by Cara Black
“How’s my Simone?”
Aimée started guiltily—she hadn’t checked.
“Bien, but missing you,” she lied. “Look at these.”
She held another photo René had morphed together—of Sylvie with the red wig.
“Sylvie wore wigs,” Anaïs said. “Some men like that. Philippe did.”
Poor Anaïs.
“There’s more to it than that. I’m sorry,” Aimée said, controlling her excitement. “But I found some odd photos.”
Tears ran down Anaïs’s cheeks.
“What’s the matter?” Aimée said. She couldn’t understand why Anaïs wasn’t interested.
“Philippe’s changed. He’s dead inside.”
“He’s trying to forget,” Aimée shook her head. “Tiens, if he were dead inside he wouldn’t be drinking himself into a stupor.”
“Nothing will be over until the killer…,” Anaïs’s chest heaved, then the tears spilled down her pale cheeks, “until you catch them. If Sylvie pretended to be someone else, you’ve got to find out why—what’s the reason. Nothing will be over until then. I hired you to find out who murdered Sylvie.”
Aimée sighed. “Look, Anaïs, I’m doing my best, but you and Philippe haven’t helped me. I’ve been working in the dark. If you knew about the photos, why didn’t you tell me? It’s like you gave me half a deck and want me to play cards!”
“The General,” Anaïs said, rubbing her wet cheeks.
Aimée’s hand tightened on the bed’s railing and she leaned forward. “What’s that?”
“I remembered … someone saying “general,” maybe it was Sylvie … but then the explosion.”
What did that mean? “Did Sylvie say this upstairs in the apartment?”
Anaïs nodded. “Sylvie said terrible things happened in Algeria. Philippe knew about them.”
Did it have to do with those photos? she wondered.
“What did Sylvie give you?”
“Some envelope,” Anaïs rubbed her eyes.
“The envelope with ‘ST196’ written on it?”
“Philippe has it.”
“Did you see the General?”
Anaïs shook her head.
“Did you hear a voice, a sound?”
“The smell,” Anaïs squinted, as if trying to remember could force it to come back.
“What smell?”
“I feel so stupid,” Anaïs said. “My brain’s so mixed up.”
“Which smell, Anaïs?”
“I can’t remember,” she said. “Philippe says I should recover without worrying about Simone,” Anaïs shoulders slumped under her hospital jacket. “Martine’s taking Simone to the école ma’ternelle, but I want to take her to school and be with her. It’s safer for me here, he says, but I want to go home. He’s afraid, Aimée. But I don’t know why.”
“If someone is blackmailing him I’ve got part of the evidence,” she said, trying to get that through Anaïs’s skull. “You’re safe. He’ll come and get you tomorrow.”
“Licorice,” Anaïs said.
Aimée froze. Her mind went back to the military man chewing licorice at the circus.
“You smelled licorice in Sylvie’s apartment?”
But Anaïs’s eyes had closed. Little whistles of sleep escaped her lips.
As Aimée walked into the cold Paris night she wished she felt it was true that Anaïs was safe.
Sunday Night
HAMID STARED AT THE torn green-and-white Algerian flag.
“Where did this come from?”
“Discord within the AFL mounts. If you don’t comply…” Walid left the rest unfinished. He pointed at the broken red crescent moon enfolding a star. Walid, another mullah in his cause, looked defeated. He shook his head.
Hamid’s years of work, the ties he’d established, the movement he’d created—all would be sabotaged if he didn’t comply with his enemy. Such a close enemy. The French had no idea.
Hamid gently fitted the sickle-shaped red moon on the green-and-white cloth, then folded the pieces together. If only he could weave his people together so easily.
He nodded at Walid; he couldn’t ignore the warning. “I must rinse my mouth; please pass me water.”
After he partook from the beaten bronze bowl and washed his face, he prayed, for the first time, that the sans’papiers would forgive him.
Late Sunday Night
AIMÉE COULDN’T SLEEP.
