Syndrome E

by Franck Thilliez

  In the ultramodern quarters of the local police, they emptied her pockets—the key Rotenberg had entrusted to her ended up at the bottom of another baggie—and two men, not exactly altar-boy types, interrogated her without giving her time to catch her breath. Lucie explained the situation as best she could. She told them about the murders in France, the experiments in the 1950s, her findings at the archives, and her fake kidnapping by Philip Rotenberg. In a calm, self-assured voice, she invited her interrogators, who were exchanging skeptical glances, to get in touch with Quebec Sûreté and the French police for further information about the case. She scrupulously jotted down all the contact information and telephone numbers she could remember.

  Her letter rogatory would no doubt save her neck, even though, in such situations, foreign police didn’t have the right to intervene directly, especially when it came to using a firearm.

  Her cooperative attitude and clear explanations did not save her from spending the night in a cell. Once more, Lucie did not protest. She knew how investigations worked, and what a complicated situation the Canadian police had to deal with. Two charred corpses found in the depths of a forest, a Frenchwoman with no ID, some wild tale about the CIA and secret services—this was no small matter. Verifying her statements would take time.

  The important thing was that she was alive. She’d see her daughters again.

  Alone in the small rectangular room, she collapsed onto the bench, her nerves shot. The man she had killed that evening was only the second in her career. To snuff out a life, no matter whose, always leaves a deep, black fissure in your soul. Something indelible that can haunt you for a long time.

  She thought about Rotenberg, who had just been about to reveal the whole truth. As with the film restorer, she had handed him to his killers on a platter. Hidden in the deepest reaches of the forest, the man had paid the price for her negligence.

  Those bastards had used her once again, and Lucie hated herself for it.

  Detective Monette came by at regular intervals to see how she was doing, to bring her water or coffee; he even offered her a cigarette, which she declined. Later that night, he told her that everything was coming along smoothly and that she’d probably be out before noon.

  The hours that followed stretched interminably. No more visits, no one to talk with. Just the leaden morning sun assaulting the northern sky through the Plexiglas windows of the sinister gray cell. Lucie thought incessantly of her girls. Last night, she had almost bought it. What would have become of her daughters without her? Another two orphans in the world. Lucie sighed deeply. As soon as this business was over, she was going to take some serious time to think about her future. About the future of all three of them…

  At 10:10 that morning, a silhouette appeared in the frame of the peephole.

  Lucie would have recognized it anywhere.

  Franck Sharko.

  When Detective Monette unlocked the door, Lucie rushed out and, without thinking, threw herself into the arms of the big cop. The inspector hesitated for a fraction of a second, then clamped his two large hands against her back.

  “You’re going to make my old ticker give out if you keep this up. Is it always like this with you?”

  Lucie’s eyes clouded up. She leaned back, smiling sadly.

  “Let’s say these are special circumstances. Hadn’t you noticed?”

  For a few seconds, Lucie forgot the dark hours she’d just been through, reassured by Sharko’s solid presence. He nodded his chin toward the bars, with a becoming smile.

  “I’ll be back in a moment, just have to finish up the paperwork. Think you can hang out a bit longer?”

  “I’d like to make a phone call first. I want to call my girls. Just to hear their voices.”

  “In a moment, Henebelle, in a moment.”

  Lucie went back and sat on her bench.

  Once alone, she let out a long breath and put her hand to her chest.

  51

  Lucie returned, holding Sharko’s cell phone. She sat at the table and handed it back to him. On the road from Trois-Rivières to Montreal, they had stopped at a Kentucky Fried Chicken.

  “So?” asked the inspector.

  “They’re both fine. Juliette doesn’t have any trouble eating anymore and is staying with her grandmother. She’s feeling much better, thank God. And as for Clara, I could only reach the counselors at her camp—the kids are out at a campfire. I forgot it’s already dinnertime over there!”

  During the drive, Lucie had time to relate everything that had happened since her arrival in Canada. The Duplessis Orphans, Sanders’s treatments, the CIA’s involvement in experiments on human beings starting in the fifties. Sharko had swallowed, storing away the information without saying a word.

  For now, the inspector was hungrily munching on his fried chicken leg, while Lucie nibbled at her coleslaw and sucked down great gulps of Coca-Cola, which helped settle her stomach.

  “The sniper at the cabin wasn’t trying to kill me, I’m certain of it. He wanted to smoke me out and take me alive. There was something else.”

  Sharko stopped eating. He put down his chicken, wiped his hands, and looked at Lucie.

  “This is all my fault.”

  And he told her: his visit to Legion HQ, Colonel Chastel, his bluff, the photo of the young woman with her face circled in red. That same young woman sucked noisily on her straw as she took in the news.

  “So that’s why you finally agreed to let me come here—for four days, no less. You wanted to go it alone.”

  “I just wanted to keep you from doing something foolish.”

  “You shouldn’t have. Those soldiers could have killed you. They could have—”

  “Let it go. What’s done is done.”

  Lucie nodded limply.

  “What happens now? For me here in Canada, I mean?”

