by Cara Black
“Forget it. The tactics team run this operation,” Guittard said, coming back on the line. “Their men coordinate this. The terrorists booby-trapped the computer against a simulation like that. There’s no way to defuse the bomb via the security system.”
Frustrated, she kicked the floor tiles. If their information was true, there was no way around it.
She’d never been on friendly terms with the gendarmerie’s specialized computer services. This unit, a quietly kept secret of the Defense Ministry, had a large budget. Paradoxically, the government’s red tape never allowed the branch to keep pace with private sector developments; René was always several computer years ahead of them. Every dealing she’d ever had with them had been fraught with resentment and roadblocks.
“So we wait,” Guittard said. “For every ten sans’papiers they release one child.”
Frustrated, she wanted to scream at him that terrorists didn’t play by the rules. Instead she said good-bye and paced Gaston’s café.
“Bernard Berge was a top graduate of ENA,” Gaston said, sipping mineral water. “Have some confidence in him.”
Crème de la crème, Aimée knew. No other country had an equivalent. The only close comparison had been from a friend of her father’s who’d likened it to Princeton, Harvard, and Yale all rolled into one, only more exclusive.
Graduates, referred to as enarques, stepped right into ministry posts. Aimée remembered a newspaper comment referring to the government not as socialiste but as enarquiste.
“Bernard followed the enarque path true to form,” Gaston continued. He took another sip, then set down the glass, careful to place it on the coaster. “Appointed first to the Ministry of Finance, he worked on the budget, then moved to law. He was a judge for a long time.”
“So enarques move around the government?” she asked, surprised.
“Bien sûr,” he said. “They’re all friends, like to keep the jobs inside the family, so to say. Keep them exclusive. They all live near one another, fancy flats in the Seventh Arrondissement so they can walk together to the ministry.”
But to her mind Bernard hadn’t seemed to fit that crowd. Remembering his haunted look, she became lost in thought. If he’d had some balls, he would have had everything.
The fading afternoon light hit and sparkled in Gaston’s glass. He looked up again; this time his lined eyes were serious. “His father served under Soustelle in Algérie. For a pied-noir, Bernard Berge has attained the top.”
Maybe what she’d mistaken for Bernard’s cowardice was a conscience. How had he felt to be part of this rarefied echelon? What had it cost him to perform this mission?
“Rumors had it he’d taken a leave earlier this year to avoid a nervous breakdown,” Gaston said. “He holed up in his flat and wouldn’t come out. Until they snagged him for this job.”
BERNARD WATCHED the hands edge toward the 4 on the large wall clock. Around him little snores in the nap room kept time to the Mozart tape that had lulled many to sleep. The teacher, whom he’d heard called Dominique, sat in the middle, writing down Rachid’s whispered dictation, as she rubbed a child’s back.
“In order to escape,” Rachid said, “we demand that the police announce our deaths. Once sure of our safety, we will release the last of the children.”
Dominique held up the paper, written in red crayon, for him to see. Dark circles ringed her eyes.
“Sign it ‘the Human Bomb,'” Rachid said. “Then stay with the children.”
She complied and lay down on a cot.
Rachid stuffed the note in a biscuit tin and crawled over to Bernard. “Go with him,” he said jerking his head towards the other terrorist. “Throw it out of the attic window facing the square.”
“Why not call Guittard?” Bernard asked. “You can explain your demands to the minister.”
Rachid slammed his fist on the counter. The fish tank shuddered. “When I want suggestions, bureaucrat, I’ll ask for them.”
Bernard flinched. He took the note and crept past the sleeping children. Rachid’s accomplice nudged him with the machine gun up the staircase, poking him in the ribs every time he paused.
Bernard was sweating as they reached the fourth floor. All the way up, his mind fixed on how to get the terrorist near a window. A creaking sound on the wooden stairs alerted him… a rat, another escaped school pet, or a hiding child? The terrorist paused, he’d heard it, too.
“Wait here,” the man barked.
Bernard stood on the worn steps, breathing hard. This pampered childhood world felt foreign to him.