From outside her bedroom window came the low hum of a barge, its blue running lights blinking on the Seine. Reflected in her bedroom’s mirrored trench doors, she saw the dark rooftops of the Marais across the river.
Her laptop screen, perched on her legs as she sat propped up in bed, held a jumble of numbers. Sylvie/Eugénie’s Crédit Lyon-nais balance.
She’d been trying to make sense of the withdrawals and deposits, but her eyes blurred.
The courtyard, overlooked by her other window, held the pear tree’s budding leaves and bird’s nests. Miles Davis curled in the bed beside her, growling in his sleep. His white fur chest rose and fell in the midst of an intense dream.
With her other laptop on top of the large medical texts she used as a night table, she’d been online for hours searching for links to the Crédit Lyonnais account. She’d entered the account number, then checked it for links corresponding to other bank accounts, a tedious job. So far she’d tried fifteen banks and found no connections.
The money had to come from somewhere, and she knew Sylvie banked on-line. The Minitel had paved the way for that. She had narrowed her list of banks to those who had client online capabilities. But since all French banks were regulated by the Banque de France, she didn’t see how Sylvie could launder or obtain money without its knowledge.
Dejected, she had only two more numbers to check when a routine thousand-franc deposit responded to her link query. Immediately a series of numbers appeared on her screen.
Of course, this had to be interest paid into the account!
She sat up excitedly, pushing the goose-down duvet to the side. Following the number source to a transit account, she found a thread to the Bank of Commerce Ltd., headquartered in the Channel Islands. A convenient offshore account destination, Aimée thought. Nice and anonymous. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
She dug deeper and accessed the Channel Island account. Three large cash infusions had swelled the Bank of Commerce balance since last September. But like the ebb and flow of the tide, as a significant amount was withdrawn another would replace the void. However, the current balance of nearly five million U.S. dollars—or roughly three million pounds sterling—stood out. Aimée gasped. No wonder Sylvie could afford Biwa pearls and to throw away Prada shoes.
Surprise mingled with a feeling of being in over her head. Something smelled very dirty. She scrolled back, checking the deposit amounts over the past twelve months. Several large deposits had brought the amount, at one time, to twenty million dollars.
The phone rang, startling her. Miles Davis snorted awake.
“Aimée,” René said, his voice tight with excitement. “Hold on to your laptop.”
“Did you find out what I just did?” she asked.
“Sylvie was born in Oran,” he said. “That’s why the identification from the Fichier in Nantes took time.”
Surprised, Aimée hit Save on both her laptops, then stroked Miles Davis.
“Bravo, René,” she said. “Go on.”
“Get this,” he said. “Her real name is Eugénie Sylvie Cardet, her family left Algeria at the exodus. She ended up at the Sor-bonne, in one of Philippe’s classes.”
“I’m impressed, René,” she said. “Did you crack the Fichier code?”
“A few hours ago,” he said. “They’re a storehouse of information. Seems she joined the Socialist Party then the Arab Student League, which according to my Arab friends on the net later became the AFL.”
Aimée grabbed her notebook. She filled the gridblock sheet diagramming Sylvie’s connect
ions to Hamid and Philippe.
“So there’s her connection to Hamid,” she said. “She’s known him since the late sixties. Her address is 78 Place du Guignier, right?”
“Fast work, Aimée,” René said. “But the most interesting item was her father,” René said. “Leon Cardet, a caporal with the OAS.”
Miles Davis nestled in the crook of her arm, his ears perking up at René’s voice. She sat up straighter.
“Attends, René, wasn’t there a Cardet in the coup to oust de Gaulle?”
“One of many attempted coups.” René chuckled. “But you’re right, Cardet got caught. Very nasty mec.”
“So if Sylvie had a father like that and joined Hamid, then became Philippe’s mistress, she could have been rebelling against her father and what he stood for,” she grew excited. “Sylvie could have been helping the underdog!”
