3
Babel knew that he was running for his life. Nothing had ever felt as certain as this before. As complete. The pain in his hand was a violent, throbbing ache. His lungs were on fire, each breath tearing through him as if it were studded with nails.
Bale watched him from fifty metres back. He had time. The gypsy had nowhere to go. No one he could speak to. The Surete would take one look at him and put him in a straitjacket - the police weren’t overly charitable to gypsies in Paris, especially gypsies covered in blood. What had happened in that bar? Who had he seen? Well, it wouldn’t take him long to find out.
He spotted the white Peugeot van almost immediately. The driver was asking directions of a window cleaner. The window cleaner was pointing back towards St-Denis and scrunching his shoulders in Gallic incomprehension.
Bale threw the driver to one side and climbed into the cab. The engine was still running. Bale slid the van into gear and accelerated away. He didn’t bother to check in the rear-view mirror.
***
Babel had lost sight of the gadje. He turned and looked behind him, jogging backwards. Passers-by avoided him, put off by his bloodied face and hands. Babel stopped. He stood in the street, sucking in air like a cornered stag.
The white Peugeot van mounted the kerb and smashed into Babel’s right thigh, crushing the bone. Babel ricocheted off the bonnet and fell heavily on to the pavement. Almost immediately he felt himself being lifted - strong hands on his jacket and the seat of his trousers. A door was opened and he was thrown into the van. He could hear a terrible, high-pitched keening and belatedly realised that it was coming from himself. He looked up just as the gadje brought the heel of his hand up beneath his chin.
4
Babel awoke to an excruciating pain in his legs and shoulders. He raised his head to look around, but saw nothing. It was only then that he realised that his eyes were bandaged and that he was tied, upright, to some sort of metal frame from which he hung forward, his legs and arms in cruciform position, his body in an involuntary semicircle, as though he were thrusting out his hips in the course of some particularly explicit dance. He was naked.
Bale gave Babel’s penis another tug. ‘So. Have I got your attention at last? Good. Listen to me, Samana. There are two things you must know. One. You are definitely going to die - you cannot possibly talk your way out of this or buy your life from me with information. Two. The manner of your death depends entirely on you. If you please me, I will cut your throat. You won’t feel anything. And the way I do it, you will bleed to death in under a minute. If you displease me, I will hurt you - far more than I am hurting you now. To prove to you that I intend to kill you - and that there is no way back from the position in which you find yourself - I am going to slice your penis off. Then I shall cauterise the wound with a hot iron so that you don’t bleed to death before your time.’
‘Don’t! Don’t do it! I will tell you anything you want to know. Anything.’
Bale stood with his knife held flat against the outstretched skin of Babel’s member. ‘Anything? Your penis, against the information that I seek?’ Bale shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t understand. You know that you will never use it again. I have made this quite clear. Why should you wish to retain it? Don’t tell me that you are still labouring under the delusion that there is hope?’
A filament of saliva drooled from the edge of Babel’s mouth. ‘What do you want me to tell you?’
‘First. The name of the bar.’
‘Chez Minette.’
‘Good. That is correct. I saw you enter there myself. Who did you see?’
‘An American. A writer. Adam Sabir.’
‘Why?’
‘To sell him the manuscript. I wanted money.’
‘Did you show him the manuscript?’
Babel gave a fractured laugh. ‘I don’t even have it. I’ve never seen it. I don’t even know if it exists.’
‘Oh dear.’ Bale let go of Babel’s penis and began stroking his face. ‘You are a handsome man. The ladies like you. A man’s greatest weakness always lies in his vanity.’ Bale criss-crossed his knife blade over Babel’s right cheek. ‘Not so pretty now. From one side, you’ll still do. From the other - Armageddon. Look. I can put my finger right through this hole.’
Babel started screaming.
‘Stop. Or I shall mark the other side.’
Babel stopped screaming. Air fl uttered through the torn flaps of his cheek.