The hungry postwar years he remembered were in rented rooms with a toilet shared by two floors. And that, his mother had considered a luxury. His real father had died in a desert skirmish with rebel fellagha when he was little.
His stepfather, Roman, also a pied’tioir, said little. But when he spoke everyone listened. Bernard had always likened Roman’s speech to the tools of his butcher’s trade—sharp and cutting.
He’d once asked his mother, before he’d learned better, why his Papi’s words cut like a knife. She’d sighed, then pulled him close, something she’d rarely had time for. She told him his Papi bottled everything inside and that some people showed their love in different ways. His Papi, she continued, showed it by working hard. They had a home now, she’d said. She’d gestured toward the room around them. Peeling plaster in two narrow, high-ceilinged rooms, the only water source a pump in the courtyard.
But when Roman spoke, he used language as a weapon. Whereas Bernard learned to use language as a shield, living in the ether of ideas.
His mother said she was sure one day he’d make his Papi proud and show him how smart he was. She’d run her hand down his cheek, smooth down his hair and the stubborn cowlick that never took orders. Her tone had been wistful when she’d asked him if he’d take care of his Papi when he got older.
But he never had. Roman died broken and tubercular seven years later. Before Bernard earned entrance to Ecole Nationale Administratif, and his brother passed the entrance exam for medical school. However, Roman’s fierce silences and cutting words were imprinted on his pysche.
These children would never know his deprivations. And for once, bypassing the envy that lived in his heart, he experienced gratitude. Gratitude that no child would know those days… but then he thought of the Balkans, the blank-eyed orphans. War never stopped, it just took different forms. And these children, weren’t they victims forged from battles of the long-lost Algerian war?
There was a loud shattering of glass ahead of him.
“In here, bureaucrat!” the man yelled. “Now!”
Bernard fought the impulse to flee, ducked his head, and entered the doorway. The terrorist had broken the window. Glass shards blanketed the attic floor, giving off a bluish tinge. Used, musty air and waist-high wooden storefront letters filled the narrow attic. Weak sunlight flashed off the glass, creating a diamond carpet. What if the sharpshooters thought he was signaling? Bernard felt panic, his breathing coming in short gasps.
No, they’d wait—they wouldn’t shoot at anything that sparkled—he felt sure. The bands of tension in Bernard’s head relaxed a fraction. Until he saw the disheveled woman in the corner, tied to a chair, struggling to kick at the terrorist’s shins. She sent him a look that Bernard couldn’t read.
“Take me to the bathroom,” she yelled. “Or I’ll do it on the floor.”
The terrorist whacked her across the face with the back of his gloved hand. “Suit yourself, infidele, just shut up!”
Bernard saw her hands clutch the splindly chair back behind her and realized her wrists were untied. She was signaling him. There were two of them and just one big semiautomatic-toting terrorist.
“Look,” Bernard said, edging toward the terrorist, “I’d suggest—”
“Cut the small talk.”
Bernard gestured toward her. “Can’t you at least let her go to the bathroom?”
Bernard wondered who she was.
The terrorist pointed to a window, jagged splinters of glass peeking from the corners.
“Hurry up,” he said. “Throw it from here! Bureaucrat, I’m losing patience,” the terrorist growled. He hawked and spit, coming over and nudging the machine gun into Bernard’s ribs. “Didn’t you hear me? Throw the box out the window.”
Bernard winced as the cold metal barrel poked through his thin suit jacket. He took a step. Shattered glass crackled under his shoes. He froze.
He looked over at the woman for help, but her heavy-lidded eyes stared vacantly. Her nose bled bright red down her chin, spattering on her once white silk blouse.
Bernard knew he was a coward. Schoolyard fights and taunt-ings had proved that. The idea of standing as a window target for RAID sharpshooters was not appealing. Right now he wanted to get on his knees under the skylight, in the chill air among the skewed letters, and beg the man for mercy.
“The police will shoot me,” he said, his veined hands shaking. “I can’t—”
“Makes no difference,” the terrorist yawned. “I’ll use her.”
