Bruno already knew Fabiola’s medical background, and a few moments on the Internet had been enough to find the professional biography of Pascal Deutz on the website of the prison service. Deutz had been a lecturer on the teaching staff at Marseille when Fabiola had been a student. That alone, added to Fabiola’s reaction to Deutz, had triggered one of Bruno’s hunches.
“Hi, I’m looking for your advice about our mutual friend Fabiola,” Bruno began when the Bergerac doctor answered. He had prepared a plausible excuse, saying that her friends planned to throw her a surprise party next month but worried that it might be too close to the anniversary of the day of her climbing accident. They remembered Fabiola being really depressed around that time every year. Did her fellow medical student happen to remember when it was?
“Sure, it was a big thing at medical school,” came the innocent reply. “It was Toussaint, five years ago. I remember because I’d been away for a family event at my grandfather’s grave, and when I got back everyone was talking about it. I don’t remember the details, but a piton broke or a belay failed. I remember reading about it.”
“Reading?” Bruno asked. “You mean it made the newspapers?” On a pad he scribbled “31 October, Toussaint,” All Saints’ Day, when old-fashioned French people still gathered at the family graves to commemorate the dead.
“No, I meant the report the mountaineering club was required to make about the accident. It’s routine in the event of somebody having to go to the hospital. I’m pretty sure it was a piton that failed. But Deutz was by far the most experienced climber that day, so he came in for a lot of criticism. He was really broken up about it because he and Fabiola had been very close all year until then. He told us he blamed himself. I guess that was why he later transferred out of the school, but he’s doing very well now, I hear.”
“Deputy head of the prison psychiatric service,” said Bruno.
“Not for long. I heard he’s getting a professorship at Paris Diderot.”
“Well, we’ll be careful to avoid the last days of October and early November.”
“Sure thing, give Fabiola my best. Let me know what date you pick, it could be fun to come and surprise her.”
Bruno went back to Deutz’s official biography and saw he’d transferred from the medical school staff five years earlier to join the prison service. He then called the medical school, was put through to the security office and asked how he might get a copy of the report of the mountaineering club. He was given the name and number of the current club president. Within twenty minutes a copy of the report had been faxed to him.
It was just one page of single-space typing, written by the club secretary after interviewing Deutz and the two other students on the climb. There had been no interview with Fabiola, who was still in the hospital after suffering a concussion and a broken jaw and cheekbone. She had not been wearing a helmet, in defiance of club rules. Deutz accepted responsibility for that and for placing the piton that had failed and for allowing too long a belay on the rope. That meant that Fabiola had fallen much farther than she should have. Deutz had been praised by the other climbers for bringing the unconscious Fabiola down the mountain and to the hospital. Deutz’s license to lead climbs was suspended for a year, and he would need to retake the qualifying tests. Copies of the report had gone to the medical school director and to the Mountaineering Club of France.
Bruno sat back, pondering. That was enough to account for a certain chill in relations between Fabiola and Deutz, but it was a far cry from the kind of sexual trauma that seemed to be at the source of Fabiola’s problem. Obviously he’d been barking up the wrong tree. So much for his hunch.
But what had the Bergerac doctor meant when he said that Fabiola and Deutz had been very close? Bruno recalled Fabiola once telling him that she’d had an affair during medical school with a man she called “a cute mountain climber.” The phrase had stuck in his head because it was an unusual way to describe a grown man. He could hardly think of any word less suited to Deutz, a rangy, muscular type with an assertive manner, always trying to dominate any encounter. But who could fathom the strange accidents of human chemistry that brought two people together?
There was a phrase Bruno recalled from one of those sayings of the day that Sud Ouest sometimes printed alongside its horoscopes and crossword puzzles. It had come from Chamfort, a name he vaguely knew as some distinguished French writer of the past, but it had stuck with him: Love, as it exists in the world of today, is nothing but the contact of two skins and two fantasies.
Instinctively, Bruno had disagreed, too much the romantic to accept such cold cynicism. But he understood how new lovers could construct fantasies of each other. Maybe a young woman enjoying the thrills of mountaineering could have seen a younger Deutz as “cute.” Or maybe Fabiola had plucked from the air a word to downgrade the importance of a relationship that had affected her more than she wished to reveal. Maybe she thought of Gilles as cute. What mere male ever knew how women really thought of their lovers?
He turned to the next item on his list of things to do, which was to track down the gynecology professor Fabiola had talked to about her problem. He called the security team at the medical school again. Professor Rosalie Waldeck, now retired, had taught gynecology and obstetrics. He took note of her address in Villefranche-du-Périgord, a small town south of Bergerac, and her phone number.
His phone rang, a Paris number. It was Yacov Kaufman.
“I was just reading the news on my phone,” he said. “Drama in St. Denis.”
“You’re telling me. What can I do for you?”
“It’s Maya, my grandmother. She’s flying into Paris from Israel today, and I’m to meet her at the airport and bring her straight down to St. Denis. But I can’t get a hotel; the media seems to have booked every room around. Can you help?”
“If all else fails, you can both stay at my place, but let me call a friend who has some empty gîtes. It will be cheaper than a hotel. How long will you stay and when will you arrive?”