  “The RCMP will take care of the paperwork to allow you to return to France. For the police, the case is just about establishing what went down at the cabin. Our department and the Sûreté in Montreal will handle the rest—meaning the huge shithole we’re in up to our necks. They’re also trying to find out the identity of your seatmate on the plane, Rotenberg’s killer.”

  “Blond, crew cut, solid build, combat boots. Under thirty. It’s one of the two guys we’ve been looking for since the beginning.”

  “Probably so.”

  “Definitely so. And what about the key the lawyer gave me before he died? Any news?”

  “They’re checking to see what it belongs to. It’s got a number, so they’re thinking a locker somewhere. Maybe the post office or a train station. In any case, they’ll keep us posted. And…nice work at the archives, Henebelle.”

  “Deep down, you didn’t believe in it. Am I right?”

  “In the lead? Not really. But in you, yes. I believed in you the minute I saw you get off the train, that first time at Gare du Nord.”

  Lucie took in the compliment. She gave him a smile and couldn’t repress a yawn.

  “Oops, excuse me.”

  “Let’s hit the road and get you back to the hotel. How long has it been since you slept?”

  “A long time. But we have to try to find Sister Marie du Calvaire. We have to—”

  “Tomorrow. I don’t feel like having to scrape you up off the ground.”

  For once, Lucie gave in without even trying to argue. The fact was, she was worn out.

  “Let me just make a pit stop and we’ll get going.”

  Sharko watched her walk away. He would have liked to hold her in his arms, reassure her, tell her everything would be all right. But for now, his jaws remained far too paralyzed to form tender words. He finished his beer and went to wait outside. He made a quick call to Leclerc to let him know everything was okay. The head of Violent Crimes told him he’d be seeing judges and senior officials at the ministry of defense within the day, to start legal proceedings that would allow them to investigate the Foreign Legion and determine whether Mohamed Abane had a
ctually joined.

  When he hung up, the chief inspector felt as if things were finally taking huge steps forward.

  52

  “I thought I’d find you here.”

  Sharko let himself be surprised by the lilting female voice behind him. Sitting in an armchair in the hotel bar, he was quietly sipping a whiskey in the dim light while reading over his list of SIGN participants. The place was elegant without going overboard: light-colored carpet, thick red cushions on the seats, walls lined in black velvet. As she came up, Lucie noticed the glass of mint soda sitting on the table.

  “Oh, are you waiting for someone?”

  “No, no one. The glass was there already.”

  He didn’t say any more. Lucie remained standing and spread her arms in a sign of resignation.

  “Apologies for the outfit. Jeans aren’t very dressy, but I really hadn’t been planning to go out at night.”

  Sharko gave her a weary smile.

  “I thought you were going to get some sleep.”

  “I thought so too.”

  Lucie walked over to one of the empty chairs facing him and moved to sit down.

  “No, not that one!”

  She straightened up, startled.

  “You liar—you are waiting for someone! I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “Don’t be silly. That chair wobbles. What can I get you?”

  “A screwdriver. Heavy on the vodka, light on the OJ. I could stand to decompress.”

  Sharko emptied his glass and headed to the bar. Lucie watched him go. He’d changed his clothes, rubbed a dab of gel in his salt-and-pepper brush cut, and put on aftershave. He walked with style. Lucie looked over the papers he’d left in his chair. Last names, first names, birth dates, job titles. Some had been crossed out. With his devil-may-care facade, Sharko gave an impression of indifference, but in fact he never quit.

  The inspector returned with two glasses and handed one to Lucie, who had slid her chair closer to his. She nodded toward the lists.

  “Those are the scientists who were in Cairo at the time of the murders, right?”

  “Two hundred and seventeen of them, to be precise. Between the ages of twenty-two and seventy-three at the time. If the killers in Cairo are the same as in Gravenchon, we have to add sixteen years. That eliminates a number of them right off the bat.”

  He stacked up the sheets, folded them, and slid them in his pocket.

  “I’ve got some fresh bad news, which in fact is good news. Shall we get it over with?”

  “Yes, please. You once told me there was a time for everything. And right now, I really, really need to relax.”

  “Here it is. Colonel Bernard Chastel was found at his home today. He ate his service revolver this morning.”

  Lucie took a moment to absorb the development.

  “Are they certain it’s suicide?”

  “The ME and the detectives had no doubts. I’ll spare you the details. And another bit of news: according to the airline, the guy sitting next to you was named Julien Manoeuvre. Career military, assigned to DCILE, the communication and information branch of the Foreign Legion. The department that makes films for the army.”

  “Our filmmaking killer…The man with the combat boots…”

  “The same. As if by chance, Manoeuvre happened to be on leave at the start of our case. Leave personally authorized by Chastel. Later, when Chastel saw that things were starting to go south, especially with my visit to his office and what happened here, he killed himself. No doubt he took precautions and got rid of anything that could compromise him.”

  “So he was involved up to his neck. He knew about the murders.”

  “Most likely. And one more thing—hold on tight for this one.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “A search of Manoeuvre’s place turned up a number of lists of films being transferred among the world’s major cinema archives. You remember the FIAF Web site your chief told us about? That’s how he found out about the reel two years ago. He must have gone immediately to FIAF to ask for films from 1955, except that someone had already stolen the one he was looking for. A collector we know well.”

