Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

Monday Night

ON THE BOULEVARD, Krzysztof stumbled in front of the advancing boots of the CRS. Candle wax had spilled, scorching his arm. Thick white foam sprayed by the silver-helmeted pompiers, the firemen, clung to his pants. A man in a flak jacket with EXPLOSIF—bomb squad—printed on his vest was operating a remote-control device. The crowd surged from all sides, shouting angrily.

“Clear the area,” said a voice from the loudspeaker.

Whistles shrilled. Krzysztof watched, astonished, as behind them a metal robot on small grinding tank treads tore apart empty candle boxes and the backpack he’d set down by the nearby planters.

“Get away from those boxes. Move!” one of the CRS barked. From the crushed backpack, broken wine bottles cascaded onto the ground, but no liquid pooled in front of the shards of glass. They had been stuffed with yellowed rags that emitted a pungent kerosene odor.

“Bottle bombs . . . stand clear.”

“We didn’t bring those,” Krzysztof shouted. “We’ve been set up!”

High-pressure blasts of frigid water from a Karcher, a water cannon mounted on a police-truck roof, drenched him and the others. People near him scattered, slipping as they ran away. He saw a red flashing light as an ambulance braked to a halt near where Gaelle had fallen.

He found himself pushed and shoved under a pile of wet bodies, limbs flailing. Panicked, he tried to crawl out from under on his hands and knees, gasping for air. He couldn’t see Gaelle; he couldn’t see anything with water hitting his face.

Visions of his father in Warsaw’s Bialoleka Prison flashed before his eyes: the dingy cell holding political prisoners, the hacking coughs of fifteen men to a cell, the vomit-tinged corners. He vowed that he’d never let himself get caught and end up in prison.

Pulling himself forward on his hands and knees, he clawed dirt and vines with his fingers. The water still pelted him; he was soaked.

He’d caused this disaster. And he couldn’t stop it.

“This way,” a man called, “over here.”

Shaking, Krzysztof followed the voice, burrowing behind some planters. Then he was through and he straightened up behind an idling police truck and wiped his eyes. Peering around, he saw two white-coated medics lifting a stretcher on which Gaelle lay into the ambulance.

More people were crawling behind the planters, shoving the hastily erected barricades down.

He followed a police truck down an adjoining street. He ran, dodging a taxi. His thin-soled, lace-up suede boxing boots made little sound as he pounded the pavement. Sirens echoed as more police trucks approached. He turned right and almost ran into a patrol of blue-uniformed flics guarding the street. He ducked into an arched doorway, thankful that they hadn’t seen him.

He caught his breath. Terrified, sick to his stomach, he waited. Five, ten long minutes, dripping and shivering in the humid air.

He had to salvage their campaign. To do something. They’d been sabotaged but he wouldn’t let whoever did this get away with it. They had proof of the oil company’s falsifications, but the evidence they’d compiled wouldn’t be safe at the MondeFocus headquarters. After finding bottle bombs, the flics would obtain search warrants and search the office.

Who could have set them up? He pulled out his cell phone, tapped in the MondeFocus number . . . he had to warn Brigitte. There was no answer and the machine didn’t pick up. She must not have returned yet from the protest at La Défense. He couldn’t wait any longer. He peered out again. One of the flics ground out a cigarette with his foot.

If only they’d move on. He needed to safeguard the files at the MondeFocus office, and he’d have to enlist help. His mind raced. When Brigitte returned, they’d put their heads together and come up with a new plan. Tomorrow was not too late to submit their alternatives to the oil executives. And after this near riot, they would certainly get press coverage. Something could still be salvaged.

The office was close, just over the short Pont de la Tournelle, on Ile Saint-Louis. Almost where he’d started from on this disastrous evening. His jacket had half dried by the time the flics left to patrol the next street. He hugged the walls, crossed Boulevard Saint-Germain with his head down, then paused on the bridge leading to Quai Tournelle at the floodlit, needle-like monument of Sainte Geneviève. The Seine ran dark and viscous below.

Ahead lay a few lit windows in the Polish Foundation and he debated for a moment seeking refuge there. But his uncle would ridicule him after berating him for leaving the reception in the first place. His adrenaline had surged when he’d had to get away, and now his emotion had turned to anger. The CRS had beaten Gaelle, lied about the permit, and dispersed their march. Someone had set them up by planting bottle bombs. The blonde’s face flashed in front of him. He had to be sure not only of who had betrayed them, but of why.

Krzysztof’s lungs heaved as he pressed the numbers on the digicode for the office of MondeFocus. The olive green door clicked open and he ran past a wheeled shopping cart, taking the stairs two at a time as he raced up the winding staircase. The MondeFocus office door stood ajar, a slant of light illuminating the black-and-white diamond-patterned tiles of the landing.

Too late. He was too late.

He leaned against the door, his shoulders sagging. Inside, desk drawers had been dumped on the floor, papers strewn. The floppy-disc box was empty; the copy machine that stood on a makeshift slat of lumber across two sawhorses was open. Had they gotten to the file cabinet? A brief ray of hope flickered inside him. He rooted in the drawers of the cabinet: all their vital evidence, oil platform drilling statistics, petroleum percentages, all gone.

