by John Brooke
Some cheered. Most grumbled. A voice called out, ‘Fuck Spain!’ Aliette saw Magui Barthès move toward a man to get a closer read. To gauge the energy behind the words.
A din of catcalls and questions arose. Roland Bousquet used the pure force of his presence to quell it — and in responding, it seemed he held his own, reminding them of his own roots in the area, his family’s connections to the vines. He was one of them! He would fight for them! For a new deal, a fair deal that fit these newer, larger times. The thing went on for an hour, with many questions charmingly received and earnestly addressed, no real commitment made. He never mentioned the name Domaine Clorres, let alone the bombs. Perhaps that was the wiser part of leadership. To a cop with no ties or interests it sounded like totally typical political double-talk, delivered with the usual overdone passion and deceptive gravity. The net effect was quiet, polite applause: the French soul acquiescing to brave generalities, the sweet fog given off by les élus.
Roland Bousquet came down off the loading bay and recommenced shaking hands. He made a point of going to Noëlli Guatto and giving her a hug, a handshake for Paul, the Grasset brothers…and on along the line of faces. Aliette watched him offer a handshake and a brief word for Avi Roig — who tried to engage him, but failed. Bousquet slid smilingly away from Roig’s grip, continuing on, never really stopping, an expert in this exercise of grasping hands, smiling, meeting face after face after face, some of them skeptical, most thrilled to be so near the power they could not begin to fathom. He knew exactly what to do. This was where he shone.
The inspector kept her distance. She had no wish to disturb the moment.
He could kiss every baby in the place. Then he would have his rendezvous with her.
She was taken by surprise.
With a glance at his watch, Roland Bousquet suddenly stepped out of the crowd and dashed toward his car. Could he have forgotten? Stepping forward, she called, ‘Monsieur Bousquet!’
And he heard — no question. Bousquet’s eyes met hers but he kept moving.
No, he hadn’t forgotten, he just played to his advantage. Now free of everyone, chauffeur waiting fifteen steps away holding the armour-plated door, Roland Bousquet turned and waved, the triumphant generic wave: see you next time, folks… Should a duped inspector rush forward, flashing her warrant card? The public embarrassment Aliette had recklessly threatened was one bold move away. Beckoning to Henri Dardé, Come! she hesitated, caught between impulses:
Corner the arrogant bastard in front of everyone? Or be patient, be cool…
When — with barely a pop, certainly no explosion — Roland Bousquet burst apart.
It was so quiet. Like a magic trick? And there was a matching quiet in the immediate aftermath as the minds of all present tried to assimilate it, figure it… Roland Bousquet was effectively split in half, literally where belt met shirt tails. The hand that had waved was also now a distinctly separate piece, almost to the elbow. The silent crowd contemplated a macabre conjoining of body sections — like the picture at the butcher shop: filet, faux filet, shoulder, brisket — all framed in a puddle of blood seeping into the loose gravel and surrounded by a mess of bone and tissue, shards of summer weight cotton, denim…one of his boots.
Then the inevitable chaos as citizens began to scream and run.
·
People need uniforms to contain their panic. Three PJ cops in civvies were not much use till the gendarmes secured the area. Six struggled to keep order, another was on his cell making the call for help. The task was to keep as many spectators around as possible. Being good French citizens, most waited with minimal complaint. Morbid curiosity was always a good enticement to stick around. Watching it, still amazed, Aliette became aware of six individuals — four men, two women — dressed to blend, stepping in front of certain members of the milling crowd, flashing identification and demanding papers. Attempts to brush them off were met with brandished guns.
Margot Tessier’s goon squad was indeed on the job.
Those detained were twenty-something males. Just Friends? Three were led away to cars. One was being systematically bashed around the head as he resisted, bitterly and loudly. Could it be the famous Prince? A razed scalp fitting the description was exposed when his cap flew off in reaction to another whack. On the off-chance that it might be, Aliette was wanting a word. She ran forward, warrant card held high, asserting her jurisdiction and demanding to be apprised. One of the female agents stepped smartly in front of the struggling men, intercepted the chief inspector and firmly pushed her back…and again. ‘Madame, please keep back. Please...’
