Murder in Belleville

BERNARD STOOD INSIDE THE gate of the Vincennes detention center, where a busload of men awaited forced repatriation. Other buses had taken those without any papers to chartered planes at Creil, a military air base. Bernard stamped his feet on the frigid packed earth. Cold—he always felt cold. His body never warmed up until July. Then there were one or two fitful months of what they called “heat” until the cold resumed again.

The barred media waited outside like hungry carrion to fill their newsfeeds. Inside Bernard was numb. These men had come to France years ago, seeking asylum from repression, and stayed on illegally after their applications were rejected. What could he do?

“Directeur Berge, please sign the transport receipt,” said the hawk-faced detention official.

Bernard hesitated. He wished he could disappear.

“Just a formality, Directeur Berge,” the official put the pen in his hand. “But we’ve got regulations.”

Bernard could have sworn the man guided his hand, forcing his signature.

Then it was over. Officials marched him through the receiving yard, past the buses disgorging the eighty or so sans’papiers. They formed into lines waiting to be processed. Bernard felt like a war criminal, like a Nazi who’d been released because he’d agreed to talk. Hadn’t he acted, as his mother had pointed out, like the Gestapo?

And then above him he heard the sound of helicopter blades. Grit and sand shot over the yard, spraying everyone as it landed. A RAID officer jumped out and ran toward them.

“Directeur Berge,” he shouted, making himself heard over the rotor blades. “Ministre Guittard needs you.”

Bernard stumbled.

The officer caught him.

“But why?” Could things get worse?

“Hostage situation, Directeur Berge. Orders are to proceed immediately.”

Bernard began to shake his head but the officer held his arm, propelling him to the waiting helicopter.