Syndrome E

by Franck Thilliez

  “I’m Chief Inspector Sharko, from the Central Bureau for the Suppression of Violent Crimes. I’d like to speak to Colonel Bertrand Chastel.”

  Giving the full name of his department always made an impression. Sharko explained that he was looking for a repeat offender, who had most likely joined their ranks not long ago under an assumed identity. To make more of an impact, he had piled some charges onto the so-called criminal’s record: rape, torture…The soldier asked him to wait a moment and disappeared inside his cabin. Sharko knew his ploy had worked when the man reappeared and pointed him toward the parking lot.

  “You can park in a visitor space, there behind you. The colonel will see you. A second lieutenant will come get you. I just need to ask for your service revolver.”

  The inspector handed it over.

  His folder under his arm, he silently followed the officer who had come to fetch him. On the immaculate walls of the enclosure, the famous motto Legio patria nostra was inscribed in gilded letters. Columns of men of all nationalities—Poles, Colombians, Russians—marched in formation around the parade ground to the rhythm of military chants. Others, farther back, wearing blue sweatpants and white T-shirts, were running down the stairs at breakneck speed, urgency and fear in their eyes. Plebes…

  Their extremism was frightening: these brothers in arms with their shorn heads and steely eyes were not yet thirty years old, and they were ready to die at a moment’s notice for the French flag.

  Sharko’s attention was suddenly drawn by a one-story building, in front of which was a sign that read DCILE: COMMUNICATION AND INFORMATION DIVISION. He quickened his step to catch up to his guide.

  “Tell me…what exactly do they do at DCILE?”

  “It’s a public relations office that processes requests for information and coordinates with the news media. The production office handles promotion for the Foreign Legion throughout France and abroad.”

  “Do you also have a video department? Shooting and postproduction of films for the army?”

  “Yes, sir. Documentaries, promotional and commemorative films.”

  “And it’s legionnaires themselves who handle this?”

  “Senior military staff. Officers and noncommissioned officers from the land army, mostly. Any other questions, sir?”

  “No, that’s it. Thanks.”

  Sharko thought of the men who had killed the film restorer, Claude Poignet. One of them was a filmmaker attached to the military, and he was surely hidden here, safe and sound in his combat boots, in one of those huge barracks…It fit together more and more.

  They arrived at the buildings for the 1st Foreign Regiment, seat of the high command, where the CO resided, the absolute authority. Sharko’s throat was dry, his hands moist, and he would have felt much less apprehensive facing a bloodthirsty killer than a decorated colonel, who had presumably devoted part of his life to serving his country. As a professional, the cop had deep respect for these soldiers and their sacrifice.

  They walked down muffled hallways; the soldier knocked three times and stood at attention in front of the closed doorway.

  “At ease! Come in!”

  After introducing Sharko and executing his regulation about-face, the second lieutenant left the cop alone with the colonel, who was busy signing papers. The policeman estimated that the commanding officer must have been about his age and build, minus the pudginess and taller by an inch or two. His faultless gray crew cut further amplified the Euclidean geometry of his face. On his dark uniform, a small badge read COLONEL CHASTEL in red letters.

  “I’ll ask you to wait a few more seconds.”

  The superior officer raised his ice-blue eyes, then went back to his chore without exhibiting any particular emotion. If the colonel was involved in the affair, Sharko thought, if he had kept up with the news following the discovery of the bodies in Gravenchon, he would certainly know Sharko’s face, who he was. If so, had he been steeling himself for this visit since the corporal on guard had called ahead? Or had he simply not recognized him?

  While Chastel signed papers, Sharko took the opportunity to check out the office. The seven articles of the legionnaire’s code of honor dominated a bay window that looked out on the parade ground. The walls were covered with countless commemorative plaques and photos, in which the colonel, at various ages, posed alone or with his regiment. The ocher soil and dust of Afghanistan, the shattered structures of Beirut, the exuberance of the Amazonian jungle…A muffled violence radiated from those faces with their sharply etched features, from those fingers clutching their assault rifles. At bottom, these pictures showed nothing other than war, conflict, death, and in the middle of it all, men who felt at home there.

