Murder in Belleville (29 page)

There was a loud shattering of glass ahead of him.

“In here, bureaucrat!” the man yelled. “Now!”

Bernard fought the impulse to flee, ducked his head, and entered the doorway. The terrorist had broken the window. Glass shards blanketed the attic floor, giving off a bluish tinge. Used, musty air and waist-high wooden storefront letters filled the narrow attic. Weak sunlight flashed off the glass, creating a diamond carpet. What if the sharpshooters thought he was signaling? Bernard felt panic, his breathing coming in short gasps.

No, they’d wait—they wouldn’t shoot at anything that sparkled—he felt sure. The bands of tension in Bernard’s head relaxed a fraction. Until he saw the disheveled woman in the corner, tied to a chair, struggling to kick at the terrorist’s shins. She sent him a look that Bernard couldn’t read.

“Take me to the bathroom,” she yelled. “Or I’ll do it on the floor.”

The terrorist whacked her across the face with the back of his gloved hand. “Suit yourself,
infidele,
just shut up!”

Bernard saw her hands clutch the splindly chair back behind her and realized her wrists were untied. She was signaling him. There were two of them and just one big semiautomatic-toting terrorist.

“Look,” Bernard said, edging toward the terrorist, “I’d suggest—”

“Cut the small talk.”

Bernard gestured toward her. “Can’t you at least let her go to the bathroom?”

Bernard wondered who she was.

The terrorist pointed to a window, jagged splinters of glass peeking from the corners.

“Hurry up,” he said. “Throw it from here! Bureaucrat, I’m losing patience,” the terrorist growled. He hawked and spit, coming over and nudging the machine gun into Bernard’s ribs. “Didn’t you hear me? Throw the box out the window.”

Bernard winced as the cold metal barrel poked through his thin suit jacket. He took a step. Shattered glass crackled under his shoes. He froze.

He looked over at the woman for help, but her heavy-lidded eyes stared vacantly. Her nose bled bright red down her chin, spattering on her once white silk blouse.

Bernard knew he was a coward. Schoolyard fights and taunt-ings had proved that. The idea of standing as a window target for RAID sharpshooters was not appealing. Right now he wanted to get on his knees under the skylight, in the chill air among the skewed letters, and beg the man for mercy.

“The police will shoot me,” he said, his veined hands shaking. “I can’t—”

“Makes no difference,” the terrorist yawned. “I’ll use her.”

Bernard’s legs wobbled; they didn’t support him any more. Lightheaded and dizzy, he reached to steady himself against the woman’s chair. He missed. Around him the angle of light spun and shifted. He hit the ground heavy and hard. What must have been moments later, he grew aware of myriad sharp splinters in his arms.

The woman erupted from her chair screaming, kicking at the terrorist’s legs. He tripped over the dazed Bernard and let out a roar. He landed headfirst against the wall and crumpled onto his machine gun. Deafening shots erupted into his chest. His black torso twitched as the round drilled into him. His body fell sideways.

Bernard realized the woman had gone. He was alone. Alone with a dead terrorist oozing guts onto the pebble-like plaster. What should he do? Wouldn’t Rachid have heard the bullets?

He rolled the stocky corpse over and slid out the machine gun, sticky with blood.

Bernard pulled off the man’s black mask. He saw the stubbled slack] aw and vacancy of death. For the first time in Bernard’s life, he felt no fear at death. A curious relief flooded him.

And then Bernard decided. He would no doubt join little Andre, who had beckoned him at night for so long. But first he would save the children, since he hadn’t been able to save his brother.

He would make up for the past.

Bernard unzipped and removed the terrorist’s jumpsuit, a laborious process, rolling down the sleeves, then shimmying the cloth over shoulders and thick, lifeless hips. Then the heavy boots, which he wiped off, then put on. He put on the ski mask. In the zippered side pocket he found a fresh bullet cartridge.

By the time he trailed down two flights of stairs wearing the black mask, his fingers had clamped rock steady on the trigger. He liked the way the solid curve molded to his finger. A creaking on the narrow landing caused him to stop.

Light from a wall sconce illuminated a trail of greasy fingerprints. Wedged under the metal-railed staircase, almost unotice-able, was the outline of a small door. He tiptoed across the floor, cocked his ear to the door, and listened. From time to time, he heard childlike whispers and strident beeping.

