Black Diamond

by Martin Walker

  The brigadier looked across the table at Vien, who was slowly sipping his cognac. “You can still put a hundred gunmen on the streets of Marseilles if you have to.”

  “So why aren’t the Chinese going after the gunmen in Marseilles with the drugs and money?” asked Bruno. “Why are they going after little men in villages, like Vinh in St. Denis and the Duongs in Ste. Alvère? I don’t understand this.”

  Bruno stopped at the sound of a spoon tapping firmly against a cognac glass.

  “Our young friend from St. Denis is at least asking the right question,” said Vien, putting the spoon down. “The answer is simple. There are too many Chinese. They are coming in such numbers that there would never be enough jobs for them in the milieu, even if they took over all the narcotics trade in Europe. They bring in the illegals by the boatload, and then they have to find them work. They want the restaurants, the market stalls, the hairdressers, the supermarkets, because the real problem the treizième has to face is economics. It’s all driven by numbers.”

  “So even if you can arrange another truce now with the treizième, it won’t last. Is that what you’re saying?” Bruno asked.

  “I suppose it is,” said Vien. “That doesn’t mean a truce that lasts even for a few years won’t be worthwhile, if our old friend here can help us achieve that.” He nodded at the brigadier.

  “If I may contribute something,” said Isabelle from the door. “If numbers are the problem, the priority must be to stop the illegal immigration. That’s our job. But it might also be where you Viets may be able to help us.”

  “You want us to act as your spies?” asked Vien, his voice icy. Tran made as if to speak but then with a visible effort clamped his mouth shut. Vinh drew in his breath in a long, worried hiss.

  “That’s one way to put it,” said the brigadier. “Another way would be to say that the inspector has just defined an important area of common interest between us.”

  “I agree with that,” said Bao Le quietly.

  Vien nodded slowly in acknowledgment and lit another kretek cigarette, his eyes half closed. After a long pause, he turned to Tran, who was almost quivering to control some emotion. Bruno guessed it was impatience.

  “This might be an excellent moment to serve dinner,” Vien said.

  “Not until you give them an answer to what impresses me as an excellent suggestion,” said Tran, the words almost exploding from his mouth as he ignored the menacing look the old man was giving him. “I respect you as an elder and as an old friend of my father,” Tran went on urgently. “But my father has passed on and I’m part of another generation, which has no interest in whatever the Binh Xuyen may do in Marseilles. My interest is in making sure that I don’t have to carry a gun or worry about a bomb hitting my restaurant or seeing one of my kids kidnapped.”

  “This is not a decision I should take alone. There are others to be consulted,” Vien said, turning to give a polite nod of his head to Bao Le. “But I understand the importance of cooperation with the French authorities. In fact, I came to this meeting prepared to share some information that they should find useful.”

  He reached down to a slim briefcase that rested against the side of his chair and took out a clear plastic folder with some papers inside.

  “As you know, we have experience in this field of immigration,” Vien said. “We know how the system works. For large-scale movements coming by ship, you need an onshore base and a fast distribution system to get the arrivals away from the coast. We developed a technique that involved renting or buying beachfront trailer sites and camping grounds with campers waiting to move them on. We could move a hundred people across France within twelve hours of their coming ashore.”

  He pushed the plastic folder across the table to the brigadier. “The same treizième holding company that organized the bankruptcy and takeover of the supermarket here in Bordeaux has recently bought a large campsite south of Arcachon. Last month they also took over a company in Lille that buys and sells used campers. Over the last week, forty of these vehicles have been driven down to this region, converging on the campsite. The implications of that should be obvious.” He looked up at Tran. “Now may we have dinner?”

  Bruno looked across at Isabelle, who’d nodded at the brigadier and picked up Vien’s folder. She leafed through the documents, pulled out her mobile phone and opened a program that brought up maps. Bruno leaned over to watch her thumb in the coordinates for the Arcachon region, a vast lagoon of a bay south of Bordeaux, famous for its mussels and for a giant sand dune, two miles long and fifteen hundred feet high. She checked the address on Vien’s dossier against her map and nodded again. Then she looked up, her eyes shining.

