This is the Night They Come For You, page 25
‘And before that?’
‘Nineteen eighty-three. With my wife. It was our honeymoon. This time of the year, actually. It rained a lot.’ He smiles. ‘We didn’t care.’
‘How old were you in 1983, Taleb?’
‘Oh … twenty-eight.’
‘Hard to imagine.’
‘Harder for me than you, I suspect.’
‘The embassy will have a car waiting for us. We’re to go straight to the Swimming Pool.’
He frowns in puzzlement. ‘You are joking, aren’t you?’
‘It’s the nickname for DGSE HQ.’
‘Why?’
‘Easy to drown there if you don’t know the strokes, I suppose.’
‘But you must know the strokes, Agent Hidouchi. The DGSE are your kind of people.’
‘I’m not sure about that.’
‘No?’
‘We need to be careful while we’re in Paris, Taleb.’
‘You think so?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Me? I’m always careful. Haven’t you noticed?’
The driver of the embassy car seems to have acquired quite a lot of Parisian reserve during his posting there. He displays a very un-Algerian level of taciturnity as he drives them round the autoroute system to their destination on the eastern side of the city. Glimpsing a sign reading Piscine des Tourelles as they arrive, Taleb realizes an adjacent swimming pool is the mundane explanation for DGSE HQ’s nickname, as Hidouchi must be aware.
‘I preferred your version,’ he says to her in an undertone.
‘Names are never just names, Taleb,’ she responds. ‘They breed their own symbolism.’
The driver announces he’s been instructed to take their cases on to the hotel the embassy has booked and will return to collect them later. Taleb keeps his bulging shoulder bag with him. Hidouchi carries something predictably slimmer and smarter. There’s a security gate just inside the building, where they’re patted down and deprived of their guns for the duration of their visit.
‘Don’t worry,’ the burly guard presiding tells them. ‘You won’t need to shoot your way out.’ Taleb manages a smile. Hidouchi doesn’t.
They’re ushered to an upper floor office to meet Assistant Director of Intelligence Ménard. The initial E before the Assistant Director’s name on the door turns out to stand for Erica. Taleb tries hard not to look surprised when he discovers this. He suspects Hidouchi already knew but chose not to tell him.
Erica Ménard, as it turns out, isn’t in her office. She’s been delayed by ‘an operational emergency’, according to her assistant, a small, wiry, curly-haired young man with a disconcertingly rapid blink who introduces himself as Gilles Réau and invites them to share the conference table with him while they await her arrival.
The table forms the vertical to a T completed by Ménard’s desk, on which a telephone and PC do not have to jostle for space with anything as personal as framed family photographs. Réau starts tapping away at his laptop, leaving Taleb and Hidouchi to study their surroundings and guard their tongues.
As the minutes tick by and the abstract paintings on the walls fail to yield stimulation, Taleb begins to pay closer attention to Réau. He notices a number of long grey hairs on the young man’s jacket – cat hairs, he suspects. They remind him of the hairs he used to find on his clothes after visits to his great aunt Lunca, who kept a veritable colony of Persian cats.
Nearly half an hour slowly elapses before Erica Ménard enters the room with the slightly breathless air of a busy woman. She’s slim and elegant, dressed in a black trouser suit. Taleb’s eye is caught by a glittering brooch on her lapel in the likeness of a scorpion. Her smile of greeting has a chilly edge to it and her eyes a predatory gleam.
‘Welcome to Paris,’ she says, seating herself at her desk and opening a file she brought with her. ‘We are grateful to the DSS for proposing this meeting.’ She addresses the remark to Hidouchi. The Algerian police apparently warrant no thanks for sending Taleb along for the ride. ‘I must say I was surprised to hear the issue of the Tournier murder had been revived. It was fifty-five years ago. That is not so much a cold case as a frozen one.’
‘But sensitive, even so,’ says Hidouchi, ‘at this time of improving relations between our governments.’
‘True,’ concedes Ménard. ‘So, are you able to give me details of what has come to light – after such a very long time?’
Hidouchi nods to Taleb. ‘Superintendent?’