“Stay calm, I’m a friend,” he said, opening the door slowly. A figure crouched behind cleansers and dust mops. “Let me help you, little boy.”

“My name’s Simone,” said a glaring little face. She emerged slowly, holding a cell phone and cradling a worn brown-furred teddy bear in her arms. “This game is boring,” she coughed and choked back sniffles. “I want to go home!”

Bernard knelt down, stiff and awkward in the jumpsuit, his arms full with the gun. “So do I,” he said.

“You’re not allowed to!” she said wiping her runny nose with her sleeve.

“My name’s Bernard.”

“You’re the bad man.”

“Let me explain—” he began.

“Where’s my maman?” she lisped.

Was this the woman upstairs? “Tell me what she looks like.”

“You pushed her,” Simone said, her voice climbing higher. “I saw you. Not fair. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to push people.”

“But it wasn’t me.”

“Liar!”

As Bernard reached to brace himself, Simone shut the door on his fingers. He lurched in pain, pulled his hand out, and stumbled backward. With a sharp crack his head hit the railing and he crumpled. The machine gun slid from his grasp, and the cartridge round clattered from his pocket onto the parquetry.

Crouched on her knees, Simone peered out of the door. The bad man looked asleep. She’d hurt him. Good—that would teach him not to push people! Rules were rules, but sometimes you had to learn the hard way, like Papa said, give people doses of medicine…. What had he said? Anyway, something like that.

Her stomach growled, and it was too hot in that closet. Time to find her maman and a buttered
tartine.
She’d won over the bad man. They could go home now.

Just in case no one believed her she lifted the gun. So heavy and ugly. Too bad; it would never fit in her Tintin bookbag. She slung the strap over her shoulder but the gun scraped the floor. Looping it three times around her neck did the trick. She picked up the smooth black cartridge filled with bullets and shoved it in the empty gun slot, like they did on the
tele.
She sighed. So heavy, and what a lot to carry!

And teddy bear, he didn’t like all this bumping. She stuck him between the gun straps and hoped he wouldn’t mind such tight quarters. After taking the stairs one at a time and holding the rail with her free hand, she remembered the phone and trudged back. Teddy would get cross with all this to-ing and fro-ing. She grabbed the phone from the metal mop pail in the closet and a green light flashed. Maybe it worked now. She hit the button Maman had showed her, the one with the big letter she couldn’t remember.

A
IMEE’s NEW
cell phone, connected to her previous number, rang. Even though she’d told Yves to get lost, she hoped it might be him. Get ahold of yourself. No time to be waylaid by visions of Yves’s sideburns.

“Aimee Leduc speaking,” she said, making her tone businesslike.

“A flic’s
picking you up!” Sardou barked. “Get over here now!”

She started to speak, but a siren announced a motorcycle policeman outside the cafe.

When she arrived at the temporary headquarters, Sardou looked ready to spit bullets.

“Simone will only talk with you,” he said thrusting the cell phone at her.

Aimee took a deep breath.

“Simone?” Aimee said, her knuckles white as she clutched the phone.

“Tell everybody I won, Aimie,” the tired child’s voice said.

Something clacked in the background, heavy and metallic sounding. A brief series of clicks, and Aimee realized that Sardou was monitoring the call. What a primitive tracing system these
flics
had—Rene’ would laugh, but this wasn’t funny.

“You can talk to me, Simone, I’m a policeman and want to help you,” Sardou said.

“That’s what the bad man told me,” Simone said, sounding more tired. “But I took care of him. So stop talking.”

“Simone, tell me what’s happened, okay?” Aimee coaxed, keeping her voice light. “Just a little. You’ll tell me more over hot chocolate in the cafe, eh?”

Simone yawned. Sardou kept silent.

“Aha, you must be the Orangina type, eh?” Aimee giggled, hoping her giggle sounded real.

“Do I get a
grande
Orangina even though Maman says I get a stomachache from cold drinks?”

“How about a double?” Aimee asked.

“I put a bad man to sleep and took his gun,” Simone said.

“Where are you?” Sardou interrupted.

“But Aimee,” Simone sobbed, tears caught in her throat. “Where’s Maman?”

“Look Simone, my name is Sardou. I can help—”

“You’re with the bad man, I know,” Simone said. She hung up with a loud click.

