Private Paris Read online

  “You’re referring to the blonde who died in your apartment? Amé Thies?” the magistrate asked.

  “Who else?”

  “Where did she hear that LaFont might be assassinated?”

  “Can’t help you. She had the contacts. I didn’t.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Hoskins said sharply. “You need to start leveling with us if you want to have some chance of seeing daylight ever again.”

  Haja responded smugly, “You can’t offer me hope, madame investigateur. I know my fate and accept it as any true believer would.”

  “Were you involved in the death of Millie Fleurs?” Fromme pressed.

  Haja almost laughed. “I can honestly say I never heard a thing about her being a target. Jacques Noulan? Maybe. But not Millie Fleurs.”

  “You’re again saying another cell was responsible?” Fromme insisted.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” she replied. “And I need more water.”

  Neither magistrate nor investigator moved a muscle.

  “You deny me water?” Haja asked. “That’s torture. That’s what that is.”

  Hoskins’s lower lip curled inward. She stood, poured Haja more water, and held the cup out to her. As Haja sipped through the straw, I started thinking about how she had been angry, not religious, and apolitical when Michele knew her.

  What had turned her to this? When was that moment?

  Hoskins set the cup on the bed stand and sat back down, asking, “You regularly attend services at the mosque in Barbès?”

  “Not regularly,” Haja replied. “But at times.”

  Fromme asked, “Is the imam part of AB-16?”

  She didn’t answer at first, but then said, “Al-Moustapha? Of course he’s part of it. And Firmus Massi. How do you think we communicated? Through FEZ Couriers. We’re all part of AB-16. We’re all out to change France. And we’re all willing to spend time in jail because we know it won’t be long before the prison doors are thrown open and we are rescued by the mob.”

  “Ali Farad of Private Paris?” the magistrate asked. “He in AB-16 too?”

  “A great soldier of the revolution,” Haja said.

  I didn’t know why, but in my gut I didn’t buy it. Then again, I didn’t have to buy it. A jury did, and on these counts Haja sounded confident enough to convince one. One thing was sure now: Ali Farad faced life in prison.

  La Roche returned to the observation booth, and his partner filled him in on what Haja had said. La Roche glanced at me and Louis as if trying to decide whether to kick us out. Guilt by association.

  Instead, he said, “Nothing on the phone, Morgan. They found both pieces, but no SIM card.”

  Frustrated, I forced my attention back to the interrogation, wondering once again about the source of Hamid’s anger during her time at the academy of fine arts. If she was a terrorist from the beginning, a sleeper sent to France, was showing anger back then carelessness on her part? Or an inability to mask her hatred of France?

  Then again, Michele had said she believed Haja’s anger was personal. Was the anger connected to her willingness to join AB-16? If yes, I decided, the source of her anger had to be deep and violent.

  Back in Africa, back in Niger, did someone French murder someone close to her? A sibling? Or was Haja raped at some point? By a Frenchman? Was she beaten or had she watched someone close to her beaten? Was she…?

  Stark images from the week before flickered in my mind.

  Now that would be enough to make her angry, wouldn’t it?

  I thought so. Very angry. Spitting angry. Maybe in a constant rage at what life had done to her. But is it true? Simple test, right? But say it is true. How does that translate into her being willing to spend her life in prison for the…

  It dawned on me then.

  “What if there’s another explanation?” I asked Louis and the intelligence officers. “What if we have this all wrong?”

  “What are you talking about?” Louis said.

  “Text Hoskins and Fromme,” I said to La Roche. “Tell them to come out.”

  Ten minutes later, we were all gathered down the hall from the interrogation room, and I was finishing up explaining my theory and the evidence that supported it.

  The French intelligence officers looked skeptical at best, but I could see that Fromme was chewing it over, and Hoskins was keeping an open mind.

  “Doesn’t hurt to ask,” the magistrate said at last. “It’s either true or not, and she sure can’t hide a thing like that.”

