“Killers!” some began to chant. “Assassins!”
I recognized one of the protesters as that kid who’d chased the robed woman down the sidewalk, trying to get her picture. He still had the camera hanging around his neck, and shook his fist at the camera, yelling, “These immigrant AB-16 bastards want to destroy France, but France will destroy them!”
The mob’s fury built when the feed cut to the mosque doors, where anti-terrorists were hauling out Imam Ibrahim Al-Moustapha, who held his head high despite the wrist restraints and the hysterical crying of his wife and three children behind him.
Immigrants in the crowd began to shout, protesting the arrest.
“They think Farad’s involved because that’s his mosque,” I said. “And he knows that guy Massi, right?”
Louis nodded, transfixed by the imam, who looked right into the camera as he went past it, saying forcefully, “We are innocent. We have nothing to do with AB-16 or these killings. France is our home. We would never—”
The anti-terrorists pushed the imam into the back of a black van along with the head of the courier service and the tailor. The doors slammed shut and the van drove off.
Several men wearing FEZ jackets appeared, shouting angrily in French.
“I’m not getting what they’re saying,” I said.
Louis replied, “They say that the imam is a man of peace, and that this is a travesty of justice and a mockery of France’s tolerance. They say Massi was targeted because he’s a Muslim immigrant who has built a big business during the economic crisis, and the old French hate him for it. They don’t agree with the AB-16 killings, but they understand the reasons.”
On-screen, a bottle sailed through the air. It struck one of the men on the side of the head, and he staggered, bleeding. A piece of brick followed. Within moments the street all around the reporter erupted into chaos and fighting before the feed cut and the screen went to black for several seconds. Then it jumped to a pair of rattled French news announcers apologizing for the break in coverage.
Louis looked over at me gravely.
“I fear we are entering a dark and dangerous time in Paris,” Louis said. “We may be seeing the end of Private in France, and perhaps Europe.”
My stomach plummeted. This sort of thing could easily snowball, destroy the reputation of an investigative firm I had nurtured over years.
“Unless Farad and the imam are telling the truth,” I said.
“But if they’re not?”
Before I could answer, the television feed cut to, of all people, Laurent Alexandre, who was on the sidewalk across from Millie Fleurs’s shop, fighting back tears as he publicly mourned her death and denounced AB-16.
“French culture is not going anywhere,” Alexandre vowed. “Paris is the number one tourist destination in the world because we are so fierce about our culture. Millie was fiercely passionate about Paris and France, and I know she would want us to fight for it, to show her killers that her spirit and our culture go on. I have spoken with several of Millie’s friends, and instead of a funeral or memorial, we are going to put on a celebration of her life, a runway show in her honor. We’re hoping it will be televised to the nation.”
Before I could begin to wrap my fatigued brain around that, the Dog orbited back into the room.
“Louis,” he said before someone knocked sharply at the apartment door.
The hacker moved straight down the short hallway and looked through the peephole. Still cradling the iPad and the memory stick, he started to unlock the dead bolts.
“Who is it?” Louis asked.
“Maria,” he said.
“The concierge,” Louis told me.
Our attention shot back to the television screen, where the feed had cut from Laurent to Barbès. Tear gas was being fired at the rioters.
The Dog made a weird noise. I turned to see the hacker crouched and moving backward, and the old concierge shaking from head to toe.
Whitey was behind her. He had a gun to her head.
Chapter 64
“WEAPONS ON THE ground and back away, or she dies, and the retard’s next,” Whitey said, leering at us with yellow teeth.
Louis grimaced but unholstered his pistol and set it down. I did the same.
Whitey pushed the old woman inside, and his buddy, the Nose, appeared, also armed. He followed Whitey, shutting the door.
Still pressing his gun to the concierge’s head, Whitey said, “Where’s the lighter? Start talking or she dies.”
“You’re out of luck,” Louis said. “Government took it along with everything else when they raided our offices last night. It’s true—you can check.”
“Is that what you’ve been after all this time?” I asked. “A lighter?”
Whitey ignored me, but he was looking conflicted.
His partner said, “What do we do, Le Blanc? Call—”
“Shut up,” Whitey said, and I thought for a moment that he was going to cut his losses and bolt.
But then the Dog said, “I’m not retarded.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Whitey said, and then did a double take at the hacker.
He threw the old woman aside. In two bounds, he was in front of the Dog, who shrank in terror. Whitey snatched the iPad from him, held it up so his partner could see the memory stick jutting out the bottom, and said in triumph, “Bonus coming! We got it!”
The Nose grinned, then sobered and said, “They get in?”
Whitey slid his finger across the screen, studied it, and said, “Negative. We’re good.”
He pulled the memory stick and stuck it in his pocket. He tucked the iPad under one arm and said, “Just in case.”
“Whatever’s on that stick, you’ve got what you were after,” I said. “Let Kim Kopchinski go.”
The Nose snorted, “That’s not exactly up to us.”
“Zip ’em up, and we’re gone,” Whitey said.
