Murder in Belleville ali-2 Page 24

  She threw off her wet clothes and kicked the radiator to life. In the armoire she found wool tights, black skirt, ankle boots, and a striped silver ski parka to wear over a black sweater.

  Back in the office she opened her bag, thrust some disks into René’s hand, and pulled out her laptop. Logging on, she glanced at the clock.

  “Let’s get to work,” she said. “We may not have much time.”

  “Are we catching a plane?”

  “Dédé’s getting a little too close for comfort,” she said. She told him about the men watching her apartment and the Métro.

  René climbed into his orthopedic chair, then logged onto his terminal. Aimée’s phone started beeping.

  “Let me give you a proper battery, Aimée,” he said, handing her a new one. “Try that.”

  “My phone has been messed up,” she said. “My watch, too. Ever since the EDF.”

  He set the battery on her desk.

  “Right now,” she said, “I want to know why Sylvie dealt with Dédé.”

  “Figure this. If Dédé knows everybody in Belleville,” René said, “he might be the one people use to reach the Maghrébin network.”

  “Good point,” she said. “But first we’ve got some bank tunneling to do.”

  By the time she’d checked the links from Sylvie’s Channel Island bank, she’d found the money transfers.

  “Look René, the deposits come from the Bank of Algiers,” she said, excited. “Several million each time.”

  René pulled up the Bank of Algiers account on his screen then clicked away. “I found them,” he pointed. “Here, wire trans-fers come from AINwar Enterprises.”

  Aimée peered at his screen, seeing a long list of wire transfers. She sat back down; something familiar tugged at her.

  “Why would AINwar Enterprises pass amounts via the Bank of Algiers to a Channel Island account in Eugénie Grandet’s name,” Aimée said. She swiveled her chair to the office terminal and logged on.

  “Smells bad to me,” René said.

  “Guess it’s time to find out about AINwar.”

  After she dug into an Arab net server, she’d discovered the company’s charter and by-laws of incorporation, required by the French government for any contract.

  Nothing illegal in that.

  Then it hit her. The night of the explosion. Philippe introduced her to Kaseem Nwar. Kaseem had been with Olivier Guit-tard, both intent on Philippe’s passing some project and humanitarian mission. She remembered Philippe’s strained reaction and how he got her out of there quickly. Then she’d seen him again in the café in Belleville. Was Kaseem Nwar part of AINwar?

  She accessed the company records; Downloading took time.

  Aimée thought back to those photos of people with numbers pinned to them. All Algerian.

  Curious, on her office computer she started accessing information about AINwar while René concentrated on Philippe de Froissart’s account. She kept digging for the company structure, list of shareholders and employees. When she found them, she stood up and whistled.

  “Kaseem Nwar’s the director,” she said. “Appears he’s into nepotism.”

  “Why?”

  “Most of the employees and shareholders are Nwars, too.”

  “What kind of firm?” René asked. “Heavy machinery or something to do with oil?”

  She shook her head.

  “Jewelry importer,” she said. Odd. “How does that fit with a project in connection with humanitarian aid?”

  “Pearls for the masses?”

  “That’s it, René,” she said, grabbing his arm excitedly. “Pearls! The Lake Biwa pearl. I keep saying you’re a genius. And you are.”

  He grinned. “I’m never one to refuse a compliment, but where does that fit?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’m getting there,” she said, unable to sit down. She paced back and forth.

  It was all there. Somehow. She had to piece it together. Figure out where the odd bits went. One big piece was Mustafa Hamid and the AFL; she felt they were part of it. In some way they belonged.

  “AINwar sent huge sums to Sylvie,” she said. “Why? Were they bribes for Philippe so contracts went AINwar’s way?”

  “But a jewelry business?” René” asked. “Unless AINwar fronts another kind of company?”

  She sat back down and searched AINwar’s records. Two firms were listed as subsidiaries; NadraCo and AtraAl Inc.

  But she could find nothing more.

  René couldn’t break into the Banque de France. They were blocked at every turn.

  He stood up and stretched.

