by John Brooke
He was in there waiting for her. The meeting was on.
·
…Please God, where is she? It had been less than five minutes but it felt like an hour. Prince sat on fetid straw in the middle of the barren space. Not totally dark — the windows, portholes really, were high, made for pigeons. He glimpsed sky and stars, the corner of a cloud.
Was it a trick? The dirty end to a brutal set-up? Alone in the tower, Prince had to consider the thing he had allowed himself to forget. Out of bitter spite, he had implicated Stephanie in the attack against the wine industry. Now he saw the spectre of tit-for-tat revenge and had to face it. She had come into contact with some desperate men while working for Joël Guatto. Prince had met one or two in Les Oliviers. Prince knew anger when he saw it. Real anger. Had Stephanie moved past the Friends and into darker places? Had that ENA-trained strategic mind leveraged the potential of those men’s anger? Listen, guys, here’s a perfect way to avenge the sins of Roland Bousquet. Minimal risk. Strong message. A new start point for the local politics of wine.
And fuck our little Prince — he can run all the way to Scotland with the blame.
But no. No!... If she was tied to him, she was tied to everything.
If she was too afraid to plant a bomb on a truck, she would never plot to kill a man.
What he could see was Stephanie McLeod, scared, hopeless, giving up and turning herself in.
And setting him up for the police. I love you…So simple.
Prince struggled against this option — the shaking girl, the easily manipulated traitor. He fiddled with the gun. Using it to scare an old woman out of her potato salad was not much of an apprenticeship in deadly force. But it was not a complicated thing. Pull the trigger. If need be. He knew his entire life was hanging in the pending moment. Where is she, God? Where is she? In his mind he heard it like a prayer. The walls of this old damp room were round, high. One wall, in fact — too high to see past, all sound bouncing back against itself.
God said, Dream it through, man, dream it to the bloody end.
·
Stephanie did not go immediately. She wondered, Had that been a beautiful night? The man from the ghostly Just Friends network who called himself Prince was not physically beautiful, God knew. But yes, he’d thrilled her. The things he said. His certainty. Her own certainty came in bursts of frustrated emotion, then waned, grew vague. This man who arrived in response to her desperate appeal was perpetually cool. And certain. That equalled strength. The night of the election, after a defeated Joël Guatto shook hands with supporters and shambled out with his crazy sister, Stephanie had dutifully cleared, balanced her cash, filled the washer, done her set-up for the next day’s lunch. Avi had gone to his bed. She locked up. Only after everything else, everything normal, had she taken her ‘friend’ Prince’s hand and led him up the village stairs, stopping at the house for wine, a blanket, then on to the top, somewhere special, where they consummated that attraction. Yes, a beautiful first night. That part was true, always would be.
Lovers were connecting everywhere, hoping for a better world. So few succeeded.
Before going to Prince, she took her phone from her pocket, inserted the SIM card.
2 NEW MESSAGES. Avi. And ANouvelle. That cop.
Stephanie listened to a message promising to help her.
Then listened again, bemused, knowing full well her line had been open for almost a minute. If they wanted to find her, here she was… When it finished, she looked at the sky, half-expecting a guided missile to come flashing like a shooting star, obliterating everything within a thoughtless second. But that did not happen. Stephanie kept the message from ANouvelle. She might need it.
She did not open the message from Avi. She knew what it had to be. She did not want to hear his voice. Whatever was about to happen, she did not want Avi’s presence.
She did not delete Avi. That would be for later too. To show him she was not a child.
She stood, stepped into the open. No one called her name, ordered her to halt. It was a now-or-never moment, her only chance to be redeemed. She advanced, feeling the wind, implacable, pushing her toward the tower door. She stopped five steps short, pushed Call, punched in the number. Touched Record.
And spoke…
· 44 ·
ACTION FILM FOR KIDS
Aliette Nouvelle was at her assigned position on the bridge, gazing idly down at flowing darkness. Getting bored. Thinking of that second beer… which would probably put her to sleep. Her phone vibrated. ‘Oui.’
‘Just listen. Please?’ Stephanie McLeod, barely audible. ‘…Please don’t say a word!’
Aliette crossed the bridge, holding her phone aloft, a finger to her lips. She and Nabi listened:
Steph!
Don’t point that thing at me!
Yes, he had a gun. And was ready to use it.
My name is Gregor. MacGregor Spratt. I don’t really come from Glasgow. I’m from Edinburgh. We’ll go there. You can meet my mum. She’s all right, deep down, I mean. My da, well… But anyway, it’s not like the first thing we’re going to do. Eh, Steph?
No response.
Where were they? Inside. An echo — not from the phone, but a room.
He began to speak and didn’t stop, in English, that difficult twang. He had come to declare his heart’s loyalty once and for all and lead her away to a safer place where she could fulfill her destiny and he would be at her side. He used those actual words. He was scaring Aliette. They were words from a storybook, a cheap bande dessinée, an action film for kids. The arrogant, ironic thing was nowhere to be detected. In any language, this was the voice of a frightened boy.
