Murder in the Rue de Paradis

by Cara Black

  She looked up and stared at the faded gilt-edged balconies and soaring domed cupola of the Theatre Bouffes de Nord. This nineteenth-century decayed jewel had been abandoned for years, then was saved from destruction and semi-restored. With klieg lights nestled among scrolled pilasters, chipped friezes, and the rose red exposed stone arched stage, it was now home to ongoing plays and musical performances.

  “The season over, Morbier?”

  “Rehearsals start next week.”

  She heard the murmur of voices, the tramp of feet. Once backstage, they descended a black wrought-iron staircase to a lower level. Uniformed and plainclothes officers sat before a bank of computers. Duct-taped strands of wires and fiber-optic cables crisscrossed the floor. Several men were gathered over a large map of the tenth arrondissement on the wall. A single fan blew hot air and cigarette smoke around in the air. No one paid them any attention.

  An efficient temporary DST nerve center, a makeshift headquarters for operations. Morbier continued past a lighting panel and opened a door, then backed out, seeing a uniformed man curled up asleep on a couch.

  Further on, he looked into a door to a small dressing room. A beveled mirror, and worn velvet brocade chaise furnished it. A blue feather boa hung from a screen; there was not much else. Taped to the mirror, a note written in faded lipstick read: Bonne Chance on your premiere, Zou-zou!

  Her office bag containing her tango outfit for the lesson she never managed to make sat on the chaise. No doubt courtesy of René, the traitor! In cahoots with Morbier, and he hadn’t told her.

  “How long do I stay, Morbier?”

  “Tonight, maybe longer. It’s for your own sake.”

  They had mounted an operation for tonight and guaranteed that she’d be out of the way. She was still not satisfied that Nadira was Yves’s killer, but now she was stymied. She wanted to kick something.

  And she had no laptop. How could she work?

  Out in the hall, he jerked a thumb at a room labeled MAQUILLAGE and parted voile curtains to reveal a long, lighted makeup mirror and a Formica counter with dried-out pancake sticks and powderpuffs.

  “You might want to clean up first, Leduc,” Morbier said. For the first time, she detected concern in his eyes. “Change your bandage.”

  “You can wash up down the hall. Don’t get any ideas about leaving,” he said. “Sacault wants to talk with you.”

  No wonder her interrogation at the hotel had been so brief. They’d questioned Nadira by now and obtained more infor- mation. She’d turn that to her advantage and find out what Nadira’s connection, if any, was to Yves.

  “Morbier, if they’d listened to me in the first place—”

  “I’m not involved, Leduc.” He raised his age-spotted hand.

  “I think you’re very much involved,” she said. “They probably called you back from vacation for this.”

  And for a moment, his shoulders drooped and he looked like the old man he was.

  “You’re right. My first vacation in six years, my grandson’s birthday, and here I am, sweating in Paris with you.”

  Guilt washed over her. Not for the first time, she’d thrown a wrench into Morbier’s life.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He sighed. “Just be a good girl, Leduc. Try? It’s not the Ritz, but still it’s better than a holding cell at the préfecture, non?”

  She nodded. No doubt he’d saved her from that by exercising his influence. The last she saw of him, he was shuffling down the hall.

  She found the showers, removed her bandage, and turned on the hot water. She stood under the spray as long as she could, soaped up, and then turned on the cold. Icy water needles blasted her skin. She stepped out, alive and awake again. Her shoulder was numb. She re-applied antiseptic and a bandage. In her bag, she found black leggings, a denim miniskirt, and a black tank top.

  In the makeup room, she outlined her eyes in kohl, applied foundation to cover her neck bruises, and dotted her cheeks with Chanel Red lipstick for color. She pulled out her cell phone and arranged for her concierge to walk and feed Miles Davis. Dour mannered, opinionated . . . still Miles Davis loved staying with her. Aimée figured it had to do with the treats she kept on her shelf.

