by Mark Burnell
Under the screams she heard distant shouts; people making their way towards the carnage. Boots scrambled over loose brick, muttered curses followed falls.
To her left, a large fire was taking hold, glass cracking in the heat. She came to a fork in the passage. Over the ringing in her head an orchestra of alarms grew louder. She veered right, then stopped.
'… to be careful, okay?'
A snatch of conversation coming her way. Then another voice: 'Check everywhere.'
'… watch overhead for collapsing …'
Shapes were forming in the murk.
'… somewhere in here … keep looking …'
'… extremely dangerous … and armed …'
Two figures, certainly, perhaps three.
'… take any chances …'
Petra coughed again, spitting out brown saliva.
The first figure emerged from the dust, a light grey raincoat billowing around him. The next was in uniform. An armed police officer with a full moustache. Other silhouettes took shape behind them.
The first man saw her, halted abruptly, then pointed directly at her. 'Shit! It's her! There she is!'
There who is?
Who was he looking at? Why was he pointing at her?
A third figure was forming, another armed officer in uniform, then a fourth man in a tan leather coat.
'Shoot her.'
A mistake, clearly. Except Petra knew that it wasn't.
The first armed officer looked unsure.
'It's her,' barked the man in the grey raincoat. 'I tell you, it's her!'
'I don't see the …'
'She's armed! Now shoot her!'
The man in the leather coat was already raising his right hand. The second officer was pushing past the first. And Petra was moving, taking the passage directly ahead, already aware of the fact that it was too straight. In a matter of seconds, before she could melt into the smoke, they would have a clear view of her back.
Behind her now, the same voice again. 'Henri! Watch out! She's coming your way! She's got a gun …'
What gun?
Movement grew in the dimness ahead. Petra entered the smoking remains of a boutique; retro-punk T-shirts, studded leather mini-skirts, frayed tartan hot-pants, a severed hand with a silver thumb-ring. She dragged a sloping chunk of partition wall from across the doorway at the back.
'Shit – Didi, you asshole! I nearly shot you! Where is she?'
More coughing. 'I don't know. Maybe you passed her …'
'In there!' cried a third voice. 'Look!'
There was a single shot as Petra plunged into more darkness. She felt the thud of a bullet hitting a panel of MDF to her left. She came to a shoulder-wide passage with stairs to her right. Up to the first floor, a cramped storage area, the ceiling less than a foot taller than she was. The blast had blown the glass from the internal window overlooking the passage. She could hear them arguing below.
No weapon. No way out.
Except for the window. She approached the hole cautiously. Just above her was a web of iron struts, pipes and rubber cable, all of it ancient. Through the dust-haze she watched the four men beneath her. They were looking into the blackened shell of the boutique, shouting at those who'd followed her inside.
No choice, so no need to think about it. Up on to the sill and out on to the ledge, the remaining fragments of glass in the window-frame nibbling the palms of her right hand. There was a rusting water-pipe above her head. She gave it a quick tug; it seemed secure. She held on to it and swung, her toes catching the corner of a sturdy junction box, one of six bolted to a panel, cables spewing from them like black spaghetti.
'Up there!' bellowed a man below. 'Quick!'
But not quick enough. She was already over the ledge above, propelling her body through a mesh of twisted metal ribs. On the roof, she gauged the way the passages worked, the ridges, the intersections. Most of the glass had gone. To her left, thick black smoke was curling skywards, the flames beneath undeterred by the rain.
It was slippery underfoot, years of grime given gloss by the downpour. She tried to work out where rue Saint Denis was so that she could head in the opposite direction. It wasn't obvious from the backs of the surrounding buildings but there was a gap so she headed for that. The roof tapered to a short stretch of crumbling wall that abutted a taller building; apartments from the first floor up, a business at street level, the shutters pulled down over the windows.
She took the drainpipe to the first floor, swiping three potted plants from a window-ledge, then lowered herself on to the roof of a white Renault Megane that was parked on the pavement.