‘You advertised the manuscript. Two interested parties answered. I am one. Sabir the other. What did you intend to sell to us for half a million euros? Hot air?’
‘I was lying. I know where it can be found. I will take you to it.’
‘And where is that?’
‘It’s written down.’
‘Recite it to me.’
Babel shook his head. ‘I can’t.’
‘Turn the other cheek.’
‘No! No! I can’t. I can’t read…’
‘How do you know it’s written down then?’
‘Because I’ve been told.’
‘Who has this writing? Where can it be found?’ Bale cocked his head to one side. ‘Is a member of your family hiding it? Or somebody else?’ There was a pause. ‘Yes. I thought so. I can see it on your face. It’s a member of your family, isn’t it? I want to know who. And where.’ Bale grabbed hold of Babel’s penis. ‘Give me a name.’
Babel hung his head. Blood and saliva dripped out of the hole made by Bale’s knife. What had he done? What had his fear and bewilderment made him reveal? Now the gadje would go and find Yola. Torture her too. His dead parents would curse him for not protecting his sister. His name would become unclean - mahrimé. He would be buried in an unmarked grave. And all because his vanity was stronger than his fear of death.
Had Sabir understood those two words he had told him in the bar? Would his instincts about the man prove right?
Babel knew that he had reached the end of the road. A lifetime spent building castles in the air meant that he understood his own weaknesses all too well. Another thirty seconds and his soul would be consigned to Hell. He would have only one chance to do what he intended to do. One chance only.
Using the full hanging weight of his head, Babel threw his chin up to the left, as far as it could reach and then wrenched it back downwards in a vicious semicircle to the right.
Bale took an involuntary step backwards. Then he reached across and grabbed a handful of the gypsy’s hair. The head lolled loose, as if sprung from its moorings.
‘Nah!’ Bale let the head drop forward. ‘Impossible.’
Bale walked a few steps away, contemplated the corpse for a second and then approached again. He reached forwards and filleted the gypsy’s ear with his knife. Then he slid off the blindfold and thumbed back the man’s eyelids. The eyes were dull - no spark of life.
Bale cleaned his knife on the blindfold and walked away, shaking his head.
5
Captain Joris Calque of the Police Nationale ran the unlit cigarette beneath his nose, then reluctantly replaced it in its gunmetal case. He slid the case into his jacket pocket. ‘At least this cadaver’s good and fresh. I’m surprised blood isn’t still dripping from its ear.’ Calque stubbed his thumb against Babel’s chest, withdrew it, then craned forwards to monitor for any colour changes. ‘Hardly any lividity. This man hasn’t been dead for more than an hour. How did we get to him so fast, Macron?’
‘Stolen van, Sir. Parked outside. The van owner called it in and a pandore on the beat ran across it forty minutes later. I wish all street crime was as easy to detect.’
Calque stripped off his protective gloves. ‘I don’t understand. Our murderer kidnaps the gypsy from the street, in full public view and in a stolen van. Then he drives straight here, strings the gypsy up on a bed frame that he has conveniently nailed to the wall before the event, tortures him a little, breaks his neck and then leaves the van parked out in the street like a signpost. Does that make any sense
to you?’
‘We also have a blood mismatch.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Here. On the victim’s hand. These cuts are older than the other wounds. And there is alien blood mixed in with the victim’s own. It shows up clearly on the portable spectrometer.’
‘Ah. So now, not satisfied with the van signpost, the killer leaves us a blood signpost too.’ Calque shrugged. ‘The man is either an imbecile or a genius.’
6
The pharmacist finished bandaging Sabir’s hand. ‘It must have been cheap glass - you’re lucky not to need any stitches You’re not a pianist, by any chance?’
‘No. A writer.’
‘Oh. No skills involved, then.’
Sabir burst out laughing. ‘You could say that. I’ve written one book about Nostradamus. And now I write film reviews for a chain of regional newspapers. But that’s about it. The sum total of a misspent life.’