Then he heard voices and footsteps and looked up. Brigitte, the director, burst into the office. Fine lines webbed the corners of her mouth and she looked tired, showing the age she normally managed to hide. She stopped when she saw him, surprise and fear on her face. “We heard on the radio . . . what are you doing?”

A long-haired man in overalls and a stocky woman followed behind her, carrying armfuls of leaflets. Brigitte turned and exchanged looks with the man.

“I just got here,” Krzysztof said.

“Just got here?” Brigitte said. “You’re rummaging in the files. How did you get in?”

He stepped back in alarm. “Someone has ransacked the office—the door was left open.”

The look on Brigitte’s face chilled him.

“I think you did this and now you’re trying to make it look—”

“Brigitte,” the woman said, stepping forward. “Give him a chance to speak.”

“You think I’d do this?” He choked. “The movement’s my life, you know that.”

“You’re a dilettante who’s been hanging around here for a few weeks,” Brigitte said. “A student fired up with big ideas for a peace vigil that backfired. Did you know that Gaelle’s in the hospital?”

“Gaelle tried to talk to the CRS, I wanted to stop her . . .”

Brigitte shook her head. “Our coalition formed MondeFocus years ago. Since then we’ve done painstaking, backbreaking work, building our reputation for factual opposition to the destroyers of the environment, careful never to become involved in violence, and you’ve shot it all to hell in one night!”

“You have to listen to me,” said Krzysztof. “The files containing the evidence were stolen.”

Brigitte asked, “Why didn’t you obtain the permit for the vigil?”

He nodded. “But I did . . . they revoked it.”

“Then you supplied false information, didn’t you? To make sure they’d revoke the permit,” Brigitte said.

Where was the copy of his application? Where had he put it? He raked his pockets with shaking hands but only came up with a used Metro ticket and a few centimes. He looked at the long-haired man. “Pascal, you showed me how to apply and gave me the form to fill out. You saw the application!”

Brigitte turned to Pascal.

“Eh, get your facts straight,” Pascal said, his voice charged with anger. “Giving you a form isn’t seeing how you filled it out and whether you submitted it.”

Krzysztof reeled at the look of doubt in Brigitte’s eyes. “But I told you, they granted the permit,” he said. He appealed to Pascal again. “You and I were together the day I picked up the permit at the Préfecture, Pascal. We’ve been sabotaged!”

“And pigs have wings. Remember the first thing I said? Get the Préfet’s signature. Bet you didn’t follow through, eh?”

He’d tried so hard, fought with his uncle, even missed his physics exam. And now Gaelle was hurt and he was being blamed for everything that had gone wrong. And if they didn’t do something to find the real saboteurs, the agreement would be signed.

A man stumbled into the office, his shirt wet and bloodied. Blood dripped from his swollen nose. He stared at the mess, then his gaze settled on Krzysztof. He pointed his finger, stabbing the air. “You, you’re the one!”

“Hold on, Franck, you’re bleeding,” Brigitte said, grabbing a first-aid kit from the items scattered on the floor.

“It’s him,” Franck said. “The TV crew showed me the video.”

“What do you mean?” Brigitte asked.

“He carried the bottle bombs in his backpack,” he said, pointing a shaking finger. “It’s on film, I saw it.”

Krzysztof was terror stricken. He struggled to breathe. “A blonde asked me to carry her backpack. I didn’t know it held bottle bombs. She was a plant, don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t see,” Brigitte said. “You came here as a volunteer. We have other causes you could have worked on but you’ve been fixated on the oil conference. Only that interested you.”

Orla. He had to tell them about the information she’d promised.

“Le Pen’s right wing hired you,” Brigitte accused him. “They’ll stop at nothing to discredit our movement. I should have suspected! You have all the hallmarks of the scum intello student saboteurs the right wing plants to disparage us.”

Perspiration dampened his sweatshirt. “Le Pen, that fascist . . . you’re calling me a saboteur?”

He banged his fist on the littered desk, sweeping papers onto the floor.

Brigitte’s eyes flashed. “And as soon as you could, you headed here and ransacked the office!” She grabbed his arm.

He had to calm down. If they didn’t believe him, the oil companies, led by Alstrom, the worst one, would get away, implicating him as a spy, a saboteur. “I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath. “But you must believe me: we were all betrayed.”

Four pairs of eyes stared at him.

“We had them dead to rights; the evidence was here, in black and white. So they sent someone to steal the files after setting me up,” he told them. “If we don’t find those files or get hold of Orla—who has more information—the oil companies will be able to push their agreement through. We can’t fight among ourselves; we have to act against them before it’s too late.”

Instead of nodding in agreement, Brigitte reached for the phone. “You stole the files. You’ve worked things perfectly so the agreement can’t be stopped,” she said. She picked up the receiver and dialed 18. “You can tell your story to the flics when they arrive.”

His pulse raced. He’d been framed but they wouldn’t believe him. He was cornered. He made his feet move, backed out the door, and ran down the stairs.