Children of War: A Bruno Courrèges Investigation (Bruno Chief of Police 8)

by Martin Walker

  Ghlamallah winced as if he’d been hit. ‘There are Saudis and Saudis,’ he said, and then glanced at the older Imam. ‘We get funds from the Saudi monarch and then there are other donations from Saudi individuals who do not share the views of the monarchy and give their money to others, for other purposes.’

  ‘You mean the people who have been funding al-Qaeda?’

  ‘Not just al-Qaeda, but the extreme Salafists in Algeria, Mali, Somalia,’ Ghlamallah replied. ‘They are the worst of the Ahl-as-Sunnah, the ones who reject following any of the four traditional schools of Islam, which is why they condemn even the Wahhabis of Saudi Arabia. They are to us what your extreme Puritans or your Inquisition were in your wars of religion. They have their own funds, their own followers, and we fear they have taken over much of our mosque because we did not recognize them soon enough for what they were.’

  Bruno wondered how much of this was true. The fine points of Islamic doctrine were lost on him. He could understand that the Imams felt squeezed between the conservative Saudis who held the purse strings and the increasingly radicalized young members of their congregation, but could they really have allowed the other departments of the mosque, the school, the orphanage and the security service, to be run by jihadists as separate entities?

  ‘You two are the Imams. It’s your mosque. Take back control.’ The Brigadier’s face was impassive but there was a tone of mockery in his voice. ‘It’s four years since Sami was taken off to Afghanistan. So if four years have passed since the jihadists took over the school, you’ve had long enough to work out what to do.’

  ‘We have a management committee for the mosque and its various services, and it pains me to admit that it has been some time since we could count on having a majority,’ said Ghlamallah. ‘Ever since the Iraq war the Salafists have been winning support among the youth. It has become increasingly difficult for me to function. They’ve already tried to get me dismissed as a modernist, one who is prepared to abandon the traditional ways of Mohammed, peace be upon him.’

  ‘So you’re hoping we can help you get your mosque back before your Saudi benefactors notice you’ve lost it?’

  ‘Yes, but you need us to help you prevent the mosque from becoming a Salafist stronghold in France, and one capable of delivering twenty thousand well-disciplined votes. Your politicians offer a great deal of protection in return for a voting block like that. I think you understand what I mean. Without our support and our invitation, I’m not sure your politicians would take the risk of sending in the police to our precincts to impose French law.’

  Watching this exchange Bruno understood that this visit, supposedly to see Sami, was in fact a bargaining session with the French state. And Ghlamallah was sufficiently astute to realize that the French state, its permanent government of institutions and Prefects and procureurs and officials like the Brigadier, was something different from its politicians.

  The old Imam, a faint smile on his face and his fingers stroking his white beard, gazed benignly on the two of them as if the conversation had nothing to do with him but they had his blessing anyway.

  ‘Are you prepared to invite us in to enforce the order to investigate the children’s services and your security team?’ the Brigadier asked.

  The two Imams confirmed that they were.

  ‘Then I think we understand one another, so let us go and see young Sami and his parents.’

  The Brigadier led them up the stairs and outside to the long balcony by the battlements where Bruno remembered finding Sami and Momu playing games with maps when he’d gone to tell them the tribunal was ready. Some tables and chairs had been put out and Momu and Dillah were sipping tea and watching Sami play with Balzac when the Imams arrived. The other tables were empty except for the one closest to the parapet, where Nancy sat alone over a notebook, pen in hand and a cup of coffee beside her. She looked up briefly, gave a courteous smile and returned to her writing.

  Bruno noted that Ghlamallah walked a pace behind the old Imam, as if sheltering in his shadow. Perhaps it was simply respect. Momu put down his cup and watched their approach coldly. Sami ignored them until he saw Bruno and scampered across, calling his name.

  ‘This has become his favourite place,’ the Brigadier said. ‘When they saw how it relaxed him the tribunal started having sessions out here as well. In this fine weather, it’s more pleasant to be outside.’