  “I think we’re in business,” she said.

  21

  “Tamarind tree soup and lily blossom fish and coconut prawns,” said Tran, taking dishes from the hatch where the dumbwaiter had just arrived from the kitchen. “Gio thu—that’s pig’s head pie—and kim long, minced pork with sugarcane. And here’s the com hen, rice cooked in mussel juice, and tom chua, sour shrimp from Hue.”

  “And banh chung, there must be banh chung,” said Vien, rubbing his hands together.

  “Of course, the dish that won the kingdom for the young prince who was wise enough to know his father would insist on rice for his favorite dish,” said Tran, grinning as he brought dishes to the table, evidently proud of the food his restaurant was serving. “Banh chung is sticky rice with pork, cooked in banana leaves,” he explained to Bruno.

  Bruno had eaten Vietnamese food in the occasional restaurant in Paris and in Vinh’s home, but never like this. He had thought of it as a variation on Chinese food, but these flavors and textures were quite distinct, and the green coloring of the rice and subtle taste of the banh chung surprised him. He looked around to see the others intent on their food. Isabelle was still standing by the door. He stood and offered to take her place while she ate.

  “Finish your own meal first,” she said, smiling. It was a real smile this time, with affection and a suggestion of happy memories in her eyes, not the automatic greeting she had given him in the alley. She looked tired and a little drawn.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “You didn’t even take a drink. Go and eat. If I want more, I can always go back.”

  “Are you armed?” she asked. Bruno shook his head. Isabelle handed him her Sauer automatic, squeezed his hand in thanks and moved across to the table. Bruno felt Bao Le’s eyes on him as the Vietnamese stood up and held the chair for Isabelle. Tran served her a bowl of soup, and Vien poured her a glass of champagne despite her polite refusal. She ate quickly, exchanging brief words with the brigadier.

  Isabelle had barely begun on a new plate of fish and banh chung when there was the sound of shouts, swiftly overtaken by a high-revving engine roaring up the street outside and a sudden flare of light through the louvered shutters of a window. Then came two shots in quick succession, and then a third, more distant.

  J-J was close to the window, but Bao Le beat him to it, a heavy automatic in one hand and a cell phone in the other.

  “Gasoline bomb,” Bao Le said, standing to one side of the window and looking down. He punched a number into his phone.

  Isabelle was suddenly at Bruno’s side, retrieving her weapon and darting through the door and down the first flight of stairs, calling to the Fusiliers Marins below.

  “Wait,” Isabelle called up. Bruno looked down to see her on the lower landing, half hidden by the balustrade post, her knees bent and both hands on the gun.

  “The fire’s out,” called J-J from the window. “They used a couple of extinguishers, and it looks like the street’s clear.”

  “Front and rear secure,” Bruno heard one of the Fusiliers shout up the stairwell. The brigadier was at the door beside Bruno, his gun in his hand.

  “You watch the door,” said Bruno. “I’ll find out what happened.”

  Aware that Bao Le was on his heels, Bruno followed Isabelle down the stairs and out thro
ugh the empty ground floor of the restaurant to the street. The bomb had been aimed at the front window but had missed and hit the brick wall to one side and part of the front door, now covered in foam from the extinguisher. Beside him, Bao Le was talking into the phone in Vietnamese. One of the Bordeaux police from the unmarked car that had been blocking the street entrance approached cursing, his clothes spattered with white paint.

  “Three motorbikes, coordinated so they hit at the same time, two men on each bike,” he said. “One bike for each of the cars, a paint bomb on the windshield, then a third bike swerved around our car and into this street, and the guy on the back tossed the bomb.”

  Bruno could feel the broken glass from the bottle that had held the gasoline grinding under his feet.

  “They’ve gone,” the policeman added, looking down in dismay at his paint-smeared coat. “Too fast for us to react. We need some paper towels or something to clear the windshields, or the cars are useless.”