And the gun: was he forcing her, another man who needed a gun to make a woman listen?
Nabi couldn’t follow much of it. He walked away and made a call, Aliette presumed to Margot.
The boy on the phone was telling Stephanie again: His story of a hard life in Glasgow on the bad side of the Clyde was false, a calling card, created to impress the right people, his anarchist class credentials were bogus, but his dreams of a better world were true! And this, right here, right now, this was destiny, this was meant to be…
Eh, Steph? So boyish and hopeful, surrounded in empty echo.
No response.
The voice Aliette knew as Prince jabbered on. His ideals. The war against the dirty system. His commitment was total, pure! He swore he’d been born to live and die for Stephanie McLeod.
Nabi returned, held his phone close to hers. If Agent Margot Tessier was there, she heard the voice ask in the phone, Where is meaning? And answer the question himself. It’s you, Steph, just you.
The voice of Stephanie hissed, You creepy bastard!
Then a hard sound, a slap, a reaction. I deserve it. I admit it.
Movement like a struggle. Another slap.
You’re the boss, Steph. The total boss.
You have no idea who I am!
I do, Steph. I see you perfectly.
You’re out of your mind.
Well you have to be, don’t you, darlin’? For an instant, that ironic screw turned once.
And a suddenly reasonable girl said, Please, Prince, this is not the time for fantasies.
It’s Gregor. I’m not from Glasgow. I’m from Edinburgh. I apologize for lying, it’s just —
I don’t care who you are or where you are from! I just want you to —
My mother always called me Greggy.
Will you shut up!
I love you.
Fuck off!
Too late, Steph. Far too late...
What are you doing? Let me go!
Time to split, Steph. Come on.
But where, Prince, where? Where could we possibly —
Please call me Gregor. Just once?
Just once. Aliette could hear the fata
listic thing, she’d heard it too many times. This man was seeing death. He believed dying was a real choice, maybe the best.
Stephanie demanded, Where…Gregor? Where?
We can do this, Steph.
There was a grinding sound, a bang. A door. Wind scraped through the phone, obscuring heated words. Till Aliette heard a rush of pure fear push Stephanie’s voice to the next level.
Where!
Aliette called, ‘Stop!’
For a moment there was only the wind.
From Nabi’s phone, Margot Tessier’s voice: Inspector, what is going on?
Oh, fuck… Stephanie. This is —
I am not part of your life!
But the cause! All the things we need to do!
It’s useless!... And now you’re a murderer too.
No, Steph, I didn’t do that, I never would. That’s not me. That’s not us.
I am not with you!
Yes! Come on.
No!
Then a cracking sound — from a distance.
A groan — close to the phone: the sound of a body receiving a painful blow.
Nabi looked toward the high ground, the ridge. It was too far, too dark to see figures.
Then Stephanie, frantic.‘Prince! … Don’t!’
There was the sound of a gun firing, close, unmistakable. Once. Only once.
There was a barrage of quick cracks in the distance, responding…
It was definitely coming from the ridge.
Aliette called into her phone. ‘Stephanie! … Stephanie! … Stephanie!’
There was no reply.
Nabi Zidane shut his phone and ran. Aliette Nouvelle did likewise.
· 45 ·
FRANCE CAN REST EASY
Light clamped on, siren whining, Nabi took them through the place and into the maze of cobbled streets, past faces in doorways inches away, the car rattling chaotically along the cobblestones till Aliette felt her teeth would shake loose from her head. They passed Margot Tessier hustling primly in her tightish skirt and expensive shoes. Nabi did not stop. The way ended at the boules court. There was already a small crowd. Halfway up the stone stairs to the ridge, one of Margot’s people was wielding his gun and shaking his head — ‘Don’t know, don’t know, don’t know’… keeping the public well away.
The inspector stepped onto the ridge. In the dark of night it felt like stepping onto a tightrope, the ominous tower at the other end. The wind immediately attacked her hair and billowed her jacket. Two men stood in the open. Nabi went to join them. Aliette followed, placing each step just so. She became aware of voices coming up from the far side. Inching close, peering down: two more men were almost out of sight below, carefully picking their way — to what, she couldn’t see. She knew it wasn’t good. She continued cautiously to the tower and looked inside.
Nothing. Inching to the edge again, she looked down.
She saw only the flashing lights of an ambulance approaching from the north.
In due course, the agent Aliette knew as Villiers carefully, laboriously climbed back up.
Joining them, he reported, ‘One dead. Other’s not too good.’
·
It was past midnight when she finally slipped away. There was no point staying any longer. Magistrate Sergio Regarri had shaken off the stunned, sleep-deprived look and now appeared merely bored, strictly functional where he stood, collar raised against the wind. A dull nod meant, Fine, see you in the morning. It was his responsibility to wait on Dr. Annelise Duflot. Packing the boy called Prince into a body bag was simple enough, getting Stephanie McLeod properly secured on a stretcher and down to the ambulance with a minimum of stress would require a good deal more time and care.