Eyes so bland. But a tight, almost painful grip on the inspector’s bicep with one well-trained hand as she brandished her sidearm in the other.
Inspector Henri Dardé rushed to help his boss. The robotic agent calmly wielded her gun in the direction of Henri’s nose, stopping him his tracks.
The shiny-headed young man with the bloodied face was screaming obscenities intermixed with the usual claims of rights and threats to sue as two bearish DST agents went about folding him up and stuffing him into the back of a vehicle. Only when the vehicles carrying the four scooped-up kids were actually moving away did the agent holding Aliette release her grip.
She walked away and climbed into a third vehicle without a second glance.
The chief inspector stood there, enraged, feeling stupid.
Blue cars and vans began to arrive, sirens blaring, uniforms scrambling out, hustling to rehearsed positions. A larger truck went straight to the mess in the middle of the yard. The crime-scene unit quickly erected a plastic tent around the scattered remains of Roland Bousquet.
Aliette went to make her presence known. Behind the screen, the forensics people were scratching their heads over the gory Humpty-Dumpty challenge that awaited.
Horrific scene sealed from view, the clamour began to subside. The gendarmes’ flat, repeated insistence on order had the desired calming effect. People seemed to understand that the horror began and ended with Roland Bousquet. The officer in charge announced an interviewing procedure and begged for calm cooperation. The three PJ cops assisted in arranging orderly rows so statements could be taken. Muted confusion was the dominant tone as the lines inched forward. Stunned citizens murmuring. Why had this happened? Many still wept from the shock. Noëlli Guatto was having trouble getting a grip. She wailed, oblivious to her brother’s soothing. Avi Roig was taking deep breaths, decompressing. He kept pushing long fingers through his unruly hair. As Aliette took down his information, he sniffed, ‘Looks like Stephanie was right.’
‘About what?’
‘Not an honest man. Think this might be proof?’
Aliette did. But it was not a moment to speculate with Avi. ‘What did you say to him?’
‘B’eh, I asked if he was honest.’
‘Did he have an answer?’
‘He just said, “You’re not from around here, are you?” and kept moving.’
Pretty much what he’d said to her. She asked, ‘So what did you see here?’
‘A man with a bomb strapped to his belly.’ Obvious to an ex-Israeli soldier.
‘Strapped?’
‘Same effect. More so. New technology? Lot quieter than the ones in the streets of Jerusalem, at least the last time I was there. Hamas won’t be interested, mind you. They want lots of damage with their martyr. This is too neat and tidy. But someone knows his stuff.’
Sure, new technology. Smaller, quieter, more deadly.The notion sparked a query. ‘Did you see them loading those boys?’ A nod. ‘Was that Prince, the bald one making all the noise?’
‘Not the one I met. Surely they don’t think that jerky little…’ He twigged to her implication. ‘But that means they probably think Stephanie’s…No! How insanely stupid can they get?’ Avi Roig was flabbergasted, on the verge of rage. He emitted a string of foreign oaths.
; Heads were turning. Aliette gestured for him to cool down.
But she quietly agreed. ‘It’s why I’ve got to find her first.’
Roig took another big breath. ‘How long is this going to take? I have reservations.’
‘Until we’re done. Please be patient. We appreciate your cooperation.’
· 29 ·
FORCED MARCH THROUGH THE FOREST
Avi Roig made it back in time to serve the two tables booked. The kitchen was cleaned and Roos on her way home by 11:00. Avi was on his bicycle before the lights of Roos’ car disappeared up the hill on the other side of the river. For the third night running, he rode into the dark, seeking Stephanie. He had a powerful torch and extra batteries in his pannier, along with water and a sizable hunk of cheese. Before reaching Roquebrun, he got off the road and stowed the bike. Then set off into the forest, calling her name. ‘Stephanie… Stephanie! please stop this. Please come out… They’ll shoot you down… Stephanie!… Stephanie…’ Not loud, but with lots of tone, insistent, incantory. ‘They will! They’ll shoot you down. Stephanie…’ Avi marched.