“I’m at the airport now,” Yacov replied. “Her flight lands in a few minutes, and I have David’s car here to bring her down. I wanted her to spend the night in Paris and rest a little, but she insists on coming straight down to you. I imagine we’ll be with you late this afternoon, and we’ll be there three or four days, maybe a week. She wants to see the region again, and she wants to use my grandfather’s old car.”
“I’ll call you back.”
Bruno tried hotels he knew in Les Eyzies, Lalinde and Trémolat, but there was not a room to be had. He then called Pamela, who said the English families had left, and two of her gîtes were free. Bruno booked both, one for Yacov and one for Maya; he presumed a woman so wealthy would want her own bathroom. Pamela offered to feed them, if required. The media would probably have booked all the restaurants. Bruno could hear women’s voices in the background.
“Have I interrupted your coffee session with Fabiola?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “You and I can talk later.”
“I’ll come with your new tenants later this afternoon,” he said. “By the way, it was lovely dancing with you last night.”
“It was quite an evening,” she said coolly, and he could hear none of the usual affection in her voice before she hung up.
Bruno paused, wondering whether she had observed that strange and powerful moment he had shared with Nancy at the vendange. He gave a mental shrug and called Florence; her students would be a key part of the effort to persuade Maya that St. Denis would make good use of the bequest.
He was about to drive to the château to ask the medical team about Gaston’s condition when the mayor came into Bruno’s office. He closed the door behind him and said, “Karim told me about getting his boy back. Did that have to do with this so-called gas explosion that the gendarmes have sealed off?”
“Officially, since you approved my being assigned to the brigadier’s staff, I can’t say,” Bruno replied. “Between you and me, it
was a suicide bomber who thought Sami and his family were still in Le Pavillon.”
“Philippe Delaron has interviewed Karim about Pierre’s rescue. He’s good at putting two and two together.”
“I can’t talk to him about it until this is over,” Bruno said.
“It’s not just Philippe. We’ve got half the Paris press corps heading for St. Denis. Ask the brigadier to call me when he has a moment.”
“I’m heading for the château now. I’ll ask the brigadier if he can release a statement, or at least nominate a press spokesman. Meanwhile, the Halévy woman is arriving here later today, staying at Pamela’s.”
“We’ll make sure everything’s ready.” At the door, the mayor turned. “And however you got Karim’s boy back, well done.”
On Bruno’s car radio, a news bulletin on Périgord Bleu identified the local château where “the French terrorist known as the Engineer” was being held. But it then summarized Gilles’s report about Sami’s autism. That day’s edition of Sud Ouest carried photos that Philippe had unearthed of Sami as a schoolboy. Another story was headlined: WAS THIS THE TERRORIST RECRUITMENT CENTER? with a photo of the Toulouse mosque and another of the telegenic imam Ghlamallah.
“We’re winning,” said the brigadier, almost smugly, when Bruno was admitted to his office. A large TV screen had now been installed. “These days, the media is where battles are won and lost. Look at this.”
The brigadier worked his computer keyboard, and the TV screen lit up and began playing extracts from American news programs. One of the clips showed a man Bruno recognized, the White House spokesman, saying something about “extraordinary cooperation from our French allies.” The CNN clip carried a headline on the bottom of the screen: “Engineer—or Victim?”
“The mayor of St. Denis asked me to tell you he’d appreciate a call or a press statement about the explosion at St. Chamassy,” Bruno said. “He thought appointing a press spokesman might help, with all the media gathering.”
“There’s one coming down from the ministry, should be here soon. I’ll call the mayor. Anything else?”
“I asked the field hospital about Gaston. They said he’d been moved to the military hospital in Bordeaux but wouldn’t say anything about his condition.”
“He’s badly burned and still concussed, but they think they can save his eyesight. We’ve identified the terrorist from the mosque. He took one bullet in the shoulder joint and another in the bone. He’ll lose an arm, but he can talk.”
“What happens to Sami now? Will it be life in a prison hospital?”
“We’ll see. Now that the world knows he’s been cooperating with us he’ll have to be somewhere secure,” the brigadier said. “Those Mozart playlists may be the biggest breakthrough into the jihadist communications we’ve ever had.”
Bruno nodded sadly. Jihadists had long memories; Sami’s life and the lives of his family would be in danger for years to come. They could never resume their normal lives in St. Denis. Bruno had heard of the American witness protection system for useful informers who were given a new identity in a strange town, but a French-speaking Arab family suddenly arriving anywhere on earth with an autistic young man would soon be identified.
“I have some good news for you,” the brigadier went on. “Those photos of the two little ruffians you e-mailed—Olivier identified them. They’re from the orphanage at the mosque. And that impressive young woman at your gendarmerie got a very good statement from the driver of the Renault that brought them, which implicates the mosque security team. I gather she threatened to charge him with luring the two boys away from the orphanage for his own purposes and then asked him if he knew what happens to pedophiles in prison. She thinks his statement justifies a full-scale search warrant, but she suggests instead that we get an order from the family affairs court to intervene on behalf of the kids in the orphanage. As she says, not even the most pro-Muslim politician would want to be seen blocking that. She’s a smart girl, should go far. By the way, she was asking where she could find you.”