‘Thank you, Agent Hidouchi.’ Taleb clears his throat. He would very much like a cigarette, but they have passed several DÉFENSE DE FUMER signs on their way through the building and the room they are in is spotlessly clean. He might as well think of spitting on the floor. ‘Wassim Zarbi, formerly with the DRS, left Algeria four months ago in breach of his parole conditions following release after serving twenty years of a thirty-year prison sentence for complicity in the embezzlement of funds from our national oil and gas company, Sonatrach. The embezzler-in-chief, Nadir Laloul, who worked in a senior capacity at Sonatrach, has never been caught. We believe Zarbi may be looking for him in order to take revenge for being left to face prosecution alone.’
‘Where do you believe Laloul is?’ Ménard asks.
‘We don’t know. Switzerland, possibly. France, conceivably.’
Ménard arches a sceptical eyebrow. ‘France? Really?’
‘As I say, we don’t know. But French is his first language.’
‘And what is the connection with Guy Tournier?’
‘It’s possible Zarbi and Laloul murdered him. They seem to have been in Paris at the time of his death and were active FLN operatives, although in 1965 they were working to help Boumediene replace Ben Bella. The coup that deposed Ben Bella took place just a few weeks after Tournier’s death.’
‘And what is that except a coincidence of timing?’
‘We’re aware of the rumours that Tournier was a member of a secret committee that may have approved the seventeenth of October 1961 massacre,’ Hidouchi cuts in. ‘The date was daubed on the wall of his apartment, was it not?’
‘It was,’ says Ménard. ‘According to the file I studied before you arrived. A nasty business, in which Tournier’s predilection for young male company was exploited to gain access to his apartment. He was propositioned by a young Englishman at a nearby restaurant.’
Taleb and Hidouchi exchange a glance. ‘We may know who the Englishman was,’ says Taleb. ‘Nigel Dalby. He ran a bookshop in Algiers for many years. We think Zarbi helped him establish the business.’
‘Is Dalby still alive?’
‘No. He was murdered by Islamist extremists in 1994.’
‘So, you have two elderly fugitives and a dead man to back up all this speculation?’
‘Was Tournier a member of a secret government committee?’ Hidouchi asks, undercutting Ménard’s sarcasm.
She is rewarded with a wintry stare. ‘Obviously I can’t, by definition, confirm the existence of a secret government committee, even from many presidential administrations ago. But I don’t deny it’s widely rumoured such a committee existed. And that Tournier served on it.’
‘Would your government like to see his murderers brought to justice?’
‘Naturally. And I’m sure assistance from your side to achieve that would be warmly welcomed by my government.’
‘We don’t know where Laloul is,’ says Taleb, ‘but it seems likely Zarbi is in Marseille. Whether that means Laloul is also in Marseille …’
‘The city is a sump for Muslim malcontents, so either might have found refuge there.’ Ménard doesn’t appear to be troubled by the harshness of her language. ‘This country is in a state of undeclared war against Islamist extremists who are unwilling to respect our traditions. They would probably regard Tournier’s murderers as heroes.’
‘Well, we don’t.’ Taleb feels angry at having to say as much, but he is no stranger to suppressing his emotions. ‘Zarbi and Laloul are enemies of Algeria just as much as they are of France.’
Ménard gives him her attention for what seems to be the first time. ‘I am pleased to hear it, Superintendent. How can we help you in your pursuit of these elderly murderers?’
‘Give us official clearance to conduct inquiries wherever they need to be conducted.’
‘Official clearance? That would tie us all up in paperwork. Unofficial clearance is a different matter.’
‘Can we have that, then?’ asks Hidouchi.
‘Subject to being kept informed on a regular basis as your inquiries proceed, yes.’ Ménard smiles icily.
‘I wonder … if you have any information about either man.’ Taleb notices a slight stiffening of Hidouchi’s posture as she says this. She evidently believes Ménard’s response will be the acid test of her cooperativeness.
‘I instituted a system-wide trawl as soon as Deputy Director Kadri gave me their names. The results were … meagre. Gilles?’ Ménard turns to Réau, whose blink rate instantly increases.
