Murder in Belleville

Monday Evening

THREE WIRE SERVICES, IN addition to Agence France-Presse and CNN, had picked up Martine’s story by the time Aimée opened the door of Leduc Detective. She heard the radio say fingers pointed to an Algerian jewelry importer, rumored to be in the pay of Afghani-based terrorists and sympathetic to the militant fundamentalists. He was alleged to supply the Algerian military with inferior-grade weapons and military surplus. His Swiss bank account, the article continued, buried under an alias, hid a multitude of sins.

Aimée logged on to her terminal and René’s. From hers she accessed Sylvie/Eugénie’s account using the beur password. The five-million dollar balance was still there and she hit Save.

On René’s terminal she followed the maze he’d established to the Bank of Algiers. From the Bank of Algiers she linked to the AINwar bank account and the two other subsidiary companies. Aimée withdrew all but the minimum balance of ten dinars from each account.

In the same fashion as Kaseem and Sylvie had previously established, she transferred the sums to Sylvie’s Channel Island account. However, instead of their procedure, she transferred that balance, all fifty million francs, to the AFL’s account.

Now Kaseem and his businesses were broke. But the Algerian military would think he’d hid it all in Switzerland.

To foil attempts at wire tracing, she pulled out the police report of Sylvie Cardet’s death, highlighted the name “Eugénie Grandet” and the bank statements and faxed this to the records department in the Fichier in Nantes. The Fichier would declare the Eugénie persona dead and freeze the account.

She logged in to the Ministry of Defense, the humanitarian mission funding. Marking the shipment as time-dated medical supplies and perishable, she red-flagged the containers. This earmarked them for inspection prior to departure from the port of Toulon. Toulon was the largest naval center and adjoined a military complex. If the shipment contained the surplus military arms she figured it did, the inspectors would seize them.

Kaseem wouldn’t get his shipment.

She brushed off her black leather pants and reached for her jacket.

Now she figured she should pay Hamid a visit and tell him some good news.

HAMID’S WARD bed in L’hôpital Tenon overlooked leafy lime trees on the street below. Color now tinted his cheeks; his eyes had lost their listless quality.

“Salaam akikum,” he said, shaking her hand, then touching his heart.

“Aleikum es-salaam,” Aiméee returned his greeting. She pulled an orange from her bag, setting it on his enamel hospital tray. “May I peel this for you?”

“Merci,” he said. “I’ve given my life to the AFL, but I couldn’t save the sans-papiers.” Hamid said, his face still haggard. “But the new immigrants, the young ones, they think differently. I never heeded them. Now I must rebuild.”

“I know the truth,” she said, digging her fingers into the firm orange flesh.

“What do you mean?” Hamid’s eyebrows rose like accent marks over his deep-set eyes.

“Kaseem pressured you.” She peeled the skin, the segments fanned out in her hand. “Like he does everyone. But you’re his brother, as maghours you only have each other.”

She offered the orange pieces to Hamid. He slipped his worry beads into his other hand and accepted the orange. His eyes lit up with curiosity.

“Your brother killed Sylvie,” she said. “Blew her up.”

Hamid’s hand shook, but he didn’t drop the orange on the worn green linoleum. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m sorry. He didn’t know Sylvie gave this to Anaïs,” she pulled out the photos. She spread some of them over the hospital blanket. “Isn’t it south of Oran, where you were born?”

Hamid nodded slowly and stared.

“Now it’s a wasteland labeled 196,” she said. “Just a number. Not even a name. A cemetery of bleached bones mingled with sunken munitions. As young men you two fought there once. You lost to the French.”

Hamid nodded. “Yes, a lifetime ago.”

“Kaseem calls himself the General,” she said. “He still likes to play war. He has to find toys so he can play with the big guys.”

Fear shone in Hamid’s large eyes. “There’s no proof.” His tone was hesitant.

“But Kaseem can’t do that anymore. I took care of those toys,” she said. “Sylvie’s money and his are back in the AFL.”

