Murder in Belleville ali-2 Page 23

  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 connections 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 prison; 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.

  If he wasn’t hated before, he certainly was now.

  Monday Morning

  TENSE AND WARY, AIMÉE stood on the Métro platform as the train blared its arrival. She heard the wheels clacking, smelled the burning rubber. She held her leftover newspaper over her face. Neither Dédé nor the mecs had spotted her yet. But when the platform emptied, she was afraid.

  She realized what she had to do.

  As she broke the red glass door on the emergency box with her miniscrewdriver, she screamed, “My baby fell on the tracks,” and yanked the switch. Every face turned toward the electric line—the train’s brakes screeched and whined, shuddering to a painful, jolting stop. Passengers were thrown against the windows.

  The platform passengers looked around, asking, “Where’s the baby?” Over the loudspeaker came a recorded message, “Standard procedure allows no train to proceed without Métro personnel clearing the track.”

  The anxious buzz turned into a disgruntled murmur. She wanted to melt into the crowd. Dédé and the mecs trolled the platform, bumping into people taking a good look before excusing themselves. She turned to the men sta
nding near her, in suits, with briefcases and newspapers under their arms. She picked the one with the nicest eyes, wearing a large trenchcoat.

  “Pretending you don’t remember me?” she said, sliding into the folds of the man’s coat and wrapping her arms around him. He wasn’t bad looking on closer inspection. And he smelled nice, as if he’d just showered with lavender-olive soap. She put her finger to his lips. “Shh, it’s our secret.”

  “Do I know you?” the man asked, a look of happy surprise struggling with suspicion on his face.

  “Don’t be coy,” she said. “I’ve never forgotten.” She pulled his head down, shielding herself from view and started kissing him. She kept her eyes open, scanning the platform. Another of Dédé’s mecs had stopped by her elbow.

  “You’re even better than I remember,” she breathed into the man’s ear, pulling his arms around her, and guiding him back into the tiled Métro wall. She saw the wedding band on his finger. “Let me enjoy it once more: Your wife will never know.”

  “You know, you’ve got the wrong person …,” he murmured. But he didn’t pull away.

  She pulled him tighter, edging toward the exit stairs, “I’ve heard that before. Play along with me, okay?”

  His eyes crinkled in amusement. “Who said anything about stopping?”

  “I’m going to slip away,” she said, walking backwards up the stairs. “Merci for your help.”

  “Anytime,” he grinned, digging in his pocket for a business card.

  But she’d gone.

  TWENTY MINUTES later Aimée slammed her office door.

  Startled, René dropped the book he was reading.

  “You just missed Claude,” he said, shaking his head. “That man has unsettling eyes.”

  She picked René’s book up off the floor. “Reading again?” she asked, looking at the title, Life with Picasso, by Francoise Gilot.

  “Picasso appeared and disappeared in her life,” René said. “A stormy relationship.”

  Aimée gave a wry smile.

  “Like Yves,” she nodded. “Too bad he’s not around long enough for the stormy.”