‘There’s no recent intelligence at all,’ he reports, speaking so quietly Taleb has to concentrate hard to catch his words. ‘For both men there are alleged links with underworld figures in Marseille, but nothing definite.’
‘If you can supply us with the names of known current associates of the two men,’ says Ménard, ‘we may be able to dig up more.’
‘There’s a former nightclub owner called Razane Abderrahmane,’ says Hidouchi. ‘Zarbi had a son by her. And a friend of hers who was in prison with Zarbi called Sami Bahlouli.’
‘Abderrahmane is in custody,’ says Taleb. ‘And Bahlouli committed suicide when about to be arrested.’
Ménard looks unimpressed – as well she might, Taleb admits to himself. ‘Where is the son?’
‘Managing a hotel in Egypt.’
‘No obvious links with France, then.’
‘No. But there is also … Zarbi’s well-travelled lawyer, Ibrahim Boukhatem. Perhaps—’
‘Boukhatem?’ Ménard is suddenly animated. ‘Why didn’t you mention him sooner?’
‘You know of him?’
‘Only too well. Ibrahim Boukhatem is a roving associate of Coqblin and Baudouin, a Franco-Swiss law firm that’s given us much trouble by mounting mysteriously well-funded defences for Islamist extremists threatened with deportation. We suspect Boukhatem is their principal fundraiser in Arab states.’
‘That’s interesting. He happens to be in Bahrain at present.’
‘Not so, Superintendent. He’s here, in Paris. Gilles?’ Ménard turns once more to Réau, who taps away at the keys on his laptop.
‘Boukhatem flew in from Bahrain yesterday and booked into the Horizon Hotel at Charles de Gaulle airport,’ he reports. ‘He’s still there, according to the latest tracking report.’
‘Taking meetings before flying out again, perhaps,’ says Ménard. ‘He’s always on the move.’
‘Boukhatem is at the airport?’ Hidouchi checks. ‘Right now?’
‘We can’t be certain of his present location, but …’ Réau squints at the screen in front of him, ‘he definitely hasn’t checked out.’
‘You have his room number?’
‘Thinking of paying him a visit, Agent Hidouchi?’ Ménard asks.
‘Why not?’
‘No reason. In fact, it’s a good idea. Particularly for us.’
‘Why for you?’
‘Because Coqblin and Baudouin will allege harassment if we knock on Boukhatem’s door. And they have enough politicians in their pocket to cause us problems. But we can’t be held responsible for the actions of Algerian agents operating in France without official sanction, can we?’ Ménard smiles at them, then points a strikingly long index finger at Réau. ‘I haven’t discussed Boukhatem’s whereabouts with Agent Hidouchi and Superintendent Taleb, Gilles. Is that clear?’
Réau nods emphatically, which has the effect of slowing his blinking.
‘But they have undertaken to notify us of all interactions they have with French citizens while they are in this country.’
Réau nods again and taps away on his laptop.
‘Boukhatem is not a French citizen,’ Hidouchi remarks.
Ménard shrugs. ‘I believe you’re right. So … we will not expect to be notified of any interactions you have with him.’ And to the shrug she adds a smile.
Suzette is relieved to be home. Les Fringillidés is a converted farmhouse west of Versailles, bought by her and Vincent when his art gallery business was thriving in the spendthrift days before the 2008 crash. Keeping it has stretched her financial resources to the limit, but she’s pleased to have been able to give Timothée and Élodie a semi-rural childhood. They’re seldom there now and Vincent’s long gone, but the memories of family life it holds are precious to her.
Above all, Les Fringillidés represents peace, which is what she needs after her trip to England. She reached the house just as dawn was breaking, exhausted after the drive from Calais. Angélique, her cleaner, has left it in good order, as ever. All she had to do was drop her bags, close the curtains and go to bed in the hope of catching up on some sleep.
She managed five solid hours before waking to a sunny late morning. She showered and unpacked, then had breakfast and took her coffee out on to the terrace facing the fields that stretch away north towards the Forêt de Beynes.
As she sits at the garden table, she feels the tranquillity of her surroundings seep into her soul. It’s still not clear to her how she’s going to extricate herself from the problems posed by her father’s confession, but she’s calmer than she was and senses the answer will present itself to her if she has the patience to let it.
