Rolland looked lost.
‘Sorry,’ said Caitlin. ‘I can be a bit of a fucking train spotter, can’t I? Noordim’s CV doesn’t matter, the fact he’s here does. He should be about ten thousand miles away, blowing up noodle shops in Jakarta for the glory of God.’
‘Well, we don’t have many noodle shops in Paris anymore.’
‘You never did, Marcel. Not worth a pinch of shit anyway.’
‘So, this Noordim,’ said Rolland softly, peeking out into the dark again, ‘if he is here, there must be something important going on.’
‘Dude, if he’s here, it’s the end of the fucking world,’ Caitlin replied before realising what she’d just said. ‘Oh, wait… We already did that, didn’t we? Okay, look, it’s not just delicious noodles and opportunities for mass murder that kept Noordim in Mantiki 3. This guy, he doesn’t like whitey. His father was a mid-level official in Golkar, the guys who put the “party” into Indonesia’s one-party state under Suharto. His mother was a singer, but more importantly a second cousin to Tuk Tuk Suharto, the big guy’s daughter. The family controlled the distribution of kretek cigarettes in East Timor and lost it all in the Australian takeover of ‘99. Doctor Noo was already into the whole jihad thing by then and his family may well have been funding him, but Timor pushed him right over. Ruined the family and put the zap on his head. So he really hates whitey’
She paused and Rolland took the hint. ‘But?’ he said.
‘But,’ she continued, ‘he
‘So he blew up noodle shops?’
‘Yeah. Lots and lots of noodle shops. Apparently Allah really fuckin’ hates noodles.’
Captain Rolland smiled, an exhausted, washed-out smile.
Caitlin watched the men in the street as they moved into the building. ‘Tell your guys they need to be on the stick now,’ she said. ‘They need to…’ She trailed off as a car appeared.
Gasoline was so scarce that any moving vehicle was invested with significance. This one, a blue Volkswagen Passat with a cracked windscreen, appeared to be full of passengers. She motioned Rolland over to the gap in the curtains.
As they watched, saying nothing, the car came to a halt and all four doors opened like insect wings. Heavily armed, unshaven young men stepped out and scanned the street. Neither Caitlin nor Rolland moved. Nobody pointed them out or paid anything but scant attention to the ruined building in which they stood. As a jet screamed overhead somewhere nearby, the last of the passengers exited the rear of the Passat. Baumer and Lacan.
Melton was lying in a child’s bed, his head pillowed by a mildew-riddled stuffed elephant. The room was dark and the multi-level house empty, abandoned. Or at least it had been.
As he came awake, he heard voices on the lower floors. Men talking in a ghetto mixture of Arabic and French. He was jolted awake as all of his body’s remaining adrenalin reserves sluiced into his nervous system. A cool ball of ice seemed to form in his stomach, making his balls contract and loosening his bowels.
He wondered if some friends of the man he’d killed earlier had come looking for him, but the few snatches of conversation he heard clearly seemed to be all about the civil war.
A quick scan of the room where he’d hidden out, far above the street, told him there were no obvious hiding places. He slowly, carefully, eased himself up, fearful of a creaking bed spring that might give his presence away. For the same reason, he dared not put his feet on the floor as the boards would surely creak. Instead, he lay in darkness, straining to hear whatever he could pick up. He stroked his pistol for reassurance and checked that he still had the spare mags in his vest pocket. Not that a dinky little handgun would be much help if he’d woken up in a houseful of jihadi street fighters. And really, who the hell else was left in this part of Paris?
As the minutes ticked by with infuriating slowness, his heart rate began to calm a little and he even managed to relax. Nobody had come up to check on this room. He hadn’t been discovered. Indeed, there didn’t appear to be anybody on this attic level of the house. But he found that hard to accept. It commanded a good view of the street below and some of the approaching roads. If this were his show, he would have put a lookout up here, even if he was just running a small gang of looters. Then again, his instructors at Ranger school had probably drilled the basics into him with more alacrity than the towel-headed loser who’d trained these guys downstairs. If trained they had ever been. Judo rolls and paintball in the forest didn’t really count.
Slowly, and as quietly as he possibly could, Melton eased himself off the bed and slid across to the door. He placed his ear against the cool wood for two minutes, straining to hear anything that might indicate he wasn’t alone up here. After that, he gripped the old-fashioned brass knob and turned it gently but firmly until the door clunked open. It sounded as loud as a grenade to him, but there was no discernible change in the flow of conversation from downstairs. He was able to make out a lot more of what was being said, however – not that it did him much good. The men’s French was heavily accented and their Arabic so guttural and fast spoken that his very basic understanding of the language was all but useless.
Then someone spoke whom he could understand. A Frenchman, with a polished, well-educated voice. Again, Melton’s French wasn’t great, but he was certain this guy was giving them a pep talk. Something about how well the fight had gone in the suburbs and how they had to delay the fascist Sarkozy forces long enough to get their leaders out of this area. Or at least, that was what Melton thought he said. He simply couldn’t be sure, and it made no sense. He had no context in which to frame the conversation.
It was infuriating, but there was nothing he could do about it.
‘They will be here in fifteen minutes,’ said Captain Rolland, referring to the back-up he’d called in. ‘They are coming through the storm water drains. There is a… how do you call it… a
