L'Assassin

by Peter Steiner

  The intention to kill another human is a terrible thing, however it comes about, and for whatever reasons. When a victim protects himself by killing his assailant, in effect, the two trade places: the victim becomes the killer and the killer becomes the victim. Louis finally saw Hugh and for a moment wanted to go help him. But go how? And help him how?

  How did Hugh keep standing? And why? Louis held himself upright against the car door and watched Hugh flounder about. Hugh fell over once more, and this time he did not stand up. He was gone.

  Why don’t the helicopters come? But they did not come. They never came. Maybe there were no helicopters. Louis took a step away from the car and suddenly he was in deep water. There was no ground beneath him. He grabbed at the car door and pulled himself back to the car.

  Louis had of course known all along that he would go to prison if he were not shot down there on the beach and if he survived the tide. Now he had taken two lives. It has come to this, he thought. He released his grip on the car door once again. It has to end here. It wasn’t a struggle between good and evil. It never was. It was a struggle between manipulation and treachery. Louis felt himself being pulled away from the car, swept along wherever the ocean wanted to carry him. He could still see the top of his car, although the Mercedes was gone. He tried to stand, but he could not get his feet down, and when he finally did, there was no bottom. He was in deep water. Hugh is gone. Coburn is gone. The water is cold.

  Soon Louis did not feel the cold anymore. He did not struggle. The weight of his clothes pulled him down. Everything was silent. The water filled his mouth and burned his nose and throat. The salt burned his eyes. He tried to keep them open, but the darkness of the water frightened him, as though he were peering into eternity. It hurt his soul, so he closed his eyes. Sophistry. Self-serving sophistry.

  XXIII

  Louis was lying on his back on the hard bottom of a small boat. The waves slapping the sides of the boat banged in his head. He opened his eyes and saw the rigging clattering unbearably against the wooden mast above him. The half-furled red spinnaker flapped in the wind. The boat shuddered and the engine roared. The boat’s maker, Jean Pierre Lamarche, peered down into his face. “He is coming to,” said Jean Pierre.

  “Is Hugh gone?” said Louis.

  “You crazy bastard,” said Renard. Louis turned his head slightly. The policeman sat in the stern. His hair was wet, and he was wrapped in a blanket. Louis was wrapped in a blanket too, and his nose and throat burned. The diesel fumes made him sick to his stomach, and Jean Pierre held his head while he retched and vomited over the side.

  They made for the harbor at Pen’noch. The dock where they tied up was filled with French police and special forces, but the Americans were nowhere to be seen. When Louis was loaded into an ambulance, a police guard got in with him.

  A guard remained with him the entire time he was in the hospital. After three days he was transferred to a prison hospital. Louis was signed in and deposited in a ward with green walls and high, barred windows. He lay in one of five narrow beds. The occupants of the other four beds watched him nervously. After all, he was the only murderer among them.

  When Louis had recovered his health sufficiently, he was transferred to the regular prison population to await trial. This prison was a bleak concrete compound of flat buildings with slits for windows, surrounded by high fences topped with razor wire. Louis shared a cell with another murderer. The man, who had been in prison for twenty years for strangling his wife, peered at Louis through thick glasses. “I am André,” he said. “You are welcome to read my books.”

  Louis was visited in prison by Mâitre Jean François Cohen, a criminal lawyer he had engaged for his defense. Maître Cohen sat across a gray steel table and shuffled through numerous files. He showed Louis various papers, asking if this were his signature or whether he had been somewhere on that particular date.

  “I doubt that the case will ever come to trial,” said Maître Cohen. “The matter is extremely delicate. For the French and for the Americans. And while your documentation is not entirely unambiguous, it raises enough questions to be compelling and, I might add, quite damning toward the Americans. Especially the Americans. No one will be very eager to have you talking to the press about the things you have witnessed.”

  “I have no intention of talking to the press,” said Louis.

  “That,” said Maître Cohen, looking at Louis sternly and raising his index finger in admonition, “is something you should absolutely keep to yourself.”

  Louis was allowed visitors once a week. Michael and Jennifer often came together, and sometimes they brought Zaharia with them. One day Michael announced that he was going home. “I think it is safe,” he said. “What do you think?”

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” said Louis. “You should go home, Michael. Be with Rosita. Get on with your lives. You’ve been away far too long. Jennifer, you should go home too.”

  “I know I should,” said Jennifer. She did not tell him that she was reluctant to leave. She flew home with Michael. And Sarah and Rosita were waiting for them at the airport, where they all had a tearful reunion.

  Zaharia was required to remain in France a while longer. He stayed with the Renards in Saint Leon until the investigation into the deaths of the American citizens Randall Sziemanski, also known as Lou Coburn, and Huge Bowes was completed. Then he was sent home to Algeria to live with his grandmother, Camille Lefort.

  Despite the fact that neither body was ever recovered, despite the substantial dossier of evidence against the two deceased, and contrary to the assurances of Maître Cohen, the United States Department of Justice petitioned France to extradite Louis Morgon to the United States to stand trial for murder. An American assistant attorney general had taken a strong interest in the case and saw the stern prosecution of Louis Morgon as an effective deterrent in the war on terror.

