The Convert's Song (20 page)

The apartment was small, neat and clean. Family photos, school trophies and African tapestries and figurines adorned walls and shelves. Pescatore saw the word
Mali
on a poster. A plasma television faced an armchair and a couch. The CRS men pushed Bakary into the armchair. The sofa was occupied by two little girls with long braids. They clutched schoolbooks and pencils, staring with giant eyes at the newcomers.

Bakary tried to rise; a riot shield bumped him back down. The intelligence on him was that he led a ring that did lucrative business in hashish and cocaine and avoided drama and violence. He was nineteen and had an athletic build in a white Real Madrid sweatshirt. His bushy hair seemed electrified. He played it stone cold. As he recovered from the surprise, his broad features went blank. He slouched, low and motionless, watching officers fan out into adjoining rooms, calling the all-clear, holstering their guns. One of the girls asked a question. Bakary put a finger to his lips.

The cops removed their helmets. Pescatore did too. Fatima Belhaj shook out her hair and crouched in front of the couch at eye level with the girls. She spoke in a soft voice. Pescatore didn’t catch what she said, but it appeared to have the desired effect. The girls nodded solemnly.

Belhaj turned to Bakary. There was an interruption. An African woman hurried into the apartment. Her multicolored turban and elaborately draped wool shawl gave her a wearily regal look. Despite the cold, her legs and feet were bare and she wore sandal-type clogs. A uniform from a kitchen or hotel protruded from her bag. Unlike her son, she spoke French with a strong accent.

“Bakary!” She sounded more indignant than fearful. “What have you done now?”

“It’s fine, Maman, it’s fine, calm down,” Bakary said, rolling his eyes.

The mother dropped her bag, shaking her head, contemplating with disbelief the crowd of law enforcement in her living room. She appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Belhaj intervened. She introduced herself, apologized for the inconvenience, and took the mother aside. She asked the mother to go with the girls into another room so the police could discuss a delicate matter with her son.

After an officer led the mother and daughters away, Belhaj ordered Bakary to tell her about the fugitive terrorist in the Rock. Bakary visibly relaxed; he wasn’t the prey of this muscular manhunt after all.

“Terrorist?” he exclaimed in a gravelly voice. “All I know is he’s on the run. We have no interest whatsoever in terrorists here. Frankly, they’re bad for business.”

The fugitive was staying in another tower in an apartment next door to a friend of Bakary’s. This had led to the mention in the intercepted phone conversation. The apartment belonged to a woman, possibly a wife or girlfriend of the fugitive. The drug dealers, who had eyes and ears all over the complex, had seen the man arrive Saturday afternoon in the Clio. There was talk that he had an assault rifle and other weapons. Bakary had crossed paths with him briefly in a vestibule.

“What does he look like?” Belhaj asked.

“No beard. Not black or
beur.
Not
gaulois
either.”

“Like what, then?” she snapped.

“More Spanish. Gypsy type…” Bakary looked around. “Like him.”

His back pressed against the counter of a kitchenette, Pescatore had the disconcerting experience of seeing the youth’s finger extend and point at him, followed by the gaze of everyone else in the room. He wished that he had not removed the helmet. Belhaj exchanged a glance with Pescatore. He had told her people tended to think he and Raymond were related.

“He resembles this officer?” she demanded, gesturing at Pescatore.

“A bit, yes,” Bakary said. “But taller. Straight hair.”

Pescatore’s heart, already racing from the stairs and the adrenaline, thumped harder. He imagined Raymond, desperate and armed to the teeth, hunkered down in the Rock. With yet another woman.

Belhaj showed a photo of Raymond to Bakary. He studied it.

“Frankly, I can’t say,” he said. “I didn’t get a good look at his face.”

The clandestine deployment reconfigured around the fugitive’s hideout. A SWAT team established a command post outside the Rock. Belhaj left two CRS officers standing guard at Bakary’s place to ensure he communicated with no one. Her squad shifted to a spot near the target building. They parked the unmarked vans in a courtyard that was the size of several tennis courts. It was an intersection of four internal lanes of the complex, two for cars and two pedestrian walkways.

Laurent and the driver joined the rest of the unit doing reconnaissance on foot. Pescatore remained in the van with Belhaj. She talked on the radio. Flames flickered in the distance. Faint sounds echoed through the corridors of concrete: the wail of sirens, the growl of motorcycles.

Pescatore asked if anyone had died in the riots so far.

“No,” Fatima said. “A lot of destruction. But deaths are rare.”

“If you had two nights of this all over the United States, a whole bunch of people woulda got shot by now.”

