blank. Out of the question.
‘But my grandmother was born there,’ she had reminded him, stifling a feeling of panic. ‘Surely I can see where a part of my family came from?’
He wouldn’t hear of it, resorting to a vitriolic tirade against all things French — especially the people who, he said, had placed the people of Algeria under their boots for far too long. It seemed he was able to forget that he had served in that very same army. Now, he had declared, the French yoke was there no longer; everything had changed.
Part of that change seemed to be relegating her to the position of a mute slave in a dead marriage.
She sat up. The children had stopped playing, their shrill voices stilled. The small park was deserted. She knew enough to realise that sitting here now made her noticeable — a target.
She started the car and checked Massi was comfortable, then took a deep breath. She had one clear option, but one which filled her with unease. From being around Samir Farek, she had learnt as if by osmosis that the police were not to be trusted. For every good policeman there was a bad one, one who had his price. And Samir Farek had the means to pay.
She was remembering with clarity the tall policeman she had encountered in the village of Poissons-les- Marais, up at the strange religious grotto on the hill. He had said he worked here in Amiens. That meant at the main police station which she had seen earlier. But was he trustworthy? Did he have a price, like many others? Or was she about to put her faith in a false image? He had seemed pleasant enough, his own man rather than someone’s lackey. But only time would tell.
Time. She checked her watch.
She had to leave Massi somewhere safe while she spoke to Rocco. Just in case. There was a woman who had already looked after him twice, when she’d had to go out. Amina was Somali, a cleaning lady with three children of her own, who wanted more. She was instantly friendly, openly welcoming. But discreet. You learnt that quickly when you were part of an unwelcome community.
Nicole put the car in gear and drove away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Nearly eight hundred kilometres to the south, Samir Farek had already moved with extraordinary speed. With the name and address of the handler in the port of Marseilles forced from the agent, Selim, in Oran — now relieved permanently of his lucrative post and his life — Farek and Bouhassa were waiting for their man to appear. A telephone call to his flat in a six-storey apartment building off Rue du Genie, behind the bustling Saint-Charles Station, had established that he was in. He had sounded groggy, recuperating no doubt after a night of heavy drinking.
‘He’ll come,’ said Farek confidently. He didn’t know the man, but he knew the kind of person he was dealing with: a low-level criminal named Maurice Tappa, trading in drugs, prostitution and now people. A bottom-feeder, moderately successful if you looked at his address, which wasn’t bad but not great, either. He would be sensitive to threats from the police because he wasn’t rich enough to pay for high-level protection and knew there was probably plenty they could be calling about. The call had been brief and anonymous, informing Tappa that the official hammer was about to drop. It had been enough to dispel his grogginess and set him running. All they had to do now was wait for him to come scuttling out.
Farek was a realistic man. He knew his disappearance from Oran would have been noted with interest, by the authorities as much as his enemies. The latter, especially, would be looking for a vacuum, a gap to fill. It was the way of things in his business. And maybe they would fill it before he got back.
But right now he was facing a crisis that had to be dealt with. His wife had left him, taking their young son, and soon everyone would know; every crook, pimp, cop and politician. He no longer cared for his wife; her French ancestry had been a help when they first married and he was looking to impress people, especially in the military. But he no longer needed that dubious cachet; he had forged his own future and the old colonial power had gone. As for the child, only a nod to convention made him spare the boy a thought. But his anger was reserved for his wife. She had caused him to lose face among his peers and his family, and that could not go unpunished. He felt a simmering rage at the thought of her doing this to him, and wondered if another man was involved. If that were the case, his pleasure would be short-lived and very, very painful.
When people heard that he, Samir Farek, had gone after his wife, and of the penalty she paid — as she surely would — he would win back the respect he had lost. No doubt about that. A question of honour.
The light moved as the glass-panelled rear door to the apartment block swung open. A short, squat figure hurried out into the shadowy courtyard and headed for a Mercedes parked nearby. The man was wearing a crumpled suit and carrying a small holdall and looked as if he had dressed in a hurry. His face was unshaven and pallid.
As the man reached the car, Bouhassa stepped out from the doorway to a small maintenance building. He looked like a ghost in his white djellaba, his head a shiny dome beneath the wrap-around industrial glasses. But his presence was real enough.
As was the gun in his hand.
‘Dear God,’ Tappa muttered, and swallowed hard. He dropped his car keys. They clinked to the ground, but he didn’t bother trying to retrieve them. He had recognised the fat man immediately and knew of his reputation. He also knew that Farek couldn’t be far away.
He was right.
‘Monsieur Tappa,’ said Farek politely, and appeared as if out of nowhere, stepping in close so that the Frenchman couldn’t escape, even had his legs been able to carry him. ‘How delightful to catch up with you.’
‘What do you want?’ Tappa gabbled, and tried to melt into the coachwork of the Mercedes, desperately looking for a way out. The holdall fell with a soft thud.
For an answer, Farek bent and picked up the car keys. When he straightened again, he had them clasped with the main key protruding between his first and second fingers. ‘I believe you may have assisted a woman to come to France,’ he said softly. ‘From Oran.’ He lifted his hand and teased the point of the key gently across Tappa’s face, stopping just beneath his left eye. ‘Am I wrong?’
‘It wasn’t me,’ said Tappa automatically, eyes flicking between Farek and the fat man in the white robe. ‘I don’t move women — they’re too much trouble. Who told you it was me?’
‘Let’s say we have information from an impeccable source… in Oran. Well?’
‘Oh.’ Tappa appeared to relent. ‘Well, in that case, maybe I did, once.’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘Yes. Why do you want to know?’ Tappa was regaining his nerves. ‘You want to buy her back or something? She didn’t look that special to me. Just a sheep on the move.’
Farek lifted an eyebrow. Only those who knew him well would have noticed the sudden danger sign of a pulse beating in his neck. ‘A sheep? Is that all they are to you, these people?’
Tappa gave a feeble laugh. ‘Sure. Why not? They’re hardly high value, are they? Cheap labour, that’s all. They don’t smell too good, either.’
Farek tapped the key against the other man’s cheek. ‘Mr Tappa,’ he said very softly, ‘you’ve just been talking about my wife.’
What little colour remained drained from Tappa’s face. ‘What? I mean, I didn’t know who she was — how could I? She was just a sh-’ He stopped; he’d already said too much, then gabbled, ‘ They don’t tell us their names…!’
‘Where?’
‘P-pardon?’
‘Where did she go? It’s an easy enough question.’
‘I don’t — I’m not sure.’
‘Pity.’ Farek pressed the point of the key beneath the man’s eyeball, lifting it slightly in its socket, yet without breaking the skin. Tappa whimpered and lifted on his toes, trying to escape the relentless pressure and the first hint of the pain to come. To add to his terror, the vast figure of Bouhassa had moved in and was now standing close,
