Murder in Saint Germain

by Cara Black

Before Saj could pull her onto the mat to meditate, she grabbed her bag.

  “Later, Saj.”

  Olgan had thought it important enough to ask around and deliver her a name. She’d check in with this Bartok at 24 Impasse des Deux Anges. A place to start.

  Ten minutes later, she parked her scooter off Boulevard Saint-Germain at Cathédrale Saint-Volodymyr le Grand, the Ukrainian Catholic church. She knew it well. A decade earlier she’d taken premed classes close by at the Faculté de Médecine.

  The gate was locked. In the evenings, the small garden often held gatherings of Eastern Europeans—men’s and women’s groups, people coming to look for job postings on the church’s bulletin board. Why hadn’t she thought to ask here before?

  The humidity was a damp blanket over the Impasse des Deux Anges. And it was only 9 a.m.

  Bartok’s construction company nestled in a small courtyard surrounded by a ragged hodgepodge of roof lines. Aimée caught a whiff of garlic.

  fermé, said a sign hanging on the door.

  Next door, a bright-eyed young woman answered Aimée’s knock. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair piled in a knot on her head. She responded to Aimée’s query about Mirko’s photo with a shake of her head.

  “I don’t know him,” the woman said.

  “He’s a carpenter,” Aimée said, faking assurance.

  “Ah, one of them? I don’t know who my uncle hires.”

  “But Serbs work here, non?”

  “Some.”

  “There’s a problem. I need to reach Bartok—he’s your uncle, right?”

  “What kind of problem?”

  She needed this woman helpful. Time to take control, or she’d have wasted a trip.

  “It’s not for me to say, but . . . it’s a family emergency. Serious.” Through the window of the closed dispatch office, Aimée spotted a chalkboard with names, but she couldn’t make them out from where she stood. “May I see the workers’ schedules?”

  “Serious how?”

  So full of questions.

  “I’m sure you want to cooperate,” Aimée said. “Can I speak with your uncle? Please.”

  The girl hesitated. “My uncle does apartment remodels when work’s slow.”

  “Got an address?”

  “Hold on.” A few minutes later she returned. “He has a renovation at thirteen rue du Dragon. But he moves around to different job sites.”

  “Merci.”

  As Aimée left, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the young woman making a sign warding off the evil eye.

  Rue du Dragon ran from Boulevard Saint-Germain to the junction of Croix-Rouge, below which lay an abandoned Métro station she’d partied in during premed. A block later the street blended into rue du Cherche-Midi—now with designer consignment shops, local bistros that had become chic—and joined rue de Vaugirard, the old Roman road. She remembered the café tabac on rue du Dragon, the regulars—many elderly people protected by la loi de 1948. When they passed on, so did their old controlled rents.

  Number thirteen had an art gallery on the first floor—the open door emitted the whining of a drill. She heard shouting in a language she didn’t recognize but which she was sure came from the vicinity of the Danube.

  “Monsieur Bartok?” she called out.

  A plaster-dusted head poked out from a ground floor window.

  “Back tomorrow,” came the accented voice. “Not here.”

  As if she’d leave it at that. “Sorry to bother you, but could you help?”

  She’d walked through the open door. A fine white powder covered the plastic sheeting on the floor. Hammering and drilling hurt her ears. Three workers had looked up at her entrance. One was in his forties, the other two in their twenties. None resembled Mirko.

  Now that she had their attention, she’d play the helpless card. “Bartok’s niece over at Impasse des Anges told me he’d be here. I think I wrote down his phone number wrong.”

  “What number do you have?” one of the men said.

  Great.

  “Oh no,” she said. “It’s here somewhere, I think, but, it’s his business number . . .”

  “Give me your number. I’ll give Bartok the message,” the man said.

  She couldn’t read a thing in any of their expressions. Sweat dripped down their dust-covered faces. They were like mute white phantoms. They’d sooner drill a hole than reveal anything.

  Brazen it out. “Look, I’ve got a dispute with his cabinet supplier. Not him,” she said.