“Because there are so many guns. And the American police shoot back. I do not criticize. But here, the chiefs usually give an order not to fire during riots. It is absolutely obeyed.”

“Tough as these projects are, I think American ones are worse. Because of the guns. Plus it looks like the government takes better care of poor people in France.”

She sighed. “The government spends money. That is not the problem. The problem is communication. The kids know how to express themselves only through violence. The teachers in the schools don’t know how to talk to the kids. The police don’t know either. The young officers know one thing: they check papers. My brothers used to complain: they would go to Paris to look for work and get stopped five times, six times. The
cité,
the train, the street. Imagine how they felt by the time they got there to apply for a job. It creates rage.”

Pescatore remembered that two of her brothers were in prison. He wondered again if she had grown up in the Rock.

“You know what?” he said. “It’s like there’s a border between here and Paris. And the police are the Border Patrol.”

She raised her eyebrows.

Pescatore’s phone buzzed again. This time, Facundo’s e-mail consisted of one word:
And?

It was evening in Buenos Aires. Facundo was getting impatient. Pescatore decided not to wait any longer.

“Fatima, my boss is trying to reach me. I’m gonna call him, okay?”

“Fine.”

Facundo answered on the first ring.

“I can’t really talk, but I figured it was important,” Pescatore said.

“It is.” Facundo sounded triumphant. “Ali Baba has been identified.”

“By?”

“The
paisanos.
It was not easy. Few photos in circulation. His name is Ali Houmayoun. Iranian Quds Force. A major at the time of the photo in Bolivia. At least a colonel by now.”

“Oh, man.” Pescatore squeezed Fatima’s hand involuntarily. She gave him a quizzical look. He told Facundo, “You were right.”

“Modesty aside, yes, I was.”

The Commandant was right about the Iranians too,
Pescatore thought. He said, “This is huge.”

“It fits,” Facundo said. “The major helped lead the Iranian expansion in Latin America. A dangerous personage with a long history.”

“Do the
paisanos
know anything about Raymond?”

“Very little. But I don’t doubt he and Ali are still working together. The Americans know. The Europeans will be briefed.”

“So I can discuss this here?”

“Go ahead,” Facundo said.

“I’ll call you tomorrow. Thanks, Facundo.”

Pescatore hung up and told Fatima the news. Her reaction surprised him: understated, almost impassive. She asked him to repeat the Iranian’s name, then wrote it down. She shielded her eyes with her hand again, kneading her temples. Pescatore had a twinge of regret; he should have waited until after the raid rather than distracting her.

“I figured you’d want to know right away,” he said.

“I am glad you told me,” she answered. But she looked mad when she added, “I am curious when the Israelis and the Americans plan to inform us.”

“It complicates things, right? If you’ve got Iranians and al-Qaeda involved at the same time?”

“If that is really what is going on.”

They did not have time to talk further. The radio came back to life. Surveillance indicated the fugitive was in the apartment and had gone to sleep. The SWAT commander gave the order to conduct the raid.

The fugitive’s hideout was in a building at the other end of a walkway connected to the courtyard where the van was parked. Laurent convinced Fatima to keep her distance during the raid. As far as Pescatore could gather, his reasons had to do with her safety and the Internet threats. She agreed, though she wasn’t happy about it. Laurent and the rest of the intelligence officers went in behind the SWAT team. Fatima stayed with Pescatore in the van.

The raiders were not fast enough. When they stormed in, the fugitive shot himself. Holding the radio to her ear, Fatima shook her head. Laurent reported that the dead man was not Raymond.

Pescatore was not that surprised. He should have known better. Raymond liked pulling strings, not triggers.

“We will go see,” Fatima said grimly, lifting her phone. “I want to make one call first.”

“At this hour?”

“I will wake up someone at a certain embassy and ask why I had to hear about this Iranian
type
through informal channels.”

She left a terse message on a voice mail. She and Pescatore got out of the van. When they reached the walkway, her phone rang: her embassy contact returning the call. She answered, but lost the connection. The cell phone reception was bad between the buildings.

Fatima returned to the courtyard, trying to get a signal. She called and started talking. The connection failed again. She walked farther back into the courtyard. Pescatore waited at the edge of the walkway. Fatima’s call went through. She had a conversation near the vans, pacing.

Pescatore watched her. She looked tired but lovely in the landscape of broken glass, ruined cars, strewn garbage. Distant fires backlit her supple silhouette: the boots with the jeans tucked into them, the tight waist and upturned collar of the leather jacket, the mane of curls.

He spotted something in his peripheral vision on his right. A motorcycle. Two riders. The motorcycle idled in the opening of the lane that entered the courtyard perpendicular to the walkway where he stood. The riders wore big ninja-style helmets. The lights of the motorcycle were dark. He wondered how long they had been sitting there. It gave him a bad feeling.