“Exactly,” René said. “Seems Cardet and his OAS cronies liked the Canal Saint Martin for body dump-offs in the sixties.”
Aimée shivered. She pictured the narrow tree-lined canal, the metal locks, and eddying scum on the surface.
“There’re some problems with that theory, RenéY’ she said. “Gaston told me that warring Algerian factions dumped bodies there. Those helping the French or not contributing to the FLN got a watery grave.”
A pause on the other end.
“Cardet could have played both sides,” René said slowly. “Or he used the cover to dispose of OAS targets, attributing them to the FLN.”
“Good point,” she said. “You could be right.” She remembered the grainy photos of Cardet at his trial, a sneering arrogance even on sentencing. “But if Sylvie was helping Hamid, why does she have millions in an offshore account?”
René whistled when she told him what she’d found in the Channel Island account. Miles Davis yelped at the sound.
“Wait a minute,” René said. “What if Sylvie received funds in an offshore account in the Channel Islands and passed it to the AFL?”
“Hold on,” Aimée paused. “The AFL connection isn’t clear,” she said, racking her brains to think of what was eluding her. “The AFL seems more of a grassroots, shoestring operation. They address issues of all immigrants, not just those from Algeria.”
She stepped into her black leather pants, “René, let me try something. I’ll call you back.”
“Bien,” René said. “I’ll dig for more links from the Fichier.”
After pulling on her oversize wool sweater, she carried the laptops, individually, to her home office. Her desktop computer held more memory and within thirty minutes, she had all three computers working on projects. Both laptops steadily ran software encryption programs to access the link bank that paid into Sylvie’s offshore account.
Aimée sat at the large computer, delving into the AFL’s financial source. The only account she located was an AFL business account in the Crédit Agricole for less than a quarter of a million.
Early Monday Morning
“AFL’S ACCOUNT IS CHUMP change compared to Sylvie’s!” René said thirty minutes later on the phone. His voice rose. “Why don’t you talk with Philippe?”
“Believe me, I’m trying,” she said.
“Can you hyperlink it over to me?” he asked. “I’d like to try something.”
“Be my guest,” she said.
Miles Davis growled and pawed at her window frame.
The sun had risen in golden glory over the Seine. Dawn painted the rooftops. Below her window she saw several men in blue jumpsuits with German shepherds along the quai. Her heart raced. They watched her window.
“René, I don’t like what’s happening outside my window,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Can you meet me in the office?” she said. “I’m leaving now.”
She E-mailed Sylvie’s and the AFL’s account information to her office, called a taxi, and put her laptop in her bag. She left the lights on and a bowl of food for Miles Davis, put on a black curly wig, and a long raincoat over her leather one. As the taxi pulled up on the curb of quai d’Anjou, she ducked into the taxi’s backseat.
SHE WANTED a cigarette desperately. Instead she entered the Pont Marie Métro, slid her ticket into the turnstile, and marched toward the nearest platform. Before the stairs, she pulled off the wig, slipped out of the raincoat, and dumped them in the trash bin.
She joined the early Monday morning commuters riling past her. The voices of panhandlers singing for a handout echoed off the tiled walls.
She sat down on the plastic molded seat, watching and thinking. Were those Elymani’s cohorts outside her window or men sent by Philippe?
She leaned against the Métro wall map, the station names erased by the rubbing of countless fingers. A shiny red Selecta vending machine on the platform blocked her view of the other end. But after five minutes she figured she’d lost the men tailing her.
She punched in her office number.
René’ answered on the first ring.
“You might want to get over here, Aimée,” he said.
“I’m doing my best,” she said. “What’s happened?”
“Things have gotten dicey,” he said, his voice low. “Thanks to Philippe.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a big mec sitting here who says we’re out of compliance.”
“Compliance?”
“Some ordinance infraction,” René said. “Has to do with the space we rent and the tax we pay.”
“Tell me, René,” she said. “Does the mec have a shaved head and fish eyes?”