  Patting Sami’s back as the young man hugged him and Balzac pawed at his leg, Bruno’s eyes scanned the surroundings for danger points. The main bulk of the tower protected most of the balcony from being overlooked by anyone on the far hillside, the only logical place for a sniper. The place seemed safe enough. And at each end of the balcony Bruno saw the cameras, fresh cement showing how recently they had been installed. As elsewhere in the château, every word and action was being recorded.

  The old Imam walked slowly to Momu and Dillah, stopped and took Ghlamallah’s arm for support as he went slowly and painfully down on one knee. He touched his other hand to his heart and bowed his head.

  ‘I have come to apologize to you for our failure to do right by your son,’ he said. ‘You had a right to expect better of us. I cannot ask your forgiveness, only your understanding that I was too naïve to see that our mosque was being taken over by wicked people.’

  Momu sat unmoving, refusing to respond, his face set like flint. It was Dillah who broke the silence.

  ‘You should be ashamed,’ she burst out, almost spitting at Ghlamallah. ‘You, in particular, who thought all we cared about was the money we had paid, thought we could be fobbed off with a refund of one term’s fees. We entrusted you with our poor boy and you did worse than nothing for him. You betrayed us, your mosque betrayed us and you only come to say sorry when the whole world knows what you did. So take yourselves and your apology away with you. I stamp my foot on it.’

  Momu reached across and gripped her hand. Nobody else moved. Even Sami, still crouched at Bruno’s knee where he had recovered Balzac, sat immobile, his eyes wide.

  ‘I hoped I might say a prayer …’ the Imam began.

  ‘Save your prayers,’ Dillah retorted. ‘Save them for the grief of the mothers of those other poor boys you took in who were sent off to fight in a far-off land, to die for nothing. And do not even think of using the world martyr to me. We have had too many martyrs from you old fools who claim to speak for religion. And it’s never you who die, it’s the innocent children whose minds you poison.’

  The Imam tried to lurch to his feet but Ghlamallah had to help him. When he stood at last, he bowed solemnly to Dillah, turned and bowed to Sami and said, ‘I am sorry we failed you.’

  Sami stared at him blankly until the Imam then said something in Arabic and Sami edged back away from the old man, his face crumpling as if the language itself disturbed him.

  ‘That’s enough,’ roared Momu, rising from his chair, his voice booming in a way he’d learned in mastering unruly schoolrooms. ‘Haven’t you tormented this poor boy enough? Leave him in peace.’

  Momu stood defiantly, hands on his hips, chin thrust out, and Dillah darted from her chair to go to Sami and comfort him. Nancy rose from her own table to join her.

  The Imam looked helpless and confused, like an old man no longer knowing where he was or how to find his way home. Ghlamallah led him gently back to the door where the Brigadier was waiting.

  ‘That poor woman, I know she’s not his real mother but my heart goes out to her,’ Ghlamallah said piously.

  ‘A pity your heart took four years to notice her grief,’ said Bruno.

  The Brigadier ignored him and said, ‘Now, gentlemen, we’d better draft your statement requesting the police to intervene to protect your mosque against a Salafist and terrorist takeover. And we’ll have to stress your concern for the children in the orphanage and your shock at the evidence of murders and terrorist recruitment taking place under your noses. And since you’re so accustomed to being on TV, Ghlamallah, perhaps you’d draft a
statement you can deliver to the cameras.’

  The Imam coughed, tugged at Ghlamallah’s sleeve and murmured something in his ear. Ghlamallah nodded and turned to the Brigadier.

  ‘I am reminded to convey to you the unfortunate news that the Niqab, the Caïd and Mustaf, the one known as Zhern’ber, the strong man, seem to have left the mosque precincts sometime between yesterday noon and when we left this morning. We have no idea where they have gone or what they are doing, but the Imam insists you should know.’

  The Brigadier nodded and addressed the Imam directly. ‘We knew that already, but I’m glad you confirmed it without being asked. It helps build a little trust.’

  ‘The Imam would also like to know …’ Ghlamallah went on, but the Brigadier cut in.

  ‘The Imam is old enough to speak for himself,’ he snapped. He looked at the old man. ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘That other woman there, the Western woman, who is she? She’s not a member of the tribunal, at least of those listed in the newspaper.’