Pescatore started into the courtyard. The motorcycle surged forward. He shouted a warning to Fatima over the whine of the engine. He knew the motorcycle would gather velocity, take a hard left, and speed toward Fatima from behind. He knew the rider in back would raise a pistol, straightening his arm to aim at her, even before the barrel glinted.

“Fatima, look out!” he shouted.

Though caught up in every detail, Pescatore wasn’t just watching. He was at long last executing the move that he had imagined and anticipated and rehearsed since he had strapped on the ankle gun. He dropped to his right knee, reaching with both hands for the hem of the jean on his left leg. For a nightmare moment, the denim resisted. His fingers tugged ineffectually, the pant leg stuck on the boot and the holster. He yanked hard, and then the fabric was clear, and then he drew the gun.

Fatima reacted, whirling toward the motorcycle. The phone fell from her hand. She scrabbled at her belt as the motorcycle rocketed toward her. She stepped toward the vans, pointing her pistol back across her body. The rider fired; Pescatore fired; Fatima fired. The triangular barrage resounded in the cement box of the courtyard. When the motorcycle was parallel to Belhaj and about fifteen feet to the right, it shuddered, swerved and overturned.

The gunman was launched as if shot out of a cannon. The motorcycle went into a long shrieking skid with the driver hanging on. There was an ugly shearing series of impacts, sparks flying off the pavement. The cycle and cyclist came sliding and tumbling and rolling toward Pescatore at high speed. Pescatore kept firing from his one-kneed stance.

He felt frozen, strangely detached. He was unable to dodge or look away from the hurtling figures. It was as if they were on a screen. He swiveled, tracking the cycle and cyclist with his gun as they flew by on his left. They crashed, finally, into the side of a building. He flinched, expecting an explosion, but there was none.

The cyclist lay inert. The rider had soared headfirst into the hulk of a burned car. His legs protruded grotesquely from the windshield.

Turning, Pescatore saw what he had somehow known to be inevitable: Fatima Belhaj was down.

A
nother hospital. Another waiting room. Another vigil.

Hours earlier, he had seen doctors and officers hurrying her parents down the hall. The father’s solemn bearing and trim mustache fit the image of the man in the stories she had told. The mother resembled a small, stout version of Fatima in a head scarf.

Her vest had stopped three bullets. Three more hit her in the arm, shoulder and upper thigh, the last striking an artery. He saw the shock in her eyes, mirroring his own, when he sat her up against the van and discovered the torrent of blood pumping from the thigh wound. He tried to stanch it. The courtyard echoed with his cries for help, frantic voices on the radio, officers converging on foot and in cars.

The wait for the ambulance was agonizing. She held on to him. He told her he loved her, the first time he had said it. She drifted, speaking semicoherently in French. She said she had lived in the Rock and didn’t want to die there.

He drowsed in the waiting room, arms folded, chin on chest. The sense of devastation was worsened by the fear that he was once again to blame. In Argentina, he had missed the opportunity to prevent Raymond from unleashing calamity. He had been a step too slow since then. The Commandant had called Raymond a scorpion who destroyed whatever he touched. Pescatore knew the danger better than anyone else, yet he could not stop the scorpion’s sting.

“Monsieur Pescatore.”

Belhaj’s deputy, Laurent, was standing in front of him. As the ambulance left the scene of the shootout, Laurent had comforted Pescatore, patting his back while gently relieving him of his pistol.

“What do the doctors say?” Pescatore asked.

“Her condition is grave. She lost much blood. But she is out of danger.”

“Gracias a dios.”
He inadvertently spoke in Spanish.

“Yes. You are very tired. But it is necessary to talk in private.”

He rose unsteadily and followed Laurent to an empty doctor’s office. Laurent sat behind a desk. He studied Pescatore through his small, round glasses. Although Laurent was unshaven, his gray eyes and chiseled features exuded energy. He expressed thanks on behalf of his agency for Pescatore’s actions in the gunfight and afterward.

“All of us have admiration and respect for Commissaire Belhaj,” Laurent said. “In this service we take care of our officers and those who aid our officers. We are grateful.”

Pescatore said he was honored. He asked about the attackers on the motorcycle. One was dead, one was in a coma. Both were ex-convicts from the Rock. The police had found a total of twenty-five thousand euros in cash at their homes. Investigators had not yet linked them directly to the Paris terrorist cell. Nonetheless, the theory was that they had been hired to kill Belhaj and that the tip about the fugitive had been part of a scheme to lure her to the housing complex.