They used zip ties to bind our ankles and wrists behind our backs. They shoved rags in our mouths and forced the four of us onto the floor.
“The shit you’ve caused us, we should shoot the both of you,” Whitey said, waving his pistol at me and Louis. “But we’re not sore winners.”
Then he kicked me hard, in the stomach. And the Nose did the same to Louis, low in the back. It took several painful minutes after they’d left for the two of us to recover enough to try to free ourselves.
The Dog was way ahead of us. He’d gotten to his feet somehow, hopped into his kitchen, and soon returned holding a pair of scissors behind him. Several contortions and a careful snip later, Louis’s hands were free. Louis took the scissors and cut off Maria’s bindings first and made sure she was okay before removing the Dog’s restraints and then mine.
I was feeling exhausted and low. We’d lost the memory stick, and whatever leverage we might have had to get Kim Kopchinski back. What was I going to say to Sherman? What could I say?
The hacker, meanwhile, went over to the concierge, and said something to her in Portuguese. She nodded, rubbed her wrists.
The Dog looked at us and said, “I am not retarded.”
“Absolutely not,” Louis said.
The hacker took several steps away with that vacant expression, and I thought he was going off into orbit again. He stopped, however, and said, “I’m smarter than they are, Louis.”
“I have no doubt, my—”
“No,” the Dog insisted. “I am smarter, Louis. Before I went to the door, I quit out. But I’d already cracked the security and copied most of the stick wirelessly to my iCloud account.”
Part Four
Is Paris Burning?
Chapter 65
Pantin, northeastern suburbs of Paris
4:48 p.m.
SERGE MFUNE DROVE a stolen delivery van out of the condemned linen factory on the Canal de l’Ourcq. The sliding doors quickly slammed behind them, blocking any view of the sculpture inside.
In the passenger seat, Émile Sauvage looked over his shoulder at
the thick, rolled Oriental rug on top of a painter’s tarp that covered the heavy load of two large wooden crates.
The major turned his attention to the side-view mirror and appraised his disguise: thick black eyebrows, a dense black beard, and a wig. With a healthy dose of instant tan to turn his already bronze skin darker, a worn and faded gray workman’s jumpsuit, and a black-and-white checked scarf, he looked infinitely more North African than French.
Mfune was similarly dressed. Satisfied that they would pass muster, Sauvage turned his attention to the portable police scanner in his lap. It crackled with reports of building protests over the arrests. They mentioned disturbances in Sevran, like Pantin a suburb of Paris with a high concentration of immigrants.
“Building protests,” the captain said. “That’s good.”
“Predictable,” Sauvage said, nodding. “Sevran is always up for a riot.”
He got out a piece of paper with three phone numbers on it, and entered them into the burn phone’s memory.
Mfune glanced over. “Where’d you get them?”
“From someone who thinks like we do,” Sauvage said, and left it at that.
Fifteen minutes later, they came upon a burning vehicle being doused by a fire crew. A police officer stopped them and said, “Where are you headed?”
“Les Bosquets,” Mfune said.
“Not the best place to be after dark tonight.”
“We just deliver a rug and go,” Sauvage said in a thick accent.
The cop shrugged and waved them forward.
Mfune found a place to park the van on the Avenue Clichy-sous-Bois, next to the Bondy Forest and across the street from Les Bosquets housing project. Several groups of young immigrants milled about on the other side of the street. A few eyed the van suspiciously.
Sauvage and Mfune pulled on workmen’s gloves and climbed out, leaving the keys in the ignition and ignoring the watchful eyes. They went to the rear of the vehicle, opened it, and pulled out the rug, leaving the tarp and cargo in place.
After the doors were closed, they hoisted the rug onto their right shoulders, blocking a good look at their faces, and walked diagonally left across the boulevard. Rather than veer right onto one of the streets that veined the housing project, however, they walked on past the nearest high-rise apartment building, hearing music and voices pouring out the open windows.
They went around to the rear entrance, where several young men were standing about and smoking.
“Who’s that for?” one boy asked.
“Madame Lao,” Mfune said.
“That nosy old bitch?” he replied with a chuckle, and even opened the outer door for them.
They moved to a stairwell where they could not be seen from outside. Sauvage slid forward to take the complete weight of the rug.
Captain Mfune split off and started down the stairs. The major began to climb. He encountered no one, and reached the fifth floor quickly.
At the top of the stairwell, Sauvage peered through the window in the door and down the hall. A woman and two children were walking the other way. The major waited until the trio had entered an apartment at the far end of the hall before opening the stairwell door and hurrying forward, noticing once again how loud and disjointed life was inside places like this. At best it was controlled chaos, which helped his chances a great deal.
Sauvage stopped in front of a dinged and scratched metal apartment door with the remnants of yellow crime tape on the hinges. He set the rug down and got out a key that Haja had stolen from the landlord when she had come through the week before, acting like a new refugee in need of shelter.
