“Makes no difference,” the terrorist yawned. “I’ll use her.”
Bernard’s legs wobbled; they didn’t support him any more. Lightheaded and dizzy, he reached to steady himself against the woman’s chair. He missed. Around him the angle of light spun and shifted. He hit the ground heavy and hard. What must have been moments later, he grew aware of myriad sharp splinters in his arms.
The woman erupted from her chair screaming, kicking at the terrorist’s legs. He tripped over the dazed Bernard and let out a roar. He landed headfirst against the wall and crumpled onto his machine gun. Deafening shots erupted into his chest. His black torso twitched as the round drilled into him. His body fell sideways.
Bernard realized the woman had gone. He was alone. Alone with a dead terrorist oozing guts onto the pebble-like plaster. What should he do? Wouldn’t Rachid have heard the bullets?
He rolled the stocky corpse over and slid out the machine gun, sticky with blood.
Bernard pulled off the man’s black mask. He saw the stubbled slack] aw and vacancy of death. For the first time in Bernard’s life, he felt no fear at death. A curious relief flooded him.
And then Bernard decided. He would no doubt join little André, who had beckoned him at night for so long. But first he would save the children, since he hadn’t been able to save his brother.
He would make up for the past.
Bernard unzipped and removed the terrorist’s jumpsuit, a laborious process, rolling down the sleeves, then shimmying the cloth over shoulders and thick, lifeless hips. Then the heavy boots, which he wiped off, then put on. He put on the ski mask. In the zippered side pocket he found a fresh bullet cartridge.
By the time he trailed down two flights of stairs wearing the black mask, his fingers had clamped rock steady on the trigger. He liked the way the solid curve molded to his finger. A creaking on the narrow landing caused him to stop.
Light from a wall sconce illuminated a trail of greasy fingerprints. Wedged under the metal-railed staircase, almost unotice-able, was the outline of a small door. He tiptoed across the floor, cocked his ear to the door, and listened. From time to time, he heard childlike whispers and strident beeping.
“Stay calm, I’m a friend,” he said, opening the door slowly. A figure crouched behind cleansers and dust mops. “Let me help you, little boy.”
“My name’s Simone,” said a glaring little face. She emerged slowly, holding a cell phone and cradling a worn brown-furred teddy bear in her arms. “This game is boring,” she coughed and choked back sniffles. “I want to go home!”
Bernard knelt down, stiff and awkward in the jumpsuit, his arms full with the gun. “So do I,” he said.
“You’re not allowed to!” she said wiping her runny nose with her sleeve.
“My name’s Bernard.”
“You’re the bad man.”
“Let me explain—” he began.
“Where’s my maman?” she lisped.
Was this the woman upstairs? “Tell me what she looks like.”
“You pushed her,” Simone said, her voice climbing higher. “I saw you. Not fair. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to push people.”
“But it wasn’t me.”
“Liar!”
As Bernard reached to brace himself, Simone shut the door on his fingers. He lurched in pain, pulled his hand out, and stumbled backward. With a sharp crack his head hit the railing and he crumpled. The machine gun slid from his grasp, and the cartridge round clattered from his pocket onto the parquetry.
Crouched on her knees, Simone peered out of the door. The bad man looked asleep. She’d hurt him. Good—that would teach him not to push people! Rules were rules, but sometimes you had to learn the hard way, like Papa said, give people doses of medicine…. What had he said? Anyway, something like that.
Her stomach growled, and it was too hot in that closet. Time to find her maman and a buttered tartine. She’d won over the bad man. They could go home now.
Just in case no one believed her she lifted the gun. So heavy and ugly. Too bad; it would never fit in her Tintin bookbag. She slung the strap over her shoulder but the gun scraped the floor. Looping it three times around her neck did the trick. She picked up the smooth black cartridge filled with bullets and shoved it in the empty gun slot, like they did on the télé. She sighed. So heavy, and what a lot to carry!
And teddy bear, he didn’t like all this bumping. She stuck him between the gun straps and hoped he wouldn’t mind such tight quarters. After taking the stairs one at a time and holding the rail with her free hand, she remembered the phone and trudged back. Teddy would get cross with all this to-ing and fro-ing. She grabbed the phone from the metal mop pail in the closet and a green light flashed. Maybe it worked now. She hit the button Maman had showed her, the one with the big letter she couldn’t remember.
AIMÉE’s NEW cell phone, connected to her previous number, rang. Even though she’d told Yves to get lost, she hoped it might be him. Get ahold of yourself. No time to be waylaid by visions of Yves’s sideburns.
“Aimée Leduc speaking,” she said, making her tone businesslike.
“A flic’s picking you up!” Sardou barked. “Get over here now!”
She started to speak, but a siren announced a motorcycle policeman outside the café.
When she arrived at the temporary headquarters, Sardou looked ready to spit bullets.
“Simone will only talk with you,” he said thrusting the cell phone at her.
Aimée took a deep breath.
“Simone?” Aimée said, her knuckles white as she clutched the phone.
“Tell everybody I won, Aimie,” the tired child’s voice said.
Something clacked in the background, heavy and metallic sounding. A brief series of clicks, and Aimée realized that Sardou was monitoring the call. What a primitive tracing system these flics had—René’ would laugh, but this wasn’t funny.
“You can talk to me, Simone, I’m a policeman and want to help you,” Sardou said.
“That’s what the bad man told me,” Simone said, sounding more tired. “But I took care of him. So stop talking.”
“Simone, tell me what’s happened, okay?” Aimée coaxed, keeping her voice light. “Just a little. You’ll tell me more over hot chocolate in the café, eh?”
Simone yawned. Sardou kept silent.
“Aha, you must be the Orangina type, eh?” Aimée giggled, hoping her giggle sounded real.
“Do I get a grande Orangina even though Maman says I get a stomachache from cold drinks?”
“How about a double?” Aimée asked.
“I put a bad man to sleep and took his gun,” Simone said.
“Where are you?” Sardou interrupted.
“But Aimée,” Simone sobbed, tears caught in her throat. “Where’s Maman?”
“Look Simone, my name is Sardou. I can help—”
“You’re with the bad man, I know,” Simone said. She hung up with a loud click.
Here was four-year-old Simone wandering around with a gun, and Sardou had pissed her off! And no contact from Anaïs. Aimée shuddered, she pushed possible scenarios from her mind.
Sardou muttered over the buzzing line. Her hands tensed around the phone. She must remain calm and collected. She took a deep breath.
“Sardou, when I hit the Return Call button, let me do the talking. Don’t you agree it’s called for in this situation?”
That sounded diplomatic, she thought. For what seemed a minute all she heard was the buzz and click of the other line. Sardou must be conferring with others.
“Make sure she gets Rachid by the window,” he finally said.
Flustered, Aimée measured her words. “How do you propose a little girl would do that? Rachid isn’t stupid.”