Now she was in a small triangular square: rue Saint Spire, rue Alexandrie, rue Sainte Foy. She took Sainte Foy.
Five-past-two, the sirens now a long way behind her. She was still walking, the rain still falling. And helping. Under the circumstances, better to be drenched than dirty. Which was all the logic she could handle.
Head for Gare du Nord. Use the return ticket. Go home, have a shower, catch the plane. Worry about it over a cocktail on the beach.
She was sorely tempted yet knew she couldn't. Stations were out. So was home. Which meant Marianne Bernard's integrity was suspended. And it was Marianne's name on the air ticket.
How had the police got there so quickly? How had they identified her so quickly? And the order to shoot – because she was armed – what did that mean?
One part of her wanted to stop and think. To collate. But another part of her wouldn't let her. She had to keep moving. That was the priority.
Never stop. The moment you do …
Three-thirty-five. The cinema provided a temporary sanctuary of darkness. The film was a Hollywood romantic comedy, predictably short on romance, utterly devoid of comedy. Stephanie waited until the main feature had started before going to the washroom. She peeled off her denim jacket and the black polo-neck. Both were soaked. The long-sleeved strawberry T-shirt beneath was stuck to her skin. She filled a basin with warm soapy water, rolled up the sleeves to the elbow, scrubbed her face, hands and arms, rinsed, refilled the basin with clean warm water and dipped her head into it, before trying to claw some order through her hair.
A little cleaner but still dripping, she locked herself into one of the stalls, hanging the jersey and jacket on the door-peg. She lifted the T-shirt, examined her torso and ran her fingertips over as much of her back as she could. Nothing but a few cuts and grazes. She pulled down the toilet lid, sat on it, pulled off a dark grey Merrell shoe and checked the right ankle; swollen, tender to the touch, but no significant damage. When she envisaged Béatrice it seemed little short of a miracle. And all because of Petra; Stephanie would have stayed at the table for Jacob Furst.
She pulled on her wet clothes and checked her possessions; the return portion of her train ticket, Marianne's credit-cards, a Belgian driving licence, flat keys, six hundred and seventeen euros in cash, mobile phone, cinema ticket.
Stephanie returned to the comforting dark of the auditorium, taking a seat near the back, and was grateful for the stuffy warmth. First things first, a plan of action. The primary urge was to run. And she would run. As she had in the past. That was the easy part. Nobody ran as effortlessly as Petra. But she couldn't allow fear to be the fuel. Before that, however, there were questions.
She rose into the ethnic melting-pot of Belleville. The pavement along the eastern flank of the broad boulevard de Belleville was busy. Stephanie weaved through Afghans, Turks, Iranians, Georgians, Chinese. A group of five tall Sudanese were arguing on the corner of rue Ramponeau. A Vietnamese woman barged past her dragging a bulging laundry bag. Traffic was stationary in both directions, frustrated drivers leaning on their horns.
Stephanie switched on her mobile. No messages and no missed calls since she'd turned it off twenty minutes after clearing Passage du Caire. She return-dialled Jacob Furst's number. No answer. She switched the phone off again and walked up rue Lémon to rue Dénoyez. The five-storey building was on the
other side of the road. At street level the Boucherie Shalom was closed. The restaurant next to it was open but Stephanie couldn't see any diners through the window.
The Fursts' apartment was on the third floor. No lights on, the curtains open. There were weeds sprouting from the plaster close to a fracture in the drainpipe. There was no building to the right. It had been demolished, the waste ground screened from the street by a barricade of blue and green corrugated iron.
She ventured left, away from the building, heading up the cobbled street past graffiti and peeling bill posters, past the entrance to the seedy Hotel Dénoyez – rooms by the hour – until she came to rue Belleville. Then she made a circle and approached rue Dénoyez from the other end at rue Ramponeau.
The Furst family had a Parisian lineage stretching back two centuries. In that time, there had been two constants: a family business centred on the garment industry and active participation within the Jewish community. Which included living among that community. And here was the proof. On rue Ramponeau, Stephanie stood with her back to La Maison du Taleth, a shop selling Jewish religious artefacts. Restaurants and sandwich shops all displayed with prominence the Star of David.
