They kicked off the evacuation by grabbing Dax’s elbow. The lieutenant had howled as if they were beating him to a pulp: “Police brutality! Police brutality!” Passersby turned to stare and some tourists started taking photographs, and in the end the lackey’s walkie-talkie spluttered into action. One of the bosses upstairs must have ordered them to let the striking dogs lie, in case the general public started taking an interest.
After that, Évrard and Dax observed the comings and goings without interference, always keeping one eye on Chief Buron’s window.
Évrard, throwing herself into the mission and her disguise, was trying to maintain the solemn air of the unjustly treated, dispossessed police officer, even though Dax and his constant look of enthusiasm were not making her job any easier. The upper branches of the horse chestnut on the embankment below, which tickled the top of her head at the slightest breeze, were also making it hard to concentrate. But despite these various obstacles, nothing escaped the notice of the indifferent, bluffing lieutenant. She was using her cell phone’s hands-free kit to communicate with Capestan, who was positioned out of sight on a bench in place Dauphine. She had put headphones over the earpiece to make it look like she was listening to music, and the commissaire’s free minutes meant they could stay in constant contact.
Dax clamped the post of his HUNGER STRIKE placard between his knees to free up his hands, then fished out a sandwich the size of an encyclopedia from his yellow-and-gray knapsack. When he unwrapped the silver foil, a strong waft of cold meat filled the fresh autumn air.
“Want a bite?” the young lieutenant offered his partner for the day. “It’s got ham, chicken, bacon, and pastrami. My mother made it for me. She really knows how to make a good snack. A little dollop of mustard, and no lettuce at all. That way the bread doesn’t get soggy. Then she puts a layer of paper towels beneath the foil to stop it tasting all metallic. Want some?”
Évrard declined with a smile, and Dax started in on the beast with visible glee. The guard came up to him, plainly irritated.
“I thought you were on a hunger strike?”
Dax nodded vigorously, his mouth full, and tried to reply when a stream of crumbs dropped from his sizable maw. He gathered them up promptly, damned if he was going to let such a good meal go to waste. Évrard picked up the placard in embarrassment:
“I’m taking over for a couple of hours. He’s on a break.”
“You’re doing shifts? You’re taking a lunch break during a hunger strike?” the officer asked snidely.
“That’s right,” Évrard confirmed, with the tight-lipped Dax nodding in agreement.
“Do you take us for idiots?”
There was only one thing for it: if they were to keep their credibility and avoid losing their observation post, they had to turn this accusation on its head. Évrard summoned as much bitterness as she could and played the passive-aggressive card:
“No. You are taking us for idiots. So we’re falling in line. And we’re taking a disciplined approach. Isn’t that the key to good police work? That way the bosses up there will reinstate us—a normal squad for normal officers.”
She didn’t want to lay into the guard too much, but she said her piece to stay in character. During her little speech, Évrard had taken out one of her earphones, to make it more realistic. In the other, she was aware that Capestan was listening in the distance, following the exchange with amusement.
A small flash of light from the chief’s window caught Évrard’s attention. Buron was pacing back and forth at his window, eventually stopping for a few minutes and giving the lieutenant an exaggerated wave. She waited for the guard to go away before informing Capestan:
“Buron says hi.”
She heard the commissaire’s voice in her left ear:
“Do you get the feeling he’s greeting you, surprised to see you, or trying to irritate you?”
Évrard thought for a moment before facing the facts:
“I think he’s trying to irritate me.”
A hundred yards away, Capestan wondered yet again what Buron was after, and whether he knew he was being watched. Sitting on her bench by the pétanque area that dominated place Dauphine—that delightful, leafy haven in the shadow of the Palais de Justice—the commissaire was soaking up the view at the same time as organizing the rotation schedule for her teams. As she kept one ear on Dax and Évrard, with the other she enjoyed the sounds of the game of pétanque that was under way: the dull thud of the steel boules, the muted rolls on the sand and gravel surface, the curses, the jibes, and the issuing of urgent advice. They were having fun, but they wanted to win, too. One game after another, whatever the weather.
Capestan never stopped scouring the surrounding area from her vantage point. A man crossed the square. He had dreadlocks that made him look like an octopus taking a nap. Another young man cycled past a bit farther away. He had a green helmet and Bermuda shorts.
The commissaire sat bolt upright. It was the Squirrel. He was perched on a bicycle, the very same one that Merlot was supposedly staking out. It didn’t matter. They had found him, and this time they could not let him get away. He was heading toward the entrance of the police judiciaire. Capestan grabbed the mic for her hands-free and warned Évrard:
“The kid I chased with Torrez is