  Chapter 100

  WE WATCHED FROM the booth as Hoskins and Fromme reentered the interrogation room.

  “I’ve cooperated,” Haja said. “Can I see a lawyer now?”

  “A few more questions,” the magistrate said, sitting on a chair to the sculptor’s right and leaning over his cane.

  Hoskins, who stood on the other side of the bed, said, “Michele Herbert described you as angry when you were at the academy of fine arts.”

  “I don’t remember that,” Haja said.

  “Was it your hatred of France that made you angry?”

  Haja paused and said, “Maybe. I was disgusted with the decadence of Paris.”

  Fromme said, “So you came to France already a radical follower of Islam? Is that right?”

  “It was my fate. Part of my calling.”

  Hoskins reached into a folder and took out an eight-by-ten photograph. “Is this you?” She held the picture up to her, and even through the swelling, I could see shock registering.

  The investigateur saw it too and said, “You didn’t know Henri Richard was taking pictures of you two having sex with him dressed as a priest and you in a robe and hijab?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Haja said. “That’s not me.”

  Hoskins said, “Do I need to use force? Strip-search and photograph you myself? Or do I spare you that indignity?”

  The bomber and sculptor closed her eyes.

  After several long beats, Fromme said insistently, “Is that you, madame?”

  “Yes,” Haja said at last. “It’s me.”

  “Who did that to you? Who mutilated you like that?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Haja said, opening her eyes.

  “Oh, I think it does matter,” Hoskins insisted. “I think it matters a great deal to you. I think your castration is the source of your anger.”

  “I stopped being angry about that a long time ago. It was the will of Allah.”

  “That’s how you react after having your clitoris cut off because of Islam? You think it was right and proper for your father’s religion to lop off one of your body parts so you could never enjoy having sex?”

  “Islam is submission,” Haja said. “Submission to God’s will. Once I submitted, I was able to see the rightness of Islam. It’s what I fight for.”

  “You want an alternative explanation? One that Jack Morgan is floating?”

  At hearing my name, Hamid shifted and said, “What’s that?”

  “Morgan thinks it’s possible that you’re fighting for something else entirely,” the investigateur said. “He thinks because of your resentment over your mutilation, you planted evidence against the imam and the others to stir things up, create a mob mentality, promote a civil and racial war in France.”

  Haja snorted. “And what good would that do me?”

  “It might just drive Islam from this country,” Hoskins said. “It might just cleanse your adopted society of the religion that butchered you.”

  “Mr. Morgan has quite the imagination, but he is dead wrong.”

  “You deny wanting a civil war?” Fromme said.

  “I want a coup d’état.”

  “How do we know you’re not lying?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Why wouldn’t you?” Hoskins cried. “You lied about knowing Henri Richard. And here we have pictures of him buried in your mutilation, pictures sure to come out in court and make your humiliation complete.”
r />   Haja’s hatred shimmered through her swollen features before she closed her puffy eyes and said, “Burn in hell, bitch. I’m not saying another word until I have a lawyer present.”

  Chapter 101

  Montfermeil, eastern suburbs of Paris

  7:20 p.m.

  MAJOR SAUVAGE LEFT General Georges’s evening briefing at a crisp pace, with Captain Mfune hard at his shoulder.

  “What are we going to do?” Mfune muttered.

  “Not here,” Sauvage said sharply.

  The major found Corporal Perry, a young, scrawny kid assigned to drive him, and told Perry to catch another ride back to their position. Then he ordered Mfune to take the wheel of the Renault Sherpa.

  Tan, squat, and plated with armor, the Sherpa looked like the head of some prehistoric reptile. It was imposing, and people tended to get out of its way the second they saw it. The big machine gun up top helped. It was an AA-52, the machine gun that French soldiers referred to as La Nana, or the maid, because it cleaned up. Sauvage had seen a combo of the Sherpa and La Nana work all the time in Afghanistan. The Taliban ran like hell when they saw them coming.