She returned to boulevard de Belleville. From the France Télécom phonebooth by the Métro exit she rang the police. An incident to report, some kind of break-in, she told them. She'd heard noises – screams for help, breaking glass, a loud bang and now nothing. Please hurry – they're an old couple. Vulnerable …
When they'd asked for her name, she put down the phone.
She watched from the bright blue entrance to Hotel Dénoyez. When the patrol car pulled up a pair of officers emerged and she noticed two things. First, they looked casual; from the way they moved she guessed they were expecting an exaggerated domestic disturbance. Or a hoax. The second thing was the dark blue BMW 5-series halfway between her and the patrol car.
It had been there as long as she'd been loitering by the hotel entrance. She'd assumed there was no one in it. But when the patrol car pulled up, the BMW's engine coughed, ejecting a squirt of oily smoke from the exhaust. She peered more carefully through the back window and now saw that there were two people inside. The car didn't move until the police officers had entered the building. Then it pulled away from the kerb, tyres squeaking on the cobbles, turning right at rue Ramponeau.
She continued to wait. A third-floor light came on. Stephanie pictured Miriam Furst in the kitchen at the rear of the flat. Making coffee for the policemen, taking mugs from the wooden rack above the sink. That was how she remembered it. Beside the rack, a cheap watercolour of place des Vosges hung next to a cork noticeboard with family photographs pinned to it: three children, all girls, and nine grandchildren, none of whom had been inclined to steer the Furst textile business into its third century.
Fifteen minutes after the arrival of the first police car, a second arrived. Followed within forty five seconds by an ambulance, then a third police car and, finally, a second ambulance. Three policemen began to cordon off the street.
Now it was no longer just Stephanie's fingers that were going numb.
We pull into Tuileries, in the direction of La Défense. I'll probably change at Franklin D. Roosevelt and head for Mairie de Montreuil, then change again after a dozen stations or so. It's five-to-eleven and I've been riding the Métro for more than two hours. There's no better way to make yourself invisible for a short while than to ride public transport in a major city late at night. Later, they'll see me on CCTV recordings, drifting back and forth. But by then I'll be somewhere else. And someone else.
Above ground, in the bars and restaurants, in private homes, there is only one topic of discussion tonight. The bomb blast in Sentier. Many dead, many wounded, many theories. There'll be grief and outrage on the news, and plenty of inaccurate in-depth analysis from the experts.
I know that Jacob and Miriam Furst are dead. Nobody will read about them tomorrow. They will have died largely as they lived; unnoticed. I also know that I should be dead too.
The men who chased me through the smoking wreckage in Passage du Caire were there to make sure. They were there so quickly. And they weren't looking for anyone else; they recognized me.
I try to fix a version of events in my head. Furst is held against his will until he's made the call to establish that I'm in place. He's surprised that I'm there. Did he think I wouldn't come? He tells me he'll be with me in fifteen minutes, then two. Why the difference? To arouse my suspicion? To warn me?
How did he get the number? And why wasn't I more vigilant? Perhaps, mentally, I was already halfway to Mauritius.
After our conversation is over, the explosion occurs within a minute. But the more I consider it, the more perplexing it becomes. They – whoever 'they' are – needed to be sure that I'd be in Paris today. That I'd be in La Béatrice at one o'clock. How could they be confident that I'd make the trip from Brussels? And if I'm to assume that they knew I was in Brussels, which as a matter of security I must, shouldn't I also assume that they know I'm Marianne Bernard? And if they know that, where does the line of enquiry stop? Whether they knew about Marianne Bernard or not, it's obvious who they really wanted. Petra Reuter. She's the one with the reputation.
So why the elaborate deceit? Nobody who knew anything about her would risk that. They'd take her down the moment they found her. At home, for instance, in a run-down apartment in Brussels. They'd catch her with her guard down. Simpler, safer, better.