  After a back-and-forth that escalated to a threat to inform the better business bureau at the mairie, she obtained Bartok’s cell number.

  The drill started again before she was even out the door.

  That went well.

  Out on rue du Dragon, disgusted, she shook her head to get the dust out of her wig.

  Tried Bartok’s phone number.

  “Allô?” a voice answered.

  “Monsieur Bartok, I need your help.”

  “I heard. Later.”

  Click.

  She’d feel guilty if she didn’t try to find Jean-Marie one more time. He hadn’t called her, and when she tried his phone number in his file now, he didn’t answer . . . What if whoever “got to” Erich Kayser had gotten to Jean-Marie?

  So she hopped back on her scooter. She’d try the square again. With all the roadwork, she ended up taking a circuitous route. Her elbow scraped the wall threadlike rue de Nevers. On the quai, she wobbled, almost hitting a man who darted out toward a taxi.

  Idiot. Running in the damn heat.

  Off quai de Conti, she turned left at the Institut de France. Academicians in robes spilled out the back doors. Sneaking a smoke? Pretty grand for a rear exit.

  She parked by the dark blue storefront of Roger-Viollet, a photo archive with windows displaying black-and-white photos of the quartier’s former inhabitants—gems of Picasso looking out from his studio on quai des Grands Augustins, Albert Camus smoking on Boulevard Saint-Germain.

  Opposite, she unlatched the metal gate of the small square. A couple read in the shade. A man did push-ups on the trampled grass near the base of a chestnut tree. Only the army instilled the discipline to train in a heat wave like this.

  She counted an impressive series of fifty, then sat down on a bench. “Jean-Marie, I’m Aimée, Suzanne’s friend. You’re not an easy man to reach.”

  “I like it that way.”

  A sliver of aluminum glinted from below his sweat pants where his ankle would be.

  “Understood, Jean-Marie. I respect that.”

  “Then why hunt me down here? Non, I don’t care why. In case you haven’t figured it out, I want to be left alone.”

  “It’s not about you, désolée. Just hear me out, and I’ll go. Promise.” She fanned herself with her scarf and continued talking before he could interrupt. “Suzanne saw Mirko Vladić last Monday night in her café tabac. The same Mirko Vladić who your team saw blown up near Foča. I’m a detective; Suzanne asked me to investigate.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “True.” She pulled out a bottle of Evian, glad she’d bought an extra, and set it in the grass. He ignored it. “While I was investigating, two other members of your team, Isabelle Ideler and Erich Kayser, both died in freak accidents,” she said. “Meanwhile, Suzanne’s been taken off her job and hospitalized for stress or trauma, or whatever they’re calling it.”

  Pause. She wished she could read his expression. “Again, nothing to do with me.”

  “Suzanne thinks you’re next.”

  She tried to read his body language. Stiff as a rod.

  “Suzanne intimated that mistakes were made during the operation in Foča.” Aimée paused, stretching the truth. “Is that what this is about?”

  There was a metal click as Jean-Ma
rie adjusted the prosthesis. “Who are you?”

  He hadn’t thrown her out of the park yet, even if he wanted to. Maybe he couldn’t.

  “Someone who’d prefer to handle paid investigations,” she said. “I’m only here because I respect Suzanne too much not to follow up when she begs me to help.”

  “Suzanne? Beg?”

  Aimée half-smiled. “I owe her a favor.” She sat down on the grass cross-legged. “Look, we both know how smart Suzanne is. If she’s concerned for your safety, you should be, too.”

  “Mirko’s alive and in Paris,” he said. “And he’s going to come for me. That’s what I’m supposed to get out of this?”

  Her phone vibrated. René. But she couldn’t interrupt the conversation or stop Jean-Marie now.

  “You’d know better than I would,” she said.

  For the first time, he looked up and held her gaze. His azure eyes were full of pain and anger. “Tell me what Suzanne told you. In exact detail.”