Haja had said a woman and her mother had been knifed inside the apartment two months before, and no one wanted to rent it. Haja also said that when he opened the apartment door, he’d get immediate attention. Sure enough, the second he threw the dead bolt, he heard a door over his left shoulder open.
Sauvage turned his head enough for nosy Madame Lao to see the beard, the eyebrows, and the hair before he pushed the door open and pulled the rug in after him. The door closed, and he locked it, sniffing at the lingering odor of powerful disinfectants. Leaving the lights off, he dragged the rug through the vacant apartment over to a window that faced the boulevard.
The major unwrapped the black-and-white checked scarf from around his neck and shoulders, revealing a headset with a jawbone microphone. Putting it on, he flipped the tiny power switch and said, “In.”
“Same,” Mfune whispered.
“Same,” Epée said.
Chapter 66
SAUVAGE GOT OUT the burn phone, highlighted the only three numbers in its memory, and pressed text. A blank box appeared, and the major felt his pulse quicken. His words had to be well chosen now.
He thumbed in: If you condemn the Barbes arrests, back us up tonight.
Sauvage hit send and waited.
A few seconds later, much faster than he’d expected, a reply came back from one of the phone numbers.
—Who is this?
Your ally, Sauvage typed.
—Who is this?
That question had come from one of the other numbers. Sauvage again texted all three: See crate contents of blue work van opposite Bosquets on Clichy-sous-Bois. Take enough to defend yourselves. Distribute rest to other believers.
—Who is this?
The third phone number had checked in. They were all waiting. He gave it twenty seconds, then replied: The Prophet’s warhorse.
Sauvage did not wait for a reply. He took off the back of the phone, pulled the battery and SIM card, and broke the unit in two. The pieces went in the baggy pocket of his coverall for later disposal.
The major stood in the shadows by the window, watching. Given his recon background, he was a patient, disciplined man. He would have stood there all night not moving a muscle if the job required it.
But it didn’t take more than ten minutes for the first two to emerge out of the bowels of the project. Both were male, under twenty-five, and dressed in loose drab green cotton pants and tunics. One looked African. The other was clearly of Arab descent.
They crossed the street and circled the van warily. The African peered in through the passenger window. He had to have seen the keys, had to have realized that the door was unlocked. But instead of going around to the driver’s side and getting in, he went to the back doors.
After a moment’s discussion with his partner, he opened them, and the Arab climbed inside. The African shut the doors and stood there. His partner wasn’t in the van more than a minute. When he jumped out, he was lit up, agitated. Both men got out cell phones and began pushing buttons.
Three other men came out of the project. They were in their late teens, early twenties: a Vietnamese, another African with beefy shoulders, and a big, big guy who looked French Polynesian to Sauvage.
They went straight to the rear of the van, and an argument began among the five men. There was some pushing and shoving by the Polynesian, and shouting among all of them when a third group appeared: two men this time, and both far better dressed than the others. This duo joined the fray for several tense moments before the first African guy began to play peacemaker.
He gestured at the van. He gestured at Les Bosquets. There seemed to be enough agreement with his argument that he was allowed to get in. He started the vehicle. With the six other men following closely on foot, he drove the van slowly across the boulevard and into the housing project, where Sauvage could no longer see it.
No matter, the major thought, and pressed the transmit button on the headset. He whispered, “We have a take.”
“Understood,” Mfune said.
“And ready,” Epée said.
“Sit tight,” Sauvage said, very pleased.
The crates in the back of the van contained fifty cleaned and oiled AK-47 assault rifles and seven thousand rounds of 7.62mm ammunition.
It was only a matter of time now.
Chapter 67
8th Arrondissement
6:25 p.m.
WHEN I WOKE up, dusk was falling over Paris, and beyond my bedroom door I could hear voices out in the suite’s living area.
How long had I been out?
I checked the clock on the nightstand. Four hours? We’d gotten back from the Dog’s place at around two that afternoon, and despite the fact that we had the contents of the memory stick to examine, I had been so tired and dizzy that I’d gone into my room, fallen into bed, and passed out cold.
After shaving and showering, I dressed and went out the bedroom door, finding several room service carts in the living area, and Louis, Petitjean, and Vans eating and working on laptop computers.
“Jack, you have arisen!” Louis cried, and gestured to the food. “Eat. Drink. Get your strength back.”
“Have you slept?” I asked.
“Why would I do that when there is so much to be done?” he replied.
“I’m beginning to think you’re a meth addict,” I said, moving to the service carts, which were loaded with delicacies from the Plaza’s kitchen. “You find anything yet?”
“Of course we did,” Petitjean said.
As I piled my plate and gorged, they got me up to speed on what they’d learned while I slept.
The memory stick contained thousands of files in various formats. Some were textual and contained random notes in French and English that referred to various people using initials. Other files contained diary entries and mentioned places by name, including several in the south of France. But again, no names used—just initials. And still others—the majority of the files, as a matter of fact—were copies of Microsoft Excel spreadsheet files that documented a large and very lucrative trading and distribution company.
“What company?” I asked.