“Why wasn’t he with the Champs-Élysées crew?” Pescatore asked.

“He was a logistics person, a secondary figure. And he apparently did not know about the trap for Commissaire Belhaj.”

“So the network sacrificed him to ambush her?”

“That is the hypothesis. Of course, the denunciations of Fatima on the extremist website could have motivated a separate group. But it is less likely.”

“Who do you think ordered the hit?”

“One possibility is Souraya’s entourage,” Laurent said. “Carrying out an instruction from her or interpreting her wishes.”

“Really? What about her kids? It’s so self-destructive.”

“I do not know if you have encountered many Islamic extremists, Monsieur Pescatore.”

“Not till lately.”

“One finds that pure ideology overwhelms everything. She is fanatical, as you saw, and vengeful. Her family as well. Her confession was revenge against Raymond Mercer. Similarly, I think she was determined to retaliate against Commissaire Belhaj. The Internet message shows that. Obviously Souraya is in custody, so her communications have been limited. We will find out soon if she gave the order.”

“I think Raymond had a photo of Fatima. Based on something he said when he called me in Bolivia. He knew what she looked like.”

Laurent scribbled in a notebook. Pescatore asked the question that he had been wrestling with: “Is Raymond a suspect too?”

“Of course.”

“The reason I ask: I think the hit men waited until I was out of the way and they had a shot at Fatima alone. It’s a weird thing to say, it’s disgusting and makes me ashamed, but I think Raymond still looks out for me.”

“If he gave the directives, it was from somewhere else. We do not think he is in the country.”

Laurent shifted his compact frame and tightened his jaw. Pescatore thought,
Now we’re gonna get down to it, whatever it is.

After praising his bravery again, Laurent said that certain aspects of the situation were delicate. A U.S. civilian with an illegal gun had participated alongside counterterrorism police in a gunfight in the middle of a riot zone. An explosive scenario if it became public.

“So far, we have kept your presence secret. That may become impossible. The ballistics will show the assailants were shot by someone in addition to Fatima. Residents”—he spoke the word as if it were an epithet—“no doubt saw the incident. Perhaps someone videotaped you.”

“Hope not.”

“The potential repercussions are grave because of the tensions in the
cités.
I must ask you some questions.”

“Sure.”

Laurent asked him to describe the shootout step by step. Pescatore did that.

“Did Commissaire Belhaj authorize you to carry the weapon?”

“Absolutely not. She told me I couldn’t, it was illegal. I hid it from her.”

“Where did you procure the pistol?”

“Through a South American guy.”

“And I assume this South American has left France and would be very difficult to find?” Laurent held his pen in a pose indicating that he would move on when he received an answer.

“Exactly.”

Laurent asked him about his affiliation with the U.S. government and how he had become involved in the case. After Pescatore answered, Laurent pursed his lips and said, “Forgive me, but what is the nature of your relation with Commissaire Belhaj?”

Pescatore considered the possible repercussions for Fatima if their romance came to light. Intelligence services tended to have strict rules about intimate contact with foreigners.

“I’d say we’re good friends,” he said slowly. “We’ve worked closely together. We’ve been through some dangerous situations. There’s nothing inappropriate about the relationship, if that’s what you mean.”

Laurent nodded. He reached the bottom line: He wanted Pescatore to leave France. The powers that be had decided his departure would keep things quiet and reduce complications if his role in the shootout came out. An evening flight to the United States had already been reserved.

Pescatore couldn’t argue with the logic. Still, he wanted to stay close to Fatima. He was sick of people taking guns away from him and kicking him out of countries. He protested, reminding Laurent that he was a conduit to Raymond.

“He has communicated with me several times,” Pescatore said. “Fatima believed he’d do it again, maybe to surrender.”

“The American authorities will be your interlocutors. They will meet you when you arrive home.”

“Where are the American authorities? I’m surprised there’s no one from the embassy poking around by now.”

“They are aware of developments,” Laurent said, hunching his narrow shoulders. “But everyone is in agreement that your situation is best handled outside of France. Because of the delicate aspects.”

“I found out last night that Raymond dealt with Iranian intelligence when he was in South America. A Quds Force officer. Are you familiar with what I’m talking about?”

Laurent nodded, lips pursed again.

“Well?” Pescatore continued. “Is there an Iranian element to these plots in Europe?”

“That, I am afraid, is not something I can discuss.”

“How you figure that? I’ve been working with Fatima. I’ve been sharing everything with you guys. I’ve gotten shot at. And now you can’t discuss the case with me? Me of all people?”

“It is classified.”

With effort, Pescatore restrained his temper. The important thing was that Fatima was going to survive.

