Franck Thilliez - Syndrome E

They walked down muffled hallways; the soldier knocked three times and stood at attention in front of the closed doorway.

“At ease! Come in!”

After introducing Sharko and executing his regulation about-face, the second lieutenant left the cop alone with the colonel, who was busy signing papers. The policeman estimated that the commanding officer must have been about his age and build, minus the pudginess and taller by an inch or two. His faultless gray crew cut further amplified the Euclidean geometry of his face. On his dark uniform, a small badge read COLONEL CHASTEL in red letters.

“I’ll ask you to wait a few more seconds.”

The superior officer raised his ice-blue eyes, then went back to his chore without exhibiting any particular emotion. If the colonel was involved in the affair, Sharko thought, if he had kept up with the news following the discovery of the bodies in Gravenchon, he would certainly know Sharko’s face, who he was. If so, had he been steeling himself for this visit since the corporal on guard had called ahead? Or had he simply not recognized him?

While Chastel signed papers, Sharko took the opportunity to check out the office. The seven articles of the legionnaire’s code of honor dominated a bay window that looked out on the parade ground. The walls were covered with countless commemorative plaques and photos, in which the colonel, at various ages, posed alone or with his regiment. The ocher soil and dust of Afghanistan, the shattered structures of Beirut, the exuberance of the Amazonian jungle… A muffled violence radiated from those faces with their sharply etched features, from those fingers clutching their assault rifles. At bottom, these pictures showed nothing other than war, conflict, death, and in the middle of it all, men who felt at home there.

The colonel finally stacked up his papers and pushed them to the edge of his impeccably neat desk. There was no other chair. Here, one tended to remain standing, at attention.

“I still envy those years when no one had heard of paperwork. May I see your ID?”

“Of course.”

Sharko handed it over. The officer looked at it scrupulously before giving it back. His fingers were thick, his nails well manicured. Like Sharko, he had left the field some time ago.

“You are looking for someone in our ranks who committed murder, if I’ve understood correctly. And you’ve come to arrest him on your own?”

His voice was deep, monolithic, rough. If he was dissimulating, he was good at it.

“For now, we’re only at the investigation stage. A surveillance camera proved that his vehicle was present about ten miles from Aubagne, at the A52 tollbooth. But there’s no trace of the same vehicle when you get to the A50. Therefore, he has to have stopped between the two.”

“Have you found the vehicle?”

“Not yet, but we’re working on it.”

Colonel Chastel shook the mouse of his computer, then typed what was no doubt a password on the keyboard.

“You are surely aware that the Legion does not recruit men who have committed rape or murder?”

“He probably used a false identity.”

“Not very likely. Give me his name.”

Sharko looked him in the eye, as deeply as he could. It was there, soon, in the flash of an instant, that he had to catch the tiny sparkle that could turn everything around. He undid the elastics holding his folder shut and took out an enlarged photo. He placed it on the desk, facedown on the wood.

“It’s all on there.”

Bertrand Chastel pulled the sheet toward him and turned it over.

The photo showed Mohamed Abane when he was alive. A close-up of his face.

Chastel should have reacted. Nothing—not the slightest emotion on his closed features.

Sharko clenched his jaws. It couldn’t be. The inspector felt destabilized, but tried not to show it and to stay on point.

“As it says under the photo, he must have presented himself here under the name Akim Abane.”

The legionnaire pushed the sheet back toward Sharko.

“Sorry, but I’ve never seen him.”

Not a tremble in his voice, lips, or fingers. Sharko took back the picture, his brows knit.

“I imagine you can’t see every new face that joins your ranks. In fact, I was rather expecting you to type his name into the computer, as you were getting ready to do before I showed you his portrait.”

A short pause. Too long, deemed Sharko. Nonetheless, Chastel lost none of his composure or self-possession. Thick-skinned, this one.

“Nothing happens here without my knowing or seeing it. But if it will reassure you.”

He typed the information into the computer and turned the screen toward Sharko.

“Nothing.”

“You didn’t need to show me the screen—I would have taken you at your word.”

With a firm motion, Chastel pulled the monitor back toward himself.

“I’m quite busy. Second Lieutenant Brachet will see you to the exit gate. Good luck with your fugitive.”

Sharko hesitated. He couldn’t leave like this, with all these doubts. Just as Chastel moved to pick up his phone, Sharko leaned toward him and pressed on his hand, forcing him to put the receiver back in the cradle. This time, he knew he was crossing the line, and that it could all come tumbling down.

“I don’t know how you knew I’d show up here, but don’t try to fuck with me.”

“Remove your hand at once.”

Sharko pushed his face to within four inches of the officer’s. He went straight to the point, all or nothing.

“Syndrome E. I know all about it. For God’s sake, why the fuck else do you think I’d be here?”

This time Chastel registered the blow and couldn’t entirely hide his astonishment: eyes wandering, temporal bones rolling beneath the skin. A bead of sweat pearled on his forehead, despite the air-conditioning. He kept his hand on the phone.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yes, you do! You know exactly! What I don’t get is how you managed to keep so cool when you saw Abane’s portrait. Even someone like you can’t have that much self-control. How did you know? How did you—?”

Sharko squinted.

“Microphones.”

He straightened up, hands pressed against his temples.

“Good God almighty. You went to my place and planted bugs.”

Chastel bolted to his feet, fists planted on his desk like a gorilla.

“I promise you’re going to regret coming here and threatening me. You can expect your career to come to a very sudden end.”

Sharko gave him a vicious smile. He went back on the attack.

“I’m here on my own. Nobody’s aware of my trip to Aubagne, as you already know. And if it eases your mind any, we won’t be launching any investigations against the Legion. Everyone is in agreement: Mohamed Abane, or rather Akim Abane—call him what you want—was never here.”

“You are completely insane. What you’re saying makes no sense.”

“So insane that I’m going to ask you for money, Colonel Chastel. A lot of money. Let’s say a tidy sum, enough to let me resign and afford a nice, comfortable retirement. But a mere drop in the bucket for the DGSE slush fund. You think I want to keep shoveling shit for the rest of my life?”

Sharko didn’t give him time to answer; he had to move fast. He pulled a sheet of paper from his folder and slapped it down in front of the legionnaire.

“The proof of my good faith.”

Chastel deigned to lower his eyes.

“What’s this, GPS coordinates? What does this mean?”

“If you or your friends ever take a little jaunt to Egypt—you never know—this is where you’ll find the body of a certain Atef Abd el-Aal, a Cairene sentinel. Unless you already knew about this too? Give this paper to the French or Egyptian authorities and I’ll spend the rest of my days in prison.”