  ‘She’s one of the officials who have been helping to debrief Sami and support the family as the tribunal does its work,’ the Brigadier replied crisply. ‘You’ve seen the château, the security arrangements we’ve been forced to put in place because of your so-called security services. Perhaps you can think what the French people are paying, in soldiers’ lives as well as money, to deal with this crisis you created through your negligent handling of this young man.’

  He turned to Bruno. ‘Perhaps you would see these two gentlemen to the waiting room outside my office and find some pens and paper so that they can start drafting something suitable. I’ll rejoin you there shortly, after the tribunal reconvenes. I think the tribunal will be calling on you shortly to tell them what you know of Sami. And then perhaps you’d check on this Halévy woman whose bequest is suddenly all over the radio. The last thing we want is another security situation involving her.’

  26

  Bruno’s experience before the tribunal was short and mostly straightforward. He described what he knew of Sami’s boyhood, his amazing skills at serving tennis aces and sinking baskets and his gift for repairing anything mechanical. Professor Chadoub, who asked him to call her Amira, wanted to know how Sami had got on with other children of his own age, girls as well as boys. He answered as best he could and recommended they speak to Momu’s son, Karim, who had played a sterling role as big brother. Professor Weill asked if he’d ever seen Sami perform any violent act and had smiled, his eyes twinkling, when Bruno replied, ‘Only against a tennis ball.’

  ‘There’s just one more aspect of this that intrigues me, as a music-lover as much as anything else. Sami seems to have an extraordinary response to Mozart. Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘I noticed it first in the car on the way back from picking Sami up at the airport,’ Bruno said, thinking there was no reason to let the tribunal know of the playlists being used to conceal messages. ‘Mozart was on the car radio and it seemed to calm him. I bought some CDs for him and he listens to them all the time. He said something about it being predictable, like maths, until it suddenly wasn’t. It struck me as a perceptive way to describe Mozart’s music.’

  ‘What did you buy for him?’

  ‘What I found in the supermarket, Eine kleine Nachtmusik, the Jeunehomme piano concerto and The Magic Flute. Later I took him some of my own discs, the horn concerto, Symphony Number Forty and Figaro. He likes them all, sometimes tries to sing along. I’d be fascinated to hear what he’d come up with if he ever learned to play the piano.’

  ‘Indeed, so would I. And now a last, rather personal question, I’m afraid: do you like him?’

  ‘Yes, I do, at least the Sami I knew as a boy and the Sami I have seen since his return,’ Bruno said without even thinking about it. ‘I find it very hard to equate that Sami with what we hear of his work in Afghanistan.’

  ‘You’re an experienced policeman,’ Chadoub suddenly intervened. ‘Do you think he’s responsible for his actions?’

  ‘I’m not sure he thinks as we do of the difference between right and wrong but I suspect he knows what he did in Afghanistan was deeply wrong. That’s why he got out. I think he made bombs because it was the way he found to stay alive. He sometimes seems watchful of others, as if observing what actions of his meet approval. Does that make him responsible? I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure he can’t understand a judicial proceeding, far less be responsible for his own legal defence.’

  It was Deutz who asked the key question, about changes in Sami’s behaviour since his return. Bruno described seeing Sami at the airport, huddled speechless in foetal position, and his nervousness around new people. He mentioned Sami’s apparent distress at being addressed in Arabic.

  Even as Bruno answered, it felt odd to see Deutz in this context, thoughtful and professional. He was adept at zeroing in on the key point and played his role perfectly, neither steering Bruno nor letting him evade the question. It was impressive, but for some time now Bruno had seen Deutz in a wholly different light: as a vain man of great ambition and without self-restraint. Deutz was a rapist who had no right to sit in any kind of judgement on others, Bruno believed, let alone on a hapless youth like Sami. And he was sure that Nancy was right about the dangerous consequences of Deutz’s techniques to turn prisoners into informers. Even as he tried to explain his thoughts to the tribunal there was a corner of his mind that was looking coldly at Deutz and vowing to bring him to justice.