  Mfune pulled the armored vehicle out into traffic and said, “Major?”

  “You heard the briefing,” Sauvage said testily. “Haja’s staying on story. She’s sacrificing everything.”

  “With all due respect, sir, Amé sacrificed everything,” Mfune said. “Haja is still alive. Haja could change her mind.”

  “She could if she was normal, but she’s not, so she won’t,” the major reasoned. “And because of that, the powers that be will have to take her at her word, and act accordingly. In fact, if you think about it, she’s in a unique position to convince them that the AB-16 threat is real and growing.”

  “Another layer of disinformation,” Mfune said.

  “Exactly,” Sauvage said.

  “So we do nothing for the time being?” Mfune asked. “Let the uprising build on its own?”

  Sauvage thought about that. It was a good question.

  He considered his options for several moments, and then said, “No, I think it’s time we show France what a little fighting back would look like. Get more of the home team behind us.”

  The captain said, “Without provocation, sir? Is that advisable?”

  “Of course not,” Sauvage said. “We’ll create provocation, and then la pagaille, in the chaos of battle, we’ll retaliate. Hard.”

  Chapter 102

  14th Arrondissement

  8:15 p.m.

  LEAVING LA SANTÉ, I was aware of the prison’s cold hard walls and the fates of the people inside. Haja Hamid deserved to be in there.

  But Imam Al-Moustapha? And Ali Farad?

  Though Haja had denied it, I was still entertaining the possibility that her motives were opposite the ones she cited. In that scenario, the sculptor was prepared to suffer, and she was prepared to make innocent men suffer with her.

  Juge Fromme broke me from my thoughts. “As helpful and insightful as you’ve been, Mr. Morgan, Investigateur Hoskins must now take you to a holding cell until the minister of justice sees fit to deport or release you.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Louis fumed.

  Fromme growled, “Carrying a handgun without a license. Carrying a handgun in the commission of a crime. These are crimes we take seriously in France, Louis. Or have you forgotten?”

  Louis looked ready to argue, but I said, “You’ll take off the cuffs if I’m in a cell? Get me some pain meds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we go by the hospital first so I can check in on Michele Herbert?”

  “That’s not happening,” Hoskins said. “But I’ll get you an update.”

  We returned to the police car we’d taken to the prison, and I was climbing in the backseat when Louis’s cell rang. He answered, listened, and said, “Here. I’ll let him explain.”

  Louis hit speaker, and I said, “It’s Jack.”

  “Where are you?” Justine asked. “And where have you been the last day and a half?”

  “I’m on my way to jail,” I said. “And the last thirty-six hours are too complicated to go into at the moment.”

  There was a pause. “What are you charged with?”

  “Multiple felony counts. How’s Kim and Sherman?”

  “They had a truth and reconciliation meeting before she went to Betty Ford. Kim fessed up, told her grandfather everything.”

  “How’d Sherman take it?”

  “He’s grateful she’s alive. He also sent over a check this morning for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and a note asking if it was enough.”

  “That’ll do,” I said. “Transfer half to the Private Paris bonus account.”

  “That’s enough,” Fromme grumbled from the front seat. “You’re in custody, not business. End that call. Now.”

  “You heard the judge,” I said. “Gotta go.”

  Louis ended the conversation. As he put the device away, I thought about how cut off I was without a phone, and what a valuable tool it was for someone in my line of work. A phone keeps you mobile, not tied down to a desk, and yet able to access information when you need it. A very good thing.

  And if we were lucky enough to get hold of a bad guy’s phone, well, that was like hitting the mother lode, finding the keys to the kingdom. Thinking back to that busted cell phone I’d seen in the Dumpster below Haja Hamid’s bedroom window, I felt reasonably sure that it had been hers or Amé’s.

  How had that worked? Had the burn phone been broken and tossed in the alley, or from Haja’s bedroom window?

  I shut my eyes, tried to imagine the pieces sailing out the window, falling through the scaffolding, tried to envision the trajectories the pieces might have taken…falling to the…

  “Turn around,” I said.