Hamid’s face registered disbelief.

Rectangular shadows crossed the linoleum in the long ward. Few beds were occupied. A smiling ward matron in a starched white uniform nodded as she passed them. The matron’s clogs clicked busily away.

Aimée passed him some more orange segments, then stood up.

“Now you can rebuild, Hamid,” she said. “Hire lawyers to fight deportation, run a day-care program, a newspaper, a meals on wheels—do it the way you want. Even attract the young kids with a modern center, a gym, Arabic classes, video games. You name it.”

“I don’t really know you,” Hamid said. His eyes were unsure.

“Sylvie would have wanted it like this,” she said. “To make up for her father’s work in the OAS. The murdered innocents, things she hated.”

“Funny.” Hamid’s eyes turned wistful. “That’s the last thing Sylvie told me.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“She wanted to make up for what her father did.”

“Sylvie must have been a special person.”

“A rare star,” Hamid said.

Touched, Aimée remembered Roberge saying the same thing. In fact, almost everyone but Anaïs had loved her.

“Where is Kaseem?” she asked.

She remembered how Hamid’s face twitched when he lied.

“On the plane,” he said, his mouth slightly askew. “Why?”

“I only want to tell him what I did,” she said. “Prepare him for what’s in store back in Algiers.”

She wanted to serve Kaseem justice on a platter, personally. See the look on his face, even if it was long distance.

She thought she’d have to battle with Hamid for hours but he seemed to come to a decision.

Hamid watched her, expressionless.

“Just don’t hurt him,” he said.

She nodded. She’d let the military he liked to play with handle that part.

“He’s at a wedding,” Hamid said.

STREET LIGHTS shone over the news kiosk as Aimée bought the special edition of Le Figaro with Marline’s lead story. Harrowing images of prisoners tagged with numbers, their numbers recognizable on piled corpses, filled the lower half of the front page. The sidebar column related the story of the alleged surplus weapons supplier, sympathetic to fundamentalists. Parfait, she thought. I just want to see Kaseem’s face.

Patrons milled around the busy Kabyle Star restaurant on rue de Belleville. Aimée threaded her way past diners to the back banquet room. From inside she heard traditional music accompanied by a tambour coming from the private wedding reception.

“I’m with the in-laws on the groom’s side,” she said to the curious bouncer.

Kaseem stood by the buffet, his arm around a uniformed man, laughing and toasting with a glass of juice. A furious gaiety spilled over the room of a hundred or so guests. Small children ran between the tables, old men in caftans scooping them up every so often.

“There, see him.” She pointed, and waved at Kaseem, knowing he couldn’t recognize her from the darkened distance. “Kaseem Nwar, my sister’s brother-in-law …” but the bored bouncer was already waving her inside.

Aromas of mutton and cloves from the steaming clay tajines tempted Aimée from the buffet. She saw platters of bistilla, flaky spiced pastry frosty with sugar and shaded by cinnamon. The air was dense with perfume, sweat, and orange blossom water.

Aimée hugged the wall, melting into the draperies as she surveyed the room. She saw the bride and groom spotlighted on the dance floor. The bride wore an ornate blue-and-gold caftan, her neck shimmering with gold necklaces. As the wedding couple danced by, guests stuck money in the laughing bride’s hair and around her shoulders.

“Such a gorgeous ta’shi ka” said a heavily kohl-eyed woman who’d appeared next to Aimée. “The gold sets off her hair and the blue highlights her eyes.” She eyed Aimée knowingly. “The third day of the wedding fite is always the best. The best spread!”

Aimée nodded, trying to move away from the woman.

The woman elbowed Aimée in the ribs. “Just like I told Latifa the other day, don’t worry. Everything will be perfect, everyone will come, the buffet will be wonderful, and your baby will pass the virginity test!”

Aimée wished the woman would shut up. Her voice kept increasing in volume.

“The groom’s family is so traditional.” The woman leaned forward, her tone becoming confidential. “What can they expect from girls born over here, eh? But they can hope, I say.”