  “Aimée, if the bribes came in, they’re hidden,” René said, sucking air through his lips. “Takes time to unearth them. All my tools sit in my database at home.”

  René left, promising to call her when he found anything.

  Frustrated, she knew more information existed. How to find it was the problem.

  Start simple. Go with what she knew.

  She logged on to the Ministry of Defense. Using a secure government password, one of many René kept current, courtesy of his ever-changing connections, she found a list of ministry-funded projects. Then she refined her search to projects under funding consideration.

  Hundreds.

  She took a breath and narrowed her topic to those involving Algeria. The list slimmed down considerably. While the list printed out, she sat down at René’s desk.

  On his terminal she accessed the National Fichier via Renéws connection, because if the government didn’t catch you when you were born, they always caught up when you checked out.

  She knew that Algeria, at the time of Mustafa Hamid and his brother Sidi’s birth, was regarded by France as more than a colony. Even more than an extension of France across the Mediterranean—a department. However, this wasn’t reckoned with in actual voting terms. Unable to vote, Algerians belonged to the Republique like a member of the wedding but never the bride.

  If Hamid or Sidi emigrated to France, she figured, they would probably have paid some application fee, surcharge, or tax.

  In Hamid’s case she found his carte banccdre via his date of birth and Sécurité sociale. No names were listed as next of kin, only a Sidi, H., as father, and Sidi, S., for mother, both entered as deceased. She entered Djeloul Sidi’s name. His wife’s maiden name, El Hechiri, appeared.

  Aimée’s eyes widened as she saw a cross reference to Kaseem Nwar. That seemed odd.

  Further on, records indicated that El Hechiri had been married to Kaseem Nwar from 1968 to 1979. Aimée peered closer, then scrolled back. Sidi’s records showed he’d been married to El Hechiri during 1968-1979, the same years.

  Aimée sat back and whistled. He’d changed his name, and the computer hadn’t caught it—just cross-referenced it.

  She remembered him appearing in the café, telling her how he’d brought food to the sans-papiers—why hadn’t he just said, “I saw my brother.”

  Come to think of it, why hadn’t he admitted he sent Sylvie millions of francs and Lake Biwa pearls? But then she hadn’t asked him, either.

  She scanned the Algerian project list, running her fingers over the names, ticking them off until she found a name that struck her.

  Taking the list to her wall map of Algeria, she followed the course of the Atlas Mountains and pinpointed the area south of Oran. Once a rebel fellagha stronghold against the French, the area had then become a munitions-dump wasteland, now declared off limits by the military.

  Staggered, she sat down. It was hard for her to believe what she’d discovered.

  She knew what she had to do.

  Her charged phone signaled several voice mail messages. She tried not to hope, wondering if Yves had left her a message. But when she listened, all three were from the same person.

  “Aimée,” Samia’s voice, high, shallow-breathing. “Pick up!”

  Again the same message. Samia’s voice rising, sounding frantic.

  The last message just a phone n
umber, mumbled quickly. Samia. Very frightened.

  Aimée listened to the number several times to make sure she’d written it correctly. Had Samia come through with the explosives connection? And should she believe her? The last time she had, Aimée had been shot.

  Aimée hit the call-back function. A woman answered, saying this was a pay phone in rue des Amandiers, but if Aimée would like to buy Ecstasy she’d give her a good price.

  She hung up and dialed the number Samia had left.

  “Oui,” a voice answered after six rings.

  “Samia gave me this number,” she said, keeping it vague.

  A pause. “Who is this?”

  “Aimée. Is Samia there?”

  Another long pause. “I expected her by now.”

  “I’d like to come over.”

  “Call back.”

  The phone went dead.

  No one answered on her next three tries.

  Had Samia given her the number to the explosives? She recognized the phone number. In her bag she checked the folder—“Youssef’ was written above the matching phone number. Her heart raced. And she remembered Denet’s words. On her minitel she searched under EuroPhoto. She found the same number with an address for a lab on rue de Menilmontant. So now she knew that they connected.

  She redialed the number. The same voice answered.