She hasn’t turned on her phone since arriving and she’s unplugged the landline as well. She needs to think things through without interruption and certainly without the advice her mother is doubtless eager to give her.
But the phone isn’t the only source of interruption. As she sips her coffee and watches the fat cattle moving slowly in one of Farmer Pépy’s fields, she becomes aware of the sound of a car engine, growing ever louder as it approaches along the poplar-lined lane. It’s not the postman, whose van makes a distinctive put-put noise. It’s the throaty growl of a high-powered saloon.
Turning, she sees a plume of dust moving along the lane. Then the car itself appears: grey and low-slung. It slows as it approaches the yard in front of the house. Suzette can see nothing of the driver thanks to the angle of the sun. But the appearance of a car she doesn’t recognize in the middle of the day is concerning enough. She stands up, wondering what to do.
The car draws to a halt. The engine dies. Quietude is restored. The driver’s door swings open and a large man in a blazer and chinos climbs out. He’s fair-haired and jowly. He waves to her, the sunlight flashing on the lenses of his sunglasses. ‘Madame Fontaine?’ he calls.
She doesn’t actually confirm her identity, but calls back, ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I am sorry to arrive unannounced. I tried telephoning you earlier, but …’ He spreads his hands.
‘Who are you?’
‘Lionel Baudouin.’ He leans into the car to fetch a briefcase, then starts walking slowly towards her, smiling broadly. ‘I hope you don’t mind me … calling by like this.’
The sunlight catches the heavy gold bracelet of Baudouin’s wristwatch and the unnatural whiteness of his teeth. He’s wearing a cravat, which gives him an old-fashioned, slightly raffish appearance. This certainly isn’t how she unconsciously pictured the writer of the letters she’s received from Coqblin & Baudouin. Besides, the writer of those letters is supposed to be in Geneva, not the Île de France.
‘As I’m sure you can imagine, Madame Fontaine, our client, Monsieur Saidi, is anxious to hear what you have concluded about the, ah … document.’
‘Have you come all the way from Geneva to ask me what I’ve decided?’
‘No, no. We have an office in Paris. I divide my time between here and Geneva so as to … address the needs of all our clients.’
‘How nice for them.’
His smile stiffens. ‘Indeed.’
‘Do you want to sit down?’
‘Thank you.’ He arranges himself in one of the chairs spaced around the table. ‘I must say your coffee smells … superb.’
‘Would you like a cup?’ There seems no way out of offering him one.
‘That would be very nice.’
Suzette goes to fetch a cup for her visitor. She resents being invaded by him. It strikes her as most unlawyerly behaviour. But at least the trip to the kitchen gives her a chance to collect her thoughts. What does he want? What does he really want?
He’s talking on his phone when she returns. At the sight of her, he says, ‘I will call you back,’ and ends the conversation.
She pours him coffee and some more for herself. He sips his and gives a sigh of satisfaction.
‘I had understood, monsieur,’ says Suzette as she sits down, ‘that your client was content to wait for me to reach a decision in my own time.’
‘Oh, he is. It was simply that, so long having elapsed, and finding myself in the area …’
‘You found yourself in the area?’ Suzette can’t help sounding sceptical. She’s also increasingly apprehensive. She’s only been home for a matter of hours. Does this visit suggest he knew she was back? She remembers Stephen Gray warning her that her phone might not be secure. She had tried to dismiss that as paranoia on his part. Suddenly, she’s not so sure.
‘We have an elderly client who lives near Dreux,’ claims Baudouin, quite shamelessly. ‘I have to visit her periodically.’
‘You obviously believe in personal service.’
‘It’s our watchword.’ He takes another sip of coffee. ‘So, may I ask if you have, in fact … reached a decision?’
She has, though she was planning to dwell on it for a while before contacting him. But she recoils inwardly from further prevarication. ‘I have.’
‘And that is?’
‘I have decided it’s impossible to be certain whether the confession is genuine … or not.’
Baudouin leans back in his chair and studies her. ‘Impossible to be certain?’