“May I ask you a tremendous favor?” Aimée said, feeling out of place. She didn’t wait for the woman to answer. “Hand this to Kaseem, please!” she said thrusting the paper into the woman’s jeweled fat fingers. “That man there.”

She pointed toward Kaseem, who was seriously stuffing franc notes in the giggling bride’s hair. “He’s my friend’s uncle, and he wanted the paper for some reason. I’ve got to go back out and park the car. It’s on the curb and I’ll be towed. Please!”

The woman shrugged. “Why not? I want to find out if he has a son my daughter’s age anyway.” She let out a loud laugh, nudged Aimée in the ribs again, and worked her way to the other side of the room.

Aimée thought Kaseem might want that money back when he realized his bank account status. She’d enclosed a copy of his new statement as well. She edged along the velvet curtains dividing the banquet room from the dining area.

Aimée never got to see the look on Kaseem’s face.

She felt something stick in her spine. Pointed and sharp.

Her heart pounded.

She reached back for her Beretta but an iron grip imprisoned hers.

She turned slowly. The knife edge grazed her skin. Dédé’s eyes locked hers. Cold and dead. Sweat prickled her spine.

“Make a move,” Dédé whispered, “and I gut you like a fish.”

“It’s over, Dédé,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Kaseem’s history. Read the paper.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Kaseem holding the newpaper while the woman pointed toward where Aimée had stood. Several uniformed men had gathered, peering over his shoulder, yet agonizingly Aimée couldn’t see his face.

“Quimporte?” Dédé said. “I always finish the job.”

He hustled her through the swinging kitchen doors to the left. They followed a white-aproned waiter past bubbling saucepans in the hot steaming kitchen.

Aimée wriggled, but every time she did, the knife came closer to her flesh. For a little man, Dédé had a grip like iron.

“Tiens, you can’t come in here!” a waiter said, his arms laden with a huge couscous platter.

“I know the chef,” Dédé said, barreling past him with Aimée.

They stumbled past yelling waiters and sweating cooks who shook slotted spoons at them. Aimée grabbed at some knives on the chopping block but Dédé seized her hand, shaking them out one by one. One of the chefs rushed forward as the knives clattered to the floor.

“Stand back,” Dédé yelled, waving the Beretta and letting go of her arm briefly.

Aimée’s one thought was to grab another knife. Instead her hand came back with greasy steel kabob skewers. She worked them under her sleeve before Dédé caught her hand again.

If only she could get away, escape out the back exit. But Dédé’s truck waited in the back passage, an old deux chevaux delivery truck, battered and rusty. He opened the back doors, slammed her inside.

“Let’s go for a ride,” he said.

Dédé” whacked her again. This time so hard that she flew against the hard plastic cartons racked on the truck’s wall. White-hot pain shot through her body. Then he kneed her in the back, knocking the wind out of her. She gasped, trying to get air. The last thing she remembered was her head hitting the floor and seeing the blurry pavement through a rusted-out hole in the floorboard.

SHE BECAME aware of her heels dragging over stones, gravel popping, and dirt. Everything was dark except for curiously shaped white slabs shining in the moonlight. Her head ached. Every breath was like the stab of a needle in her rib. Dédé’s voice came from somewhere.

“Thought I’d save everyone the extra trip,” he said, huffing and setting her down. “Kill you here.”

She realized she was in a cemetery. And Ded6 held her Beretta.

“Cimetiere de Belleville,” he said. “Not many famous people buried here, and a little out of the way, but you’ll have a nice view.”

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of whimpering, but her head felt ready to explode with pain.

“Dédé, your contract’s over,” she said, her voice not much above a whisper. “Forget this.”

“Maybe it’s my proletariat upbringing—some work ethic, but when I start a job, eh, I finish it,” he said sitting down on a low marble crypt. He smoothed down his short jacket, dusted off his pants. “That’s what they pay me for.”