Margot Tessier stood apart from the rest of them, her back to Vieussan, arms across her breast like a monk awaiting the dawn on the far side of the world. Why had Villiers, her lead man, fired that first shot? Margot was sharing nothing. After huddling with their boss, DST Agents Villiers and Béart both denied even taking direct aim at the subject and would say no more.
It was not the time to confront Margot.
Aliette had statements from Nabil Zidane’s two inspectors. They had seen Villiers move toward the two figures on the ridge. They assumed that, seeing the glint of the gun raised in the subject’s hand, Villiers had reacted and fired. It seemed the subject was hit. But when the subject fired back, yes, they’d responded. They’d lost sight of the subject. The girl appeared to be separated from the subject, but then went in his direction. They had advanced, but the closer they got, the steeper the angle — short of risking an open shot, it was difficult to see. Add in the wind, the dark, the sheer quickness of the moment, these elements left the two Beziers cops unsure. They both honestly thought they’d been aiming high as instructed. It wasn’t much. Over quickly.
There was disagreement as to whether Stephanie McLeod had been hit. Or dragged over by a falling Prince. Or had she jumped? Their statements fell far short of completing the picture in a satisfactory way. Beyond whatever peripheral observations she might get from the villagers, there was nothing more for Aliette to do but draft a report and get it to her judge.
Would Stephanie jump? Aliette could not lock in on that last moment on the ridge.
She made her way down the steps. The village was wide awake. Gendarmes had been assigned the task of criss-crossing through the narrow streets advising people to stay in their homes, but it appeared most of them were gathered on the boules court.
Madame Fortuno sat on the bench, gripping a neighbour’s hand.
Avi Roig was among the milling citizens. Aliette saw him before he saw her. The proprietor of Les Oliviers stood out on the strength of the unruly mane of curls exploding around his bowed and shaking head. He wore bedroom slippers on his nervously shuffling feet. Those were pajama bottoms beneath his jacket. His face was a dark mess of anguish and heavy day-old beard. Aliette saw traces of tears as he moved into the glow of the dim lamp lighting the scene. It was not easy, but she met his eyes.
She met total contempt for the French police.
‘Good job, Inspector…France can rest easy. If she dies…’ Roig did not finish the threat.
And she ignored it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, straight and flat, and continued on.
She stopped briefly in the McLeod house. There was something there she might need.
PART 4
I confess that the theory that subjects all things to the will of an indifferent God and makes them dependent on his pleasure is far nearer the truth than that which states that God acts in all things for the furthering of good.
— B. Spinoza
· 46 ·
THE WAY IT SOMETIMES GOES
‘Good morning, Inspector.’
‘Happy, Agent Tessier?’
‘Happy? I never think of it in those terms.’ But yes, her team had succeeded in eliminating a terrorist bomber. It would send a clear message across Europe. Set a standard, too. That was something good, surely. It was a pity the girl had got caught in the middle.
‘That was murder, Margot. What else would do you call it? That first shot was unprovoked. It killed him.’
‘I’d call it a police action. Messy. Tragic. We both know it’s the way it sometimes goes.’
‘I have to ask you to make your agent available to me.’
‘My agent did not shoot first.’
‘I’ll leave the paperwork with your reception. I expect full cooperation… Perhaps he’s sitting there right now. Put him on, we’ll set it up.’
‘This is my shop, Inspector. You want to talk, you talk to me.’
‘He was wounded, surely reeling, he went over the side and took her with him.’
‘My man did not shoot first. One of Nabi’s guys probably got nervous. Not so used to things like that…’ Her men were trained shoo
ters. They’d been ordered to fire high and they always followed her orders.‘Inspector Zidane’s men were not carrying semi-automatic rifles.’
‘B’eh, same ammunition...’
‘There is no way they could have been as accurate.’
‘Exactly. Nerves. A wobbly wrist. Sad mistake. Rifles are the more dependable solution.’
‘But you heard her! You heard both of them.’
‘Honestly? Not really. The wind. And that accent? …Impossible, quoi?’
‘Well, I did. She was settling it with him. And showing us. Obviously.’
‘Obviously?... It is a sad thing, but my agent did not shoot first.’
‘I will prove this. You are reckless. An innocent person has been critically injured. Needlessly.’It was still not clear whether Stephanie McLeod would make it.
‘She would not have been there if she was innocent.’
‘And you’re hoping for two perhaps? A lot cleaner, for sure.’
‘I resent that. It’s collateral, Inspector. And for us the matter is closed. Tomorrow I move my team to the port at Sète. Those awful fishermen, they keep smuggling people from Algeria. We were just hashing out some details when you rang.’
‘This is not finished, Margot.’
‘No. And I certainly don’t envy you. But I have to let you go. Busy day.’
Margot ended the call. Aliette stepped on the gas, perhaps a little too hard.
Revenge is less than professional. Only human. But it will drive the car.
·
At the courthouse, a weary Sergio Regarri listened to her complain.
