “Allah is all-powerful, we are but the instruments of his will,” she murmured.
She aimed, adjusting the magnification, aiming a little above the podium as she remembered from the télé that Jalenka was short. With the sun overhead, she kept the rifle tip just inside the window frame to avoid having it glint in the sun, giving away her location. Still, in the resulting chaos and horror, with people rushing to give Jalenka aid, she doubted anyone would look up before she could disappear.
Then she heard excited voices rising and saw the flash of colored scarves inside the windows. Two minutes. Two more minutes.
Wednesday Afternoon
AIMÉE SCREECHED TO a halt at a curb on rue Lafayette. She was in a red zone, but it was the only spot she could find. Never mind, she’d pay René’s parking ticket later. She ran across the busy street, just avoiding a bus, and entered the walkway leading to the Institut Kurd, crossed the small courtyard, and climbed the stairs. A crush of women stood at the doorway of a large meeting area. A mixed group of earnest intello journalists in black, Kurdish women in pejershe, the native costume, human-rights activists wearing red armbands, and a celebrity or two whose faces she recognized. Jalenka Malat was quite an attraction.
And not a flic or any security in sight.
Merde! Bordereau only knew about the evening event, not this one that she’d just discovered. In the corner, she pulled out her cell phone and punched in Rouffillac’s number. Only his voice mail answered. Great, he screened his calls.
“Rouffillac, it’s urgent . . . pick up!”
Her knuckles whitened around the cell phone. He didn’t pick up. She waited for the beep.
“No. 9, rue Lafayette, an attempt on Jalenka—”
And the message cut off. Full.
Meanwhile, the crush had dwindled and the doors were closing.
All she could see were the backs of women’s veiled heads. Her fingers trembled as she punched in the DST number. A recorded message asked her to hold and her call would be answered in the order it had been received.
“Your name, please,” said a young woman wearing a pink scarf, holding a clipboard.
“How much?”
“No tickets. It’s a reservation-only event, I’m sorry,” said the young woman. “And no cell phones permitted.”
No flics in sight, the DST keeping her on hold, a crowded room . . . How could she pick out an assassin?
“Again, I’m sorry, Mademoiselle.” The young woman put her clipboard under her arm and reached for the door. She wore an armband bearing the slogan “Muslim Kurds for Peace.”
Aimée opened her wallet and flashed her father’s old police ID with her name on it. “Emergency. We need to talk.”
The young woman stared, wide-eyed. “Something’s wrong?”
Aimée motioned the young woman outside. “What’s your name?”
“Iqbal.”
“Iqbal, I need your help. Is there any security here?”
The young woman shook her head. “I don’t know, Jalenka just confirmed this, we weren’t sure—”
“Her bodyguards?”
“Jalenka? Never uses them.” She thought. “At least I don’t think so.”
“Has she arrived yet?”
“She’s backstage. When everyone’s seated—”
“DST, how can I route your call?” came over the line.
Aimée put her hand up to silence Iqbal. “Terrorist division.”
&
nbsp; A series of clicks. Aimée waited.
“Oui?”
“There’s going to be an assassination attempt during Jalenka Malat’s talk at No. 9, rue Lafayette. Now.”
“How do you know this, Mademoiselle?
She hung up.
Iqbal’s mouth had dropped open.
“No time to explain,” Aimée said. “I want you to gather the other ticket takers and available staff and line the stage facing out so you can watch the crowd.”
Iqbal stepped back in horror. “But I don’t believe anyone would want to—”
“I don’t know when security will come,” Aimée interrupted. Or the Brigade. Or if any of them would appear in time. “This threat’s real. Her life’s in danger. Do you understand, Iqbal? Answer me.”
Iqbal nodded. “Oui.”
A child’s cry came from somewhere in the other room, but Aimée ignored it.
“Do it in a quiet way; we don’t want to alarm a room full of women if we don’t have to. Yet.”
“But what do we look for?”
“Watch for women wearing chadors,” Aimée said. “I’ll be walking around the room. Point out anyone acting oddly. And stay with Jalenka. Don’t let anyone get too close.”
A serious look appeared in Iqbal’s eyes. “Her work’s important for women, for Kurds. I will help her.”
“Good.” Aimée paused. “Now tell me what you’re going to do.”
“Get the staff and have all of us stand around the base of the platform facing out, watch the crowd, point out. . . .”
“Now go.”
Of all the times to have left her Beretta at the office, Aimée thought, following Iqbal into the close hot air of a room full of too many women. And why the hell hadn’t anyone thought to provide security?
Inside the small theatre, there were more than two hundred women. They filled every chair and stood, lining the walls. A video camera on a tripod was operated by a woman in Kurdish dress. Not a single man was present. Aimée’s eye rested on the many open windows. One was right alongside the podium.
She scanned the walls for a fire alarm. Not a one. She hoped there was one backstage. Iqbal had gathered several women and was making her way through the crowd, stopping to speak to others who stood and joined her.