  ‘As a boy, Sami didn’t seem afraid or distressed,’ Bruno replied. ‘He gave me the impression of being a contented child, always eager to help if he could fix something. He just didn’t interact much with others, very seldom spoke. I still see that Sami now, when he’s with people he knows or those he loves, or with animals. But since he left home he’s obviously known pain and terror, and they’ve marked him. He’s clearly glad to be back in familiar surroundings with his family.’

  ‘We’ve heard from Sami’s adoptive father about his dreadful experience in the Algerian civil war when his family was slaughtered. He knew pain and terror then, but you say his later childhood showed no sign of that,’ Deutz suggested.

  ‘I don’t know whether his childhood in Algeria before the massacre was normal, whether he spoke and interacted like other children. Momu or Dillah might know. At the time, not having learned from Momu about the massacre, I assumed Sami had been born that way. Now I suspect his autism, or whatever name we use to describe his problem, came as a result of his ordeal, but I’m not a doctor and not qualified to judge.’

  That was all the tribunal wanted from him. As he left the balcony Nancy was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Nice job, particularly on the Mozart. It really helps to humanize Sami,’ she said. ‘I was worried about the wind messing up the audio when they hold these sessions outdoors, but the video feed was fine. Now they have the feed direct in Washington, they hardly need me.’

  Bruno’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘You mean that what I just said has already been heard in Washington? Including that part when I said I liked him?’

  ‘And Harvard, and New York, Raleigh, Houston and Minneapolis. We’ve lined up some of the best psychologists in the States to monitor these hearings and give us their own reports. I don’t think the West Coast is awake yet but I know there’s someone from Seattle on the monitoring team. And others in the Justice Department, who’ll make their own report on Sami’s likely legal status.’

  ‘I had no idea … all this set in train for little Sami.’

  ‘He’s going to be the most famous case of autism on the planet, and probably the most studied. The newspapers back home are suddenly full of medical experts and psychologists explaining what it is and how little we understand it. The TV footage has really helped changed the mood. He’s Sami now, not the Engineer.’

  ‘Probably because it’s shorter for the newspaper headlines,’ Bruno said.

  ‘Wait till the next little drama hits
: a tribunal member being arrested for rape,’ she went on, a triumphant glint in her eye. ‘I had a call from Annette. She’s spoken to one of the other medical students who got the Deutz treatment. That’s two cases as well as Fabiola. The guy is toast.’

  She used the French term pain grillé, and Bruno shook his head, not understanding the expression.

  ‘It means he’s done, he’s finished, his goose is cooked.’

  Bruno grinned. He loved to hear these English idioms translated directly into French, reminding him how wonderfully inventive and quirky languages could be. And ‘his goose is cooked’ was one any good Périgourdin would relish.

  ‘Then the essential question is likely to be about the timing,’ Bruno suggested. ‘The Procureur has to sign off on it first, and I imagine he’ll need to talk to Paris. They won’t want an arrest to overshadow the tribunal process, so they’ll probably wait until the tribunal report is complete.’

  ‘They’re supposed to end the hearings today and produce their report tomorrow. The Brigadier expects it will be unanimous, but who knows. One thing worries me: who’d respect a tribunal verdict once Deutz has been disgraced?’

  Bruno nodded; he hadn’t thought of that. Either way would be a mess. He was glad it wasn’t his decision.

  ‘I just hope the trial isn’t too much of an ordeal for Fabiola,’ he said.

  ‘A lot less of an ordeal than she’d face in the States, with a clever defence lawyer asking her about her every sexual experience. That’s our adversarial system. The defence usually tries to turn the woman into a slut in front of the jury by alleging the wicked woman led the poor helpless guy along. There are times I prefer justice your French way.’

  Bruno remembered something he’d read, he thought in one of Montaigne’s essays, that one of the most convincing reasons to believe in a supreme being was that it held out the prospect that a perfect justice could exist, however impossible it might be for flawed humans to achieve it. He was just trying to recall the exact quote when he heard footsteps on the stairs and the Brigadier arrived, leading the two Imams and smiling broadly, a triumphant gleam in his eye.