  The French government had no intention of extraditing Louis, particularly while they had several investigations of their own going on. The boy Zaharia, for instance, had been able to identify one of the Marseille policemen he had seen murder his father. In exchange for leniency, the policeman implicated the other men involved, other policemen, but also civilians who turned out not to be terrorists at all but street thugs who had been, by every indication, in the employ of some other nation’s clandestine service. The American CIA was strongly suspected.

  Pénichon’s investigation of Renard’s activities, while it exposed highly irregular and unauthorized behavior on Renard’s part, turned up nothing of a criminal nature. Renard received a letter of reprimand and a stern warning to confine his attentions to village affairs. Pénichon also investigated Louis’s visit to Algeria and concluded that the trip had apparently been made to discover connections between the burglar Pierre Lefort and the deceased Hugh Bowes. As far as Pénichon was able to determine, it had never been Morgon’s plan to conduct or participate in any terroristic activities. In the end, Renard had to admit that Pénichon was a far more competent investigator than he would have expected.

  The evidence surrounding Hugh Bowes’s malfeasance and the terroristic kidnapping of Louis’s daughter by Sziemanski was more than sufficient to persuade the French investigators that the murder of the two Americans had been committed in self-defense. “It is better, then,” declared the presiding justice minister, “better for everyone concerned, including the Americans, that the case be closed.”

  The Americans did not like being told by the French whom they should and should not prosecute, but after some discussion in Washington about the Louis Morgon case, it was quickly seen to be, in the larger scheme of things, not only a fairly insignificant case, but also one with sufficiently inconvenient facts that it should be allowed to disappear into the government’s secret archives as quickly as possible. In fact, by the time this decision was reached, the president and his cabinet had already turned their attention to other, more urgent and more important matters.

  A burial cerem
ony with full military honors was held for Hugh Bowes, the former secretary of state, at Arlington National Cemetery. An empty casket was lowered into the ground while dignitaries from around the world stood with bowed heads. The grave, on a hillside just to the north of the Kennedy graves, was marked by a simple white stone with Hugh’s name and dates, along with the dates of his tenure as secretary of state, and the motto, his motto: To Serve Is Everything.

  The president declared a national day of mourning and delivered a stirring eulogy during the memorial service at the National Cathedral. “Hugh Bowes was a force for light and good in the world,” he said. “Long after he had left office, he remained a tireless worker for peace and justice. We will not soon see his like again.” The flags on all official buildings were lowered to half-staff.

  In early February, on the day marking the end of Louis’s third month in prison, he was escorted to the warden’s office. “Monsieur Morgon,” said the warden with great ceremony, as though Louis were being awarded an honorary university degree, “you are free to go.”

  As Louis stepped from the front gate of the prison with a small package of his belongings, Renard dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his foot. The men shook hands solemnly, and Renard took the package and carried it to the car. As they drove, Louis watched in wonderment as the landscape passed by in its infinite variety. The birds scattered and darted in random patterns. Every tree was surprising in some way. None looked like the one before it or the next one down the road. No vista resembled any other. “I had already forgotten,” he said, “how abundant and endless and different things are. The worst thing about prison is how quickly everything becomes the same.”

  At home Louis repaired the damaged door once again. He cleaned the house and put everything back in order, even better order than it had been in before. He took a long time to alphabetize all his books by author, something he had never done before. When that was finished, he turned his attention to the ruined garden and the neglected roses. He pulled up the previous year’s vines and weeds and turned the soil. He used old egg cartons in which to start seeds in his kitchen window—lettuce, beets, tomatoes, basil—and checked each morning to see whether anything had sprouted. Once the tiny, tender plants began to push their way up through the dark soil, he nursed them as though his life depended on it. And in some sense perhaps it did.

  One day his friend Jean Pierre Lamarche arrived from Pen’noch for a visit. The two men took walks through the countryside and sat together on Louis’s terrace. But, in spite of their affection for one another, they could not find much to say to bridge the awkwardness between them. Jean Pierre was friends with Louis Bertrand, but he did not quite know Louis Morgon. Louis apologized for his deception, as he had apologized to Samad earlier, and Jean Pierre waved off his apology as Samad had. It was not betrayal Jean Pierre felt, so much as confusion. It would sort itself out, he said.

  Even Louis and Renard’s visits were awkward. They spoke of ordinary things, as they always had, of their children, of food, of police work. But there were certain things they wanted to talk about that they did not. Louis seemed to the policeman to be living somewhere else. His melancholy had turned to sorrow, which seemed a far different and more difficult and serious thing.

  Louis had always liked to talk about his painting, which had always annoyed the policeman, since he did not understand the first thing about it and so could only listen in dumb silence. Now, however, for the sake of conversation and friendship Renard ventured to ask, “So what are you painting? What are you working on?” Louis waved aside his inquiry. “I’m not painting,” he said, and Renard feared it might be true.

  Jennifer called from Virginia. She described how the clinic had been neglected during her absence and had fallen on hard times. “Nobody cared about it as much as I did,” she said, “or knew how to keep it going. No one knew how to raise money. No one kept after the volunteers—the doctors and nurses. We just had to close our doors.” She paused. “But I got it started once, and I can do it again,” she said.