“Did she say what it was about?”
“No, but she was asking how long she’d have to keep Le Pavillon sealed off, and she’s obviously curious about what happened. You can brief her but make sure she knows it’s officially secret. And tell her I’m arranging for a detachment of gendarmes from Périgueux to help her out. They’ll arrive this afternoon.”
Bruno went out to the balcony to contact Yveline about the extra gendarmes.
“Thanks, I can use them, but that wasn’t why I wanted to see you. Are you free to meet? I’m at the roadblock between Audrix and Le Pavillon.”
“On my way.”
Bruno had no desire to see the place again, nor to relive those panicked moments when he’d realized that the suicide bomber had rendered all his plans futile. It was Bruno’s own failure that had left Robert dead and Gaston so badly hurt he might lose his sight. They were men he knew and liked, and he’d failed them. As he drove up to the roadblock, all he could see was the ruined roof of the building and the jagged stone silhouette of the remains of the pigeon tower.
“Thanks for coming,” Yveline said, steering him out of earshot of the other gendarme. “How much can you tell me of what happened?”
He explained briefly, adding that she’d have to deal with the brigadier if it went any further.
“I’d worked out something like that from the bullet holes and cartridge cases we found. But that wasn’t what I wanted to talk about. You remember the vendange, but did you know that Jacqueline asked Fabiola about a relationship with Deutz?”
“Yes, and I since found out that he was leading the climb when Fabiola fell and got that scar. Apparently they’d been pretty close before that.”
“I checked the records. There was a rape complaint filed against Deutz by another student, but it didn’t go anywhere. It seems the medical school hushed it up. The woman was transferred to another school, and then Deutz went into the prison service with glowing recommendations from the faculty at Marseille.”
“Rape?” Bruno felt a chill creep up his spine. That kind of trauma could explain Fabiola’s inability to respond to Gilles. It made a hideous kind of sense, and he felt a slow anger begin to build. “Have you identified the student?”
“I’m tracking her down in the time I can squeeze away from roadblock duty. And Annette is trying to reach the magistrate who handled the rape complaint that was dropped. She reminded me that there’s no statute of limitations on rape, so if this case builds, she’s determined to pursue it.”
Bruno nodded. Annette was a dedicated magistrate; once she got her teeth into something she never let go. He pulled out his notebook and gave Yveline the name and number of the gynecology professor Fabiola had been to see.
“Have you talked to Nancy?” he went on. “Apparently there was some trouble about sexual harassment when Deutz visited the FBI.”
“Yes, that’s why I think we have a pattern here,” Yveline said. “This man could be a predator, and I think Fabiola was one of his victims. But what would it mean for the tribunal if Deutz is formally accused? That’s the brigadier’s priority. Would he intervene to shield Deutz?”
“I don’t know,” said Bruno. “A rape charge is very hard to stop.”
“It was stopped before, when the student withdrew her accusation.”
Bruno nodded. “If you’re right about Fabiola being one of his victims is she prepared to file a formal charge against Deutz?”
“Annette and I talked to her this morning at Pamela’s. She’s wavering.”
21
Bruno liked cars without obsessing over them. He never bought car magazines nor followed Grand Prix races and had never lusted after sleek and superfast sports cars. He was devoted to his ancient Land Rover, as much for its history as its sturdy practicality. It had been a bequest from Hercule, his old hunting partner and the man who had taught Bruno about truffles.
But this car was different. When Bruno saw it taking up th
ree spaces in front of the mairie looking as big as an ocean liner, majestic in deep black, he stopped, aware that a broad grin had appeared on his face. Scattered couples, interrupting their afternoon walks to stare and marvel, were as impressed. Bruno walked to the front of the car to admire the statue of the goddess and the famous radiator below it. He’d never been this close to a Rolls-Royce before, and this was one of the traditional ones with stately lines.
The driver’s door opened, a vast slab of metal, and Yacov stepped out, waving and opening one of the even larger rear doors to gesture Bruno inside. Most cars rocked a little when somebody climbed in or out, but this massive vehicle didn’t budge. It probably ignored potholes in the same way.
“My grandmother, Maya Halévy,” Yacov said as Bruno climbed in. “Grandmother, this is Bruno Courrèges, the local chief of police.”
The rear of the car was so wide that Bruno had to stretch forward to shake the hand of the elegant old lady with blue-tinted white hair and enormous spectacles who was smiling brightly at him from the corner of the rear seat. “Enchanté, madame,” he said, joining her.
The door closed behind him with the sound of a very discreet bank vault, reminding him that he should have spent much more time preparing for this encounter. Many of his plans and dreams for St. Denis rested with this woman, who was rich enough to buy every house in his town. The presentation that was meant to win her support was now, for better or worse, in the hands of schoolkids, though he knew that he could count on Florence. Even as he chided himself for thinking of Maya Halévy in such mercenary terms, he looked at her with great curiosity. This woman had not only gone through an extraordinary childhood, hunted and hidden, but she was the first woman entrepreneur he’d ever met, and probably the richest.
The Children Return Page 20
