Murder in Belleville

“What kind of firm?” Rene asked. “Heavy machinery or something to do with oil?”

She shook her head.

“Jewelry importer,” she said. Odd. “How does that fit with a project in connection with humanitarian aid?”

“Pearls for the masses?”

“That’s it, Rene,” she said, grabbing his arm excitedly. “Pearls! The Lake Biwa pearl. I keep saying you’re a genius. And you are.”

He grinned. “I’m never one to refuse a compliment, but where does that fit?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’m getting there,” she said, unable to sit down. She paced back and forth.

It was all there. Somehow. She had to piece it together. Figure out where the odd bits went. One big piece was Mustafa Hamid and the AFL; she felt they were part of it. In some way they belonged.

“AINwar sent huge sums to Sylvie,” she said. “Why? Were they bribes for Philippe so contracts went AINwar’s way?”

“But a jewelry business?” Rene” asked. “Unless AINwar fronts another kind of company?”

She sat back down and searched AINwar’s records. Two firms were listed as subsidiaries; NadraCo and AtraAl Inc.

But she could find nothing more.

Rene couldn’t break into the Banque de France. They were blocked at every turn.

He stood up and stretched.

“Aimee, if the bribes came in, they’re hidden,” Rene said, sucking air through his lips. “Takes time to unearth them. All my tools sit in my database at home.”

Rene left, promising to call her when he found anything.

Frustrated, she knew more information existed. How to find it was the problem.

Start simple. Go with what she knew.

She logged on to the Ministry of Defense. Using a secure government password, one of many Rene kept current, courtesy of his ever-changing connections, she found a list of ministry-funded projects. Then she refined her search to projects under funding consideration.

Hundreds.

She took a breath and narrowed her topic to those involving Algeria. The list slimmed down considerably. While the list printed out, she sat down at Rene’s desk.

On his terminal she accessed the National Fichier via Renews connection, because if the government didn’t catch you when you were born, they always caught up when you checked out.

She knew that Algeria, at the time of Mustafa Hamid and his brother Sidi’s birth, was regarded by France as more than a colony. Even more than an extension of France across the Mediterranean—a department. However, this wasn’t reckoned with in actual voting terms. Unable to vote, Algerians belonged to the Republique like a member of the wedding but never the bride.

If Hamid or Sidi emigrated to France, she figured, they would probably have paid some application fee, surcharge, or tax.

In Hamid’s case she found his carte banccdre via his date of birth and Securite sociale. No names were listed as next of kin, only a Sidi, H., as father, and Sidi, S., for mother, both entered as deceased. She entered Djeloul Sidi’s name. His wife’s maiden name, El Hechiri, appeared.

Aimee’s eyes widened as she saw a cross reference to Kaseem Nwar. That seemed odd.

Further on, records indicated that El Hechiri had been married to Kaseem Nwar from 1968 to 1979. Aimee peered closer, then scrolled back. Sidi’s records showed he’d been married to El Hechiri during 1968-1979, the same years.

Aimee sat back and whistled. He’d changed his name, and the computer hadn’t caught it—just cross- referenced it.

She remembered him appearing in the cafe, telling her how he’d brought food to the sans- papiers—why hadn’t he just said, “I saw my brother.”

Come to think of it, why hadn’t he admitted he sent Sylvie millions of francs and Lake Biwa pearls? But then she hadn’t asked him, either.

She scanned the Algerian project list, running her fingers over the names, ticking them off until she found a name that struck her.

Taking the list to her wall map of Algeria, she followed the course of the Atlas Mountains and pinpointed the area south of Oran. Once a rebel fellagha stronghold against the French, the area had then become a munitions-dump wasteland, now declared off limits by the military.

Staggered, she sat down. It was hard for her to believe what she’d discovered.

She knew what she had to do.

Her charged phone signaled several voice mail messages. She tried not to hope, wondering if Yves had left her a message. But when she listened, all three were from the same person.

“Aimee,” Samia’s voice, high, shallow-breathing. “Pick up!”

Again the same message. Samia’s voice rising, sounding frantic.

The last message just a phone number, mumbled quickly. Samia. Very frightened.

Aimee listened to the number several times to make sure she’d written it correctly. Had Samia come through with the explosives connection? And should she believe her? The last time she had, Aimee had been shot.

Aimee hit the call-back function. A woman answered, saying this was a pay phone in rue des Amandiers, but if Aimee would like to buy Ecstasy she’d give her a good price.

She hung up and dialed the number Samia had left.

“Oui,” a voice answered after six rings.

“Samia gave me this number,” she said, keeping it vague.

A pause. “Who is this?”

“Aimee. Is Samia there?”

Another long pause. “I expected her by now.”

“I’d like to come over.”

“Call back.”

The phone went dead.

No one answered on her next three tries.

Had Samia given her the number to the explosives? She recognized the phone number. In her bag she checked the folder—“Youssef’ was written above the matching phone number. Her heart raced. And she remembered Denet’s words. On her minitel she searched under EuroPhoto. She found the same number with an address for a lab on rue de Menilmontant. So now she knew that they connected.

She redialed the number. The same voice answered.

“Please don’t hang up, listen to me,” she said. “I think you have something I want to see.”

“Who are you?” the voice said.

“I found your name in the ‘ST 196’folder,” she said. “Did you take the photos?”

The phone slammed down.

She stuck the Beretta in her waistband, pulled on her gloves and long wool scarf.

In the hallway she climbed down the back fire escape and made her way to the Metro.

EURO PHOTO’S GRIMY lab entrance stood in the rear of a courtyard filled with trucks and vans.

Inside Aimee leaned on the Formica counter. She smelled the acidic photographic chemicals and heard the chomp of print machines. On the office walls hung huge photos of white marble mosques and shots of sugar-sand beaches with sapphire slivers of the Mediterranean.

Through an open grime-stained window, Aimee noticed a company van pulling into the courtyard.

“Dropping an order off?” asked a smiling dark-eyed young woman, her head covered by a scarf. From behind the counter she passed an order form toward Aimee.

Aimee returned her smile.

“Actually I need to talk with Youssef about some processing,” she said. “Does he have a moment?”

She backed up, shaking her head. “There’s no Youssef here.”