The pharmacist snatched a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean what you think I meant. Of course writers are skilful. I meant digital skills. The sort in which one needs to use one’s fingers.’
‘It’s all right.’ Sabir stood up and eased on his jacket. ‘We hacks are used to being insulted. We are resolutely bottom of the pecking order. Unless we write bestsellers, that is, or contrive to become celebrities, when we magically spring to the top. Then, when we can’t follow up, we sink back down to the bottom again. It’s a heady profession, don’t you agree?’ He disguised his bitterness behind a broad smile. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Fifty euros. If you’re sure you can afford it, that is.’
‘Ah. Touché!’ Sabir took out his wallet and riffled through it for notes. Part of him was still struggling to understand the gypsy’s actions. Why would a man attack a total stranger? One he was hoping would buy something valuable off him? It made no earthly sense. Something was preventing him from going to the police, however, despite the encouragement of the barman and the three or four customers who had witnessed the attack. There was more to this than met the eye. And who or what were Samois and Chris? He handed the pharmacist her money. ‘Does the word Samois mean anything to you?’
‘Samois?’ The pharmacist shook her head. ‘Apart from the place, you mean?’
‘The place? What place?’
‘Samois-sur-Seine. It’s about sixty kilometres south-east of here. Just above Fontainebleau. All the jazz people know it. The gypsies hold a festival there every summer in honour of Django Reinhardt. You know. The Manouche guitarist.’
‘Manouche?’
‘It’s a gypsy tribe. Linked to the Sinti. They come from Germany and northern France. Everybody knows that.’
Sabir gave a mock bow. ‘But you forget, Madame. I’m not everybody. I’m only a writer.’
7
Bale didn’t like barmen. They were an obnoxious species, living off the weakness of others. Still. In the interests of information-gathering he was prepared to make allowances. He slipped the stolen ID back inside his pocket. ‘So the gypsy attacked him with a glass?’
‘Yes. I’ve never seen anything like it. He just came in, leaking sweat and made a beeline for the American. Smashed up a glass and ground his hand in it.’
‘The American’s?’
‘No. That was the odd thing. The gypsy ground his own hand in it. Only then did he attack the American.’
‘With the glass?’
‘No. No. He took the American’s hand and did the same thing with it as he’d done with his own. Then he forced the American’s hand on to his forehead. Blood all over the place.’
‘And that was it?’
‘Yes.’
‘He didn’t say anything?’
‘Well, he was shouting all the time. ‘Remember these words. Remember them.’’
‘What words?’
‘Ah. Well. There you have me. It sounded like Sam, moi, et Chris. Perhaps they’re brothers?’
Bale suppressed a triumphant smile. He nodded his head sagely. ‘Brothers. Yes.’
8
The barman tossed his hands up melodramatically. ‘But I’ve just talked to one of your officers. Told him everything I know. Do you people want me to change your nappies for you as well?’
‘And what did this officer look like?’
‘Like you all look.’ The barman shrugged. ‘You know.’
Captain Calque glanced over his shoulder at Lieutenant Macron. ‘Like him?’
‘No. Nothing like him.’
‘Like me, then?’
‘No. Not like you.’
Calque sighed. ‘Like George Clooney? Woody Allen? Johnny Halliday? Or did he wear a wig, perhaps?’
‘No. No. He didn’t wear a wig.’
‘What else did you tell this invisible man?’
‘Now there’s no need to be sarcastic. I’m doing my duty as a citizen. I tried to protect the American…’
‘With what?’
‘Well… My billiard cue.’
‘Where do you keep this offensive weapon?’
‘Where do I keep it? Where do you think I keep it? Behind the bar, of course. This is St-Denis, not the Sacré-Coeur.’
‘Show me.’
‘Look. I didn’t hit anybody with it. I only waved it at the gypsy.’