  “Please don’t hang up, listen to me,” she said. “I think you have something I want to see.”

  “Who are you?” the voice said.

  “I found your name in the ‘ST 196’folder,” she said. “Did you take the photos?”

  The phone slammed down.

  She stuck the Beretta in her waistband, pulled on her gloves and long wool scarf.

  In the hallway she climbed down the back fire escape and made her way to the Métro.

  EURO PHOTO’S GRIMY lab entrance stood in the rear of a courtyard filled with trucks and vans.

  Inside Aimée leaned on the Formica counter. She smelled the acidic photographic chemicals and heard the chomp of print machines. On the office walls hung huge photos of white marble mosques and shots of sugar-sand beaches with sapphire slivers of the Mediterranean.

  Through an open grime-stained window, Aimée noticed a company van pulling into the courtyard.

  “Dropping an order off?” asked a smiling dark-eyed young woman, her head covered by a scarf. From behind the counter she passed an order form toward Aimée.

  Aimée returned her smile.

  “Actually I need to talk with Youssef about some processing,” she said. “Does he have a moment?”

  She backed up, shaking her head. “There’s no Youssef here.”

  “But I talked with someone—”

  “Orders come in all the time,” the woman said, turning away. “You must have misunderstood.”

  This woman was scared, Aimée thought, hiding something.

  “Yes, of course, you’re right,” she said, thinking fast, “I’m terrible with names. A man helped me, he seemed about my age. He limped.”

  Loud buzzing erupted from the back of the lab. Lights blinked green. “You’re in the wrong lab, I think,” the woman said, gesturing toward the rear. “Try the one on rue de Belleville.”

  The woman headed quickly toward the back.

  “But please, can’t you—”

  “Excuse me,” the woman said, her mouth tight and compressed. “I’ve got a production schedule to meet.”

  By the time Aimée made her way toward the back near the van, she’d come up with a plan. She jiggled the van door open, grabbed some large boxes of photographic papers, then entered the back.

  Loud arguing in Arabic reached her ears. The scarf-clad woman stood by another stocky woman, pointing toward the front counter. In front of Aimée a massive printing machine spat out large-format posters, shooting them onto a spinning wheel. Aimée knew she had to move quickly. The women would throw her out before she found Youssef.

  Men filled cartons as the posters came off the wheel. None of them sported spiky hair like Denet had described, so she kept going. Mounting the spiral staircase in back, leading to more of the lab, she discovered a warren of cluttered offices.

  “Youssefs supposed to check this order,” she mumbled to an older man busy working an ancient adding machine.

  “Let me see,” he said, pushing his glasses up his forehead.

  Aimée leaned the carton on the edge of his desk, making a show of how heavy it was.

  The man’s phone rang; he picked it up and immediately began punching the adding machine.

  “Sorry, but I’ve got more deliveries,” she said, tapping her nails on the box.

  He looked up, then motioned Aimée toward a long hallway.

  “Down there. I don’t recognize the order,” he said. “Check with me on your way out.”

  Aimée shot ahead before he changed his mind. She figured that this nineteenth-century building joined apartments in the back. Below her the floor vibrated from the machines.

  After checking four dusty offices in the next wing, she saw a figure hunched over a photo layout, marking shots with red pen.

  “Youssef?” she asked, setting down the cartons.

  A young short-haired woman in her mid-twenties looked up, her eyes unsure.

  “I’m Youssefa,” she said. “What do you need?”

  Now it made sense. No wonder the women downstairs had told her there was no Youssef here.

  Denet had mistakenly taken Youssefa for a man in Eugénie’s courtyard. Youssefa looked young, Aimée thought. Her dark skin stood out against her chalk white hair. Half-moon scars crossed from her temple to her left eye.

  “Where’s Samia?”

  “She left,” Youssefa said, her look guarded. “Who are you?”

  “Her friend.”

  Youssefa’s eyes flicked over her outfit. “You don’t seem her type,” she said.

  “Samia left a message. She sounded frightened,” Aimée said.