The boy had surfaced. He was leaving messages. Avi couldn’t know if Stephanie was replying, he could only know she was listening — confirming what the police had suggested. She was nearby. The messages proved it. Messages she saved! Avi did not dare leave his own message — that would stop it dead. Beyond taking himself far from the bistro before inserting the twinned SIM card, Avi’s sense of urgency made him careless. He had no idea if someone knew he was listening in. He would continue to do so till they came and took away his phone. Was he breaking the law? Too late to worry. The boy’s wheedling pleas could get her killed.
That DST boss had no heart. She didn’t care.
Why was Stephanie keeping the messages? This confused and worried him most of all. That day, 1 SAVED MESSAGE. Morning, luv. Remember. The spirit of Ulrike, Steph. And you and me. This is fate, Steph. It has to be. Please call. That afternoon Roland Bousquet had died.
It looked like that stupid boy had crossed the most drastic line. Fate? The spirit of Ulrike!
That fit. But how would Stephanie hear it? This Avi couldn’t know.
The assassination of Roland Bousquet would surely send legions of searchers into the hills. If they thought she was with him… ‘They will shoot you down, Stephanie!’ Avi chanted it, jogging at a steady rapid march. His body was aging, but it remembered and found a beat without complaint.
When the moon slid into the sky from behind the clouds, he shut the light. He knew the paths to the perfect camping places on both sides of the ridge. He knew the places she knew.
His voice went ahead of him. ‘Please trust me, Stephanie… please trust someone!’
It went on for the better part of the night as he methodically tracked another sector of the forest. That didn’t make the forest any smaller. And wouldn’t it be just like stubborn Stephanie to sit there, expertly hidden, hating the world, watching as he went marching by?
Avi came home before dawn, exhausted, haunted by a feeling he’d come near. (He had.)
Avi cared. He didn’t know if he could intervene to avoid disaster, but he had to try.
He slept and was ready for Saturday lunch.
· 30 ·
IN MARGOT’S WAR ROOM
Chief Inspector Nouvelle was still in her pajamas, bleary, nibbling a slice of cold pizza with her morning coffee, when Sergio Regarri called. It had been past midnight when she finally got to bed. He had come to Marrusson, but not till well into the evening. They’d not said much to each other — too many other job-related things to do as the police scrambled to present an organized front in the face of the atrocity. The distance created in their tense exchange the other morning remained. He kept it short, nothing but professional. ‘Margot wants to see us.’
‘Us?’
‘You, me, Nabi. And Commander Pellau.’ Head of the regional gendarmerie.
‘Right. And do I want to see Margot?’ Though she knew it was inevitable.
He did not respond to catty bitching. He gave her a time and left her to her breakfast.
The DST were housed in a grand, if completely anonymous converted bourgeois residence in Rue Bonsi, in the labyrinthine heart of the old city, barely a block from the courthouse. But symbolically far enough. Unmarked. Door locked. A security officer answered her ring, escorted her along the hallway and into a dim room. Stuffy. Spectral — blinking machines and dimly glowing screens filled countertops along three walls. Aliette was the last to join the party. Sergio, Nabi Zidane and Jules Pellau were sitting with Margot Tessier at a central table, each with the obligatory cup of coffee, papers, notebooks, a plate of pastry in the middle. Aliette was rather hoping the flat-eyed woman with the vise-like fingers might be there. To dress her down. There was only a boyish man waiting on a chair in the farthest corner.
Her host stood in greeting, handsome as usual in a slim skirt and plain white shirt. A bit corporate for Saturday? Even the usually formal commander was in jeans and without a tie.
‘Bonjour, Inspector. Welcome to my war room… Coffee? Brioche?’
