Franck Thilliez - Syndrome E

“This is all my fault.”

And he told her: his visit to Legion HQ, Colonel Chastel, his bluff, the photo of the young woman with her face circled in red. That same young woman sucked noisily on her straw as she took in the news.

“So that’s why you finally agreed to let me come here—for four days, no less. You wanted to go it alone.”

“I just wanted to keep you from doing something foolish.”

“You shouldn’t have. Those soldiers could have killed you. They could have—”

“Let it go. What’s done is done.”

Lucie nodded limply.

“What happens now? For me here in Canada, I mean?”

“The RCMP will take care of the paperwork to allow you to return to France. For the police, the case is just about establishing what went down at the cabin. Our department and the Sûreté in Montreal will handle the rest—meaning the huge shithole we’re in up to our necks. They’re also trying to find out the identity of your seatmate on the plane, Rotenberg’s killer.”

“Blond, crew cut, solid build, combat boots. Under thirty. It’s one of the two guys we’ve been looking for since the beginning.”

“Probably so.”

“Definitely so. And what about the key the lawyer gave me before he died? Any news?”

“They’re checking to see what it belongs to. It’s got a number, so they’re thinking a locker somewhere. Maybe the post office or a train station. In any case, they’ll keep us posted. And… nice work at the archives, Henebelle.”

“Deep down, you didn’t believe in it. Am I right?”

“In the lead? Not really. But in you, yes. I believed in you the minute I saw you get off the train, that first time at Gare du Nord.”

Lucie took in the compliment. She gave him a smile and couldn’t repress a yawn.

“Oops, excuse me.”

“Let’s hit the road and get you back to the hotel. How long has it been since you slept?”

“A long time. But we have to try to find Sister Marie du Calvaire. We have to—”

“Tomorrow. I don’t feel like having to scrape you up off the ground.”

For once, Lucie gave in without even trying to argue. The fact was, she was worn out.

“Let me just make a pit stop and we’ll get going.”

Sharko watched her walk away. He would have liked to hold her in his arms, reassure her, tell her everything would be all right. But for now, his jaws remained far too paralyzed to form tender words. He finished his beer and went to wait outside. He made a quick call to Leclerc to let him know everything was okay. The head of Violent Crimes told him he’d be seeing judges and senior officials at the ministry of defense within the day, to start legal proceedings that would allow them to investigate the Foreign Legion and determine whether Mohamed Abane had actually joined.

When he hung up, the chief inspector felt as if things were finally taking huge steps forward.

“Ithought I’d find you here.”

Sharko let himself be surprised by the lilting female voice behind him. Sitting in an armchair in the hotel bar, he was quietly sipping a whiskey in the dim light while reading over his list of SIGN participants. The place was elegant without going overboard: light-colored carpet, thick red cushions on the seats, walls lined in black velvet. As she came up, Lucie noticed the glass of mint soda sitting on the table.

“Oh, are you waiting for someone?”

“No, no one. The glass was there already.”

He didn’t say any more. Lucie remained standing and spread her arms in a sign of resignation.

“Apologies for the outfit. Jeans aren’t very dressy, but I really hadn’t been planning to go out at night.”

Sharko gave her a weary smile.

“I thought you were going to get some sleep.”

“I thought so too.”

Lucie walked over to one of the empty chairs facing him and moved to sit down.

“No, not that one!”

She straightened up, startled.

“You liar—you are waiting for someone! I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Don’t be silly. That chair wobbles. What can I get you?”

“A screwdriver. Heavy on the vodka, light on the OJ. I could stand to decompress.”

Sharko emptied his glass and headed to the bar. Lucie watched him go. He’d changed his clothes, rubbed a dab of gel in his salt-and-pepper brush cut, and put on aftershave. He walked with style. Lucie looked over the papers he’d left in his chair. Last names, first names, birth dates, job titles. Some had been crossed out. With his devil-may-care facade, Sharko gave an impression of indifference, but in fact he never quit.

The inspector returned with two glasses and handed one to Lucie, who had slid her chair closer to his. She nodded toward the lists.

“Those are the scientists who were in Cairo at the time of the murders, right?”

“Two hundred and seventeen of them, to be precise. Between the ages of twenty-two and seventy-three at the time. If the killers in Cairo are the same as in Gravenchon, we have to add sixteen years. That eliminates a number of them right off the bat.”

He stacked up the sheets, folded them, and slid them in his pocket.

“I’ve got some fresh bad news, which in fact is good news. Shall we get it over with?”

“Yes, please. You once told me there was a time for everything. And right now, I really, really need to relax.”

“Here it is. Colonel Bernard Chastel was found at his home today. He ate his service revolver this morning.”

Lucie took a moment to absorb the development.

“Are they certain it’s suicide?”

“The ME and the detectives had no doubts. I’ll spare you the details. And another bit of news: according to the airline, the guy sitting next to you was named Julien Manoeuvre. Career military, assigned to DCILE, the communication and information branch of the Foreign Legion. The department that makes films for the army.”

“Our filmmaking killer… The man with the combat boots…”

“The same. As if by chance, Manoeuvre happened to be on leave at the start of our case. Leave personally authorized by Chastel. Later, when Chastel saw that things were starting to go south, especially with my visit to his office and what happened here, he killed himself. No doubt he took precautions and got rid of anything that could compromise him.”

“So he was involved up to his neck. He knew about the murders.”

“Most likely. And one more thing—hold on tight for this one.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“A search of Manoeuvre’s place turned up a number of lists of films being transferred among the world’s major cinema archives. You remember the FIAF Web site your chief told us about? That’s how he found out about the reel two years ago. He must have gone immediately to FIAF to ask for films from 1955, except that someone had already stolen the one he was looking for. A collector we know well.”

“Szpilman.”

“That’s right, Szpilman. So Manoeuvre, after getting this close, lost the scent, but he didn’t give up. He must have continued asking around, keeping an eye on film exchanges and want ads, especially from Belgium. And that’s how he finally ended up at Szpilman Junior’s house after the old man died.”

“But it’s crazy—all this effort just to get hold of a film.”

“As long as copies existed, Chastel and the others behind this whole mess were fucked. Manoeuvre was just a pawn, an operative. So was Chastel, probably, but at a higher level.”

“This time, tell me there’s going to be an official investigation into the Legion.”

“Yes. And with luck, it will loosen some tongues, and all those warrants will lead somewhere. Let’s not forget that there are probably two killers. Manoeuvre was one, but the other one, the one who removes the brains, is probably here on this list. And he probably acted alone in Egypt, since Manoeuvre was much too young.”