Here was four-year-old Simone wandering around with a gun, and Sardou had pissed her off! And no contact from Anais. Aimee shuddered, she pushed possible scenarios from her mind.

Sardou muttered over the buzzing line. Her hands tensed around the phone. She must remain calm and collected. She took a deep breath.

“Sardou, when I hit the Return Call button, let me do the talking. Don’t you agree it’s called for in this situation?”

That sounded diplomatic, she thought. For what seemed a minute all she heard was the buzz and click of the other line. Sardou must be conferring with others.

“Make sure she gets Rachid by the window,” he finally said.

Flustered, Aimee measured her words. “How do you propose a little girl would do that? Rachid isn’t stupid.”

“Sounds like she got rid of one terrorist.”

Sardou could have a point.

“Would a courtyard window suffice?”

“Facing south,” Minister Guittard said, cutting in on the line.

She punched the Return Call button on her cell phone. A recording came on: “The party is unable to answer your call momentarily or has stepped out of range. France Telecom thanks you for your patience and requests you try again momentarily.”

Great.

“She trusted me, Sardou; you blew it,” Aimee said. Sardou and Guittard’s conversation had wasted time and proved useless. Until Simone answered they hovered in a holding pattern.

“Call again. Keep trying, Mademoiselle Leduc,” Guittard said and hung up.

She’d pretty much figured that out.

And then she looked at her new cell phone with the battery … her dead Tintin watch … her mind raced. When she’d dropped the proposal off at the EDF site, the manager had warned her to turn off her cell phone since the electromagnetic rays from the HERF generator interfered with systems. Flattened them, he’d said. The electromagnetic fields were quite high due to all the unshielded equipment and the heavy iron reinforcement in the station walls. No reason it couldn’t do so now.

“Sardou,” she said, her voice certain and calm. “I know how to dismantle the bomb without touching the computer.”

B
ERNARD AIMED
for the staircase, which tilted dizzily as he crawled toward it. His hand throbbed. Where had the little girl gone? Where was the gun?

The terrorist’s overalls clung to him. He shivered. If he could just get downstairs he’d pretend to be the other terrorist, wounded and unable to talk. He’d get Rachid by the window. With that thought, Bernard almost tumbled down the stairs headfirst.

And then the sun blazed for a brief moment as the clouds parted. Bernard smiled. The sun at last. He heard a zinging crack as a fine tinkle of windowglass powdered him. And then Bernard felt warmth on his face. The wonderful warmth, the heat from his childhood. Everything danced before him; his
nounou,
the slim grinning mother he knew as a child, his papa driving a jeep. Little teething Andre beckoned, and Bernard joined him.

R
ENE WALKED
into the command center with a small shopping bag. He set the bag down and started pulling items out.

“Everything’s here,” he said, strapping on the Walkman-size HERF generator in his waist bag. With the power emanating from this he could knock out communications systems in the surrounding buildings.

Aimee helped adjust the antenna up his left sleeve so he could easily slide it out.

“From Simone’s conversation, we know one of the terrorists was knocked out,” Aimee said. “Rene resembles a child from this distance. If the doors Berge entered are closed, Rene can go to the window. Aiming the HERF gun at the device controlling the bomb, he shoots high-energy radio frequencies. He interferes with the detonation device, defusing the—”

Aimee never finished.

Sardou and every man wearing headsets rushed to the window.

“Green light,” someone muttered.

She saw a black-suited tactics team pause at the door, simultaneously heard the crack of rifles.

“Don’t do it!” she yelled. “The building will blow up.”

“They’ve got three to five seconds before the reaction time sets in,” Sardou muttered. “They better make it count.”

In stunned disbelief she watched the team enter the building. No explosion. More cracks from the rifles. She could see bullet holes pepper and shatter the glass.

Aimee gasped, “Please God keep the children and Anais away from the windows! What happened?” she asked, turning to Sardou.

“Three minutes ago Rachid agreed to the demands,” Sardou said. “We recorded him dismantling the wires. Your plan was backup.”

“Then why shoot him?”

Aimee’s knuckles whitened as her fingers clutched the win-dowsill; she still braced herself for an explosion.

“We’d taken out the other one,” Sardou said. “RAID doesn’t like taking prisoners.”