Arab Jazz (32 page)

An hour and a half later, rue Eugène-Jumin is crawling with police. Two murders twenty yards away from each other with the same MO. . . . That means a lot of people are getting involved. Fingerprints, photos, samples, witness reports. Haqiqi and Sam: big names in the neighborhood. Nobody saw a thing. The rotund figure of Mercator is leaning against a wall. He is chewing pensively on the end of a Café Crème cigarillo. Rachel spots him and heads over.

“So, Rachel—what have you found out?”

“Sam: a bullet to the back of the neck at point blank. Haqiqi: throat slit by a pro. Extremely sharp blade; clean incision. Two executions . . . We absolutely must bring in Moktar and Rabbi Seror—they could be next on the list.”

“And Meyer? Where is Meyer? Have you seen him the last few hours?”

“Meyer . . . I almost forgot—he intercepted a telephone call that was meant for me and then disappeared, so far as I’m aware . . .”

“So, in fact, no one has seen him since five o’clock yesterday, and he’s not answering his cell phone. Seems odd, does it not? Did you know he had a brother?”

No response from Rachel.

“And that the photofit of the strange, disturbing character of which our young friends speak looks particularly like him?”

Again, no response.

“Do as you think best, Rachel. Jean is en route with arrest warrants for Moktar and Seror. He’ll take care of that with Kevin while you try to manage the circus here. When you’re finished, leave four officers here to guard the crime scenes and let Forensics do their thing. The rest can regroup at the level of the Zénith at the end of boulevard MacDonald. We will not begin the raid until my signal. However long that might take. Right, I’m off—I’ve got things to do.”

Jean has appeared alongside Rachel. He’s about to say something, but she holds up her hand to stop him. Mercator rolls away from the wall, flicks his cigarillo into the gutter, and takes three steps before turning around.

“Evil, you know—evil. Do not forget that this is what we are dealing with. Though its faces are many, it is unique.”

Jean needs to talk to Rachel and update her on the investigating magistrate. He wants to tell her that he’s taken it upon himself to find the three boys a lawyer, and so they ought to get released on bail. Always better if you can turn up free in court. And always better if you don’t have to go to prison, especially when you’re twenty-five and you’ve got a pert ass. Rachel processes all the information.

“Right, okay, no problem. Now go and deal with Moktar and Seror. Take Kevin—go on, fast as you can! I’ll hold the fort here.”

45

Roissy-Charles de Gaulle Airport, Terminal 1.

The Barnes twins didn’t check in any luggage at Newark. Just a shoulder bag for James and a regulation-sized wheelie case for Susan. As they come through the automatic glass doors, Susan’s cell vibrates in the inside pocket of her coat.

“Yes.”

“Hello, Susan, welcome to Paris.”

“Hello, Aïssa. You’re calling right on time.”

“I know. Let’s meet in the parking lot. Bay number B 254.”

Three minutes later and the introductions are being made. Frédéric Enkell, Aïssa Benamer, James and Susan Barnes. The Parisian policemen are tired, on edge, their clothes crumpled. The American twins immediately realize that something’s not right, but they don’t let on at all. During the journey into Paris, most of the conversation is between Enkell and James in French. The
commissaire
is acting tough, sticking to the facts—businesslike. He makes it seem as though the cleanup went according to plan. As though Raymond Meyer, for example, were not still at large. Most of all he keeps mum about his plan to take down the twins as soon as Vignola is out of the picture.

“So, there is just one small obstacle to negotiate before we restart our operations in Belgium.”

“Yes, Vignola. We’re on the case. If I understand correctly from what you told me this morning before we left New York, you have already taken care of the . . . nuisances who witnessed the unfortunate accident that befell his darling daughter?”

“You understand correctly.”

“Perfect. So we’ll deal with Vignola. You have to realize that he’s one of us. This is, in a manner of speaking, an internal affair.”

“Yes, I understand entirely, but you don’t know the terrain. You’re not from around here, and easy to identify. Leave it to us. He’s meant to be coming to the hotel this afternoon, is he not?”

“Yes, at 3:00.”

“Fine, we’ll pick him up before he’s even made it to reception. I’ll call as soon as it’s done, and you can get on the first Thalys train to Antwerp. How does that sound?”

“I’m sorry but I really must insist. My sister is particularly intent to settle this as a family matter. It is, after all, thanks to her that we are all engaged in this joint enterprise that seems destined for a bright future. You could say that she has gone to every effort to ensure its success. And as regards the specific person in question, Susan has even—if I may be so bold as to suggest—put her body on the line. So she has decided to allow herself one final pleasure with the . . . obstacle that you mention. A particularly intricate, theatrical scene, though nothing quite like the savagery his daughter was subjected to; something a little more subtle, as you’ll see.”