  “Why?” said Hoskins.

  “No,” Fromme said firmly. “He goes to—”

  “Haja’s apartment. Turn around.”

  “That is an active crime scene of a killing in which you are a suspect,” the judge shot back. “You’ll never be allowed in, and neither will we.”

  “Then call someone there,” I said. “I think there’s something we missed.”

  Chapter 103

  Sevran, northeastern suburbs of Paris

  10:04 p.m.

  THE CHAOS OF BATTLE! Major Sauvage thought with growing pleasure and excitement. La pagaille! It’s coming, so close I can smell it. Kill them now, soldier. Vanquish them. Drive them from our land.

  As all this played in his head, Sauvage was pacing inside his command post in an abandoned building, drinking coffee, and monitoring the radio traffic from the six units under him. He was waiting for one of the hot spots to gather wind and throw sparks. So far, however, there’d been little to suggest a repeat of yesterday evening’s chaos: the bombing, Haja’s burning horse, and all the violence those two masterstrokes had spawned.

  He thought of Haja, and knew without a doubt that she would sacrifice herself to their cause. She was that noble. She was that committed.

  Sauvage admired her greatly. To the extent that he could, the major even loved her, and it made him sick that he might never see her again.

  His burn phone rang. Had to be Mfune. Seeing the junior officers inside the command center caught up in their work, he slipped outside. He didn’t recognize the number, and almost didn’t answer.

  Then he did, and said, “Yes?”

  “Chloe there?” a woman said in a voice thick with alcohol.

  “You’ve got the wrong number, madame,” he said.

  “You’re sure? I punched the number she put in my contacts last night.”

  “If Chloe did that, she’s either stupid or nuts,” Sauvage said, and ended the call.

  The major hesitated, and then hit redial. The other phone rang twice.

  “Chloe?” the woman said.

  Sauvage cut the call, and went back to waiting for a mob to appear.

  It wasn’t until shortly af
ter midnight that the first gunshots were reported around La Forêt—the Forest—a housing project six kilometers northeast of his position on the northern border of the Bondy Forest.

  The major called Captain Mfune on the radio. “Take the convoy jammers and triangulate the entire place. I’m coming behind you with two full units.”

  “Rules of engagement?”

  “If fired upon, defend yourselves.”

  “Roger that,” Mfune said, and signed off.

  Sauvage grabbed his flak jacket, helmet, and sidearm, saying, “Let’s move, Corporal Perry.”

  The major got in the Sherpa, climbed into the backseat, and pushed up the roof hatch.

  Taking goggles and a radio headset from a hook by the hatch, the major wriggled up through the opening and got in position behind the machine gun.

  Moments after his driver and the sergeant who usually manned the turret gun climbed in, Sauvage’s headset crackled. “Where to, sir?” the corporal asked.

  “La Forêt housing project. Patch me into all radio traffic in the area.”

  “Roger that, sir,” the corporal said.

  They pulled out and headed north.

  Sauvage loved his station in life at that moment, riding high above the streets behind La Nana and a whole lot of accurate ammunition. Was there anything better?

  The major’s brain replayed savored bits of past trips into the chaos of battle, and he felt his body warm. The radio traffic only fed his excitement. There were reports of armed men in the streets around the housing project, and snipers.

  In Sauvage’s mind, the sniping was more than enough provocation to retaliate with force, regardless of whether someone was hit or not. He trembled with an addict’s anticipation then, knowing for certain that he was on the verge of slipping into the familiar insanity and lethal bliss of la pagaille.

  Chapter 104

  La Forêt, northeastern suburbs of Paris

  April 13, 12:44 a.m.

  NINE SEEDY TOTALITARIAN-STYLE high-rise buildings made up La Forêt housing project. Four sat to the left of a central access road, and five to the right. The project bordered a crescent-shaped wetland. If you made a straight line through the Bondy Forest, it was less than six miles from Les Bosquets.