  “I know you can, Jenny,” said Louis. “I’m sure you can, and it’s worth doing. It’s important. It was a great thing, and it will be again,” he said. Maybe if she could restart the clinic, he could restart … what?

  “What about you, Dad?” she said.

  “Me? I don’t know. I’m sorting things out.”

  Michael called too. “I might try to show some of my drawings,” said Michael. “Like you suggested.”

  “They’re good drawings, Michael. You should show them.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “How is Rosita?” said Louis.

  “She moved out. My being away for so long. We’re talking.”

  “That’s good. That’s important. Keep talking.”

  “But, how are you, Dad?”

  Michael sent Louis a drawing he had made on assignment for a science magazine of a microscopic sea creature. The creature was blue and had six legs and numerous toes. It was meticulously rendered in India ink and watercolor and had a compelling sense of reality about it. “This thing actually exists,” said Michael. “I worked from slides.” Louis framed the drawing and hung it on the wall just inside the front door.

  Louis had always cherished his solitude, but lately it had turned into loneliness. And one blustery day when he felt particularly alone, he picked up the phone and dialed Sarah’s number without quite knowing what he was doing. He wanted to apologize, of course, for the trouble he had caused, and to learn how she had fared throughout the entire ordeal. But he also had other reasons that he could not quite fathom. He listened to the phone ring without having any sense of what he would say if she answered.

  Sarah was polite but not especially friendly. She appreciated his concern, she said. She told him briefly how she had left Washington, as he had suggested, but had only gone as far as Pittsburgh. “I stayed with my sister for a while. They could have found me if they had wanted to,” she said. “Anyway, it’s over. When I think of it, it seems like a terrible nightmare.” Her voice softened then. “I can’t imagine how it must have been for you.”

  “Like a terrible nightmare,” said Louis. He paused for a long time. “It was awful,” he said finally. “In a way it still is.”

  “But now it’s over,” said Sarah.

  “Yes,” said Louis. “You know? I think it is.” It sounded to Sarah as though this were the first time he had allowed himself to think such a thing.

  “Jenny told me that your friend died. Solesme? Was that her name? I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you,” said Louis. He felt the conversation drifting away from him, but Sarah was not quite ready for it to end.

  “How is that young boy,” she said, “the one Jenny told me about? Jenny seems very fond of him.”

  “Zaharia,” said Louis. “Yes. I think he and Jenny developed quite an attachment. I don’t know how he’s doing. I haven’t heard anything. After all the interviews and depositions, he was sent back to Algeria to live with his grandmother. I hope he is all right …” Then after a moment: “I’m sure he’s all right. He is … a remarkable boy.”

  “That’s what Jenny said.”

  “His father was a brute,” said Louis, suddenly wanting to talk. “At least as far as I could tell. He was a thief and a thug. I don’t know much about the mother except that she was out of the picture. Anyway, the boy was poor. He hadn’t spent much time in school and had very little contact with the outside world, as far as I could tell. Then, without warning, he was torn from his home in the Algerian desert and brought to France. He saw his father killed by the police—”

  “My god,” said Sarah.

  “I know,” said Louis. “It really is unimaginable. Then he found his way across the entire country by himself. And finally … he was caught right in the middle of everything. Thanks to me.” Louis lapsed into silence again.

  Sarah waited. Just when she thought he would not say anything more, he said, “And y
et he’s this positive kid, sweet and trusting and generous. How can that be? How does that even happen?”

  “Do you think you’ll see him again?” Sarah said.

  Louis hesitated. “I don’t know. If he comes to France. Someday, maybe. I would like to.”

  “Why don’t you go see him?” she said.

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not? Go to Algeria. You always said how much you loved Algeria.”

  “I can’t do that. You don’t understand. His grandmother blames me for her son’s death. I would have to at least, I don’t know … I can’t do that …”

  The jonquils had sent up their first flower stalks, but they looked as though they regretted having done so. Louis was raking the leaves away from the flower beds by the front door so that the sun could warm them better. He heard someone coming up the drive and turned to see the little yellow mail truck cresting the hill. Ghislaine Bidon cranked down the window and handed him his mail.

  Louis propped the rake under his arm and leafed through the brochures and envelopes while she turned around and disappeared back down the hill. There was an envelope bearing an Algerian stamp and addressed, in careful block letters, to Monsieur Louis Morgon. Louis tucked the other mail into his pocket and tore open the envelope.

  Cher Monsieur Morgon,

  I hope you are very well. I am living with my grandmother. I am doing very well. I am going to school, and I am learning many things. I am learning to speak and write French correctly. My grandmother says I must learn French. She is right. This is so I can return to France one day. When I go, I want to visit you. And also Monsieur and Madame Renard. Tell them hello for me.

  How is Jennifer? I hope she is well. And I hope Michael is well too. Are they back in the United States? I found Washington on the map. I will also visit them there one day. Would you please send me Jennifer’s address, so I can write to her? Thank you.

  Do you plan to visit Algeria someday soon? If you do, I hope you will come see me. I would like that very much.