  “Towels will just smear it,” said Bruno. “You’ll need turpentine. Better call in and ask for another car to bring some.”

  Bao Le grabbed Bruno’s arm, his phone at his ear. “I think we’ve got one,” he said. “I had men around the corner in case of something like this.”

  Bruno pulled out his own phone, called J-J’s mobile and reported what he had heard. Then he followed Bao Le around the corner where the hood and windshields of the police cars were drenched with paint. Along the street a trail bike lay sprawled on its side beside a garbage bin, spilling empty tins and plastic bottles. Three figures were struggling on the pavement and front doors were opening, more people looking out windows.

  Bao Le shouted an order in Vietnamese, and the struggle suddenly became orderly, two Asians in black raincoats holding between them a man in a motorbike helmet. Bao Le spoke again. It sounded like a question. One of the men in raincoats replied, and Bruno could see that his nose was bleeding.

  “I asked them what happened to the second man on the bike,” Bao Le explained. “They said he ran away while they were struggling with this one. They did well to stop the bike. They threw the garbage can at it and knocked the bike over.”

  “Let’s take this one back to Tran’s place and find out what we’ve got,” said Bruno. “But first, I need a number where I can reach you. It’s about something else. I need to find Hercule Vendrot’s daughter, and I think with your connections you should be able to help me.”

  Bao Le made as if to speak but then stopped. He took an embossed card from a card case and slipped it into Bruno’s hand.

  Siren howling and blue lights flashing, a fire engine appeared at the far end of the street and headed toward them. Bao Le took a plastic cord from one of his men and roughly bound the elbows of the prisoner together behind his back. The two Vietnamese in raincoats stayed on watch, one of them picking up the motorbike and wheeling it to the side of the street. Bruno scribbled down the registration number and then steered their stumbling prisoner back to the corner where the police in their unmarked but paint-smeared car were arguing with the firemen and refusing to move.

  Ignoring them, Bruno marched his charge to the foam-smeared door and into the restaurant. Isabelle, J-J and the brigadier were already there, each talking on a different phone.

  “Bao Le’s men caught one,” Bruno announced, and pushed the slim figure down into a chair. Three telephone conversations were hurriedly ended. “I got the license plate of the bike.” He read it out, and J-J punched a new number into his cell.

  Bao Le removed the helmet from the prisoner and stood back. Bruno gave a start of recognition.

  “I know him,” he said. “It’s the guy we arrested in St. Denis for the assault on Vinh’s stall. He’s supposed to have paid his fine and left the country by now.”

  “The one who had that bastard Poincevin as a lawyer?” asked J-J, turning away from his new phone call.

  “The very one.” Bruno looked again at his notebook, thumbing back through the pages. “Yiren Guo, age twenty-two, Chinese nationality, claiming to be a student but on an overstayed tourist visa. Pleaded guilty and agreed to self-deportation.”

  “So this time it’s a prison term for sure,” said J-J. He turned back to his phone and read out the motorbike’s license number. “There’s more,” he continued into the phone. “I want the court record for the case of Yiren Guo, pleaded guilty to charges of assault and immigration offenses in Périgueux. Poincevin was his lawyer. I need to know how much the fine was and who paid it and the terms of his deportation order, and I don’t care what you have to do to get it.”

  “There’s no paint on this one’s hands,” said Bruno. He walked behind the chair where Guo sat and bent down to sniff the bound hands. “Gasoline.”

  “And I want a forensics guy down here,” J-J said into his phone. “It looks like we’ve got one of the petrol bombers.”

  “Why not run a DNA check on him?” suggested Bruno. “See if you get a match to those tissues you found in that abandoned Mercedes after Hercule’s murder.”

  “Worth a try,” said J-J.

  Isabelle was searching the pockets of the young Chinese. They were empty, except for a thin wad of euros, a mobile phone and a telephone charge card and a slip of paper with a telephone number. Bruno checked his notebook. It was the number for the law offices of Poincevin in Périgueux.

