Cara Black - Murder in Belleville

“Minister Guittard of the Ministry of the Interior,” he said. His hard green eyes crinkled in amusement. “I neglected to catch your name, Mademoiselle.”

“Leduc, Aimée Leduc. But we’ve met twice, Monsieur le Mmistre,” she said. “A week ago in Philippe de Froissart’s kitchen.” Already she liked him less than before, and that wasn’t much. It had nothing to do with his perfectly brushed hair or onceover look of appraisal.

“But of course,” he said, perplexed for an instant. “Aren’t you an actress?”

“Does this hostage situation involve the project you were meeting about in de Froissart’s office?”

“Aaah,” he nodded, recognizing her. “That was you. I don’t know what you mean.”

“That’s Philippe’s daughter in there. Does it have something to do with—”

“It’s the AFL, Mademoiselle.”

Guittard turned, stepping into overalls.

“Minister, there’s something only I can do.”

“Now what would that be?” He bent to snap on the overalls and cocked his head toward her. As if, she thought, encouraging whispered confidences. She imagined he spent most of his weekends in a country house.

“You heard what Simone said—”

“That you ‘know how to do this’?” he interrupted. “Enlighten me, please, as to what ‘this’is.”

“Believe me, if I could, I would,” she said. “For the life of me, I don’t know.” Her eyes lit up. “If the school has a computer, I can get in the system.”

Sardou shook his head. “The school’s philosophy dictates only wooden materials. No plastic, nothing machine made. An elite preschool, where the pampered ones are allowed to get dirty and elemental. They go home to the Barbies and computers.”

Minister Guittard rolled his French cuffs under the flak jacket. “Beside computers, what else can you do?” His amused expression had returned. An aide approached with a cell phone and handed it to him.

She thought back to the taxi ride with Anaïs, and Sylvie’s Fat’ma. The Fat’ma had turned into a dead end. But Aimée had discovered the “ST196” photos and Youssefa’s statement about the humanitarian mission being a sham. And she remembered Anaïs’s words in the clinic. “You’ve got to find out why … nothing will be over until then,” and her mention of the General.

“You’ve thought of something, haven’t you?” Guittard’s eyes bored into hers.

Aimée started guiltily. “Are you sure the school office has no computer?”

He turned to Sardou. “Find out.”

But maybe Anaïs had meant something totally different.

“Stay here. If you get any more ideas, tell the commissaire.” He trundled a headset over his head.

“Where are you going, Minister Guittard?” she said.

“To tempt the fox,” he said.

“How can you do that?”

The whirring of helicopter blades came from outside the foyer. Fine sprays of dust rose; heavy aviation fuel exhaust blew in from the street.

“With the golden goose,” he said.

The flash of photographer’s bulbs caught Guittard near the helicopter, and she figured he’d suited up specifically for the photo op. The man bundled out of the helicopter looked no more goose-like than golden. Wiry, tall, and with dark pouches under his eyes, he appeared more like an advertisement for the perfect Club Med candidate in need of serious vacances. His crumpled suit hung off his body, and the wind from the helicopter blades whipped his gray hair across his face. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.

“Who’s that?” someone asked.

“Bernard, the bad man, would be my guess,” she said.

Behind her an earnest Sardou spoke into his headset. He motioned her down the hall as the Guittard entourage mounted the stairway. Aimée figured they were going to freeze her out of the action. She had to remedy that.

A RAID worker in a Kevlar suit escorted her to a deserted part of the landing, around the corner, and away from the crowd. She stumbled on purpose and grabbed his vest for balance, pocketing his ID badge.

“Ça va?” he asked, not unkindly.

“Merci, I’m so clumsy,” she said.

He left her there. For the first time she realized that she had no bomb protection, not to mention being the only woman.

Shunted out of the way, Aimée started planning her own route into the school building. Nobody would help her; she’d have to figure one out herself.

Midday Monday

BERNARD BERGE STOOD IN the scurrying sea of police activity. Around him buzzed two-way radio static, the clomp of boots, and the low, meaningful hum of whispered asides. If only he could get his fingers to work and put this headset on, his lifeline, they’d called it, whereby he’d be assured of constant communication with the negotiating team.

“What do I say—I mean to the hostage taker’s demands?” His hands trembled attempting to mount the headset.

“Discuss the ramifications,” Minister Guittard said, snapping his flak jacket closed and turning to his entourage.

“But, Minister, will he understand?”

“Berge has a point,” Sardou said, consulting a printout. “This man, Rachid, twenty-six years old, is a recent immigrant from Oran, Algeria. He’s a dishwasher in the mosque tearoom.”

“Find out what he wants, what the AFL wants,” Guittard turned back to Bernard. “Agree to anything he says.”

Bernard swallowed hard. “You mean, I have the power—”

Guittard cut him off, “Promise him a Swiss bank account, a private jet back to Oran, whatever it takes to get him in front of that window.” He pointed to the window directly in the crosshairs of the crack shot team on the opposite roof. “Do you understand, Directeur Berge?”

Berge nodded uneasily. He noticed Sardou’s hawklike gaze.

“Then I’ve made myself clear, n’est-ce pas?” He grinned and slapped Berge on the back. “The ministry counts itself fortunate to have men such as you!”

A loud clamor of shouting reached their ears. The CRS captain joined them, breathless. He wore plastic gloves and held an envelope.

“Thrown out of the third-floor window, sir,” he said.

Sardou yelled orders to a white-coated technician, who spread plastic over a wood-planked table. A lab crew assembled powders, brushes, and chemicals in assorted colored vials.

“ Merci , captain. Put the envelope on the table.”

While one technician treated the envelope to a quick array of powder tests, the others extracted the contents with tweezers.

Guittard, unable to disguise his impatience, appeared ready to grab the contents.

“We must see if this is from Rachid, Minister,” he said. “It could be from one of the hostages, giving us clues to their location.”

Bernard Berge winced.

A crayoned picture of what was clearly a spired church, brown-skinned people inside, and a man with dark bags under his eyes, holding a little navy blue book. A small stick drawing of a man, tubes drawn about his chest was signed in a crude hand, “le Bombe Humain.” The negotiator studied the drawing.

“He’s calling himself the Human Bomb,” he said.

After a few more minutes he turned to Bernard. “That’s you. He knows your face well. I’d guess the navy blue book would be residence permits. He’ll give himself to you if the immigrants are released from prison.” The negotiator turned toward the group. “He’s illiterate also. That’s my interpretation.”

Minister Guittard’s piercing eyes held Bernard’s. “Good,” he said, rubbing his hands. “You know what to do.”

Bernard Berge nodded. “Minister, there’s one issue I want to clarify.”

“Vite,” Guittard said, tapping his fingers on Bernard Berge’s shoulder. “You must go inside now.”