In the slants of moonlight she saw Dédé’s hands find the bald soccer-ball key chain in his pocket. He fingered it, worrying it nonstop through his fingers.

“Please listen, Dédé. Kaseem’s finished,” she said.

“Alors, my work is my life. There’s a pride and satisfaction in it. Eh, I like doing an even better job than my employer asked for. I make it personal. Kids today … just don’t have it.”

Her hands shook, but she could hardly move them. He’d tied them up. How could she get away? She felt the kabobs jabbing her somewhere above her elbow. But couldn’t reach them.

“After you screwed up the car bomb,” Dédé clucked his mouth, shaking his head, “I had to do a lot of work. But when you stole the pearl lighter and embarrassed me in front of my mecs—that did it.”

Her mind grew clearer. The pain had receeded so she could think. She felt a metal cross behind her. She started sawing the rope that tied her wrists.

“What about the other Lake Biwa pearls?” she said, remenv bering there’d been four of \es Maudites. She wanted to keep him talking until her hands came free.

“My collection has grown,” he said. “I have them all.” Dédé slipped the key chain back in his pocket and pointed the Beretta at her.

Behind the dark cemetery wall two tall water towers loomed, standing outlined against the yellow glow of Belleville. In the moonlight she saw piles of dirt and pipe holes in the lot under the towers. Muffled voices came from a nearby gravestone.

She started screaming but her voice came out only a low croak.

Dédé stuck his sleeve in her mouth to shut her up. She bit as hard as she could. He yelped. And she bit harder.

He tried to shake her off, swatting her head against the marble. She wouldn’t let go. Blood filmed one of her eyes, but she hung on like a pit bull until her hands came free. Then she shoved him over the wire cross, struggling to her feet.

“Salope!” he swore, still gripping the Beretta.

What sounded like a whistle came from the wall.

Aimée started running, dodging the gravestones.

Her head throbbed, but she could run. She skidded through an abandoned gate in the wall. Her labored breaths stung sharply, but she made herself gulp air, her mind clearer the more she did so. She made it halfway across the gravel lot between the water towers before Dédé caught her ankles. Her body slapped the ground. She came face-to-face with a hole, her neck stinging.

“Look what you’ve done!” Dédé hissed, pointing at his ripped jacket.

She’d almost gotten away!

“Kaseem used you,” she said. “Like he uses everyone.”

Dédé marched her to the nearest water tower, six or seven stories high. The tower loomed robotlike, with spindly legs webbed by ladders and pipe.

“Climb!”

The Beretta felt cold against her temple.

Aimée looked up, her hands shaking on the side of the ladder.

“But I’m afraid of heights.”

“Too bad,” Dédé said. His gold chains glinted in the moonlight, his perspiring face glistening with sweat. “I need target practice.”

He was going to pick her off like a fly.

“Look, Dédé—”

“This is taking too long, I’ve got other jobs.” He cocked the trigger, shoved her toward the ladder. “Move.”

She took several steps, faltered. Her greasy hand slipped and she grabbed the railing. Her leather-soled boots slid down the steps.

The heavy skewers rained from her sleeve, tinkling down the metal steps.

Gone.

Her heart sank as her last hope rained over the gravel.

“What’s that?” Dédé grunted, leaning forward and grabbing them. He laughed, short and barklike. “Kabobs? You belong on these.”

“No, you do!” She turned quickly, not caring anymore what he’d do.

But she spoke to the air. She’d knocked into Dédé. His finger pulled the Beretta. Shots drilled into the concrete water tower supports. She ducked as he spun and staggered. In his other hand he held the skewers. He tripped into a hole. She saw him land with a loud ouff! then a piercing cry.

A skewer rammed through his temple.

He clutched his face in surprise, a skewer handle poking out above his ear. He convulsed in a burrowing motion. Trickles of blood pooled into the dirt, and then Dédé lay still.

Aimée collapsed and grabbed her gun from the dirt. She tried not to look at his face.

“I told you I’m afraid of heights.”