  That accomplished, she tried to take stock of her situation. Her hands trembled. Everything seemed to have spiraled out of control. Her life, and business, were threatened, Yves was gone. She tried to imagine the rest of her life spent undercover, hiding. But she couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

  Inside the dressing room, she inhaled the lingering scent of muguet—lily of the valley—from the chaise. A memory of first nights, but for her evoking the scent her mother had worn twenty years ago. And it was as if her mother had left yesterday. That sweet pungent scent trailing in her wake, the carmine-red lipstick she bought at the corner pharmacie the flaking charcoal drawing sticks always in her pockets. The charcoal sticks her mother used for life drawing at the Beaux Arts Academy. She recalled something unfinished: the reception to honor the woman retiring from UNESCO. Too late? She rifled in her bag, found the invitation. Hotel le Bristol tomorrow, an evening reception. Stop, she had to stop, she told herself. This led nowhere.

  Pounding came from the door. Frantic, she looked for escape. No window.

  “Leduc?” Morbier’s voice. “Sacault’s waiting.”

  And then she remembered where she was.

  “Un moment.”

  She had to finish dressing. No scarf, and she’d left her jacket in René’s car. She grabbed the blue feather boa, buckled her ankle-strap heels meant for the tango lessons, and opened the door to Morbier.

  The burning orange tip of a cigarette was held between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes narrowed at her outfit, then he pinched his cigarette out between his fingers. In the hallway, a half-open window overlooked the maze of rail lines leading to the Gare du Nord. The monotonous clic-clac, clic-clac of rolling freight cars rumbled below.

  Backstage, in a darkened sound booth, Sacault huddled over an open file resting on a console. Stubble shaded his chin. He wore a black tracksuit this time.

  “We’ll make this short,” he said.

  Still a man of few words.

  “To your knowledge, had Yves Robert visited the mosque on rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis?”

  She shrugged. “No clue.”

  Sacault consulted the file, flipped a page. “In your statement, you mentioned a taxi ride to a loft on Canal Saint-Martin Monday evening. Did you stop anywhere?”

  “Just for champagne.”

  “So a wine shop . . . open that late in the quartier?” Sacault looked up, studying her.

  The wheels in her mind began to turn. “Yves went into Afro Coiffeur on rue du Chateau d’Eau and emerged with champagne in a paper bag.”

  “You’re the curious type; didn’t you ask him . . . ?”

  In her mind’s eye, she saw the women’s hair being braided in the packed salon and heard the bubbling African dialect drifting onto the street. There had been clusters of young hip-hop types and African men in robes on the pavement.

  “He said it paid to have connections.”

  Sacault shut the file. Nodded to Morbier. She noticed that the “incident” room was nearly vacant, except for a few men working on computer terminals. Something was up.

  “That’s it?”

  “For now.”

  “And Nadira . . . ?”

  “Nadira Abouz is under suicide watch at the Brigade. Her mission—her jihad, as she termed it—was and is the destruction of Jalenka Malat for the glory of Allah. She’s refused to answer any other questions.”

  Aimée remembered Nadira’s eyes, assassin’s eyes. She stood. “Her youth. Anyone that age, that focused, was trained young. She’s a single-minded terrorist, her goal, paradise, after she takes her target with her.”

  “Sit down.”

  Aimée couldn’t get Nadira’s chilling eyes out of her head.

  “But she’s telling the truth, don’t you see?” Aimée pounded the
table. “A tall figure wearing a chador murdered Yves.”

  “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  He stood. “Give her a sedative,” he said. And was gone.

  “Talk about rubbing people the wrong way, Leduc,” Morbier said with a sigh. “Let’s see the medic.”

  Let them drug her into silence? No way. She envisaged a DST sweep of the quartier: the mosque, the coiffeur. Stupid, why had she opened her mouth? But she had an idea.

  The medic, wearing a red armband, smiled. “A little on edge, eh? Try this.”

  She managed a smile. “Me, on edge?”

  Shot at, bruised, sore, and almost blown up by Semtex, and still everyone wanted to keep her in the dark. Morbier, her jailer; René, a traitor.

  “A little, I guess,” she conceded.

  The medic handed her a big white oval pill and a paper cup of water. She swallowed, careful to keep the pill in her palm, and drank the water. Morbier escorted her to the dressing room, looked at his watch.

