Private Monaco

Chapter 42

Baumettes prison was a huge complex south of Marseilles. Six-story cell blocks rose from the ground like monuments to misery, some a dirty brown, aged by years of Mediterranean sun; others new, boxy and soulless, painted white and green — the colors doubtless chosen for their neutral, calming quality.

The old buildings came from an era of retribution, when criminal justice had been primarily motivated by the concept of punishment, and it was evident in their severe architecture. The new buildings were about rehabilitation, an effort that went beyond the colors chosen. There were more plants and green spaces around them, larger windows, sports courts, and a general air of comfort lacking from the older iterations.

There were just under 2,000 prisoners on site, according to Mo-bot’s cursory research, and she wondered how many of them were truly capable of rehabilitation and how many simply deserved retribution.

Baba Saidi was facing a twelve-year sentence, so he’d get plenty of both. Mo-bot had checked him out while Sci had driven them to the sprawling prison. Baba had been head of the Outlaws, who controlled much of the flow of heroin into southern France from North Africa. He’d been arrested along with thirteen members of his gang and Roman, who according to Baba’s testimony had been the instigator of a deal to purchase thirty kilos of heroin. Baba had pleaded innocent, claiming Roman had been working with French police to entrap him. Baba was just an entrepreneur. The judge hadn’t believed him and had given him a higher sentence than the eight years he’d been offered as part of a pre-trial deal. Mo-bot didn’t feel sorry for the guy because Marseilles now had one ruthless criminal fewer on its streets. But as she read snippets of his testimony via Google Translate, she couldn’t help feeling this was an egotistical man who’d had no idea how hard and fast he was about to fall.

And he’d fallen a long way. Sci parked the Ford Kuga in the visitors’ section of the huge complex, and he and Mo-bot cleared security in an orange brick building that looked like it had been glued onto one of the modern cell blocks as an afterthought.

They joined a dozen other visitors, following a prison officer to the visiting room, an open-plan space with two dozen round tables, each surrounded by six chairs. All the furniture was hard resin and bolted to the floor. It was also very uncomfortable, and Mo-bot was in the process of shifting her weight to find a tolerable position when she saw Baba Saidi shuffle into the room with a puzzled expression on his face.

He had aged markedly in the months since his mugshot Porcher had shown them had been taken, as though prison had sucked the life from him.

His puzzlement was plain when one of the prison officers directed him toward Mo-bot and Sci. According to his police record, he was forty-four, but his short Afro was completely gray. The black hair in his mugshot must have come from a bottle, which might explain some of his loss of youth, but Mo-bot sensed it was more than that. He was thinner, gaunt even, and there was a slight stoop to his frame, which made him seem humble and hesitant. Had prison broken him?

He sat down opposite them without saying a word.

“Mr. Saidi,” Mo-bot said. “My name is Maureen and this is my colleague, Seymour. Do you speak English?”

Baba sat stony-faced and said nothing.

“We work for a detective agency called Private.”

His stare hardened and he got to his feet.

“Mr. Saidi,” Mo-bot went on, as he turned his back on them, “we’d like to ask you about Roman.”

It was as though she’d slapped Baba. He froze and then turned back slowly, a look of disgust on his face.

“Howa ibna sharmouta,” he said with a vicious scowl on his face.

“I don’t know what that means,” Sci remarked.

“He’s a son of a bitch,” Baba replied, retaking his seat. He directed his gaze at Mo-bot. “Go on.” His accent was a mix of French and Somalian.

“You were arrested with Roman, but he escaped justice,” she said.

“When I was tried, I thought this man was a police informant, that his escape was staged,” Baba said. “But now I have had time to ask friends to check him out, I have learned the truth.”

He fell silent and drifted away in thought. Mo-bot got the sense he was deeply conflicted.

“What truth?” she asked.

“They say he is no police informant but the devil himself. The tip-off came from the American FBI, that’s why the Marseilles police raided us,” Baba replied. “It was just bad luck. But the devil makes the most of bad luck.”

“How?” Mo-bot asked.

“He could have helped me escape that night, but he saw an opportunity,” Baba replied. “His organization is too well resourced to allow him to face justice. They rescued him and used my incarceration to take over my business. I don’t have powerful friends like he does.”

“What organization does Roman work for?” Sci asked.

“The Dark Fates,” Baba replied. “My sources tell me his real name is Roman Verde.”

Mo-bot and Sci exchanged looks of disbelief. The Dark Fates was a motorcycle gang they’d encountered in Rome, and Jack had shot the group’s leader, Milan Verde, who was currently serving life in a Roman prison for his involvement in the Vatican murders.

“Roman Verde must be related to Milan,” Mo-bot said to Sci, suddenly registering the physical resemblance between the two men. “That’s why they targeted Justine and Jack. This is personal.”