Murder in Belleville

Aimee shuddered. His cruel arrogance unnerved her.

“Piles of bodies in the desert,” he said. “So what. That’s been happening for years. Since the eighties. No one cares about Algerian infighting.”

“There’s a difference when surplus French weapons are responsible and French taxpayers foot the bill,” she said. “At least, the French might think so.”

Kaseem buttoned his wool coat; he snapped his fingers at a man leaning against a car. “The ministers turn a blind eye. So should you. You know, I enjoyed being with you. We could—”

“This whole thing was a hoax,” Aimee interrupted. “Sylvie discovered what ‘ST 196’ meant so you killed her, meanwhile Philippe cut the funding. Philippe hid Anais, so you used your brother Hamid. You engineered a hostage situation blaming the AFL. All this to pressure Philippe so he’d give in, fund the mission because his daughter was inside. Then Anais checked herself out of the clinic, a bonus for you. And no one would know. No one would put it together. But I did.”

“I’ll take that for a no to dinner.” Kaseem smiled and didn’t blink once. “Theorize all you want. You can’t prove it.”

Powerless, she wanted to nail him there on the spot. His patronizing smile got to her.

“You’re a wannabe general, aren’t you, playing with the big military boys,” she said. “As long as you supply the weapons, you get to play. Without toys from Philippe’s funding you’re just a maghour holding up the dusty wall!”

His eyes flashed.

She knew she’d hit home.

“Say what you like,” he said. “I’ve got what I want.”

And then he was gone.

The cobbles glistened below her, slick and gummy, as the panier a saktde, the van to carry out the dead, pulled up. Kaseem was right, and he made her sick. The bad guys had won. And she’d thought she could stop them.

As they loaded Bernard’s corpse onto the stretcher, she whispered a prayer.

There had to be some way to get Kaseem. Discredit him.

By the time Martine had joined her, she’d figured out a way.

“Kaseem’s not your favorite, I see,” Martine said. “What are you going to do about him?”

“Make him very uncomfortable,” she said. “With your help I can do some damage.”

“How?”

“Let’s go back to your office for a start,” Aimee said. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”

“Not if this involves Anais,” Martine said.

“Don’t worry,” Aimee said, pulling out her laptop. “The big fish will get caught, hook, line, and sinker. Not only that, you’ll sell more papers with my insider report. I’ve got the negatives to prove it.”

“Point me to the newsroom,” Martine said, flipping open her cell phone. “I’ve got a firsthand hostage report to write.”

Monday Evening

THREE WIRE SERVICES, IN addition to Agence France-Presse and CNN, had picked up Martine’s story by the time Aimee opened the door of Leduc Detective. She heard the radio say fingers pointed to an Algerian jewelry importer, rumored to be in the pay of Afghani-based terrorists and sympathetic to the militant fundamentalists. He was alleged to supply the Algerian military with inferior-grade weapons and military surplus. His Swiss bank account, the article continued, buried under an alias, hid a multitude of sins.

Aimee logged on to her terminal and Rene’s. From hers she accessed Sylvie/Eugenie’s account using the beur password. The five-million dollar balance was still there and she hit Save.

On Rene’s terminal she followed the maze he’d established to the Bank of Algiers. From the Bank of Algiers she linked to the AINwar bank account and the two other subsidiary companies. Aimee withdrew all but the minimum balance of ten dinars from each account.

In the same fashion as Kaseem and Sylvie had previously established, she transferred the sums to Sylvie’s Channel Island account. However, instead of their procedure, she transferred that balance, all fifty million francs, to the AFL’s account.

Now Kaseem and his businesses were broke. But the Algerian military would think he’d hid it all in Switzerland.

To foil attempts at wire tracing, she pulled out the police report of Sylvie Cardet’s death, highlighted the name “Eugenie Grandet” and the bank statements and faxed this to the records department in the Fichier in Nantes. The Fichier would declare the Eugenie persona dead and freeze the account.

She logged in to the Ministry of Defense, the humanitarian mission funding. Marking the shipment as time- dated medical supplies and perishable, she red-flagged the containers. This earmarked them for inspection prior to departure from the port of Toulon. Toulon was the largest naval center and adjoined a military complex. If the shipment contained the surplus military arms she figured it did, the inspectors would seize them.

Kaseem wouldn’t get his shipment.

She brushed off her black leather pants and reached for her jacket.

Now she figured she should pay Hamid a visit and tell him some good news.

HAMID’S WARD bed in L’hopital Tenon overlooked leafy lime trees on the street below. Color now tinted his cheeks; his eyes had lost their listless quality.

“Salaam akikum,” he said, shaking her hand, then touching his heart.

“Aleikum es-salaam,” Aimeee returned his greeting. She pulled an orange from her bag, setting it on his enamel hospital tray. “May I peel this for you?”

“Merci,” he said. “I’ve given my life to the AFL, but I couldn’t save the sans-papiers.” Hamid said, his face still haggard. “But the new immigrants, the young ones, they think differently. I never heeded them. Now I must rebuild.”

“I know the truth,” she said, digging her fingers into the firm orange flesh.

“What do you mean?” Hamid’s eyebrows rose like accent marks over his deep-set eyes.

“Kaseem pressured you.” She peeled the skin, the segments fanned out in her hand. “Like he does everyone. But you’re his brother, as maghours you only have each other.”

She offered the orange pieces to Hamid. He slipped his worry beads into his other hand and accepted the orange. His eyes lit up with curiosity.

“Your brother killed Sylvie,” she said. “Blew her up.”

Hamid’s hand shook, but he didn’t drop the orange on the worn green linoleum. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m sorry. He didn’t know Sylvie gave this to Anais,” she pulled out the photos. She spread some of them over the hospital blanket. “Isn’t it south of Oran, where you were born?”

Hamid nodded slowly and stared.

“Now it’s a wasteland labeled 196,” she said. “Just a number. Not even a name. A cemetery of bleached bones mingled with sunken munitions. As young men you two fought there once. You lost to the French.”

Hamid nodded. “Yes, a lifetime ago.”

“Kaseem calls himself the General,” she said. “He still likes to play war. He has to find toys so he can play with the big guys.”

Fear shone in Hamid’s large eyes. “There’s no proof.” His tone was hesitant.

“But Kaseem can’t do that anymore. I took care of those toys,” she said. “Sylvie’s money and his are back in the AFL.”

Hamid’s face registered disbelief.

Rectangular shadows crossed the linoleum in the long ward. Few beds were occupied. A smiling ward matron in a starched white uniform nodded as she passed them. The matron’s clogs clicked busily away.

Aimee passed him some more orange segments, then stood up.