General Georges cut him off, thundering, “By any definition and despite any intentions you may have had, you, sir, are a dishonor to your uniform, and you will be tried for your crimes against your country, against Paris, and against humanity. What you did tonight? We call that genocide where I come from. Cuff him. Get him the hell out of my sight.”
Four soldiers surrounded Sauvage, who stood with his head held high and defiant, glaring at all of us in turn. They put zip restraints on him and pushed him forward.
From the windows of the immigrant housing towers, people began to cheer and jeer and trill like nomads calling in the desert.
The major went berserk as he and Mfune were led away.
“You hear them!” he shouted at us. “The Muzzies want people like me silenced. They want the great cathedrals and monuments of Paris burned or reduced to rubble and built up again as grand mosques. Our food. Our music. Our free speech. Our culture will be swallowed whole and turned to shit if they’re not stopped!”
Ignoring Sauvage’s rants as they faded, General Georges marched up to me and said in open fury, “Morgan, by rights you should be in a brig along with him. You did exactly what I explicitly ordered you not to do.”
I hung my head. “Yes, General. But I knew you were handcuffed, awaiting your rules of engagement. And, I don’t know, I heard the pace of the shooting, and I thought-well, both Louis and I thought-that someone had to come in here and bear witness. So I did.”
“And it’s a good thing he did,” Hoskins said.
The general stood there fuming. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
I said, “Let me show investigators what I saw and where I saw it from, and then I’ll go home. When I’m needed, I’ll return to testify at my own expense.”
Georges continued to stand there and fume.
Juge Fromme said, “General, I’m sure the minister of justice will agree to Monsieur Morgan’s proposal. He’s as sick of Morgan as you are, and wants him out of France as soon as possible.”
The general said, “It’s on the minister, then. After Morgan makes his statement, I want him taken straight to de Gaulle and put on the first plane out of Paris.”
Nodding, I said, “With one important stop on the way.”
I thought the general was going to punch me.
Chapter 110
11th Arrondissement
8:04 a.m.
MICHELE HERBERT WAS awake but drowsy when I knocked on her hospital room door. I still had mud all over me and wore a pair of ill-fitting boots that one of the soldiers had given me. I hadn’t showered or shaved or slept. I hadn’t even been allowed to return to the Plaza Athénée to pay my bill or gather my things. They sent Louis to do all that, with orders to meet me at de Gaulle.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in a weak, slurred voice.
“I owe you dinner for saving my life,” I said, and produced a cup of ice chips.
Michele smiled wanly. “Bon appétit.”
“They say you’re going to be okay.”
She nodded, swallowed, and gestured at the television, which was on mute and showing still shots of Sauvage, Mfune, and Hamid.
“I saw what happened,” she said.
“Fighting back. You were an important part of it.”
“Too much hatred in the world,” she said.
“Agreed,” I said.
“Not enough love.”
“Double agreed.”
Michele smiled again, and blinked sleepily.
“They’re booting me out of France,” I said. “My jet’s coming in to get me in a couple of hours.”
“Your jet?”
Before I could reply, a man said, “What the hell is he doing in here?”
Looking over my injured shoulder, I saw François, her agent with the crazy hair, coming into the room with a cup of coffee.
“Paying my respects,” I said.
“You almost got her killed!” François shouted. “One of the greatest artists of her time and you almost kill her!”
“François,” Michele said. “He uncovered the AB-16 plot.”
“I don’t care,” François said. “He’s a danger to you, Michele.”
That seemed to amuse her. She looked at me. “True?”
“I hope not,” I said, and then caught something out of the corner of my eye on the screen. “Do you have the controls for the television?”
“Please leave,” François said. “You’re not wanted here.”
“On the table,” Michele said.
I turned off the mute. We watched as Imam Al-Moustapha, FEZ Couriers owner Firmus Massi, and Ali Farad were released from La Santé prison. They each made a brief statement condemning the intent of AB-16, swearing their allegiance to France, and reiterating their belief in nonviolence.
The screen cut away from them, and the anchorwoman quoted other condemnations that were rolling in from around the world against Émile Sauvage and the rest of the AB-16 conspirators. Parisians of all persuasions were said to be outraged at their methods and goals.
After a few man-on-the-street interviews, the anchor said, “In other news: One man is trying to show that Paris is not burning by simply going on and celebrating in memory of one of the murder victims.”
The feed cut to Laurent Alexandre. Wearing a black mourning suit, Millie Fleurs’s personal assistant stood in the middle of her haute couture showroom. It was packed with white folding chairs. There was a large picture of the designer on an easel surrounded by floral bouquets.
“I think what AB-16 wanted was obscene and unthinkable,” said Alexandre. “All of Paris, all of France, should stand up against this kind of thinking by showing them that our culture goes on. This afternoon, many of the best designers in the world will unveil dresses made in Millie’s honor and in defiance of AB-16.”
“Morgan?”
Sharen Hoskins stood in the doorway. She tapped on her watch. I nodded, and turned to Michele. As I did, I saw a model appear behind Alexandre. She wore a stunning black cocktail dress. Millie Fleurs’s assistant gestured to it and said, “This is my contribution.”
“Beautiful dress,” Michele whispered, almost asleep.
“I have to go.”
She roused, looked at me. “Come back?”
“God no,” said her agent.
I nodded. “To testify, at least.”
“Call me?”
“Definitely. And you should come to L.A.”
“Not happening,” François said.
“I’d like that,” Michele said, and paused. “You know you’ve never kissed me. You’ve never even tried.”
“I thought you were out of my league.”
“She is,” her agent said.
“You’re not,” Michele said.
“My bad, then. It will never happen again.”
Then I leaned over and kissed her tenderly.
Chapter 111
11:18 a.m.
ON THE RIDE out to de Gaulle, I relived that kiss over and over, wondering when I’d actually get to see Michele Herbert again. We could Skype and see each other, of course, but I meant to actually hold her, and kiss her more than once, and learn her story by heart.
My eyelids drifted shut in the backseat of the sedan that Hoskins was driving. Juge Fromme sat beside her, determined to see me aboard my flight and gone.
I drifted into a buzzing sleep, right on the edge of consciousness.
Images from the past few hours slipped by me: Sauvage ranting as the soldiers dragged him away, the look on Hoskins’s and Juge Fromme’s faces when I showed them the massacre site, Michele’s wan smile when I left her, and then Millie Fleurs’s assistant gesturing to the black cocktail dress.