Murder in Belleville

YOUSSEFA PULLED THE BLACK chador over her head. The long draping wool felt hot and heavy. She found it ironic, having worn one rarely in Oran, she wore it almost every day in Paris. But it made the perfect cover. Too bad it couldn’t disguise her limp.

Youssefa prayed Eugénie would show up this time. She had to. Everything depended on it. Over and over in her mind Youssefa replayed Eugénie’s instructions: Meet Monday in the grotto at Pare des Buttes Chaumont. But Eugénie hadn’t showed. Failing that, the back-up plan had been to meet at the Pare de Belleville summit same time on Tuesday.

If only Eugénie would use a cell phone, she thought. But Eugénie didn’t trust them. She told Youssefa the encrypted channels weren’t secure; France Telecom just liked everyone to think they were.

Youssefa shivered in the doorway, scanning rue Crespin du Gast. France was so cold. Did the sun ever shine? She waited for the old woman walking her well-clipped terrier to pass. Then Youssefa followed the narrow street, clutching her packet tightly.

She kept her head down, passing the chanting protesters in front of the church.

“The AFL protests for your rights, mon arrde” a dreadlocked young man said thrusting a flyer into her hand. “Take one. Come to our vigil.”

Youssefa scurried by, afraid to touch it. Where she came from, such protesters would have been mowed down like wheat before the harvester.

Keep to yourself, Eugénie had instructed. Trust no one.

At the Pare de Belleville summit, the Paris skyline, dimmed in fog, was lost on Youssefa. She paced rue Piat, which crowned the park. No Eugénie. Fear mounted inside her.

Three hours later her sense of dread turned to despair. Youssefa had been in Paris only five days. Her contact, Eugénie, was gone. The link severed—she’d be next.