Murder in Belleville

“I’m very sorry to inform you that under orders from the minister of the interior and in compliance with the laws of France, I must ask you to evacuate the premises.”

A heavy silence broken only by the sound of a flag with HUMAN RIGHTS NOT WRONGS crudely written on it, flapping in the wind.

Moments later Bernard cringed as a police ax came down on the church door, splinters flying. The chanting protesters roared. And then the square erupted.

The CRS, attacked by the mob, rushed headlong, billy clubs raised, into the church. Peaceful sans’papiers screamed, thinking they were being attacked and prepared to defend themselves. Bernard was flattened against the church wall between a cameraman and his videocam.

“Look what you’ve done!” the cameraman yelled at him, referring to his smashed equipment.

But the feed was live, and the accusation against Bernard was broadcast across France into millions of homes.

The women and children were handcuffed together and escorted out. As they filed past him, he saw little Akim asleep in his mother’s arms. Though her chador-hidden face revealed nothing, the hiss of angry words issuing from her veil needed no translation.

If he wasn’t hated before, he certainly was now.

Monday Morning

TENSE AND WARY, AIMEE stood on the Metro platform as the train blared its arrival. She heard the wheels clacking, smelled the burning rubber. She held her leftover newspaper over her face. Neither Dede nor the mecs had spotted her yet. But when the platform emptied, she was afraid.

She realized what she had to do.

As she broke the red glass door on the emergency box with her miniscrewdriver, she screamed, “My baby fell on the tracks,” and yanked the switch. Every face turned toward the electric line—the train’s brakes screeched and whined, shuddering to a painful, jolting stop. Passengers were thrown against the windows.

The platform passengers looked around, asking, “Where’s the baby?” Over the loudspeaker came a recorded message, “Standard procedure allows no train to proceed without Metro personnel clearing the track.”

The anxious buzz turned into a disgruntled murmur. She wanted to melt into the crowd. Dede and the mecs trolled the platform, bumping into people taking a good look before excusing themselves. She turned to the men standing near her, in suits, with briefcases and newspapers under their arms. She picked the one with the nicest eyes, wearing a large trenchcoat.

“Pretending you don’t remember me?” she said, sliding into the folds of the man’s coat and wrapping her arms around him. He wasn’t bad looking on closer inspection. And he smelled nice, as if he’d just showered with lavender-olive soap. She put her finger to his lips. “Shh, it’s our secret.”

“Do I know you?” the man asked, a look of happy surprise struggling with suspicion on his face.

“Don’t be coy,” she said. “I’ve never forgotten.” She pulled his head down, shielding herself from view and started kissing him. She kept her eyes open, scanning the platform. Another of Dede’s mecs had stopped by her elbow.

“You’re even better than I remember,” she breathed into the man’s ear, pulling his arms around her, and guiding him back into the tiled Metro wall. She saw the wedding band on his finger. “Let me enjoy it once more: Your wife will never know.”

“You know, you’ve got the wrong person …,” he murmured. But he didn’t pull away.

She pulled him tighter, edging toward the exit stairs, “I’ve heard that before. Play along with me, okay?”

His eyes crinkled in amusement. “Who said anything about stopping?”

“I’m going to slip away,” she said, walking backwards up the stairs. “Merci for your help.”

“Anytime,” he grinned, digging in his pocket for a business card.

But she’d gone.

TWENTY MINUTES later Aimee slammed her office door.

Startled, Rene dropped the book he was reading.

“You just missed Claude,” he said, shaking his head. “That man has unsettling eyes.”

She picked Rene’s book up off the floor. “Reading again?” she asked, looking at the title, Life with Picasso, by Francoise Gilot.

“Picasso appeared and disappeared in her life,” Rene said. “A stormy relationship.”

Aimee gave a wry smile.

“Like Yves,” she nodded. “Too bad he’s not around long enough for the stormy.”

She threw off her wet clothes and kicked the radiator to life. In the armoire she found wool tights, black skirt, ankle boots, and a striped silver ski parka to wear over a black sweater.

Back in the office she opened her bag, thrust some disks into Rene’s hand, and pulled out her laptop. Logging on, she glanced at the clock.

“Let’s get to work,” she said. “We may not have much time.”

“Are we catching a plane?”

“Dede’s getting a little too close for comfort,” she said. She told him about the men watching her apartment and the Metro.

Rene climbed into his orthopedic chair, then logged onto his terminal. Aimee’s phone started beeping.

“Let me give you a proper battery, Aimee,” he said, handing her a new one. “Try that.”

“My phone has been messed up,” she said. “My watch, too. Ever since the EDF.”

He set the battery on her desk.

“Right now,” she said, “I want to know why Sylvie dealt with Dede.”

“Figure this. If Dede knows everybody in Belleville,” Rene said, “he might be the one people use to reach the Maghrebin network.”

“Good point,” she said. “But first we’ve got some bank tunneling to do.”

By the time she’d checked the links from Sylvie’s Channel Island bank, she’d found the money transfers.

“Look Rene, the deposits come from the Bank of Algiers,” she said, excited. “Several million each time.”

Rene pulled up the Bank of Algiers account on his screen then clicked away. “I found them,” he pointed. “Here, wire trans-fers come from AINwar Enterprises.”

Aimee peered at his screen, seeing a long list of wire transfers. She sat back down; something familiar tugged at her.

“Why would AINwar Enterprises pass amounts via the Bank of Algiers to a Channel Island account in Eugenie Grandet’s name,” Aimee said. She swiveled her chair to the office terminal and logged on.

“Smells bad to me,” Rene said.

“Guess it’s time to find out about AINwar.”

After she dug into an Arab net server, she’d discovered the company’s charter and by-laws of incorporation, required by the French government for any contract.

Nothing illegal in that.

Then it hit her. The night of the explosion. Philippe introduced her to Kaseem Nwar. Kaseem had been with Olivier Guit-tard, both intent on Philippe’s passing some project and humanitarian mission. She remembered Philippe’s strained reaction and how he got her out of there quickly. Then she’d seen him again in the cafe in Belleville. Was Kaseem Nwar part of AINwar?

She accessed the company records; Downloading took time.

Aimee thought back to those photos of people with numbers pinned to them. All Algerian.

Curious, on her office computer she started accessing information about AINwar while Rene concentrated on Philippe de Froissart’s account. She kept digging for the company structure, list of shareholders and employees. When she found them, she stood up and whistled.

“Kaseem Nwar’s the director,” she said. “Appears he’s into nepotism.”

“Why?”

“Most of the employees and shareholders are Nwars, too.”