  Youseffa shrugged.

  “Can you tell me about the ‘ST196’photos?”

  Youssefa’s brown face passed from curiosity to terror in seconds. She dropped the pen, backed into a chair.

  “I know you went to Eugénie’s apartment—did you develop those photos for her?”

  Youssefa moved fast, around the corner of the table. She started running, her limp noticeable, out into the hall.

  “Please, Youssefa, wait!” She shoved the carton on the floor and took off after her.

  Aimée barreled into a stack of old film cans, sending them shooting across the wooden floor. She slipped and fell over the metal canisters, wincing as she landed on her aching hip.

  Youssefa was gone.

  Aimée got up slowly. She figured Youssefa could only have gone into the warren ahead of her, since the hall dead-ended behind her. The windows overlooking the courtyard parking area were open. She heard an unmistakable voice from below. She stopped and listened. A voice described her hair, her jacket, and how she owed his boss.

  Dédé.

  How could he have found her, unless he’d seen her leave from the back of her office. Or—her heart quickened. She didn’t like to think of it. Unless he’d gotten to René and threatened him. But René didn’t know where she was going—she hadn’t told him.

  She heard scuffling down the dark hallway. That was the only direction Youssefa could have gone. She followed the noise.

  Youssefa was pounding on a fire exit door, but it was jammed. When she saw Aimée, she reared back like a cornered animal about to attack.

  “Let me help you, Youssefa,” she said. “Someone’s after me too.”

  “I destroyed the negatives,” she said, her voice cracking. “Leave me alone.”

  Why destroy the proof?

  “I’m on your side, but as soon as we get out of here, I will,” she said. “A mec called Dédé’s after me.”

  Youssefa blinked her good eye.

  “Look out the window, check for yourself,” she said.
“Dédé’s determined to find me, but he’s not my type either.”

  She figured if they got out of here, she’d corner Youssefa and sit on her chest until she told her what the photos meant and why she’d destroyed the negatives.

  She aimed several heel kicks until the exit door sagged open.

  “Lead the way,” she said.

  “Dédé’s a piece of shit,” Youssefa said, hesitating, then limping ahead.

  “No argument there,” Aimée said, following her.

  She wondered why the sign said EXIT when this web of narrow halls, roofed by skylights, clearly led to another building instead of outside.

  Youssefa opened the last door at the end. They entered a hallway, yellowed and scuffed, passing a dim stairwell. She took out a key and unlocked a door.

  Uneasiness washed over Aimée but she figured this had to be better than what lay behind her. They entered the back rooms of a small apartment.

  Red-flocked wallpaper, old gas sconces, and small upholstered chairs gave the rooms a busy appearance. But the huge black-and-white photos of Edith Piaf on stage and candid shots, filling the walls, lent the rooms a 1940s feel. A scratchy recording of Piaf played from another room. In the corner, tacked onto a dressmaker’s dummy about shoulder height, hung an old-fashioned black dress. Bizarre.

  Everything was on a smaller scale, as if made for a little person. René’ would feel right at home, she thought.

  “Where are we?”

  “At my friend’s,” Youssefa said.

  “What is this place … a shrine to Piaf?”

  “Close,” Youssefa said. “It’s the Edith Piaf Museum.” She motioned her toward the back, putting her finger on her lips.

  She followed Youssefa into a small modern kitchen, all white and stainless steel.

  “Go on.” Youssefa gestured toward the back window. “That leads to rue Crespin du Gast.”

  She started toward the window, then turned back and pinned Youssefa’s arms behind her back, sliding her onto a wobbly kitchen stool.

  “Tell me what ‘ST 196’means,” she said, leaning over her. “Or I go nowhere.”

  A momentary hint of regret hit her as Youssefa’s chest heaved and she burst into frightened sobs. But Aimée couldn’t stop now.

  “Youssefa, Eugénie passed something to my friend before her car exploded.” She loosened her grip on her arms. “My God, Youssefa, it happened in front of me! I have to know why,” she said. “Not only Dédé, but someone else is after me and my friend.”