Franck Thilliez - Syndrome E

“What’s that mean, ‘swimming through molasses’?”

Sharko glanced over at the passenger seat.

“It means straining, working hard for nothing, turning around in circles. Exactly like what I’m doing now.”

Eugenie was playing with a lock of her hair, twisting it around her fingers. She put on her most vixenish look.

“By the way, did you notice how much Lucie looks like Suzanne?”

The inspector almost choked. That kid certainly had some unpredictable reactions. He shrugged.

“She looks about as much like Suzanne as your jar of sauce looks like a locomotive.”

“To you, I mean. She looks like Suzanne to you… And to your heart of stone as well. I know. It’s getting all warm in there.”

“You’re raving.”

“That’s right, I’m the one who’s raving… Lucie has gotten to you—that’s why you want to protect her. Canada is far away.”

The inspector’s cell phone started vibrating.

“I like Lucie. I hope things work out for the two of you.”

“You’re out of your mind, kiddo.”

He answered the call. It was one of his contacts at Central Intelligence.

“Have you got the info?”

“What do you think? The current commander of the Legion is a colonel by the name of Bertrand Chastel. Guy’s got quite a pedigree.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Career legionnaire, belonged to the most prestigious combat units. Commander of the Second Parachute Regiment in Lebanon, then Afghanistan. Then he changes hats, becomes head instructor in Guiana, develops some new kind of training program and forms a super-elite squad. The guy seems to get off from living on the edge. The kids sweat blood under him, and most of them come out of it with their heads rewired for battle, if you get what I mean. Back in France, he spends three years at DGSE before returning to his first love and taking over the First Foreign Regiment, then the Fourth, then the Recruitment Corps two years ago.”

The acronym immediately set off an alarm in Sharko’s head. DGSE: General Directorate for External Security.

“A stint in secret service in the middle of his career as a legionnaire? What was he doing there?”

“You think it’s spelled out in black and white? All this stuff is top-priority defense secret. He knows some real movers and shakers, including most members of the Consulting Committee for Defense Secrets. We’re in the upper echelons here, Shark, and in the upper echelons there are a lot of locked boxes. When you open them, you get Pandora’s boogie jumping in your face. I’m not sure what it is you’re looking for, but I can tell you right now this guy is untouchable.”

“That’s my business. Is he in Aubagne these days?”

“Yes. I called with some bogus excuse to check.”

“Terrific. Thanks, Pops.”

“Meanwhile, we never had this conversation and I don’t want to know what you’re up to. But watch your back all the same.”

Sharko hung up. He threw a vindictive glance to his right. Eugenie had finally beat it.

He turned down the volume of the car radio, which was jangling his nerves. After the flatness of the countryside came valleys, mountains, and rivers. Valence, Montélimar, Avignon. The foothills of Provence. The temperature rose, and sun cooked his flesh through the windshield. Sharko’s throat was dry, not because of lack of water but because of Henebelle. Eugenie was right. That diminutive blonde had given his fossilized innards a real shake-up. Something was heating up in his chest, his belly, and his loins. Everything felt tangled in knots, and it hurt. It hurt because there shouldn’t have been anyone other than Suzanne. Because he was fifteen years older than Lucie, and through her eyes he could see all the flaws that had destroyed him and his family. The relentlessness, the absences, and that need to track down Evil, true Evil, until you found yourself with your back to the wall, shattered and exhausted. There was no way out of that pursuit. No closure or satisfaction.

The day was already coming to an end. Eight hours of driving behind him… eight hours to think, in part, about his plan of attack.

It was pure suicide, and he knew it.

No matter, he’d already been dead for quite a while. He’d already died so many times.

He left the Autoroute du Soleil—the Sunshine Highway—and continued another thirty miles or so on Highway A52, exiting at Aubagne. He briefly spotted the buildings of the Foreign Legion recruitment center along Highway A501. Long white containers, with perfect lines and a rigor that was purely military. A few minutes later, he turned onto Route D2, then onto a road that led him to a sentry box manned by a corporal on guard duty. White kepi, red chevrons, spotless uniform. Sharko presented his police ID.

“I’m Chief Inspector Sharko, from the Central Bureau for the Suppression of Violent Crimes. I’d like to speak to Colonel Bertrand Chastel.”

Giving the full name of his department always made an impression. Sharko explained that he was looking for a repeat offender, who had most likely joined their ranks not long ago under an assumed identity. To make more of an impact, he had piled some charges onto the so-called criminal’s record: rape, torture… The soldier asked him to wait a moment and disappeared inside his cabin. Sharko knew his ploy had worked when the man reappeared and pointed him toward the parking lot.

“You can park in a visitor space, there behind you. The colonel will see you. A second lieutenant will come get you. I just need to ask for your service revolver.”

The inspector handed it over.

His folder under his arm, he silently followed the officer who had come to fetch him. On the immaculate walls of the enclosure, the famous motto Legio patria nostra was inscribed in gilded letters. Columns of men of all nationalities—Poles, Colombians, Russians—marched in formation around the parade ground to the rhythm of military chants. Others, farther back, wearing blue sweatpants and white T-shirts, were running down the stairs at breakneck speed, urgency and fear in their eyes. Plebes…

Their extremism was frightening: these brothers in arms with their shorn heads and steely eyes were not yet thirty years old, and they were ready to die at a moment’s notice for the French flag.

Sharko’s attention was suddenly drawn by a one-story building, in front of which was a sign that read DCILE: COMMUNICATION AND INFORMATION DIVISION. He quickened his step to catch up to his guide.

“Tell me… what exactly do they do at DCILE?”

“It’s a public relations office that processes requests for information and coordinates with the news media. The production office handles promotion for the Foreign Legion throughout France and abroad.”

“Do you also have a video department? Shooting and postproduction of films for the army?”

“Yes, sir. Documentaries, promotional and commemorative films.”

“And it’s legionnaires themselves who handle this?”

“Senior military staff. Officers and noncommissioned officers from the land army, mostly. Any other questions, sir?”

“No, that’s it. Thanks.”

Sharko thought of the men who had killed the film restorer, Claude Poignet. One of them was a filmmaker attached to the military, and he was surely hidden here, safe and sound in his combat boots, in one of those huge barracks… It fit together more and more.

They arrived at the buildings for the 1st Foreign Regiment, seat of the high command, where the CO resided, the absolute authority. Sharko’s throat was dry, his hands moist, and he would have felt much less apprehensive facing a bloodthirsty killer than a decorated colonel, who had presumably devoted part of his life to serving his country. As a professional, the cop had deep respect for these soldiers and their sacrifice.