Cara Black - Murder in Belleville

“Mademoiselle Leduc, I understand a hostage has been in contact with you,” the clipped voice of Hubert Sardou, a former commissaire in the Twentieth Arrondissement, came from behind her. His long, sallow face hovered near hers.

“Please elaborate as to whom and when,” he said.

She recalled Sardou, once a colleague of her father’s, from his three-inch platform shoe, which fooled few as to his clubfoot. But now he wore the distinctive badge identifying him as part of DST, the French Internal Security Service. “Hubert feels he must prove he’s the equal to the rest of us,” her father had said. “Every day.”

“Oui, Monsieur Sardou,” she said. “Anaïs called me on my cell phone twenty minutes ago. She wants my help. Why has she been taken hostage?”

“Seems the AFL wants a bigger audience,” he said.

In stunned disbelief she stepped back. “But the AFL policy is peaceful.” Aimée wondered if Hamid’s power had been usurped by factions. Or if the “ST196” photos played into this.

“We believe an AFL member’s holding everyone in the school hostage, but so far,” Sardou shrugged, “there’s been no contact.” Sardou crinkled his face, whether in distaste or indigestion, she found it hard to tell. “We’ll take it from here. Your cell phone, please,” he said, snapping his fingers at her.

“Won’t help much,” she said, keeping her expression neutral with effort and handing it to him. “Dead battery.”

Sardou studied her phone, raised it in the air, and barked, “Alors, anyone have a battery for this phone?”

Aimée could have sworn everyone in the foyer reached in their pocket to check. The French obsession with phone communication produced a matching battery. Sardou inserted it, beckoning to a man with NEGOTIATOR in large black letters on a flak jacket. An officer copied down the number while another hooked a wire from the cell phone into a tape recorder. Several pairs of headphones were connected, and the commissaire donned one quickly.

“Call Anaïs, tell her—and this is very important—to identify which room they’re being held hostage in. An experienced negotiator wants to speak with him.” He hit Call Return and nodded to Aimée as he handed her the phone.

She heard the phone ring several times before it was answered.

“Anaïs?”

No answer, only heavy breathing.

“This is Aimée, Anaïs’s friend. Who is this?”

Sardou nodded, then put his finger to his lips.

A sob erupted, sniffles, then a child’s voice lisped. “I made pee-pee … on my new dress. Maman will be mad at me!”

Surprised looks painted the commissaire and police officers’faces. The negotiator put his hand forward but Aimée shook her head.

“Simone?” Aimée asked. “I’m Aimée, remember me? I’m your maman’s friend.”

Loud crying answered her. Obviously Simone knew her mother was in the building. Had Anaïs come to see Simone after being released from the clinic?

Aimée kept her voice even. “Simone, that’s happened to me before too. I’ll clean your dress. Where are you?”

“Can you?” The sobbing ceased.

“Of course. I’ll do a good job,” Aimée said. “No one will know the difference. Where’s your maman?”

“The clown took her.”

“A clown?”

“He took her away.”

“Took her where?”

Aimée looked to Sardou, who signaled to keep talking. Outside the window, apart from the sun-dappled trees, no sign of life showed behind the school windows. Near Aimée in the foyer, a line of marksmen stood, checking their rifles and telescopic sights.

“Maman gave me her phone. The clown got angry with her and pushed her. She whispered it was part of the game, we were playing hide-and-seek with him, so we should all run away.”

Aimée wondered what had happened to Anaïs.

The commissaire’s face tightened. A worried expression appeared in the negotiator’s eyes.

“Where are you and the other children now?” Aimée asked.

“I’m in the closet under the stairs. Everyone else ran away with my teachers,” she said. “The clown looked funny. Not like a real clown.”

“What do you mean, Simone?”

“He didn’t have balloons,” she said. “Only fat sticks that you can light like candles. He said they’ll go bouml”

Dynamite.

Aimée froze. How would they defuse a terrorist carrying dynamite in a preschool full of hiding children?

Sardou barked an order to the waiting marksmen, who straightened to attention. Blue lights flashed outside in the narrow street as a truck screeched to a halt. That meant only one thing in Paris these days: the bomb squad. Aimée forced herself to keep her voice steady.

“Simone, you’re being such a big girl! Can you remember if your maman said something? Maybe something the clown wanted?”

“He wants Bernard, the bad man. If Bernard comes we get a big glacé.”

She heard sniffling. “You’re so brave, Simone. I’ll get you an ice cream too. Did you see where they went?”

She heard rustling. Aimée figured Simone was shaking or nodding her head. “Can you tell me yes or no, Simone?”

“Up the stairs. I thought he was going to hurt her, but she said it was part of the game. I must remember one thing.”

“One thing?”

“It’s secret.”

Aimée’s knuckles were white from gripping the phone so hard. Her hands trembled. “Of course! But I can keep a secret, I’m your tante Martine’s best friend—you can tell secrets to best friends.”

“How do I know you can keep a secret, Aimée?” lisped Simone.

Aimée felt the air stir as the row of marksmen single-filed past her in their stiff military boots toward the roof. Another RAID team assembled near her. For a moment Aimée wanted to shout, “Do what your maman told you—get out, run like hell!” But she needed little Simone to guide them.

“Martine and I used to make pinkie promises. Can we pretend to do that over the phone?”

The phone tinkled, then scraped. “D’accord, Aimée. Pinkie promise.”

Aimée paused. Sardou nodded to her and motioned to keep talking. “Good, Simone. What was the secret?”

“That’s between you and her.”

“What do you mean, Simone?” Exasperated, Aimée managed to keep her voice level.

“Maman said, ‘Aimée knows how to do this, she’ll get us out.’”

“Do what, Simone?”

No answer.

“Allô? Simone?”

Simone must have set the phone down, because Aimée heard quick little footsteps, as if running, fainter and fainter. With difficulty she unclenched her fingers and handed her phone to Sardou.

Aimée watched Sardou, his head down deep in conversation with a blond-haired man.

“Pardon, Monsieur, may I talk with you?” she said.

Sardou looked up briefly, his eyes small and squinty in annoyance or anger.

“Simone is Ministre de Froissart’s daughter,” she said, “and Anaïs is his wife. Does he know?”

“That’s just been brought to my attention,” he snapped. “The minister’s en route.”

“Please, I have to go inside the école matemellel”

He seemed to ponder briefly, then shook his head. “Trained personnel will be more effective.”

“Anaïs wants me. Simone’s message …”

“Impossible,” he interrupted. “Only the bomb squad and the special mine sweeping unit can enter the target area.”

“I don’t like going over your head, Monsieur Sardou, but who’s your superior?”

“That would be me, Mademoiselle,” the blond man said, straightening up.

Startled, Aimée stared into the face of Guittard, the man who’d ushered Philippe back into the meeting. He wore a navy blue pinstriped suit and was holding a pair of padded overalls stenciled with BOMBE BRIGADE in large letters.