“Hamid’s weakened condition demands attention,” Bernard said to le Ministre. “Setting him up as a martyr, canonized by the immigrants, is the last thing we want.”
“And what do you propose to do about that?” le Ministre asked.
A rustling came from the minister’s end as he put his hand over the phone. Bernard heard applause and murmuring voices in the background.
“A tactic to diffuse his power,” Bernard said.
He explained his plan.
Three minutes later the minister agreed, with one caveat. “He’s out, Berge. Or you are.”
Tuesday Early Evening
AIMÉE HAD DEPOSITED MOMO, a well-coiffed shih tzu, at Serge’s mother-in-law’s, declining tea despite the insistent invitation. More than a month had passed, she realized guiltily, since she’d taken Miles Davis for a trim.
In her office, she rang Philippe again, but he was out. His secretary promised to reach him and have him get back to her. She worried. Anaïs hadn’t returned her calls either.
Aimée stood reading Serge’s unfolding fax over René’s shoulder.
“The Yvette’s identity hasn’t yet been established,” Aimée said as she read the report. “But Anaïs identified her as Sylvie Coudray. Yet the neighbor and the custodian referred to her as Eugénie. According to this the National Fichier in Nantes hasn’t ID’d her, either.”
She shook her head, unable to figure it out. The Fichier, known for quick response time, held all kinds of information: drivers’ license number, carte bancaire, and carte rationale d’identité among others.
“What’s next?” René asked.
“Why don’t you try to access Sylvie Coudray’s Securite sociale and Eugénie Grandet’s—if she exists—while you’re at it.”
“You mean the name ‘Eugénie,’ the alias she used?”
“So far that’s the only thing I have to go on,” she said. “But we need proof.”
“I used to have a friend in Nantes,” René said. “Let me see if she’s still there.” He made a face. “Saves me much more time if you’ve got the woman’s carte bancaire.” His eyes gleamed. “I could hack the chip on her card and get into her account.”
“Wish I did,” she said.
“Tiens, Aimie, I prefer that to the 128-bit encryption system at Banque de France.”
“I’m impressed, René,” she said, letting out a low whistle.
“Banque de France is a royal pain to maneuver!” he said. “I haven’t cracked all their encryptions yet.” He spread his arms from the edge of her desk indicating as far as the wall. “Only about that long. But take away the best years of my life and I will.”
“Save your brain for the important stuff, René,” she said. “Like our rent!”
“Bien sûr, but I’ll stop at your apartment for some software. If I get hold of my friend, I might be able to navigate the Fichier in Nantes,” René said. “Besides, I’ve got a bag of bones for Miles Davis.”
“You’re just trying to get on Miles Davis’s good side,” she said.
“Check out the Duplo,” René said. He scanned the fax. “Interesting explosive to use.”
She’d wondered about that, too.
“Why use Duplo?” Aimée asked.
“Instead of the more easily available Eastern-bloc explosive, Semtex? Good question.” René replied. “Word is the fundamentalists like Semtex.”
Aimée’s eyes widened at Renéws knowledge.
“Have the flics blamed it on the fundamentalists yet?” she said. “That’s standard procedure.” Every time there was a bombing, the media referred to it as an Arabe incident in the same breath. The inherent racism made her sick.
She walked to their oval window overlooking rue du Louvre, giving herself time to think. The truth could lie somewhere in between. If the fundamentalists wanted to kill Anaïs, a minister’s wife, they’d botched the job. But why? The victim hadn’t been identified, Anaïs’s name hadn’t been mentioned, and no group had claimed credit.
“Let’s say the fundamentalists want no connection to this,” she said, “or they have no connection.”
“Life is full of possibilities,” René said. “But I’d say the latter. Mafioso-types and the criminal element use commercial stuff like Duplo.”
“Look here,” Aimée said, pointing at the last paragraph in the report. “Traces of a circuit board found indicate it was Swiss-made—an electronic switch manufactured in Bern. They meant business.”
“The timing feels off, Aimée,” René said, cocking his head sideways. “I thought you left Gaston’s café around seven-fifteen, which gave you time to walk there, try the door, go up the street, and then return to number 20 bis.” He paused and pointed to the report. “According to this the explosion occurred at eight o’clock. First on the scene were the pompiers, then a SAMU at eight-twenty followed by the bomb squad, which arrived at eight thirty-five. The bomb squad did its documentation and recovery; then the chemical analyses began two hours later.”
“Attends, René,” Aimée said. She grabbed a black marker, taped a sheet of newsprint to the wall, jotted down 7:15, then drew a thick arrow.
“Go on,” she said.
“Didn’t you say that when the flics came you hopped like a bunny over the wall?” René asked.
The grunting, heaving lunge of a sea lion seemed a more apt description. But she kept that to herself.
“Well, I heard sirens and they said, ‘Open up!’ ” She stopped writing, her marker held in midair. As she and Anaïs pulled into rue Sainte-Marthe, she remembered seeing a SAMU van and thinking how quickly someone had called the ambulance. It would have been 8:10 at the latest.
“According to this report,” René said, “a tenant, Jules Denet, one street over, said that after the explosion he heard suspicious noises in the courtyard.
René punched the paper with his stubby fingers.
She thought back to the SAMU, then nodded. “Then there were two SAMU vans,” she said. “The other one came at eight-twenty.”
“It’s pretty coincidental that another SAMU van would respond but not be listed on the report or log in with the other SAMU crew. So if it wasn’t emergency or the flics—who was it?” René asked.
Aimée tacked the fax next to the timeline. Stared at it. Not only were the times off, but something didn’t add up. She stood back and opened the oval office window, letting in dull light and diesel fumes from rue du Louvre. She paced to the door, flicked on the office light, then paced back to her desk.
“Follow this logic, René,” she said. “Say whoever planted the bomb hung nearby to activate it or make sure the thing went off. I remember hearing some Arabe music just before the bomb exploded. Maybe they planned on blowing up Anaïs too—are you with me here?”
“Go on,” he said.
“What if they used a SAMU van as a fake, maybe parked nearby to set off the bomb,” she said. “Or they wanted what Sylvie gave Anaïs and figured on grabbing Anaïs.”
“But you disturbed the scenario?” René interrupted excitedly.
“Exactly,” she said. She closed the window and faced René\
“I think what the neighbor Denet heard was Anaïs and me. I wonder if he saw something more than that?”
René nodded.
“I better go find out.”
Wednesday