Syndrome E

43

Lucie had taken an airplane only once before, on a holiday in the Baleares when she was about nine, and she’d loved it. She remembered her father and mother holding her close and petting her hair when the turbulence frightened her. It was one of her last memories of the three of them together, and it was all so far away now.

Lost in thought, she sat with her forehead pressed against the window of the Boeing 747 as it hovered above Quebec. The flight attendant had just woken her and asked her to fasten her seat belt: they were beginning their descent. Lucie had slept most of the way, heavily and, unusually, without waking. Now, in the pale light of the setting sun, she admired the stretches of lakes and forest, rivers and swamps that civilization had still spared. A vast, wild terrain, miraculously preserved. Then the mouth of the Saint Lawrence appeared, with the first major signs of human presence, before the jet flew over the famous lozenge-shaped island.

Montreal: a flare of modernism amid the waters.

The flight attendant verified one more time that everyone’s seat belt was fastened. The passenger seated next to Lucie, a big blond fellow, had practically dug his fingers into the armrests. He stared at her with cocker spaniel eyes.

“Here it comes again—I’m starting to feel like I’m dying. I really envy people like you who can sleep anywhere.”

Lucie gave him a polite smile. Her mouth was pasty and she didn’t feel like making chitchat. The landing at Montreal-Trudeau airport was soft as could be. The ground temperature was about the same as a classic summer in the north of France. No real sense of disorientation, particularly since much of the population was French-speaking. Once the usual business was behind her—customs, verification of the letter rogatory, the wait at baggage claim, currency exchange—Lucie hailed a cab and let herself collapse onto the backseat. Evening was just beginning here, but across the Atlantic night was well under way.

Her first impression of Montreal, in the gathering darkness, was of a modern and incredibly luminous city. The skyscrapers launched their beams of light toward the stars; the many cathedrals and churches played on tones of red, blue, and green projected by spotlights. In the center of town, Lucie was surprised by how wide the avenues were, and the rigorous geometry of the streets. Despite the subway entrances with their very Parisian look and the effervescence of the small cafés and restaurants nearby, you didn’t have the impression of closeness and warmth that animated the French capital on mild evenings.

By the time she arrived at the Delta Montreal, an imposing high-rise with a summit bathed in blue light, Lucie no longer had the energy to go out and see the city—including the famous underground Montreal. Claiming her key, she settled into her room on the fifth floor, put on her bathrobe, and lay down on the bed with a long sigh. She didn’t feel at home in this anonymous place, with its succession of strangers, traveling businesspeople, and vacationing couples. Nothing more depressing than to be alone at night, without a sound outside. Where were her daughters’ laughter and tears, the light daily hubbub of her apartment that had been with her for all those years? How could she let herself go so far away from her ailing little girl? What was Clara doing at camp? Questions that a mother, a good mother, should never have to wonder about.

Despite her worries, she gradually began to doze off. Her eyes fluttered open when the hotel phone rang. She stretched out her hand and brought the receiver to her ear.

“Yes?”

“All settled in, Henebelle?”

A pause.

“Inspector Sharko? Uh… yes, I just got in. But… why didn’t you call on my cell?”

“I tried. No go.”

Lucie picked up the mobile phone that was lying next to her. The battery was charged. The screen showed no calls. She tried to get a dial tone.

“Damn, it must be out of range. Speaking of distance, it must be four or five in the morning for you. You’re already up?”

Sharko was sitting at his kitchen table, in front of an empty cup of coffee and his loaded Sig Sauer. His cheek was in one hand, his elbow resting on the tablecloth, his eye turned toward the entry door in the living room. His telephone was sitting on the table, with the speaker on. On the chair opposite him, Eugenie was humming the latest song by Coeur de Pirate. She was munching on candied chestnuts and sipping a mint soda. Sharko turned his face away.

“How was the trip?”

“In a word, exhausting. Crammed full of vacationers.”

“And how about the hotel—is it nice? You do have a bathtub, at least?”

“A bathtub? Uh… yes. And how about you—what’s new?”

“Here’s a thrill: I’m about to inherit a list of two hundred people who attended a scientific conference in Cairo at the time of the murders. We’ve decided to focus on just the French for now.”

“Two hundred? That’s a lot. How many are working on it?”

“Just one—me. For starters, we should be able to eliminate a good number with the killer’s profile we have from 1993. Pare it down as much as possible, before delving into everyone’s past. You can imagine what a chore it is.”

The sound of an engine rose from the street. Out of reflex, Sharko snatched up his gun and rushed to the window. After shutting off the light, he slightly raised the shade, his throat tight. A truck, topped with an orange revolving light, slowly advanced along the sidewalk. It was just the street sweepers emptying the trash cans, as they did every week, in the early morning torpor. The cop sat back down, half reassured. His temples were beating hard; hypervigilance and paranoia, amplified by his illness, kept him both awake and exhausted.

“Is something wrong, Inspector?”

“No, everything’s fine. Tell me, did you notice anything suspicious at your place in Lille?”

“Such as?”

“Such as hidden microphones. I found four of them here.”

Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, Lucie felt her blood go cold.

“The knob to my outside door grated a bit a few days ago. They must have broken into my apartment too—I’m sure of it.”

Lucie felt the blow. The feeling of violation. They had penetrated into her space, her cocoon. They might have gone into her room, into her girls’ room.

“Who did it?”

“I don’t know. What’s certain is that the colonel in charge of the Foreign Legion is involved.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do. Don’t tell anyone about the mics, okay? We’ll take care of it when you get back.”

“How come?”

“Quit asking questions! Keep me posted. Talk to you soon.”

“Inspector! Wait!”

The air-conditioning rumbled hypnotically. And it felt so good to hear Sharko’s voice.

“What, Henebelle?”

“There’s something I need to ask you…”

“What’s that?”

“Have you saved a lot of lives in your career?”

“Some, yes. But unfortunately not always the ones I would have liked.”

“In our profession, we comfort the families by finding the people who killed their loved ones. We probably give a handful of people a reason to go on living, because we give them an answer. But, Inspector, haven’t you ever felt like just quitting the whole thing? Don’t you ever tell yourself the world would be no better or worse off without you?”

Sharko spun his weapon on the table, flicking the grip with his finger. He thought of Atef Abd el-Aal. Of those eight marks on the tree trunk. Of all those he’d been able to take care of, with the certainty that they’d never do it again.

“I felt like quitting every time I saw a smile on the faces of the bastards I put in jail. Because that smile was something that no bars and no prison could contain. And later, you start seeing that smile in shopping malls, playgrounds, schools, wherever you go. That smile makes me retch.”

He slammed his palm down on his gun, stopping its movement. His fingers closed over the barrel.

“I wish only one thing for you, Henebelle: that you never come across that miserable smile. Because once it gets into you, it never comes out.”

Lucie clenched her jaws. She stared at the ceiling with a sigh. The shadows were coming back fast and furious.

“Thank you, Inspector. I’ll keep you posted on what happens. Good night.”

“Good night, Henebelle. Take good care of yourself.”

Lucie hung up, sadness pressing down on her.

At that moment, she understood that to go back, to return to the life of a woman and a mother, would not be easy. Because that smile he was talking about, she had already come across, way too early in her young career.

It had been gnawing at her insides for a long time.