Murder in Belleville

Tuesday Late Afternoon

BERNARD STUDIED MUSTAFA HAMID. He marked Hamid’s large black eyes, sallow complexion, and the dried lace of spittle on his beard. Took in his hollow-cheeked profile and bone-thin arms.

The cold and damp called for Bernard’s lined winter coat, not the skimpy suit jacket he wore. He wondered at Hamid’s simple white cotton knee-length shirt and his smocked leggings. He wore a Chechia, a white crocheted cap, and a prayer shawl covered his shoulders.

The old familiarity gnawed at Bernard, intrusive and intimate. Memories of what he’d tried to forget came back to him. The wild-eyed holy man proclaiming doom in the deserted streets of Algiers. How a sniper’s bullet silenced him at Bernard’s mother’s feet in the long lines snaking to the port of Algiers.

Bernard watched Hamid’s hands trace worry beads as he sat on a thin mattress. With a deft movement Hamid touched Bernard’s hand then his own heart.

“Salaam aleikum, Directeur Berge,” Hamid said, addressing him formally, his voice deep. “Forgive me for not rising to greet you.”

“Aleikum es-salaam,” Bernard replied. That much of the Arabic greeting Bernard remembered. “Monsieur Hamid, I appreciate your time and hope we can arrive at fruitful negotiations.”

“Please excuse my appearance,” Hamid said. He gestured toward a tray laden with a teapot and mint sprigs in thin gold-rimmed glasses. “You are my guest. May I offer you tea?”

Bernard nodded. “Monsieur Hamid, won’t you join me?”

“Unfortunately my fast allows only weak tea.”

Not wishing to tower over Hamid, Bernard sat down on a nearby tattered cushion.

“Monsieur Hamid,” he said, “my ministry wants to provide for your people. We wish to work with you. After the dust settles, so to speak, we’ll make sure provisions allow for their return.”

Bernard had spoken quickly, dropping the bad news. He clung to the idea that Hamid would hear the sincerity in his voice. Somehow miraculously believe him and shuffle the sans-papiers down the aisle and into the planes.

Hamid shook his head. His eyes mirrored the sadness Bernard felt. “I apologize in advance for whatever happens,” Hamid said, bowing his head, flecked with gray under the Chechia. “Violence is never called for.”

“I’m sure you’re not threatening retaliatory force, Monsieur Hamid,” Bernard said, recovering quickly. “That would surprise me, coming from a leader and a man known for peaceful negotiations.”

“I speak not so,” Hamid said. “The teachings of Allah embrace the family of man, evidenced by those you see around us. Not distinguishing us as Hindu, Muslim, or Christian.”

Hamid raised his arm, then dropped it. The effort of exertions appeared to tire him.

A man with a heavy beard, dressed in the same style, appeared. “Monsieur Hamid’s health bears watching,” he said. “I’m sorry, he’s very weak. Please discuss with him later.”

“Bien sûr,” Bernard agreed. “A very delicate situation.”

The last thing Bernard wanted was for Hamid to become a martyr. Visions of the Ivory Coast Bureau, manned by disgraced bureaucrats at half their pension, danced in his mind.

He retreated to the vestibule, seeking a silent spot.

What had Hamid insinuated by mentioning violence? The hidden fundamentalist cells dotting Paris and their retributions loomed in his mind … Métro bombings, explosions in department stores … innocent people commuting to work, families buying school clothes, killed due to fanatics. His heart hardened. He’d thought Hamid was different, from a peaceful sect.

“Get me access to le Ministre” Bernard said, eyeing the buses lining rue de la Mare. Their rumbling engines and exhaust fumes filled Place de Menilmontant.

“As you wish,” the lantern-jawed CRS captain said.

By the time le Ministre came on the line, Bernard had rehearsed his plan mentally several times. He’d avert a crisis the only way he could think of and get Hamid out of the church. Hopefully the sans’papiers would follow.

“Hamid’s weakened condition demands attention,” Bernard said to le Ministre. “Setting him up as a martyr, canonized by the immigrants, is the last thing we want.”

“And what do you propose to do about that?” le Ministre asked.

A rustling came from the minister’s end as he put his hand over the phone. Bernard heard applause and murmuring voices in the background.

“A tactic to diffuse his power,” Bernard said.

He explained his plan.

Three minutes later the minister agreed, with one caveat. “He’s out, Berge. Or you are.”