  The colonel finally stacked up his papers and pushed them to the edge of his impeccably neat desk. There was no other chair. Here, one tended to remain standing, at attention.

  “I still envy those years when no one had heard of paperwork. May I see your ID?”

  “Of course.”

  Sharko handed it over. The officer looked at it scrupulously before giving it back. His fingers were thick, his nails well manicured. Like Sharko, he had left the field some time ago.

  “You are looking for someone in our ranks who committed murder, if I’ve understood correctly. And you’ve come to arrest him on your own?”

  His voice was deep, monolithic, rough. If he was dissimulating, he was good at it.

  “For now, we’re only at the investigation stage. A surveillance camera proved that his vehicle was present about ten miles from Aubagne, at the A52 tollbooth. But there’s no trace of the same vehicle when you get to the A50. Therefore, he has to have stopped between the two.”

  “Have you found the vehicle?”

  “Not yet, but we’re working on it.”

  Colonel Chastel shook the mouse of his computer, then typed what was no doubt a password on the keyboard.

  “You are surely aware that the Legion does not recruit men who have committed rape or murder?”

  “He probably used a false identity.”

  “Not very likely. Give me his name.”

  Sharko looked him in the eye, as deeply as he could. It was there, soon, in the flash of an instant, that he had to catch the tiny sparkle that could turn everything around. He undid the elastics holding his folder shut and took out an enlarged photo. He placed it on the desk, facedown on the wood.

  “It’s all on there.”

  Bertrand Chastel pulled the sheet toward him and turned it over.

  The photo showed Mohamed Abane when he was alive. A close-up of his face.

  Chastel should have reacted. Nothing—not the slightest emotion on his closed features.

  Sharko clenched his jaws. It couldn’t be. The inspector felt destabilized, but tried not to show it and to stay on point.

  “As it says under the photo, he must have presented himself here under the name Akim Abane.”

  The legionnaire pushed the sheet back toward Sharko.

  “Sorry, but I’ve never seen him.”

  Not a tremble in his voice, lips, or fingers. Sharko took back the picture, his brows knit.

  “I imagine you can’t see every new face that joins your ranks. In fact, I was rather expecting you to type his name into the computer, as you were getting ready to do before I showed you his portrait.”

  A short pause. Too long, deemed Sharko. Nonetheless, Chastel lost none of his composure or self-possession. Thick-skinned, this one.

  “Nothing happens here without my knowing or seeing it. But if it will reassure you.”

  He typed the information into the computer and turned the screen toward Sharko.

  “Nothing.”

  “You didn’t need to show me the screen—I would have taken you at your word.”

  With a firm motion, Chastel pulled the monitor back toward himself.

  “I’m quite busy. Second Lieutenant Brachet will see you to the exit gate. Good luck with your fugitive.”

  Sharko hesitated.
He couldn’t leave like this, with all these doubts. Just as Chastel moved to pick up his phone, Sharko leaned toward him and pressed on his hand, forcing him to put the receiver back in the cradle. This time, he knew he was crossing the line, and that it could all come tumbling down.

  “I don’t know how you knew I’d show up here, but don’t try to fuck with me.”

  “Remove your hand at once.”

  Sharko pushed his face to within four inches of the officer’s. He went straight to the point, all or nothing.

  “Syndrome E. I know all about it. For God’s sake, why the fuck else do you think I’d be here?”

  This time Chastel registered the blow and couldn’t entirely hide his astonishment: eyes wandering, temporal bones rolling beneath the skin. A bead of sweat pearled on his forehead, despite the air-conditioning. He kept his hand on the phone.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, yes, you do! You know exactly! What I don’t get is how you managed to keep so cool when you saw Abane’s portrait. Even someone like you can’t have that much self-control. How did you know? How did you—?”