“Exactly,” René said.
“Tell him our last adjustment should suffice,” she said. “Matter of fact, let me tell him.”
She heard the muffled sound.
“Allô?”
“Claude, what’s the problem?”
“I represent the tribunal verifying rent according to space and convenience,” he said. “Your last surface corigée assessment is invalid.”
“Not according to their report,” Aimée said. “Take it up in the appeals section.”
“I already have,” he said.
Her reply caught in her throat.
Dédé marched along the opposite Métro platform, his boots echoing off the tiled walls with their giant arching posters. Muk-tar’s clones eased among the commuters. Coming right toward her.
“Claude, this is between Philippe and me,” she said, scanning the crowds. “Tell René I might be held up, but I’m on the way.”
She clicked off. She sat in the middle of the platform, a few seats taken up by an older woman and high school students. Commuters in business suits clustered around her but would board the next train. Granted, they’d be looking for a black-haired woman first, but Dédé and the other mecs knew her face. If she stood up she’d be seen.
Should she rush into a car when it pulled into the station? The ominous bulge in the coat pockets of the two mecs weaving toward her made her think they had silencers on their guns. And what did she have? A Beretta in her faux-leopard coat—at the office.
Monday Early Morning
BERNARD PAUSED AT THE massive doors of Notre-Damede la Croix. Charcoal stubble shadowed his chin, he’d worn the same suit for two days.
This time his entry to the church had been barred. Cameras whirred and flashed, reporters stuck microphones in his face, and news cameras captured the event. Captured every tic and twitch in his face. Uniformed CRS flanked the steps in formation behind him. For once the April sun glared mercilessly, illuminating the square, the protesters, the police, and the reporters. The protesters loudly chanted, “Don’t break up families—let them stay!” to drown out the reporters.
Guittard had ordered Bernard to empty the church, put the sans’papiers en route to the airport, and escort the rest to the Vincennes detention center if they resisted.
Bernard couldn’t really hold Hamid; the man had papers, and so far he’d broken no law. Bernard didn’t want any of them bound for p
rison; they’d become martyrs for the cause and defeat the purpose. Of course Guittard didn’t agree.
In the hubbub and turmoil surrounding him Bernard felt curiously detached, as if he hovered cloudlike above, watching the scene unfold.
The bull horn was thrust into his hand. Nedelec, poised and immaculate in a Burberry raincoat, nodded at him. Bernard stared, immobile. He was aware of Nedelec’s thin moustache, and the set jaw of the CRS captain.
Bernard opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Nedelec elbowed him discreetly.
“Monsieur Mustafa Hamid,” Bernard began, his mouth dry and his voice a whisper. “Monsieur Hamid, the authorities have reexamined all the immigration cases.” Bernard cleared his throat, spoke louder. “So far they’ve determined permission to stay will be granted to thirty or forty percent of the sans’papiers due to extenuating circumstances. Specifically those married to French citizens or who have children born in France before 1993.”
No response.
“I’m very sorry to inform you that under orders from the minister of the interior and in compliance with the laws of France, I must ask you to evacuate the premises.”
A heavy silence broken only by the sound of a flag with HUMAN RIGHTS NOT WRONGS crudely written on it, flapping in the wind.
Moments later Bernard cringed as a police ax came down on the church door, splinters flying. The chanting protesters roared. And then the square erupted.
The CRS, attacked by the mob, rushed headlong, billy clubs raised, into the church. Peaceful sans’papiers screamed, thinking they were being attacked and prepared to defend themselves. Bernard was flattened against the church wall between a cameraman and his videocam.
“Look what you’ve done!” the cameraman yelled at him, referring to his smashed equipment.
But the feed was live, and the accusation against Bernard was broadcast across France into millions of homes.
The women and children were handcuffed together and escorted out. As they filed past him, he saw little Akim asleep in his mother’s arms. Though her chador-hidden face revealed nothing, the hiss of angry words issuing from her veil needed no translation.