  “Szpilman.”

  “That’s right, Szpilman. So Manoeuvre, after getting this close, lost the scent, but he didn’t give up. He must have continued asking around, keeping an eye on film exchanges and want ads, especially from Belgium. And that’s how he finally ended up at Szpilman Junior’s house after the old man died.”

  “But it’s crazy—all this effort just to get hold of a film.”

  “As long as copies existed, Chastel and the others behind this whole mess were fucked. Manoeuvre was just a pawn, an operative. So was Chastel, probably, but at a higher level.”

  “This time, tell me there’s going to be an official investigation into the Legion.”

  “Yes. And with luck, it will loosen some tongues, and all those warrants will lead somewhere. Let’s not forget that there are probably two killers. Manoeuvre was one, but the other one, the one who removes the brains, is probably here on this list. And he probably acted alone in Egypt, since Manoeuvre was much too young.”

  At these last words from the inspector, Lucie sipped her drink, eyes shining with fatigue. In the subdued light, Sharko’s features softened. The sound of music, low and simple, faded into the background. Everything in this place fostered a sense of calm and seduction. Lucie took a photo from her wallet and laid it on the table.

  “I haven’t introduced you to my two little treasures. Who I miss terribly. Today more than ever, I realize I’m just not ready to be so far away from them.”

  Sharko picked up the photo with a tenderness Lucie had never seen in him before.

  “Juliette on the right and Clara on the left?”

  “Other way around. If you look closely, you’ll see that Clara has a slight defect in her iris, a black spot that looks like a tiny vase.”

  The inspector handed back the picture.

  “What about their father?”

  “He ran out a long time ago.”

  Lucie sighed, her hands around her glass.

  “This case is very hard, Inspector, because it’s not Clara or Juliette I see when I look at this photo, but Alice Tonquin, Lydia Hocquart, and all those other frightened little girls. I can see their faces, their terror. I hear their screams when they attacked those poor animals.”

  “We all have our ghosts. They’ll go away when we crack this case. When all the doors have finally closed, they’ll leave you in peace.”

  A silence. Lucie nodded, staring into space.

  “And how about you, Inspector? Have you left any doors open in your life?”

  Sharko twisted his wedding ring.

  “Yes…There’s a very, very big door I’d like to close. But I can’t seem to do it. Maybe because deep down, I don’t really want to.”

  Lucie put down her glass and leaned forward. Her lips were just inches away from those of the man she was dying to kiss.

  “I know what door you mean. And I might be able to help you close it.”

  Sharko didn’t answer immediately. Part of him felt like pulling back, getting up, disappearing, but the other part struggled to keep him there.

  “You really think so?”

  She leaned farther forward and kissed him on the mouth. Sharko’s eyelids had lowered; his senses went numb, as if everything inside him had suddenly shut down.

  He opened his eyes.

  “You do know there’s probably no future in what’s maybe about to happen?”

  “Personally, I think there is. But for now, let’s at least give the present a chance.”

  He hadn’t seen a woman naked since the death of Suzanne, and it almost made him feel ashamed. The slim, scented body glided through the shadows and came to press against his. The greedy, delicate hands finished unbuttoning his shirt, while fire roiled deep in his belly. He let her take the lead, but Lucie could feel a tension, an impalpable hold that prevented the man in
front of her from letting go completely.

  “Is something wrong?” she whispered into his ear.

  “It’s just that…”

  Sharko pulled out of her embrace and slipped nimbly toward the center of the room. He turned over the chair near the bed and put away the O-gauge Ova Hornby locomotive, with its black car for wood and coal, in the drawer of the bedside table. He also put away the box of candied chestnuts. Then he went back to his partner and kissed her passionately. A bit too roughly, he pushed her back onto the bed. Lucie let out a little laugh.

  “That train was too much. You really are an odd—”

  Their mouths found each other again, their moist bodies slammed together. Sharko deftly turned off the lights as their hips rolled in the sheets. Despite the drawn curtains, light from outside spread over the bed, suggesting the forms that pleasure combined. A landscape of flesh, hollows, valleys, gave the impression of sinking beneath the fury of an earthquake. Lucie bit the pillow, in the grip of her orgasm; Sharko turned her over, with the tender violence of a she-wolf lifting her young, and plunged onto her, breathing hard. The tears, the screams, the faces of the dead, the Lydias and Alices became blurred, submerged by their sensuality. The seconds pulsed like electrical charges on the skin. In the tension of his burning muscles, Sharko stiffened, the veins in his neck bulging. And as his teeth clenched, as his movements took fire, he stared at the center of the room.

  She was still standing there, feet together, hands hanging down at her sides.

  And for the first time in his life, Sharko saw Eugenie cry.

  The instant seemed an eternity. The inspector’s eyes clouded up as well, while the woman beneath him moaned.

  And in the magic of his senses in ecstasy, the little girl smiled at him.

  She raised her small hand and gave him a friendly wave.

  On the verge of tears, Sharko answered with the same gesture.

  The next moment, Eugenie walked out without looking back. The door closed silently behind her.

  And Sharko finally let himself feel pleasure.