  “Maître Poincevin will have some explaining to do,” Bruno said. “And I have a fine witness in St. Denis who saw some Asians putting rats into Vinh’s home. I want to put this guy into a lineup for her.”

  “Wait,” said Isabelle, pulling off Guo’s shoes and frisking his ankles. “I’ve been lucky like this before.” She pulled out a BNP bank card from the young man’s sock, held it up triumphantly and read out a different name. The prisoner closed his eyes.

  “Chan Kang-ying,” she said. “It doesn’t sound at all like Guo. But with the bank account, we’ll get an address and an ID card number along with a paper trail. And that should give us enough to get a whole lot more information from this lawyer of his, starting with who paid the legal fees.”

  “I imagine that whoever hired this guy isn’t going to be happy that he got caught, and even more angry that he was foolish enough to be carrying the bank card,” said J-J. “So we’re going to have an interesting conversation about what he should tell us in his own self-interest.” He ruffled the prisoner’s hair, almost affectionately.

  “What happens now?” asked Bao Le.

  “We wait for the forensics team, get this man formally booked and charged and locked up overnight, take his bike to the police garage and start looking into his bank account,” said J-J. “But most of that can be handled by the Bordeaux police, who are on the way.”

  “Three motorbikes and six men,” said Isabelle. “And somebody had to reconnoiter this place so they knew about the cars blocking the street, and they brought paint to blind them so they couldn’t be followed. It’s quite an organization that can put all that together with a couple of hours’ notice.”

  “I can’t work out what they were trying to do, beyond send us a message that they knew we were meeting,” said the brigadier. “It was a lot of effort just to toss one Molotov cocktail at the door.”

  “It could have been more serious if it had gone through the front window,” said Isabelle. “But I see what you mean.”

  “What worries me is how they knew we were meeting here,” said Bruno. He turned to Vien and Tran and Bao Le. “Could there be a leak on your side?”

  Vien shrugged. “It’s always possible, but I doubt it.”

  “Or could they be tapping some of our phones?” suggested Bao Le. Like Bruno, he was watching Guo for any sign of reaction. “Perhaps we should change them all, just in case.”

  “If they’re tapping mine, they’ve broken the best encryption system in France,” the brigadier said. “And I don’t think they’re that good—yet.” He picked up Guo’s mobile phone and opened the phone log, and then scanned through the tex
t messages. From a distance came the sound of a police siren.

  “It’s in pinyin, Chinese with Roman letters, and I can’t read it. But it looks like somebody was sending him this address. The message came at 7:42, that’s not long after we got here. It’s possible that we were simply followed.”

  “All the way from Ste. Alvère?” said Bruno. “We’d have spotted anyone following us, even a motorbike.”

  “Maybe you were followed,” the brigadier said to Vien and Bao Le. The police siren was getting louder.

  “Almost certainly not,” said Bao Le. “I had my own people watching our tail.”

  “In that case, they’re tapping Bruno’s phone,” said the brigadier, and held out his hand for Bruno’s mobile. Reluctantly, Bruno surrendered it. “I’ll make sure you get one of ours.”

  “What about the prisoner?” asked Bruno. “The other guy on his bike knows he went down. If they think we’ve got him under arrest, they’ll clear out in a hurry.”

  “Good thinking,” said J-J. “We’ll put out a release saying an unidentified Asian was found dead in the street after a hit-and-run. I’ll see to that now.”

  Police, firemen and the forensics team all seemed to arrive at the doorway together. Leaving Tran and J-J to sort out the procedure, the brigadier steered Bruno and Isabelle, Vien and Bao Le through the back door, past the two Fusiliers and into the alley.

  “I’m sorry we’re missing the meal, but I don’t think we need to be part of that mess back there, and I have to go and brief the prefect. I’m staying with him, but I’ll drop you off at your hotel on the way,” he said to Isabelle. He hit a speed-dial button on his mobile to call up his car and gave Bao Le and Vien each a card. “My e-mail address is on there, so send me your new phone numbers as soon as you get them. The e-mail’s secure.”