  “Sweet dreams, Leduc.”

  And he padded away.

  Like hell. She waited ten minutes, opened the door, and crept upstairs. The backstage area held two men at one end of the bank of terminals. Nearest her, a pockmark-faced young mec sat at a screen, inputting data from file folders. TARILLE, read his name tag. Smoke spiraled upward from his cigarette; the blue screen light was reflected in his eyes.

  She sat next to him. “Got another one?”

  He gestured to the pack of unfiltered Gauloises.

  She took one, flicked the plastic yellow lighter, and inhaled. She felt the jolt hit the back of her lungs. Her eyes flicked over the data on his screen, code 0IP for interrogation files, if she remembered right.

  “Merde!” she said. Gave a big sigh. “Interrogation transcript not inputted yet, Tarille? I’m supposed to read it.”

  His thick eyebrows rose on his forehead. “No one told me.”

  She shrugged, crossed her legs. “Not your fault, eh? But if Sacault expects me to question Nadira further without the file, he’s dreaming. I can’t do it.”

  “Your clearance?”

  “Good question. He didn’t pass on my team’s access? I’m not supposed to disclose it.” She shrugged. “Bon, I’ll ask him.”

  Tarille averted his eyes from her legs. “The unit’s gone.”

  Of course it was. The important thing was to act like she knew what she was doing. And play it right, so she could read Nadira’s file. Yellow light from a halogen lamp pooled on the pile of papers.

  “Typical!” She leaned forward, stubbing out the cigarette.

  “You’re undercover squad, right?”

  She put her finger over her mouth. “Shhh.”

  His eyes glittered. The wanna-be type who thought late-night, rain-soaked stakeouts in rat-infested alleys were atmospheric.

  “I’m taking the course,” he said, “thinking of applying for undercover next year.”

  “Perfect for someone smart like you,” she grinned, then winked. Hoped she hadn’t laid it on too thick. “Tactics, you know; most times we move in after the sweep.” She stretched her arms. “Bon, I’ll read the print version,” she said, as if in afterthought.

  “But. . . .”

  “You’re backed-up, I know,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ll read the full file later.”

  “I’m not supposed to—”

  “Tarille, we need your access code here,” said one of the men.

  “Go ahead,” Aimée said.

  He hesitated.

  “And I’ll bum another cigarette if you don’t mind while I read what’s here.”

  “Help yourself,” he said, ingrained manners kicking in.

  She wished he’d hurry up. “This file on top?”

  He shook his head. “This one.” He slipped a file from underneath.

  While he stood talking to the man, she hunted for the interrogation transcript. Found four pages, starting on page 27.

  She gave a big yawn, slipping them first onto her lap and then up under her tank top. Then she closed the file folder and wedged it back into the pile next to the terminal. By the time Tarille returned, she’d left.

  In the dressing room, she packed her bag, looped the feather boa tightly around her shoulders, and descended to the bowels of the theater, looking for the fire exit. She found it two floors down, a large red fire door.

  After several tugs and pulls, unable to use her full strength because of her shoulder, it opened. Below, a rusted metal fire escape led to a narrow concrete walk bordering train tracks, beneath electric wires, next to the rushing Lille Express. She kicked the safety latch, and the fire escape lowered. She took a deep breath and felt her way down the rungs. And then hung by one arm, her shoulder aching and legs swinging half a meter above the concrete, before she summoned enough courage. And dropped.

  She landed on her knees, heard a rip, and saw a big hole in her right legging. But nothing worse. She picked herself up and ran down the walkway along the stone embankment, past switching stations, banks of signal lights, and abandoned crumbling concrete station points. The tracks narrowed now as they entered the terminal, and she hopped on the end of platform 12. She looked behind her.

  No one.

  She dusted herself off and joined the crowd departing the train. At the nearest pay phone, she looked up Afro Coiffeur, stuck in a phone card, and dialed.

  “Bonsoir,” she said. “The owner please. Hurry.”

  “Speaking,” said a woman with a thick African accent.

