entourage.
“But, Minister, will he understand?”
“Berge has a point,” Sardou said, consulting a printout. “This man, Rachid, twenty-six years old, is a recent immigrant from Oran, Algeria. He’s a dishwasher in the mosque tearoom.”
“Find out what he wants, what the AFL wants,” Guittard turned back to Bernard. “Agree to anything he says.”
Bernard swallowed hard. “You mean, I have the power—”
Guittard cut him off, “Promise him a Swiss bank account, a private jet back to Oran, whatever it takes to get him in front of that window.” He pointed to the window directly in the crosshairs of the crack shot team on the opposite roof. “Do you understand,
Berge nodded uneasily. He noticed Sardou’s hawklike gaze.
“Then I’ve made myself clear,
A loud clamor of shouting reached their ears. The CRS captain joined them, breathless. He wore plastic gloves and held an envelope.
“Thrown out of the third-floor window, sir,” he said.
Sardou yelled orders to a white-coated technician, who spread plastic over a wood-planked table. A lab crew assembled powders, brushes, and chemicals in assorted colored vials.
“
While one technician treated the envelope to a quick array of powder tests, the others extracted the contents with tweezers.
Guittard, unable to disguise his impatience, appeared ready to grab the contents.
“We must see if this is from Rachid, Minister,” he said. “It could be from one of the hostages, giving us clues to their location.”
Bernard Berge winced.
A crayoned picture of what was clearly a spired church, brown-skinned people inside, and a man with dark bags under his eyes, holding a little navy blue book. A small stick drawing of a man, tubes drawn about his chest was signed in a crude hand,
“He’s calling himself the Human Bomb,” he said.
After a few more minutes he turned to Bernard. “That’s you. He knows your face well. I’d guess the navy blue book would be residence permits. He’ll give himself to you if the immigrants are released from prison.” The negotiator turned toward the group. “He’s illiterate also. That’s my interpretation.”
Minister Guittard’s piercing eyes held Bernard’s. “Good,” he said, rubbing his hands. “You know what to do.”
Bernard Berge nodded. “Minister, there’s one issue I want to clarify.”
“If he’s wired with dynamite,” Bernard paused, “won’t the building explode if he’s shot?”
Sardou watched Guittard. So did Bernard.
“Not if you disconnect him, talk him out of his plan,” Guittard smiled grimly.
“Excuse me, minister, it’s not quite that simple,” said the bomb squad commander stepping from behind Sardou. “Berge must look for a dead-man switch. It’s something the man would hold all the time. So if he lets go, the circuit completes.”
Bernard’s eyes widened in fear. Sweat beaded his upper lip.
“However, a command detonation is different,” the commander continued. “Usually it’s a pair of wires with a handle, maybe a red button. Like a bike handle, with wires and dangling switch. Something he’d have to signal manually.”
Bernard knew he would die.
He hoped that his underwear was clean and that he’d updated his will. Most of all he hoped his mother would bury him in a Christian cemetery.
“Look on it as a typical ministry meeting,” Guittard said, slapping Bernard’s shoulder in bonhomie. “Like when you have to handle an upstart. It’s the same principle,
Minister Guittard whisked past the group and down to the waiting crowd of reporters eager for an update.
AIMEE LOOKED DOWN FROM the broad first-floor window, trying to figure out how to get into the school. Scurrying figures entered a mobile truck on the street. They emerged wearing jackets, carrying weapons.
She edged backward; none of Sardou’s men paid the slightest attention to her. But if anyone noticed, she’d say she was trying to find the bathroom. Behind her lay several wood-paneled doors, housing utility closets and garbage chutes. She gripped the brass handle in the door closest to her, pulled it open, and felt cool air. She prayed she’d gotten lucky. Once inside she saw a curving narrow staircase and sighed in relief. She had.
Going down the stairs, she figured Anais must have been trying to tell her something—but what?
She didn’t know how to get Simone and the children out—the area teemed with antiterrorist squads, trucks, and equipment.
Worried, all she knew was that Anais counted on her.
Again.
The paramilitary RAID was notorious for blazing its way in, fudging the body count later in hostage situations, only intent on neutralizing its target. Judging by Bernard’s appearance, the goose brought in by helicopter, that could make sense. Maybe Anais felt that Aimee was the only one who had a real chance. Or, knowing Aimee, would be crazy enough to try.
“Keep moving,” said a helmeted figure, motioning her toward the barricades blocking narrow rue Friedel.
The first step would be to access the building adjoining the
“Inform me on the latest—have demands been made in the hostage situation?” she said to a guard.
The guard hesitated, then jerked his head toward several figures bent over a police car’s hood. “Talk to LeMoine, chief of operations.”
Next to them stood the open van lined with black jumpsuits and flak jackets. Inside the van a stocky woman chewing gum ticked off items from her clipboard. She nodded when Aimee flashed her badge, then gestured toward the rack, “One size fits all, Captain. I suggest rolling up the cuffs and sleeves.”
Aimee lifted the light swat suit, which crinkled in her hands.
“Fabric seems flimsy, Lieutenant…?”
“Lieutenant Vedrine.” The policewoman winked. “Use the resistant liner.” She handed Aimee an aqua Goretex-type gunny-sack. “You might want to slip off that skirt and shimmy this on.”
“How long has the situation existed?” Aimee asked as she stepped into the outfit, snapped the Kevlar vest, and zipped the black jumpsuit.
“No one briefed you?” Lieutenant Vedrine’s gum popped constantly while she helped Aimee.
Aimee thought quickly.
“They paged me during my anniversary dinner with my husband.”
“C’est
“Five, and it was the first time we’d had a babysitter in ages—give me the quick and dirty.” Aimee inspected