Taking a seat, Aliette wasted no time in pleasantries, went straight to the offensive. ‘How could you think those kids your people beat up yesterday would be involved?’
Agent Tessier poured coffee for herself. ‘Some sociopathic killers are more socially inclined than others. This is well documented. The hairless one, he fit the basic description of our prime suspect. They all fall into the age demographic. They all reacted according to type. These young people are already radicalized. What they want is validation of what they already believe.’
‘I was embarrassed in front of my community. That does not help anyone.’
Margot’s smile was not without sympathy. ‘With two of their cohorts in custody, they likely need recruits. These groups are not armies. They’re networks, provisional, ever-shifting. Until we have actual faces, we have to work with profiles…’ She sipped her coffee. ‘They’re fine, all safely back home with their mothers. To the contrary, Inspector, now they’ve had a taste of the reality of consequences, they will probably make it to marriage and parenthood and the civilized middle-class life with no harm done. I’d say your community’s the better for it. Mm?’
So much for offence. It left the inspector numb.
Margot started talking. She did not want acrimony, she wanted understanding, she wanted tight, seamless police work. The atrocity at Maraussan had upped the ante. This Prince was a nasty piece of business that had to be dealt with. Public figure, political mess, people needed to be reassured — very normal that she and her group should be called to put things back in order. Cooperation across all levels would bring efficiency and, more crucially, a minimal amount of media hysterics. ‘We’re still under the media radar on this where it comes to our target. The media is screaming CRAV. Let’s keep it that way. We organize a net, gendarmes sweeping through the hills, it’s too big to hide. Wham! Complaining. Credibility…fearful locals. We don’t need that. None of us do.’ The better way was to track him to his rendezvous with Stephanie McLeod and take him there. Quietly. Their primary tool in the hunt for the man called Prince was Big Ears, more properly known as Frenchelon. From its vantage point on a Helios-1A satellite, the national security monitoring capability intercepted phone communications. They had flagged certain words — bomb, love, friend, cause, Ulrike… The program immediately recognized the voices of two anarchists in love. Essential gist: Stephanie McLeod would lead them to a man who had proven himself a serious security threat, and not just to France.
‘Taking this man out of the picture will amount to a favour we can bank across Europe,’ Agent Tessier assured her guests.
Silence. Scratching of chins. Staring at notes.
Commander Jules Pellau ran the uniforms stationed in the towns across the area. They look much the same as your city police, but the
y’re military, trained and paid; a different breed. A large man, even in his civvies, Commander Pellau came across as every inch the stolid soldier. His gendarmes had been instructed to keep an eye out for three youthful bombers, at least one of them with a shaven head and tattoos, and for the hitch-hiking woman described by the Spanish trucker. He bent to his notes, adding a new name. ‘McLeod? Spell that, please.’
Margot Tessier spelled the name for the commander. Located her start point at Vieussan. Slid a photo across the table. ‘Approach with extreme caution.’
Jules Pellau scribbled notes. ‘Dangerous?’
Aliette had to say something. ‘Agent Tessier, I have a mandate to investigate a murder on my assigned territory. Stephanie McLeod’s information may be vital to the result. I hope you will respect this.’ She was aware of how feeble she sounded. It didn’t matter. She said it for the record — even if she knew full well that although the room was packed with recording and monitoring devices of amazing power, there would be no record of that day’s conversation.
Just so. Margot Tessier cast a rueful look. ‘The object is national security, Inspector.’
The inspector closed her eyes.
Surprise of surprises: Magistrate Sergio Regarri spoke to support her. ‘But Margot, your prime suspect, as you call him — why is he? I mean, Would he do this? If I’m hearing his messages correctly, all he wants is to get to this Stephanie McLeod and get out.’
As Margot considered this — and as Aliette registered the fact that Margot had clearly been ‘sharing’ her Big Ears gleanings in wider circles,Nabi Zidane perked up. ‘And all the intelligence says they don’t kill. At least not deliberately. I agree. Yesterday doesn’t really fit.’