Enkell’s face hardens when James Barnes utters the word “savagery.” He attempts to pass it off as concentration on his driving as he switches lanes to come off the
périphérique
. After a few hundred yards, he turns left onto avenue de la Porte des Ternes, where he parks just opposite the Notre-Dame-de-la-Compassion church.

“We’ll think about your proposal and talk over the phone at midday. We’re a stone’s throw from the Concorde Lafayette—you can see it from here. Straight ahead, first right. Are you happy to do the last two hundred yards on foot? Safer that way.”

“No problem.”

“See you later, then.”

“See you later.”

The Barnes twins get out of the car and slam the doors shut. James turns back to the open window on the
commissaire
’s side.

“Oh, by the way, Monsieur Enkell . . .”

“Yes?”

“No offense, but it’s not a ‘proposal’. And there’s no need to worry—we won’t be identified.”

Enkell hesitates two seconds too long: the Barnes twins are already marching toward their hotel at a steady pace.

Sitting next to him, Benamer hasn’t said a word since leaving Charles de Gaulle. He hands a piece of paper to his superior.

“I made a list to ensure we don’t forget anyone. If we’re agreed, we can memorize it, destroy it, and get to work.”

Done:

• Francis Meyer
  
• Sam Aboulafia
  
• Abdelhaq Haqiqi
  

To do:

• Vincenzo Vignola
  
• Raymond Meyer
  
• Mourad Bentaleb
  
• Alpha Aïdarra
  
• Moktar Touré
  
• Ruben Aboulafia
  
• Haïm Seror
  
• James and Susan Barnes
  

Enkell reads it, stays quiet for a moment, then turns to his right-hand man with an air of incredulity. He comes back to the piece of paper and counts:

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. With the three we’ve already done that’s a total of twelve. Throw in the
brocanteur
and we’ve got thirteen. With Laura we’re up to fourteen. Do you really think we can bump off fourteen people—eleven of whom live within a one-mile radius—without anyone noticing? What’s wrong with you, Aïssa? Did you lose your mind when things went to hell with Raymond? Is that it?”

Benamer has gone mute. The police officer—usually so sure of himself, so domineering—is like a little boy who’s been caught peeing his pants by the schoolteacher. Enkell slaps him with the back of his left hand. He needs him: right here, right now. He needs his second-in-command by his side, not some mindless killer.

“Wake up, Aïssa! We’ll let the Barneses get on with their twisted crime. Suits us fine if they want to do our job for us. And you know what? Let’s hang them out to dry afterward. We’re reaching the tipping point, the moment where enough is enough. We reached it yesterday, in fact, when Raymond escaped. It was a sign, and we need to wise up and read it. From now on, we hold fire. They won’t find Raymond Meyer, and he’ll leave us in peace, I’m sure of it. He has no interest whatsoever in risking another showdown. As for Haqiqi and Sam, they’ll be racking their brains to find anything that links them, apart from the fact they live on the same street . . . But it’ll never come back to us, because no one else knows that we were in contact with them. No one, do you hear me! Not Moktar, not Ruben, not Mourad, not Alpha! Not even Rabbi Seror! Do you hear me, Aïssa! And you know the funniest thing of all? Young Laura . . . If we hadn’t smoked her then none of this would have happened! Nothing at all. She had no idea about the drug ring her father was involved in. She posed no threat whatsoever. We acted on reflex, without thinking. We set off this shit like that, with a click of the fingers, drunk on our own power, on our impunity. So that will do for now! Let’s think before we act. It’s not our role in life to be angels of death.”

“What is it, then?”

Benamer looks his chief in the eyes. A strange light flickers in the depths of his pupils. He fires. With the silencer on, the bullet makes only a measly little pop. Overbearingly simple. The traffic continues alongside the Scenic. No one notices as Benamer struggles to haul Enkell from the driver’s seat to the passenger’s. The
commissaire adjoint
gets in, starts the car, lets out a cryptic sigh, and slides into first gear. If he takes the
périphérique
, the warehouse on boulevard MacDonald is only a ten-minute drive. Should still be some space in the vat.

46

Mercator and Van Holden are sitting on folding chairs, waiting. The first short and round, threatening and easygoing in equal measure; the other large and red-headed, a touch of the geeky scientist about him. In front of them, the dark, motionless mass of the vat can just be made out. They are pleased with this unraveling of time and their growing certitude of being able to crack the case. Why are they so sure of themselves? How do they know that their prey is ripe for the taking? For the same reasons that they are as senior as they are, even if their ascent has happened without the protection, or even the kindness, of anyone in the police hierarchy. Is it three hours, ten minutes, three days they’ve been here? They couldn’t say. For ammunition, they’ve brought M&M’s, marshmallows, ice tea, and a pair of nine-millimeter automatic pistols. Enough to keep them going a lifetime.