Bernard’s legs wobbled; they didn’t support him any more. Lightheaded and dizzy, he reached to steady himself against the woman’s chair. He missed. Around him the angle of light spun and shifted. He hit the ground heavy and hard. What must have been moments later, he grew aware of myriad sharp splinters in his arms.
The woman erupted from her chair screaming, kicking at the terrorist’s legs. He tripped over the dazed Bernard and let out a roar. He landed headfirst against the wall and crumpled onto his machine gun. Deafening shots erupted into his chest. His black torso twitched as the round drilled into him. His body fell sideways.
Bernard realized the woman had gone. He was alone. Alone with a dead terrorist oozing guts onto the pebble-like plaster. What should he do? Wouldn’t Rachid have heard the bullets?
He rolled the stocky corpse over and slid out the machine gun, sticky with blood.
Bernard pulled off the man’s black mask. He saw the stubbled slack] aw and vacancy of death. For the first time in Bernard’s life, he felt no fear at death. A curious relief flooded him.
And then Bernard decided. He would no doubt join little André, who had beckoned him at night for so long. But first he would save the children, since he hadn’t been able to save his brother.
He would make up for the past.
Bernard unzipped and removed the terrorist’s jumpsuit, a laborious process, rolling down the sleeves, then shimmying the cloth over shoulders and thick, lifeless hips. Then the heavy boots, which he wiped off, then put on. He put on the ski mask. In the zippered side pocket he found a fresh bullet cartridge.
By the time he trailed down two flights of stairs wearing the black mask, his fingers had clamped rock steady on the trigger. He liked the way the solid curve molded to his finger. A creaking on the narrow landing caused him to stop.
Light from a wall sconce illuminated a trail of greasy fingerprints. Wedged under the metal-railed staircase, almost unotice-able, was the outline of a small door. He tiptoed across the floor, cocked his ear to the door, and listened. From time to time, he heard childlike whispers and strident beeping.
“Stay calm, I’m a friend,” he said, opening the door slowly. A figure crouched behind cleansers and dust mops. “Let me help you, little boy.”
“My name’s Simone,” said a glaring little face. She emerged slowly, holding a cell phone and cradling a worn brown-furred teddy bear in her arms. “This game is boring,” she coughed and choked back sniffles. “I want to go home!”
Bernard knelt down, stiff and awkward in the jumpsuit, his arms full with the gun. “So do I,” he said.
“You’re not allowed to!” she said wiping her runny nose with her sleeve.
“My name’s Bernard.”
“You’re the bad man.”
“Let me explain—” he began.
“Where’s my maman?” she lisped.
Was this the woman upstairs? “Tell me what she looks like.”
“You pushed her,” Simone said, her voice climbing higher. “I saw you. Not fair. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to push people.”
“But it wasn’t me.”
“Liar!”
As Bernard reached to brace himself, Simone shut the door on his fingers. He lurched in pain, pulled his hand out, and stumbled backward. With a sharp crack his head hit the railing and he crumpled. The machine gun slid from his grasp, and the cartridge round clattered from his pocket onto the parquetry.
Crouched on her knees, Simone peered out of the door. The bad man looked asleep. She’d hurt him. Good—that would teach him not to push people! Rules were rules, but sometimes you had to learn the hard way, like Papa said, give people doses of medicine…. What had he said? Anyway, something like that.
Her stomach growled, and it was too hot in that closet. Time to find her maman and a buttered tartine. She’d won over the bad man. They could go home now.
Just in case no one believed her she lifted the gun. So heavy and ugly. Too bad; it would never fit in her Tintin bookbag. She slung the strap over her shoulder but the gun scraped the floor. Looping it three times around her neck did the trick. She picked up the smooth black cartridge filled with bullets and shoved it in the empty gun slot, like they did on the télé. She sighed. So heavy, and what a lot to carry!
And teddy bear, he didn’t like all this bumping. She stuck him between the gun straps and hoped he wouldn’t mind such tight quarters. After taking the stairs one at a time and holding the rail with her free hand, she remembered the phone and trudged back. Teddy would get cross with all this to-ing and fro-ing. She grabbed the phone from the metal mop pail in the closet and a green light flashed. Maybe it worked now. She hit the button Maman had showed her, the one with the big letter she couldn’t remember.
