“That’s how you react after having your clitoris cut off because of Islam? You think it was right and proper for your father’s religion to lop off one of your body parts so you could never enjoy having sex?”
“Islam is submission,” Haja said. “Submission to God’s will. Once I submitted, I was able to see the rightness of Islam. It’s what I fight for.”
“You want an alternative explanation? One that Jack Morgan is floating?”
At hearing my name, Hamid shifted and said, “What’s that?”
“Morgan thinks it’s possible that you’re fighting for something else entirely,” the investigateur said. “He thinks because of your resentment over your mutilation, you planted evidence against the imam and the others to stir things up, create a mob mentality, promote a civil and racial war in France.”
Haja snorted. “And what good would that do me?”
“It might just drive Islam from this country,” Hoskins said. “It might just cleanse your adopted society of the religion that butchered you.”
“Mr. Morgan has quite the imagination, but he is dead wrong.”
“You deny wanting a civil war?” Fromme said.
“I want a coup d’état.”
“How do we know you’re not lying?”
“Why would I?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” Hoskins cried. “You lied about knowing Henri Richard. And here we have pictures of him buried in your mutilation, pictures sure to come out in court and make your humiliation complete.”
Haja’s hatred shimmered through her swollen features before she closed her puffy eyes and said, “Burn in hell, bitch. I’m not saying another word until I have a lawyer present.”
Chapter 101
Montfermeil, eastern suburbs of Paris
7:20 p.m.
MAJOR SAUVAGE LEFT General Georges’s evening briefing at a crisp pace, with Captain Mfune hard at his shoulder.
“What are we going to do?” Mfune muttered.
“Not here,” Sauvage said sharply.
The major found Corporal Perry, a young, scrawny kid assigned to drive him, and told Perry to catch another ride back to their position. Then he ordered Mfune to take the wheel of the Renault Sherpa.
Tan, squat, and plated with armor, the Sherpa looked like the head of some prehistoric reptile. It was imposing, and people tended to get out of its way the second they saw it. The big machine gun up top helped. It was an AA-52, the machine gun that French soldiers referred to as La Nana, or the maid, because it cleaned up. Sauvage had seen a combo of the Sherpa and La Nana work all the time in Afghanistan. The Taliban ran like hell when they saw them coming.
Mfune pulled the armored vehicle out into traffic and said, “Major?”
“You heard the briefing,” Sauvage said testily. “Haja’s staying on story. She’s sacrificing everything.”
“With all due respect, sir, Amé sacrificed everything,” Mfune said. “Haja is still alive. Haja could change her mind.”
“She could if she was normal, but she’s not, so she won’t,” the major reasoned. “And because of that, the powers that be will have to take her at her word, and act accordingly. In fact, if you think about it, she’s in a unique position to convince them that the AB-16 threat is real and growing.”
“Another layer of disinformation,” Mfune said.
“Exactly,” Sauvage said.
“So we do nothing for the time being?” Mfune asked. “Let the uprising build on its own?”
Sauvage thought about that. It was a good question.
He considered his options for several moments, and then said, “No, I think it’s time we show France what a little fighting back would look like. Get more of the home team behind us.”
The captain said, “Without provocation, sir? Is that advisable?”
“Of course not,” Sauvage said. “We’ll create provocation, and then la pagaille, in the chaos of battle, we’ll retaliate. Hard.”
Chapter 102
14th Arrondissement
8:15 p.m.
LEAVING LA SANTÉ, I was aware of the prison’s cold hard walls and the fates of the people inside. Haja Hamid deserved to be in there.
But Imam Al-Moustapha? And Ali Farad?
Though Haja had denied it, I was still entertaining the possibility that her motives were opposite the ones she cited. In that scenario, the sculptor was prepared to suffer, and she was prepared to make innocent men suffer with her.
Juge Fromme broke me from my thoughts. “As helpful and insightful as you’ve been, Mr. Morgan, Investigateur Hoskins must now take you to a holding cell until the minister of justice sees fit to deport or release you.”
“This is ridiculous,” Louis fumed.
Fromme growled, “Carrying a handgun without a license. Carrying a handgun in the commission of a crime. These are crimes we take seriously in France, Louis. Or have you forgotten?”
Louis looked ready to argue, but I said, “You’ll take off the cuffs if I’m in a cell? Get me some pain meds?”
“Yes.”
“Can we go by the hospital first so I can check in on Michele Herbert?”
“That’s not happening,” Hoskins said. “But I’ll get you an update.”
We returned to the police car we’d taken to the prison, and I was climbing in the backseat when Louis’s cell rang. He answered, listened, and said, “Here. I’ll let him explain.”
Louis hit speaker, and I said, “It’s Jack.”
“Where are you?” Justine asked. “And where have you been the last day and a half?”
“I’m on my way to jail,” I said. “And the last thirty-six hours are too complicated to go into at the moment.”
There was a pause. “What are you charged with?”
“Multiple felony counts. How’s Kim and Sherman?”
“They had a truth and reconciliation meeting before she went to Betty Ford. Kim fessed up, told her grandfather everything.”
“How’d Sherman take it?”
“He’s grateful she’s alive. He also sent over a check this morning for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and a note asking if it was enough.”
“That’ll do,” I said. “Transfer half to the Private Paris bonus account.”
“That’s enough,” Fromme grumbled from the front seat. “You’re in custody, not business. End that call. Now.”
“You heard the judge,” I said. “Gotta go.”
Louis ended the conversation. As he put the device away, I thought about how cut off I was without a phone, and what a valuable tool it was for someone in my line of work. A phone keeps you mobile, not tied down to a desk, and yet able to access information when you need it. A very good thing.
And if we were lucky enough to get hold of a bad guy’s phone, well, that was like hitting the mother lode, finding the keys to the kingdom. Thinking back to that busted cell phone I’d seen in the Dumpster below Haja Hamid’s bedroom window, I felt reasonably sure that it had been hers or Amé’s.
How had that worked? Had the burn phone been broken and tossed in the alley, or from Haja’s bedroom window?
I shut my eyes, tried to imagine the pieces sailing out the window, falling through the scaffolding, tried to envision the trajectories the pieces might have taken…falling to the…
“Turn around,” I said.
“Why?” said Hoskins.
“No,” Fromme said firmly. “He goes to-”
“Haja’s apartment. Turn around.”
“That is an active crime scene of a killing in which you are a suspect,” the judge shot back. “You’ll never be allowed in, and neither will we.”
“Then call someone there,” I said. “I think there’s something we missed.”
Chapter 103
Sevran, northeastern suburbs of Paris
10:04 p.m.