“Listen, Laurent,” he said. “Can I see her?”

“Believe me when I say it is not possible.” Laurent removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Her family is in the room. There are visits, superiors from the Interior Ministry, the police hierarchy. It is problematic. And she is in a heavily medicated state.”

“Just for a minute?”

“
Désolé,
Valentín.”

Pescatore absorbed the reply. He looked down for a moment.

“When you can, please tell her I’m thinking about her.”

“I will.”

“You said you reserved a flight for me? Where to?”

“Chicago.”

Back at his hotel, he functioned in a daze beyond exhaustion and sadness. He stuffed his blood-drenched pants into the trash. He packed, putting on his black fatigue vest over a pullover sweater with a zippered collar. He went downstairs with his suitcase and paid his bill. In the lobby lounge, he sank into an armchair and ordered a sandwich and a rum and Coke. Alcohol was as necessary as caffeine. Laurent was sending a car to take him to the airport at six. He had an hour.

Going to Chicago. As far as he could tell, they had chosen the destination because it was the birthplace on his passport. Fine with him. Not much difference at this point. He wasn’t sure Chicago was home anymore, but nowhere else was.

He put his phone on the table. He wanted to report to Facundo, but he was having trouble working up the energy. It seemed futile. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

When a polite tap on the shoulder woke him, it took him a moment to remember where he was. A squat man with a blond buzz cut excused himself and asked if he was Monsieur Pescatore.

“Yes, sorry, I was beat,” Pescatore said, rubbing his eyes.

The man stood in a dutiful pose with his hands crossed in front of him. His right hand held an envelope. His torso strained a tan sport coat. Unlike the investigators in Belhaj’s unit, he wore a tie, his powerful neck spreading behind a Windsor knot. Not a surprise that they would send a muscle guy as a chaperone/bodyguard.

“We’re going to the airport already?” Pescatore asked.

The blond man blinked and nodded.

“Yes, at your service,” he said in a thick French accent. “Much traffic.”

Twenty minutes early,
Pescatore thought. They want to make damn sure I catch that plane.

“Okay,” Pescatore said. “I guess it’s better waiting there than here.”

The car was a Peugeot sedan. Moving with a slight limp, the blond man loaded Pescatore’s suitcase into the trunk and opened the door for him. Pescatore slid into the backseat, eager to resume his nap. The driver was a tall and light-skinned black man. His shaven head bobbed in greeting behind sunglasses.

“Aéroport,”
the blond man said as they pulled away.

The car entered the Périphérique highway and picked up speed. Pescatore started to doze off. The blond man turned around in the front passenger seat and handed Pescatore the envelope.

“Pour vous, monsieur
.”

As he opened the envelope, he was vaguely uneasy. The guy was still watching him. When he began to read the note, he understood why. Fright and disbelief froze him. The printed note said,

Slowly, Pescatore looked up into the steady blue eyes of the hard-ass in the front seat who, he knew now, was not a cop. He had made a classic mistake. He had dropped his guard and assumed the blond man was with the Interior Ministry. Raymond’s emissary—whose initial plan had probably been to hand him the letter in the lobby—had jumped on the opportunity. Better to deliver the message in private to a captive audience.

Pescatore remembered an anecdote about a Spanish executive who landed in Buenos Aires, walked into the pack of hustlers hawking taxi services in the airport terminal, and inquired in a loud, haughty voice: “Who is here for Señor Sosa de Olivares?” A sharpie stepped forward immediately to say that he was there for Señor Sosa de Olivares, welcome to Argentina, did you have a good flight. A few miles from the airport, the driver and an armed accomplice robbed the executive of his every cent and possession. Pescatore recalled laughing when he heard that story. Because he was so streetwise, so alert, so down, that you’d never catching him acting like such a lame chucklehead moron. Not in a million years.

The blond man stayed in a seemingly casual pose with his left arm draped on top of the seat. Pescatore couldn’t see the right hand, but he had to think it held a gun. The driver was watching him in the rearview mirror. Pescatore lifted his chin, eyes wild. The idea that Raymond had tricked him and taken control again filled him with rage. He thought about Laurent’s comment that Raymond might have ordered the hit on Fatima.

He considered attacking. He would take a bullet in the face before he’d unbuckled his seat belt. Unless Raymond had given strict orders not to kill him. The blond guy might hesitate. Pescatore might have time to go for the gun or the driver’s neck, hoping to cause a crash. At which point they would shoot him for sure.

“Well, monsieur?” the buzz-cut blond said. “You are free to reject the invitation.”

“Invitation?” His voice shook. “Is that what it is?”

“Of course. If it is not acceptable, we drop you where you like.”