Bale didn’t like barmen. They were an obnoxious species, living off the weakness of others. Still. In the interests of information-gathering he was prepared to make allowances. He slipped the stolen ID back inside his pocket. ‘So the gypsy attacked him with a glass?’
‘Yes. I’ve never seen anything like it. He just came in, leaking sweat and made a beeline for the American. Smashed up a glass and ground his hand in it.’
‘The American’s?’
‘No. That was the odd thing. The gypsy ground his own hand in it. Only then did he attack the American.’
‘With the glass?’
‘No. No. He took the American’s hand and did the same thing with it as he’d done with his own. Then he forced the American’s hand on to his forehead. Blood all over the place.’
‘And that was it?’
‘Yes.’
‘He didn’t say anything?’
‘Well, he was shouting all the time. ‘Remember these words. Remember them.’’
‘What words?’
‘Ah. Well. There you have me. It sounded like Sam, moi, et Chris. Perhaps they’re brothers?’
Bale suppressed a triumphant smile. He nodded his head sagely. ‘Brothers. Yes.’
8
The barman tossed his hands up melodramatically. ‘But I’ve just talked to one of your officers. Told him everything I know. Do you people want me to change your nappies for you as well?’
‘And what did this officer look like?’
‘Like you all look.’ The barman shrugged. ‘You know.’
Captain Calque glanced over his shoulder at Lieutenant Macron. ‘Like him?’
‘No. Nothing like him.’
‘Like me, then?’
‘No. Not like you.’
Calque sighed. ‘Like George Clooney? Woody Allen? Johnny Halliday? Or did he wear a wig, perhaps?’
‘No. No. He didn’t wear a wig.’
‘What else did you tell this invisible man?’
‘Now there’s no need to be sarcastic. I’m doing my duty as a citizen. I tried to protect the American…’
‘With what?’
‘Well… My billiard cue.’
‘Where do you keep this offensive weapon?’
‘Where do I keep it? Where do you think I keep it? Behind the bar, of course. This is St-Denis, not the Sacre- Coeur.’
‘Show me.’
‘Look. I didn’t hit anybody with it. I only waved it at the gypsy.’
‘Did the gypsy wave back?’
‘Ah. Merde.’ The barman slit open a pack of Gitanes with the bar ice-pick. ‘I suppose you’ll have me up for smoking in a public place next? You people.’ He blew a cloud of smoke across the counter.
Calque relieved the barman of one of his cigarettes. He tapped the cigarette on the back of the packet and ran it languorously beneath his nose.
‘Aren’t you going to light that?’
‘No.’
‘ Putain. Don’t tell me you’ve given up?’
‘I have a heart condition. Each cigarette takes a day off my life.’
‘Worth it though.’
Calque sighed. ‘You’re right. Give me a light.’
The barman offered Calque the tip of his cigarette. ‘Look. I’ve remembered now. About your officer.’
‘What have you remembered?’
‘There was something strange about him. Very strange.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Well. You won’t believe me if I tell you.’
Calque raised an eyebrow. ‘Try me.’
The barman shrugged. ‘He had no whites to his eyes.’
9
‘The man’s name is Sabir. S.A.B.I.R. Adam Sabir. An American. No. I have no more information for you at this time. Look him up on your computer. That should be quite enough. Believe me.’
Achor Bale put down the telephone. He allowed himself a brief smile. That would sort Sabir. By the time the French police were through with questioning him, he would be long gone. Chaos was always a good idea. Chaos and anarchy. Foment those and you forced the established forces of law and order on to the back foot.
Police and public administrators were trained to think in a linear fashion – in terms, of rules and regulations. In computer terms hyper was the opposite of linear. Well then. Bale prided himself on his ability to think in a hyper fashion – skipping and jumping around wherever he fancied. He would do whatever he wanted to do, whenever he wanted to do it.
He reached across for a map of France and spread it neatly out on to the table in front of him.
10
The first Adam Sabir knew of the Surete’s interest in him was when he switched on the television set in his rented fl at on the Ile St-Louis and saw his own face, full-size, staring back at him from the plasma screen.
As a writer and occasional journalist, Sabir needed to keep up with the news. Stories lurked there. Ideas simmered. The state of the world was reflected in the state of his potential market and this concerned him.
In recent years he had got into the habit of living to a very comfortable standard indeed, thanks to a freak one-off bestseller called The Private Life of Nostradamus. The original content had been just about nil – the title a stroke of genius. Now he desperately needed a follow-up or the money tap would turn off, the luxury lifestyle dry up and his public melt away.
Samana’s advertisement in that ludicrous free rag of a newspaper, two days before, had captured his attention, therefore, because it was so incongruous and so entirely unexpected:
Money needed. I have something to sell. Notre Dame’s [sic] lost verses. All written down. Cash sale to first buyer. Genuine.
Sabir had laughed out loud when he first saw the ad – it had so obviously been dictated by an illiterate. But how would an illiterate know about Nostradamus’s lost quatrains?
It was common knowledge that the sixteenth-century seer had written 1,000 indexed four-line verses, published during his lifetime and anticipating, with an almost preternatural accuracy, the future course of world events. Less well known, however, was the fact that fifty-eight of the quatrains had been held back at the very last moment, never to see the light of day. If an individual could find the location of those verses, they would become an instant millionaire – the potential sales were stratospheric.