  Sharko squinted.

  “Microphones.”

  He straightened up, hands pressed against his temples.

  “Good God almighty. You went to my place and planted bugs.”

  Chastel bolted to his feet, fists planted on his desk like a gorilla.

  “I promise you’re going to regret coming here and threatening me. You can expect your career to come to a very sudden end.”

  Sharko gave him a vicious smile. He went back on the attack.

  “I’m here on my own. Nobody’s aware of my trip to Aubagne, as you already know. And if it eases your mind any, we won’t be launching any investigations against the Legion. Everyone is in agreement: Mohamed Abane, or rather Akim Abane—call him what you want—was never here.”

  “You are completely insane. What you’re saying makes no sense.”

  “So insane that I’m going to ask you for money, Colonel Chastel. A lot of money. Let’s say a tidy sum, enough to let me resign and afford a nice, comfortable retirement. But a mere drop in the bucket for the DGSE slush fund. You think I want to keep shoveling shit for the rest of my life?”

  Sharko didn’t give him time to answer; he had to move fast. He pulled a sheet of paper from his folder and slapped it down in front of the legionnaire.

  “The proof of my good faith.”

  Chastel deigned to lower his eyes.

  “What’s this, GPS coordinates? What does this mean?”

  “If you or your friends ever take a little jaunt to Egypt—you never know—this is where you’ll find the body of a certain Atef Abd el-Aal, a Cairene sentinel. Unless you already knew about this too? Give this paper to the French or Egyptian authorities and I’ll spend the rest of my days in prison.”

  The officer’s frozen features looked like poured concrete. Sharko leaned forward, his face smug.

  “I’ll also forget about that business with the mics. You see, we have to trust each other, you and I.”

  He headed toward the door.

  “No need to see me out—I know the way. I’ll contact you in a few days. Oh, and one more thing: should I meet with any unfortunate accidents, I’ve taken precautions.”

  He jerked his chin toward the Legion’s code of honor.

  “Maybe you should reread that.”

  He then turned around and left.

  No one saw him out.

  As he walked past those soldiers, trained and prepared to kill, knives in their belts, he wondered if he hadn’t just signed his death warrant. He now had the Foreign Legion and probably the secret service on his back. He had suspected there was considerable weight behind this affair, and he’d been right. Some very high brass…

  He drove pedal to the metal down the long, straight lines of Highway A6. With the back of his hand, he wiped away the small tears that were leaking from the corners of his eyes. He had confided his weaknesses, his deepest wounds, to Henebelle, because he knew she was like him, and a kind of trust had spontaneously grown up between them. He had shown her his psychological scars.

  But other ears had been listening. Chastel and his fucking hench-men…

  Now he felt exposed, betrayed, almost ashamed.

  Seven hours later, he walked through his door. He set about searching his apartment top to bottom and found four listening devices. One hidden in the base of the halogen lamp, and the other three in the radiator thermostats. Standard miniature equipment, available to any police department. He knew he wouldn’t find any prints, and that there would be nothing to learn from them.

  In a rage, he threw them onto the floor.

  And it was Eugenie who crushed them under her heel.

  At that moment, the Sig Sauer resting in his holster and the three dead bolts on the door to his apartment seemed terribly insubstantial.

  43

  Lucie had taken an airplane only once before, on a holiday in the Baleares when she was about nine, and she’d loved it. She remembered her father and mother holding her close and petting her hair when the turbulence frightened her. It was one of her last memories of the three of them together, and it was all so far away now.

  Lost in thought, she sat with her forehead pressed against the window of the Boeing 747 as it hovered above Quebec. The flight attendant had just woken her and asked her to fasten her seat belt: they were beginning their descent. Lucie had slept most of the way, heavily and, unusually, without waking. Now, in the pale light of the setting sun, she admired the stretches of lakes and forest, rivers and swamps that civilization had still spared. A vast, wild terrain, miraculously preserved. Then the mouth of the Saint Lawrence appeared, with the first major signs of human presence, before the jet flew over the famous lozenge-shaped island.

