Murder in Belleville

Midday Monday

BERNARD BERGE STOOD IN the scurrying sea of police activity. Around him buzzed two-way radio static, the clomp of boots, and the low, meaningful hum of whispered asides. If only he could get his fingers to work and put this headset on, his lifeline, they’d called it, whereby he’d be assured of constant communication with the negotiating team.

“What do I say—I mean to the hostage taker’s demands?” His hands trembled attempting to mount the headset.

“Discuss the ramifications,” Minister Guittard said, snapping his flak jacket closed and turning to his entourage.

“But, Minister, will he understand?”

“Berge has a point,” Sardou said, consulting a printout. “This man, Rachid, twenty-six years old, is a recent immigrant from Oran, Algeria. He’s a dishwasher in the mosque tearoom.”

“Find out what he wants, what the AFL wants,” Guittard turned back to Bernard. “Agree to anything he says.”

Bernard swallowed hard. “You mean, I have the power—”

Guittard cut him off, “Promise him a Swiss bank account, a private jet back to Oran, whatever it takes to get him in front of that window.” He pointed to the window directly in the crosshairs of the crack shot team on the opposite roof. “Do you understand, Directeur Berge?”

Berge nodded uneasily. He noticed Sardou’s hawklike gaze.

“Then I’ve made myself clear, n’est-ce pas?” He grinned and slapped Berge on the back. “The ministry counts itself fortunate to have men such as you!”

A loud clamor of shouting reached their ears. The CRS captain joined them, breathless. He wore plastic gloves and held an envelope.

“Thrown out of the third-floor window, sir,” he said.

Sardou yelled orders to a white-coated technician, who spread plastic over a wood-planked table. A lab crew assembled powders, brushes, and chemicals in assorted colored vials.

“Merci, captain. Put the envelope on the table.”

While one technician treated the envelope to a quick array of powder tests, the others extracted the contents with tweezers.

Guittard, unable to disguise his impatience, appeared ready to grab the contents.

“We must see if this is from Rachid, Minister,” he said. “It could be from one of the hostages, giving us clues to their location.”

Bernard Berge winced.

A crayoned picture of what was clearly a spired church, brown-skinned people inside, and a man with dark bags under his eyes, holding a little navy blue book. A small stick drawing of a man, tubes drawn about his chest was signed in a crude hand, “le Bombe Humain.” The negotiator studied the drawing.

“He’s calling himself the Human Bomb,” he said.

After a few more minutes he turned to Bernard. “That’s you. He knows your face well. I’d guess the navy blue book would be residence permits. He’ll give himself to you if the immigrants are released from prison.” The negotiator turned toward the group. “He’s illiterate also. That’s my interpretation.”

Minister Guittard’s piercing eyes held Bernard’s. “Good,” he said, rubbing his hands. “You know what to do.”

Bernard Berge nodded. “Minister, there’s one issue I want to clarify.”

“Vite,” Guittard said, tapping his fingers on Bernard Berge’s shoulder. “You must go inside now.”

“If he’s wired with dynamite,” Bernard paused, “won’t the building explode if he’s shot?”

Sardou watched Guittard. So did Bernard.

“Not if you disconnect him, talk him out of his plan,” Guittard smiled grimly.

“Excuse me, minister, it’s not quite that simple,” said the bomb squad commander stepping from behind Sardou. “Berge must look for a dead-man switch. It’s something the man would hold all the time. So if he lets go, the circuit completes.”

Bernard’s eyes widened in fear. Sweat beaded his upper lip.

“However, a command detonation is different,” the commander continued. “Usually it’s a pair of wires with a handle, maybe a red button. Like a bike handle, with wires and dangling switch. Something he’d have to signal manually.”

Bernard knew he would die.

He hoped that his underwear was clean and that he’d updated his will. Most of all he hoped his mother would bury him in a Christian cemetery.

“Look on it as a typical ministry meeting,” Guittard said, slapping Bernard’s shoulder in bonhomie. “Like when you have to handle an upstart. It’s the same principle, Directeur Berge. Bonne chance!”

Minister Guittard whisked past the group and down to the waiting crowd of reporters eager for an update.