‘Did the gypsy wave back?’
‘Ah. Merde.’ The barman slit open a pack of Gitanes with the bar ice-pick. ‘I suppose you’ll have me up for smoking in a public place next? You people.’ He blew a cloud of smoke across the counter.
Calque relieved the barman of one of his cigarettes. He tapped the cigarette on the back of the packet and ran it languorously beneath his nose.
‘Aren’t you going to light that?’
‘No.’
‘Putain. Don’t tell me you’ve given up?’
‘I have a heart condition. Each cigarette takes a day off my life.’
‘Worth it though.’
Calque sighed. ‘You’re right. Give me a light.’
The barman offered Calque the tip of his cigarette. ‘Look. I’ve remembered now. About your officer.’
‘What have you remembered?’
‘There was something strange about him. Very strange.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Well. You won’t believe me if I tell you.’
Calque raised an eyebrow. ‘Try me.’
The barman shrugged. ‘He had no whites to his eyes.’
9
‘The man’s name is Sabir. S.A.B.I.R. Adam Sabir. An American. No. I have no more information for you at this time. Look him up on your computer. That should be quite enough. Believe me.’
Achor Bale put down the telephone. He allowed himself a brief smile. That would sort Sabir. By the time the French police were through with questioning him, he would be long gone. Chaos was always a good idea. Chaos and anarchy. Foment those and you forced the established forces of law and order on to the back foot.
Police and public administrators were trained to think in a linear fashion - in terms, of rules and regulations. In computer terms hyper was the opposite of linear. Well then. Bale prided himself on his ability to think in a hyper fashion - skipping and jumping around wherever he fancied. He would do whatever he wanted to do, whenever he wanted to do it.
He reached across for a map of France and spread it neatly out on to the table in front of him.
10
The first Adam Sabir knew of the Surete’s interest in him was when he switched on the television set in his rented fl at on the Ile St-Louis and saw his own face, full-size, staring back at him from the plasma screen.
As a writer and occasional journalist, Sabir needed to keep up with the news. Stories lurked there. Ideas simmered. The state of the world was reflected in the state of his potential market and this concerned him.
In recent years he had got into the habit of living to a very comfortable standard indeed, thanks to a freak one-off bestseller called The Private Life of Nostradamus.
The original content had been just about nil - the title a stroke of genius. Now he desperately needed a follow-up or the money tap would turn off, the luxury lifestyle dry up and his public melt away.
Samana’s advertisement in that ludicrous free rag of a newspaper, two days before, had captured his attention, therefore, because it was so incongruous and so entirely unexpected:
Money needed. I have something to sell. Notre Dame’s [sic] lost verses. All written down. Cash sale to first buyer. Genuine.
Sabir had laughed out loud when he first saw the ad - it had so obviously been dictated by an illiterate. But how would an illiterate know about Nostradamus’s lost quatrains?
It was common knowledge that the sixteenth-century seer had written 1,000 indexed four-line verses, published during his lifetime and anticipating, with an almost preternatural accuracy, the future course of world events. Less well known, however, was the fact that fifty-eight of the quatrains had been held back at the very last moment, never to see the light of day. If an individual could find the location of those verses, they would become an instant millionaire - the potential sales were stratospheric.
Sabir knew that his publisher would have no compunction in anteing up whatever sum was needed to cement such a sale. The story of the find alone would bring in hundreds of thousands of dollars in newspaper revenue and would guarantee front-page coverage all over the world. And what wouldn’t people give, in this uncertain age, to read the verses and understand their revelations? The mind boggled.
Until the events of today, Sabir had happily fantasised a scenario in which his original manuscript, like the Harry Potter books before him, would be locked up in the literary equivalent of a Fort Knox, only to be revealed to the impatiently slavering hordes on publication day. He was already in Paris. What would it cost him to check the story out? What did he have to lose?
Mario Reading - [Adam Sabir 01] Page 2