  She took out her Moleskine, consulted her notes. Told him all the details. He nodded as he listened, giving her his full, quiet concentration. She figured he’d be a good operative in the field. Suzanne’s team must have been a crack commando unit.

  When she got to the part about the bank’s CCTV footage, he said, “So that café’s in front of the Métro, right?”

  “Exactement. It’s at the corner of rue de Rennes and rue du Vieux Colombier.”

  He nodded, his short hair glinting in the sun. “Been a while, but I know it. Isn’t there another door for the tabac?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Like I said, been a while.”

  “But you believe Suzanne?”

  “I think she’s too good to make a big mistake like that,” he said.

  “What could she mean about mistakes being made?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Translation: forget it. She had to walk on eggshells, make sure he didn’t shut back down.

  “Not something you want to talk about, I understand,” she said. “Or remember. But she’s been locked up. Taken out of commission.”

  He uncapped the Evian she’d offered him. Took a long sip. Then another.

  Progress.

  “So unlike Suzanne,” he said. “Where is she?”

  “The police rehab hospital in Indre.”

  Jean-Marie shuddered. “They wanted to shuffle me in there.”

  “But you’re army, non?”

  “The crazies of every stripe and medal get complimentary care there, if you know what I mean.”

  She could just imagine. Nodded.

  He leaned forward, retying his perfectly tied shoelace. “Two days ago I felt like I was being followed. Then again yesterday.”

  She shivered. “Did you tell anyone?”

  “I avoid everyone.”

  “Why?”

  “My old advisor, a military attaché, Robert, is trying to get me to . . . give a report.” He paused, struggling with something. “I don’t want him asking me any more questions.”

  She shouldn’t ask him any more questions, either. Best thing she could do was to wait, listen—maybe he would talk on his own if she was patient. Some things took time.

  Jean-Marie swigged the rest of the Evian. The couple had left. The square lay deserted. Lilac leaves drooped. Not another soul there.

  He scooted back into the retreating shade of the chestnut, and she followed. He was talking in a low voice, almost to himself—he’d waited until the park was empty.

  “Bosnia made you feel dirty,” he said, crushing the plastic bottle in his hands. “Stained you. You tried to do good—never enough. If you turned over one dunghill, you found another. It never ended. One thing you learned to help you survive was those people never forget. Memories like elephants. Some twelfth-century dispute over land, a daughter who got pregnant in 1917, a boundary wall of a farm that hasn’t been planted since before the war—it’s like it happened yesterday.”

  He paused. Had his words run out? Or did he expect a comment?

  She pinched herself to keep herself quiet. Prayed he’d continue.

  “At our orientation, the Hague liaison stressed how the people held on to old loyalties, seethed with pent-up emotions about decades of conflict. Ready to explode without rhyme or reason, at least none we could understand.” Jean-Marie’s low voice continued. “After the Second World War, Tito deep-froze the ethnic divisions. He thought he could strong-arm Catholic Croats, Bosnian Muslims, and Serbian Orthodox all into one country. Then Tito died, the decaying communism eroded, and the Croats, Bosnians, Serbians, all wanted their old piece of that country.”

  He sounded as if he knew a lot about what he spoke about. He wasn’t just some army beefcake.

  “Some orientation to a mop-up zone,” he said self-consciously. “That’s what they call ethnic cleansing, a mop-up. You want to make sense of senseless violence? You don’t. Just understand where it comes from.”

  She slid off her sandals. The grass felt good, cool under her feet.

  Once he’d started, he couldn’t stop talking. “Now Mirko . . . He was only small-fry. A monster, a thug, but no mastermind. It was Arkan who was the big fish—Arkan and his Tigers.”

  Her phone vibrated again. René.

  “Arkan, who’s he?” she asked.

  “Arkan’s the Serbian godfather crime lord. A mastermind. He speaks several languages. He first came to Interpol’s attention in the seventies and eighties for robberies and murder all over Europe—he’s on the most wanted list.”

  Her mother, an American, had also earned that distinction. Aimée batted that thought away.