  Montreal: a flare of modernism amid the waters.

  The flight attendant verified one more time that everyone’s seat belt was fastened. The passenger seated next to Lucie, a big blond fellow, had practically dug his fingers into the armrests. He stared at her with cocker spaniel eyes.

  “Here it comes again—I’m starting to feel like I’m dying. I really envy people like you who can sleep anywhere.”

  Lucie gave him a polite smile. Her mouth was pasty and she didn’t feel like making chitchat. The landing at Montreal-Trudeau airport was soft as could be. The ground temperature was about the same as a classic summer in the north of France. No real sense of disorientation, particularly since much of the population was French-speaking. Once the usual business was behind her—customs, verification of the letter rogatory, the wait at baggage claim, currency exchange—Lucie hailed a cab and let herself collapse onto the backseat. Evening was just beginning here, but across the Atlantic night was well under way.

  Her first impression of Montreal, in the gathering darkness, was of a modern and incredibly luminous city. The skyscrapers launched their beams of light toward the stars; the many cathedrals and churches played on tones of red, blue, and green projected by spotlights. In the center of town, Lucie was surprised by how wide the avenues were, and the rigorous geometry of the streets. Despite the subway entrances with their very Parisian look and the effervescence of the small cafés and restaurants nearby, you didn’t have the impression of closeness and warmth that animated the French capital on mild evenings.

  By the time she arrived at the Delta Montreal, an imposing high-rise with a summit bathed in blue light, Lucie no longer had the energy to go out and see the city—including the famous underground Montreal. Claiming her key, she settled into her room on the fifth floor, put on her bathrobe, and lay down on the bed with a long sigh. She didn’t feel at home in this anonymous place, with its succession of strangers, traveling businesspeople, and vacationing couples. Nothing more depressing than to be alone at night, without a sound outside. Where were her daughters’ laughter and tears, the light daily hubbub of her apartment that had been with her for all those years? How
could she let herself go so far away from her ailing little girl? What was Clara doing at camp? Questions that a mother, a good mother, should never have to wonder about.

  Despite her worries, she gradually began to doze off. Her eyes fluttered open when the hotel phone rang. She stretched out her hand and brought the receiver to her ear.

  “Yes?”

  “All settled in, Henebelle?”

  A pause.

  “Inspector Sharko? Uh…yes, I just got in. But…why didn’t you call on my cell?”

  “I tried. No go.”

  Lucie picked up the mobile phone that was lying next to her. The battery was charged. The screen showed no calls. She tried to get a dial tone.

  “Damn, it must be out of range. Speaking of distance, it must be four or five in the morning for you. You’re already up?”

  Sharko was sitting at his kitchen table, in front of an empty cup of coffee and his loaded Sig Sauer. His cheek was in one hand, his elbow resting on the tablecloth, his eye turned toward the entry door in the living room. His telephone was sitting on the table, with the speaker on. On the chair opposite him, Eugenie was humming the latest song by Coeur de Pirate. She was munching on candied chestnuts and sipping a mint soda. Sharko turned his face away.

  “How was the trip?”

  “In a word, exhausting. Crammed full of vacationers.”

  “And how about the hotel—is it nice? You do have a bathtub, at least?”

  “A bathtub? Uh…yes. And how about you—what’s new?”

  “Here’s a thrill: I’m about to inherit a list of two hundred people who attended a scientific conference in Cairo at the time of the murders. We’ve decided to focus on just the French for now.”

  “Two hundred? That’s a lot. How many are working on it?”

  “Just one—me. For starters, we should be able to eliminate a good number with the killer’s profile we have from 1993. Pare it down as much as possible, before delving into everyone’s past. You can imagine what a chore it is.”