“The Germans are pretty tough on this kind of thing,” Halsey was saying. “Individual privacy’s a big deal over there. They don’t even let their own boys look at their citizens’ accounts. It’s verboten. I don’t know what good it will do, but I’ll have a word with Hans Schumacher and see if he can pull some strings.” Schumacher was a big shot in the finance ministry, a former commando with GS-G9 who was regarded as having his priorities straight, which meant that he followed the American line. Halsey coughed, and Chapel could imagine him padding from the bedroom to allow his wife her sleep. “Anything else you want to tell me now that you’ve gotten me up at two forty-five? What’s the FBI doing over there?”
“They’re going door-to-door, but so far they’ve come up empty. The guy’s a ghost. Get me a name.” Chapel hung up.
“Les boches,” said Leclerc, eyes focused on the lighting of his cigarette. His damp hair hung in his face, accentuating his pale skin, the iron black circles under his eyes. “We were too soft on them at the end of the war. We should have made them a worker state. An agrarian economy. No factories. No more army. Just cows, wurst, and beer.” He laughed thinly at his joke, exhaling flutes of smoke from his nostrils. “You want a name, Chapel. I have one for you. The Holy Land Charitable Trust. They’re in Germany. Berlin, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Who’re they?”
“Friends of Taleel’s. Maybe they do some business together at some point.”
“Are they funneling money to Hijira?” asked Sarah.
“You can say that.”
“Well done, Captain Leclerc,” she chimed. “Thank God, something other than a lousy bank account. Who’s the front man? Any idea?”
She’s playacting, thought Chapel angrily. Kissing our French colleague’s ass, even though she disliked the arrogant shit as much as he.
“No one has been found, Miss Churchill,” Leclerc said bluntly. “We’ve got nothing on them, as far as I know. It’s a name, that’s all. Like I said, a group Hijira did business with.”
“Where did you get the info?” Chapel asked.
“Sources,” said Leclerc.
“What sources? We’re on the same team. Maybe I’d like to ask him a few questions, myself.”
Leclerc didn’t bother to look at him. “Sarah, would you be so kind as to explain to Mr. Chapel that we are not playing cops and robbers. We do not bring our informants to the station.”
“It’s not a question of me corrupting your source,” retorted Chapel. “You traipse in here and drop a bombshell-you’ve located an organization that is doing business with Hijira-financing them to some extent, I presume-and you want me to leave it at that.” Before he was even aware of his actions, Chapel found himself out of his chair, advancing on Leclerc. “Come on, we’re waiting. Who, exactly, is the Holy Land Charitable Trust? What, exactly, is their relation to Hijira? And where, exactly, did you come by this information?”
Leclerc went on smoking his cigarette as if he hadn’t heard a word.
“You have an obligation to tell me!” Enraged, Chapel plucked the cigarette from his hand, but Leclerc was up before he could drop it in the ashtray. Kicking the chair behind him, he shoved Chapel against the wall. “Stay away. Understand?”
“I’m waiting for my answer,” Chapel said, grimacing as his shoulder cried out. Then it came to him where Leclerc had gotten his name. “I thought Boubilas wasn’t talking.”
Leclerc laughed bitterly.
“What else did he have to say?” Chapel pressed. “You expect me to believe that the only thing you got out of him was the Trust? How was he involved with Taleel? Brokering gems for them? Diamonds, I bet,” he mused, remembering the murders of the U.S. Treasury agents in Nigeria last month. “What else does he know about Hijira? Did Taleel have any associates? Friends? Come on. Tell us.”
Leclerc’s face darkened. Picking up his cigarettes, he walked to the door. “Just check them out. They have an account at the Gemeinschaft Bank of Dresden. I don’t know anything more than that and neither does my source. And, by the way, I don’t think you have to worry about the German authorities forcing them to open their books. Thornhill Guaranty purchased the bank a year ago. That makes it an American company.” He pointed to the clock. “Hey, mon ami, you better get moving if you’re going to make your appointment. Almost ten o’clock. The Salpetitpierre Hospital is at the other end of town. You don’t want to be late.”
Without another word, he stalked from the room, leaving the door yawning behind him.
Leclerc threw his leg over the saddle of the Ducati, zipped up his jacket, and slid the key into the ignition. Chapel, he was thinking, you really must learn to close your mouth. He knew it was stupid to expect so much. Americans were a loudmouthed bunch in general, even when they spoke in whispers. A thought had yet to cross their minds that they did not feel obliged to share with the rest of the world. Turning the key, Leclerc started the engine, but a second later, he turned it off again. Inexplicably, he felt nailed to that very spot.
It isn’t right, a voice from a long-silent corner of his soul repeated.
Leclerc scoffed at it, but answered nonetheless. “I’m a soldier. I follow orders. That’s that.”
A soldier who cowers in the stairwell when the others charge.
“A smart one,” he answered, amazed at his conscience’s newfound temerity. “One who does as he’s told. I’m alive. They’re dead. Don’t confuse being foolish with being brave. Besides, who else could have found out about the Trust or Monsieur Ange?”
So why didn’t you tell them about him? Surely they’d be interested.
Finally, Leclerc had no more answers. He mumbled something about Chapel being an ingrate, but his words lacked conviction. He was looking for ways to hate the American, only to keep from hating himself. Chapel, who ran into danger without a backward glance. Chapel, who had every right to ask what Boubilas had said. Chapel, the accountant, who was every inch the soldier Leclerc should be. Suddenly, he raised his fist and crashed it down on his leg. The pain was welcome, if only to distract him from the lingering burn of Gadbois’s huge palm on his back. A swat on the back was the general’s ultimate compliment.
“You can give them the Holy Land Trust,” he’d said when Leclerc had met him at five-thirty that morning to debrief him about the Boubilas interrogation. “But that’s all.”
“They need to know the other thing, too,” Leclerc had protested. “You know, the other man. Maybe the agency has a line on him. He’s the boss. They’ve got to know.”
“No,” said Gadbois. “Ange is for us alone.”
“You know him?”
“Know who?” Gadbois shook his head, the old lion looking his age. “There is no such person.”
It wasn’t much, but it was something. When you were as thirsty as Chapel, as desperate for a lead, it looked like a long, tall glass of water. The Holy Land Charitable Trust. The Gemeinschaft Bank of Dresden. One more account. One more chance. He felt the currents tugging at him, yanking him east. Still, for a moment he resisted. Maybe because he disliked Leclerc so intensely. His unassailable confidence. His flagrant disregard for the rules of human conduct.
Sarah drove the Renault south through town, the traffic light, a cheery sun behind them. They crossed through St.-Germain-des-Prés and dashed past the Ile de la Cité. A bag of croissants sat between them, filling the car with a buttery, inviting scent. The mention of the bank in Dresden was no coincidence. First the DIB, then the Gemeinschaft Bank. Hijira was hiding in Germany. They didn’t just know the rules, they knew more. About the nasty interplay between governments. About the petty backbiting and adolescent uncooperativeness. Someone had made them privy to all the backroom secrets no one ever talked about.