Angels of Vengeance

the Republic’s dirty laundry in the quiet, grim, but well-maintained little detention centre that had been his fiefdom, Luperico would still have had enough contacts among the more significant bureaux back in Paris to have understood that the street fighting and urban warfare was not merely a more violent reprise of 1968. No, the state had been at war with itself.

She knew Luperico was not a stupid man. He would have understood that in such times, it was the tiny little cogs in the wheels of politics that were most likely to be stripped and crushed. As the collapse accelerated, according to her briefing set, Luperico had very wisely looked to his own interests.

*

For the life of him, Ramon Luperico could not see how his interests intersected with those of this American woman. At least he could take some satisfaction, some small sense of control, from having earlier recognised the broad American accent of her natural voice, even as she spoke in French and Spanish. But he could not place her within that much-reduced nation. She had neither the drawn-out cowboy twang of a southerner, nor the nasal drone of a couple of Americans he’d met from that region once known as New England. If anything, her voice sounded as though it had been scrubbed of any identifying inflections; as if she’d been taught to speak anew at some time. It was possible, he supposed, that she wasn’t American at all.

Whatever her origin, Luperico had a very bad feeling about her. He didn’t fool himself for even a moment that he might get the better of her merely because she was a woman. A lifelong jailer, a professional custodian of the criminal classes and later of the political enemies of the state, he had encountered more than enough cruel and psychopathic females to disabuse himself of such a notion.

No, this woman was a hazard to life and limb. There was a terrible, machine-like quality to her movements. As they forced a passage through the forest and her arm raised and fell, blurring the arc of the machete, he could see not the slightest waste of effort. Where he had flagged simply trying to keep up with her, she appeared to have ocean-deep reserves of energy on which she could call. And he’d seen the carnage she had left in her wake back at the prison. Just one woman. It did not bear thinking about. The best he could hope for was to give her whatever she sought. Unlike his former captors, she was very obviously a professional, a state actor, and as long as he remained of use to her, he was certain she would do her best to preserve him.

But what use could he be?

She had surely not fought her way into the Federation, murdering all of his guards and the Sweet Virgin only knew who else, merely to question him about the invoices he had padded out for the prison kitchen - back when he’d paid a handful of suppliers grossly inflated prices for foodstuffs they never delivered, preparatory to splitting the profit with them, of course. Nor did he imagine that she was here to carry out an audit of his former workplace because of the unusually high turnover in expensive computer equipment. All nefarious deeds, yes, but hardly worthy of state-sanctioned murder. Not even by the Americans. Racking his memory for the details of every tawdry little scam he had run back then, he could come up with nothing to explain her presence.

The woman appeared satisfied with whatever information she had exchanged with the little computer attached to her arm. She took a drink from her own supply before unwrapping two more of the unpleasant-tasting chocolate bars. Luperico thought she might share one with him, but she ate both.

She took a few seconds to chew through the small meal, regarding him without apparent effect as she did so. Then something crashed through the undergrowth nearby, causing her to cock one ear in that direction, and even to sniff the air like an animal, but she detected nothing to alarm her. Another drink, a quick check of their surroundings, and she seemed ready to deal with him. It did not leave him feeling confident.

‘You ran a detention facility, an undeclared asset, for the French Government, in Guadeloupe.’

It was a statement, not a question. Luperico nodded warily. He’d been sure this would be about that period. He’d lived hand to mouth, stitching together one arrangement after another, since losing his position in the colony. Although he’d involved himself in any number of questionable activities during that time - some of which had finally brought him undone, when he trespassed on the prerogatives of Roberto Morales’ mafia state - none suggested themselves as likely to elicit the very precise form of violence this woman, this operatif, had visited upon the militia. His mind began to race all over again, desperately searching for some memory that might explain her arrival. In the meantime, there was little point in lying to her. Indeed, it would probably prove to be dangerous.

‘I was the administrator there, yes,’ he answered.

‘You remember a prisoner, a German national of Turkish background, by the name of Bilal Baumer? You would have received him via extraordinary rendition, sometime after the Paris intifada.’

Luperico tried to keep his face neutral, but he feared that the woman could read his underlying anxiety. He now knew this was political, and political intrigues were always the most problematic, no matter that his own involvement might be tangential. Again, he saw no point in lying to her. She obviously knew the prisoner had been through his facility.

‘Well, we had a large number of renditions after September 11,’ he replied, watching her carefully for any sign of a reaction while he tried to reach back through the years. She gave none, which he found even more unsettling. He did not want to displease her. A German national? Of Turkish background.

Think, he told himself. Think.

‘I didn’t say September 11,’ she corrected him. ‘I said you would have received the prisoner after the intifada.’

‘But, of course,’ he said, desperately searching his memory and finally coming up with a face to put to the name she had given him. Baumer. It had been so long ago, and that had been a different life. He nodded vigorously, wanting her to know he could help. He was useful. ‘Yes, we had more after the intifada. I think I recall your German now. He was young, and very much assimilated into western culture. Not like most of the crazies we took in around then.’

‘Do you recall the circumstances of his release?’

Luperico could not help himself. This could be dangerous ground. He averted his gaze, staring instead into the brush, as though his memories might lie in there.

‘Well, as I said, we had a number, a large number, of renditions pass through in those days. I am afraid I do not recall the details attending each of them. They were not really my responsibility. I was a processor, not an … end user - is that the term? And also, I’m afraid that part of my life … it was a long time ago. Much has happened, and I am no longer working in the service of the French state. As you can see, I have been abandoned.’

If he had hoped for a flicker of sympathy, he was disappointed. The woman’s eyes seemed as cold and fathomless as a frozen lake.

‘Think hard, Luperico. You may not survive the wrong answer. Was Baumer’s release authorised by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Paris, or did you release him on your own authority?’

Luperico had been thirsty before, but he now found that his mouth was unnaturally dry. There could be no doubt that he was in great peril. His tongue rasped against the back of his teeth, sticking there. His heartbeat, previously thready and uncertain, seemed to have slowed down considerably, as though every contraction was struggling hard to pump double the normal volume of blood.

‘Understand me,’ said the woman. ‘I do not care what scams or shakedown rackets you had going in Guadeloupe at the end. I know how things fell apart. They fell apart everywhere. I don’t need contrition or evasion from you, I need information. Why did you release Bilal Baumer?’

She did nothing as crude or obvious as turning her gun on him, but everything about the American and her lethal demeanour spoke to Luperico of the gravest consequences if he didn’t tell her what she wanted to hear. He shook his head involuntarily, as if arguing with himself.

‘You are right, of course. Everything was falling apart. Once the intifada began, the guerre civile, the colonies were very quickly cut off. We had no -‘

‘I’m not interested in a history lesson on the manifest inadequacies of the French state,’ she interrupted. ‘You are obviously getting to Baumer. Just take the direct route and save us some time.’

Luperico couldn’t believe it. It was impossible that something so simple should rebound on him so many years later. My God, the terrible things he had done in the last days at Guadeloupe … He shook his head again. He had thought for a moment he may have had to answer for prostituting his female prisoners or, in the final extremes of la colapso, of organ harvesting some of his charges for a Chinese billionaire who flew into the facility on his own plane. But no.