After leaving the crime scene, Mercator went to parc des Buttes-Chaumont, stopping by the little breakfast joint where Van Holden can be found every morning having a coffee and
tartine
before taking his seat behind the director’s desk at the IGPN. All Mercator said was that he had a meeting with Enkell and Benamer, and that it would be nice if he came along. So off they then went aboard the no. 75 bus, getting off at boulevard MacDonald. Van Holden had found the address by complete chance two months earlier. Ever since he’d started sifting through administrative documents in the course of his long inquiry into the corrupt policemen of the eighteenth, he’d worked out how to spot a nugget. As was the case here: the simple sale, well below market price, of a warehouse belonging to a butcher on rue du Mont-Cenis who had bizarrely been cleared in a scandal involving the sale of out-of-date meat after the only witness suddenly withdrew his testimony. The buyer was one Ezzedine Moussa, a resident of Saint-Chamond. It turned out that he was an old school pal of Aïssa Benamer’s, and had gone on to have a few brushes with the law . . . Van Holden had mentioned his discovery to Mercator by the by, and his memory had been jogged when reading Ruben Aboulafia’s statement. The warehouse allegedly belonging to Ezzedine Moussa was next door to Kosher Facilities, the very one where Ruben had claimed he’d dropped off his consignment of magic pills. The lock opened easily enough with a master key, and two folding chairs—chance or destiny?—appeared to be waiting for them, carefully propped up against the wall at the far end. All that was left for the two comrades was to sit down, their standard-issue Manurhin revolvers on their knees, and the M&M’s, marshmallows, and ice tea within easy reach.

A key turns in the lock. The door opens. Heavy breathing strained with effort. A strange noise that is part metallic, part pneumatic. Benamer is so occupied with hauling his trolley that he doesn’t notice them. It’s harder by yourself: the body flops from side to side, left and right. Then he hears one click, two clicks. His eyes aren’t yet adjusted to the darkness; it takes him a few seconds to identify his colleagues. An absurd, belated reflex takes over and he lets go of the trolley, which collapses with a crash, as he moves to grab his Beretta.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you, Aïssa.”

And indeed Benamer does not do that. He feels tired, suddenly, very tired. He puts up no resistance as they cuff him. In actual fact, he feels relieved.

From then on it’s all go. The end of any investigation is a process of precipitation—in the chemical sense—where all, or nearly all, of the threads untangle. Kupferstein, Hamelot, Gomes, and half the arrondissement’s uniformed officers arrive at the scene no more than two minutes after Mercator’s call. The Godzwill pills are found without much trouble, stashed unsubtly inside a fake casing installed within the foot of the acid vat. The search of the Kosher Facilities unit carried out as a security measure brings up nothing. Back at the Bunker, Aïssa Benamer starts talking immediately, like a sink that has had its plug pulled out. Without any delay, arrest warrants are issued to apprehend the Barnes twins and Raymond Meyer.

The handcuffs are slipped onto Rabbi Seror right at the moment when he is putting on his tefillin for morning prayer. Barely had the Hasid taken his seat in the interrogation room when he—not needing to be asked twice—began providing very detailed information on Rebbe Toledano’s Brooklyn organization. First and foremost he reveals the identity of Dov, Rébecca’s ex-fiancé, the virtuoso chemist without whom this adventure would never have taken place. Moktar’s interrogation is considerably more hazardous. Getting a psychotic to talk is never easy, and this one is a particularly tough nut to crack. Through a mixture of patience and tenacity, Rachel and Jean are just able to make him recount how he and Raymond Meyer, having been denied the support of Mourad, Ruben, and Alpha, had waited for Laura on the landing outside her apartment as she came home from her Los Angeles–Paris flight. Threatening her with a knife, Raymond ordered her to keep quiet and open the door. Then he gagged her and tied her up. Meyer had suggested Moktar take a Godzwill with him. After that, the paranoid beatmaker-cum-Salafist can’t remember a thing. Not that that changes much anyway: his psychiatric evaluation will deem that he was not responsible and he’ll go back to the hospital for a very, very long time, whatever the role he played in Laura Vignola’s drawn-out agony. As for Raymond Meyer, he’s nowhere to be found. Same for Vignola, one of the accessories to the murder along with Enkell, Benamer, and the Barnes twins.