  “I don’t have time to explain. But a man, Yves, my friend, picked up a bottle of champagne from you Monday night, non?”

  “Who’s this?” Her voice was suspicious.

  “The flics are en route to question you,” she said. “You should close. Leave. Right now.”

  “Question me? Again?” In the background there was laughter and the hum of a blow-dryer.

  Aimée’s ears perked up. “What do you mean, ‘again’?”

  “Asking questions,” she said. “Look, an old friend of Monsieur Yves knows my brother works in a wine shop. I helped him out. He got a discount and gave me a little baksheesh, you know, for the trouble. That’s all.”

  “Can you describe this person. A man?”

  “C’est-ça,” she said. “Witch-doctor hair.”

  Nonplused, Aimée took a guess. “Black, wiry, like an Afro?”

  “Hair only you white people have. Yellow.”

  She’d think about that later. “You really should leave now.”

  “And lose business? Evening’s my busiest time, every chair’s filled.”

  Women came after work, the process took hours, they worked late into the night.

  “Your choice,” she said. “But take it from me, this time the security service has mounted a raid on the quartier. Full-scale.”

  Sirens moaned in the distance.

  “Look out your window if you don’t believe me.”

  The woman said something in an African language. The blow-dryer shut off.

  “I see armored trucks stopping on rue du Château d’Eau—” she said.

  “Get out. Now. Go out the back.” And Aimée hung up.

  She hurried to the station buffet. Inside, she found a space at the counter and ordered an espresso. She stuck her bag between her feet, on the mosaic floor littered with sugar-cube wrappers and cigarette butts. Right now, even if the DST discovered she’d gone, they had more on their minds than her.

  Next to her demitasse on the zinc counter, she opened Nadira’s interrogation transcript and read:

  Q: You’ve been in the country two years; who’s your contact?

  A: No answer.

  Q: Who runs your cell?

  A: No answer.

  Aimée sighed. Three pages of questions with no replies from Nadira. On the fourth page, branded with a round tan coffee-cup ring, it became more interesting.

  Q: How many missions
have you accomplished here?

  A: I follow the jihad.

  Q: So . . . how many?

  A: cough . . . It’s time for my prayers.

  Q: After you answer questions, you can pray . . . do you understand?

  A: Yes.

  Q: You were found with Russian Semtex. How many Metros have you bombed?

  A: Not my directive.

  Q: What directives do you follow beside assassination?

  A: Courier. I receive the call to transport arms and, Allah willing, I do it.

  Q: You’re a Shi’a Muslim linked to a radical mosque in Tehran. Explain your mission here.

  A: I follow Allah’s will. Praise be to Allah.

  Q: How does assassinating a Kurdish Turkish Muslim follow Allah’s will?

  A: We don’t always understand the mullah’s directives, but it is revealed.

  Q: Revealed? The Shi’a Iranians want to destabilize Turkey. You’re a political pawn.

  A: Allah’s will . . . pause . . . the mullah found me, trained me to carry out the jihad. I am proud to be chosen. I was proud to have been chosen, but I have failed.

  Q: Proud to have killed Yves Robert?

  A: Who?

  Q: The investigative reporter in the way of your jihad.

  A: I don’t know this man.

  Q: But you eliminated him. It will go easier on you if you admit it.

  A: Jalenka Malat was my target. Others will take my place.

  Q: Answer the question.

  A: I want to pray.

  Break, interview ended.

  A trained undercover hit woman fluent in French, a sharpshooter, with a perfect cover as a nanny. It made sense to keep her concealed, to activate her for assassinations of specific targets. Not to murder Yves. Killing him could complicate her mission. Nor to blow up a train station. No sophisticated training was needed to leave a backpack with explosives in the crowded Metro.

  Nadira hadn’t known Yves. What reason would she have to lie now?

  The steamer hissed as the milk bubbled. She needed to learn everything Yves had been investigating. But Georges, the retiring night “attending” at AFP, refused to help her.

  A slim chance existed that he’d reconsider. But there was no other way for her to discover the articles Yves had been working on.