  “Arkan vacuumed up jobless soccer fans in the Belgrade streets,” Jean-Marie was saying. “That’s how you build a paramilitary organization, you know. The hungry young without a future who are about to explode. Guys like Mirko Vladić. Arkan channeled their hate into a perverted nationalism, creating an army of thugs that made him rich and powerful. He used them, his Tigers, he called them. He gave them a cause, a heavenly mission. They went from fans to hoodlums to wealthy, well-armed gangs.”

  For the first time, she noticed the tremor in Jean-Marie’s good leg.

  “Arkan, always a trendsetter, paved the way for Croats and Bosnians to organize quasi-legitimate paramilitary outfits. Criminals let out of jail signed up for this ‘legitimate’ army. Opportunistic politicians used them to cut down inconvenient opposition.”

  Jean-Marie’s face flushed. “People had lived in mixed ethnic families for generations. Sarajevo had more Muslims than any other group. It didn’t matter. The paramilitary groups took out anyone they didn’t like. The UN sanctions did nothing. NATO was a joke.”

  “Mirko was one of Arkan’s Tigers?” she said.

  “I don’t know how, but after they caught Arkan, he managed to break out of a Dutch prison in the 80s. He must have been helped. Someone was protecting him. Always protecting him.” Pause. “But yes, Mirko was one of Arkan’s Tigers and stepped into a power vacuum in Sarajevo after the war. He’d done heinous things, and now he’d emerged as a head thug.”

  “Could he have reconnected with Arkan?”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “Do you think Mirko could have survived, tailed Suzanne, and engineered accidents for . . . for Isabelle and Erich?” It sounded hard to believe to her as she was saying it. Suzanne and now Jean-Marie had both described Mirko as a thug. Could he have pulled off something so complex?

  “What does your investigation tell you?”

  He sounded like Morbier. Just the facts, Leduc, he’d say, backed up with evidence.

  She took a breath. “I think if he’s here, he had to have had help.” She told Jean-Marie about Erich’s dark apartment, the sound in the darkness, the horrific scream, escaping on the roof.

  Her
phone vibrated. Melac. Chloé—was there a problem?

  “I have to take this. And if I don’t hurry, I’ll be late to see who shows up at Closerie des Lilas.”

  “You’re seriously keeping the appointment?”

  “I know the maître d’. I have a plan and a nanny cam.”

  He grinned. The first time she’d seen him smile. “Now I understand why Suzanne enlisted your help.”

  She stood, brushed grass bits from her skirt, surveyed the square. No one except long-robed academicians.

  “I’ve got a new phone,” said Jean-Marie.

  For all his bluster, he’d taken precautions.

  “Call me after Closerie des Lilas,” he said. “I’ll give you my number.”

  “Only if you’ll answer,” she said.

  “Tell me who shows up.”

  “You mean you’ll help?”

  The look in his eyes had changed. “Mirko was considered a small-fry criminal. Nothing special except that we’d gotten a sealed indictment from the ICTY that nailed him directly to the Foča massacres. However, we were after big fish, too. Hervé Gourmelon, a French agent, had met clandestinely with Karadžić, the fugitive former Bosnian Serb president. Gourmelon was suspected of passing him information about NATO plans to capture him.”

  “A French agent helping the fugitive Serb leader?”

  Jean-Marie gave a little nod. “A diplomatic disaster trying to cover it up. Someone leaked the details of the secret arrest plan and jeopardized the operation and NATO troops.”

  “But what does that have to do with Mirko?”

  “As the merde hit the fan, we discovered Mirko was Gourmelon’s Serb contact. There was a rumor of an arms deal. Gourmelon, probably his cover name, vanished, and no one’s seen hide nor hair of him.”

  She tried to piece all this together. Recalled Suzanne’s words: “Mistakes were made.”

  “Mirko’s death in an explosion would have been convenient.” Aimée rubbed the back of her neck. “Especially if it was staged. He could move around Europe without a trace, carry out the aborted arms deal. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Jean-Marie took her phone and entered his new number.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  •••