There can be only one answer: they needed me to be at La Béatrice.
Day Three
The Marais, quarter-past-five in the morning, the streetlamps reflected in puddles not quite frozen. Rue des Rosiers was almost empty; one or two on the way home, one or two on the way to work, hands in pockets, chins tucked into scarves.
It had been after midnight when she abandoned the Métro. Since then, she'd stopped only once, when the rain had returned just before three. She'd found an all-night café not far from where she was now; candlelight and neon over concrete walls, leather booths in dark corners, Ute Lemper playing softly over the sound system.
Stephanie stretched a cup of black coffee over an hour before anyone approached her. A tall, angular woman with deathly pale skin and dark red shoulder-length hair, wearing a purple silk shirt beneath a black leather overcoat. She smiled through a slash of magenta lipstick and sat down opposite Stephanie.
'Hello. I'm Véronique.'
Véronique from Lyon. She'd been awkwardly beautiful once – perhaps not too long ago – but thinness had aged her. And so had unhappiness. Stephanie warmed to her because she understood the chilly solitude of being alone in a city of millions.
They talked for a while before Véronique reached for Stephanie's hand. 'I live close. Do you want to come? We could have a drink?'
Petra considered the offer clinically: Véronique was an ideal way to vanish from the street. No security cameras, no registration, no witnesses. Inside her home, Petra would have options; some brutal, some less so. But it was after four; there was no longer any pressing need for a Véronique.
Stephanie let her down gently with a version of the truth. 'It's too late for me. If only we'd met earlier.'
She turned left into rue Vieille du Temple. The shop was a little way down, the red and gold sign over the property picked out by three small lamps: Adler. And beneath that: boulangerie – patisserie.
Stephanie knocked on the door. Behind the glass a full-length blind had been lowered, fermé painted across it. A minute passed. Nothing. She tried again – still nothing – and was preparing for a third rap when she heard the approach of footsteps and a stream of invective.
The same height as Stephanie, he wore a creased pistachio shirt rolled up at the sleeves and a black waistcoat, unfastened. A crooked nose, a mash of scar around the left eye, thick black hair everywhere, except on his head. The last time, he'd had a ponytail. Not any more, the close crop a better cut to partner his encroaching baldness. There was a lot of gold; iden
tity bracelets, a watch, chains with charms, a thick ring through the left ear-lobe. As Cyril Bradfield had once said to her, 'He looks like the hardest man you've ever seen. And dresses like a tart.'
'Hello, Claude.'
Claude Adler was too startled to reply.
'I knew you'd be up,' Stephanie said. 'Four thirty, every day. Right?'
'Petra …'
'I would've called, of course …'
'Of course.'
'But I couldn't.'
'This is … well … unexpected?'
'For both of us. We need to talk.'
It was delightfully warm inside. Adler locked the door behind them and they walked through the shop, the shelves and wicker baskets still empty. The cramped bakery was at the back. Stephanie smelt it before she saw it; baguettes, sesame seed bagels, apple strudel, all freshly prepared, all of it reminding her that she hadn't eaten anything since Brussels.
Adler took her upstairs to the apartment over the shop where he and his wife had lived for almost twenty years. He lit a gas ring for a pan of water and scooped ground coffee into a cafetière. There was a soft pack of Gauloises on the window-ledge. He tapped one out of the tear, offered it to her, then slipped it between his lips when she declined.
'Is Sylvie here?'
'Still asleep.' He bent down to the ring of blue flame, nudging the cigarette tip into it, shreds of loose tobacco flaring bright orange. 'She'll be happy to see you when she gets up.'
'I doubt it. That's the reason I'm here, Claude. I've got bad news.'
Adler took his time standing. 'Have you seen the TV? It seems to be the day for bad news.'
'It is. Jacob and Miriam are dead.'
He froze. 'Both?'
Stephanie nodded.
At their age, one was to be expected. Followed soon after, perhaps, by the other. But both together?
'When?'
'Last night.'
'How?'