AIMÉE’s NEW cell phone, connected to her previous number, rang. Even though she’d told Yves to get lost, she hoped it might be him. Get ahold of yourself. No time to be waylaid by visions of Yves’s sideburns.
“Aimée Leduc speaking,” she said, making her tone businesslike.
“A flic’s picking you up!” Sardou barked. “Get over here now!”
She started to speak, but a siren announced a motorcycle policeman outside the café.
When she arrived at the temporary headquarters, Sardou looked ready to spit bullets.
“Simone will only talk with you,” he said thrusting the cell phone at her.
Aimée took a deep breath.
“Simone?” Aimée said, her knuckles white as she clutched the phone.
“Tell everybody I won, Aimie,” the tired child’s voice said.
Something clacked in the background, heavy and metallic sounding. A brief series of clicks, and Aimée realized that Sardou was monitoring the call. What a primitive tracing system these flics had—René’ would laugh, but this wasn’t funny.
“You can talk to me, Simone, I’m a policeman and want to help you,” Sardou said.
“That’s what the bad man told me,” Simone said, sounding more tired. “But I took care of him. So stop talking.”
“Simone, tell me what’s happened, okay?” Aimée coaxed, keeping her voice light. “Just a little. You’ll tell me more over hot chocolate in the café, eh?”
Simone yawned. Sardou kept silent.
“Aha, you must be the Orangina type, eh?” Aimée giggled, hoping her giggle sounded real.
“Do I get a grande Orangina even though Maman says I get a stomachache from cold drinks?”
“How about a double?” Aimée asked.
“I put a bad man to sleep and took his gun,” Simone said.
“Where are you?” Sardou interrupted.
“But Aimée,” Simone sobbed, tears caught in her throat. “Where’s Maman?”
“Look Simone, my name is Sardou. I can help—”
“You’re with the bad man, I know,” Simone said. She hung up with a loud click.
Here was four
-year-old Simone wandering around with a gun, and Sardou had pissed her off! And no contact from Anaïs. Aimée shuddered, she pushed possible scenarios from her mind.
Sardou muttered over the buzzing line. Her hands tensed around the phone. She must remain calm and collected. She took a deep breath.
“Sardou, when I hit the Return Call button, let me do the talking. Don’t you agree it’s called for in this situation?”
That sounded diplomatic, she thought. For what seemed a minute all she heard was the buzz and click of the other line. Sardou must be conferring with others.
“Make sure she gets Rachid by the window,” he finally said.
Flustered, Aimée measured her words. “How do you propose a little girl would do that? Rachid isn’t stupid.”
“Sounds like she got rid of one terrorist.”
Sardou could have a point.
“Would a courtyard window suffice?”
“Facing south,” Minister Guittard said, cutting in on the line.
She punched the Return Call button on her cell phone. A recording came on: “The party is unable to answer your call momentarily or has stepped out of range. France Telecom thanks you for your patience and requests you try again momentarily.”
Great.
“She trusted me, Sardou; you blew it,” Aimée said. Sardou and Guittard’s conversation had wasted time and proved useless. Until Simone answered they hovered in a holding pattern.
“Call again. Keep trying, Mademoiselle Leduc,” Guittard said and hung up.
She’d pretty much figured that out.
And then she looked at her new cell phone with the battery … her dead Tintin watch … her mind raced. When she’d dropped the proposal off at the EDF site, the manager had warned her to turn off her cell phone since the electromagnetic rays from the HERF generator interfered with systems. Flattened them, he’d said. The electromagnetic fields were quite high due to all the unshielded equipment and the heavy iron reinforcement in the station walls. No reason it couldn’t do so now.
“Sardou,” she said, her voice certain and calm. “I know how to dismantle the bomb without touching the computer.”
BERNARD AIMED for the staircase, which tilted dizzily as he crawled toward it. His hand throbbed. Where had the little girl gone? Where was the gun?
