Cara Black - Murder in Belleville

“Figure this. If Dédé knows everybody in Belleville,” René said, “he might be the one people use to reach the Maghrébin network.”

“Good point,” she said. “But first we’ve got some bank tunneling to do.”

By the time she’d checked the links from Sylvie’s Channel Island bank, she’d found the money transfers.

“Look René, the deposits come from the Bank of Algiers,” she said, excited. “Several million each time.”

René pulled up the Bank of Algiers account on his screen then clicked away. “I found them,” he pointed. “Here, wire trans-fers come from AINwar Enterprises.”

Aimée peered at his screen, seeing a long list of wire transfers. She sat back down; something familiar tugged at her.

“Why would AINwar Enterprises pass amounts via the Bank of Algiers to a Channel Island account in Eugénie Grandet’s name,” Aimée said. She swiveled her chair to the office terminal and logged on.

“Smells bad to me,” René said.

“Guess it’s time to find out about AINwar.”

After she dug into an Arab net server, she’d discovered the company’s charter and by-laws of incorporation, required by the French government for any contract.

Nothing illegal in that.

Then it hit her. The night of the explosion. Philippe introduced her to Kaseem Nwar. Kaseem had been with Olivier Guit-tard, both intent on Philippe’s passing some project and humanitarian mission. She remembered Philippe’s strained reaction and how he got her out of there quickly. Then she’d seen him again in the café in Belleville. Was Kaseem Nwar part of AINwar?

She accessed the company records; Downloading took time.

Aimée thought back to those photos of people with numbers pinned to them. All Algerian.

Curious, on her office computer she started accessing information about AINwar while René concentrated on Philippe de Froissart’s account. She kept digging for the company structure, list of shareholders and employees. When she found them, she stood up and whistled.

“Kaseem Nwar’s the director,” she said. “Appears he’s into nepotism.”

“Why?”

“Most of the employees and shareholders are Nwars, too.”

“What kind of firm?” René asked. “Heavy machinery or something to do with oil?”

She shook her head.

“Jewelry importer,” she said. Odd. “How does that fit with aproject in connection with humanitarian aid?”

“Pearls for the masses?”

“That’s it, René,” she said, grabbing his arm excitedly. “Pearls! The Lake Biwa pearl. I keep saying you’re a genius. And you are.”

He grinned. “I’m never one to refuse a compliment, but where does that fit?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’m getting there,” she said, unable to sit down. She paced back and forth.

It was all there. Somehow. She had to piece it together. Figure out where the odd bits went. One big piece was Mustafa Hamid and the AFL; she felt they were part of it. In some way they belonged.

“AINwar sent huge sums to Sylvie,” she said. “Why? Were they bribes for Philippe so contracts went AINwar’s way?”

“But a jewelry business?” René” asked. “Unless AINwar fronts another kind of company?”

She sat back down and searched AINwar’s records. Two firms were listed as subsidiaries; NadraCo and AtraAl Inc.

But she could find nothing more.

René couldn’t break into the Banque de France. They were blocked at every turn.

He stood up and stretched.

“Aimée, if the bribes came in, they’re hidden,” René said, sucking air through his lips. “Takes time to unearth them. All my tools sit in my database at home.”

René left, promising to call her when he found anything.

Frustrated, she knew more information existed. How to find it was the problem.

Start simple. Go with what she knew.

She logged on to the Ministry of Defense. Using a secure government password, one of many René kept current, courtesy of his ever-changing connections, she found a list of ministry-funded projects. Then she refined her search to projects under funding consideration.

Hundreds.

She took a breath and narrowed her topic to those involving Algeria. The list slimmed down considerably. While the list printed out, she sat down at René’s desk.

On his terminal she accessed the National Fichier via Renéws connection, because if the government didn’t catch you when you were born, they always caught up when you checked out.

She knew that Algeria, at the time of Mustafa Hamid and his brother Sidi’s birth, was regarded by France as more than a colony. Even more than an extension of France across the Mediterranean—a department. However, this wasn’t reckoned with in actual voting terms. Unable to vote, Algerians belonged to the Republique like a member of the wedding but never the bride.

If Hamid or Sidi emigrated to France, she figured, they would probably have paid some application fee, surcharge, or tax.

In Hamid’s case she found his carte banccdre via his date of birth and S écurité sociale. No names were listed as next of kin, only a Sidi, H., as father, and Sidi, S., for mother, both entered as deceased. She entered Djeloul Sidi’s name. His wife’s maiden name, El Hechiri, appeared.

Aimée’s eyes widened as she saw a cross reference to Kaseem Nwar. That seemed odd.

Further on, records indicated that El Hechiri had been married to Kaseem Nwar from 1968 to 1979. Aimée peered closer, then scrolled back. Sidi’s records showed he’d been married to El Hechiri during 1968-1979, the same years.

Aimée sat back and whistled. He’d changed his name, and the computer hadn’t caught it—just cross-referenced it.

She remembered him appearing in the café, telling her how he’d brought food to the sans-papiers —why hadn’t he just said, “I saw my brother.”

Come to think of it, why hadn’t he admitted he sent Sylvie millions of francs and Lake Biwa pearls? But then she hadn’t asked him, either.

She scanned the Algerian project list, running her fingers over the names, ticking them off until she found a name that struck her.

Taking the list to her wall map of Algeria, she followed the course of the Atlas Mountains and pinpointed the area south of Oran. Once a rebel fellagha stronghold against the French, the area had then become a munitions-dump wasteland, now declared off limits by the military.

Staggered, she sat down. It was hard for her to believe what she’d discovered.

She knew what she had to do.

Her charged phone signaled several voice mail messages. She tried not to hope, wondering if Yves had left her a message. But when she listened, all three were from the same person.

“Aimée,” Samia’s voice, high, shallow-breathing. “Pick up!”

Again the same message. Samia’s voice rising, sounding frantic.

The last message just a phone number, mumbled quickly. Samia. Very frightened.

Aimée listened to the number several times to make sure she’d written it correctly. Had Samia come through with the explosives connection? And should she believe her? The last time she had, Aimée had been shot.

Aimée hit the call-back function. A woman answered, saying this was a pay phone in rue des Amandiers, but if Aimée would like to buy Ecstasy she’d give her a good price.

She hung up and dialed the number Samia had left.

“Oui,” a voice answered after six rings.

“Samia gave me this number,” she said, keeping it vague.

A pause. “Who is this?”

“Aimée. Is Samia there?”

Another long pause. “I expected her by now.”

“I’d like to come over.”

“Call back.”