All Cry Chaos

by Leonard Rosen

  "The latest bombing in Baghdad killed 128 people, mostly children on a school trip to a local market. Police are bracing for a retaliatory strike. In the Caribbean, the hurricane season is well underway. Category four storm Elsa has already left 10,000 people homeless and another 200,000 without power in the Dominican Republic and is now bearing down on Florida. Elsewhere—"

  He turned it off when a nurse entered with a piece of paper for him to sign. "You're discharged," she said. "The tests are negative for heart attack. Dr. Beck's instructions are here." The woman touched his shoulder. "Rest, Inspector. You'll find a taxi outside the main entrance. Good luck."

  When she left, Poincaré bent over to tie his shoes and fought off a wave of nausea. Someone new stepped around the curtain.

  "Damn but you gave me a good scare!"

  It was Charles Bell himself, with a smile Poincaré would be pleased to forget one day. In his right hand, he offered a bouquet of irises. In his left, a mere hatchet stroke away from the object of his desire, was the briefcase. Before rising to thank the last man he wanted calling on him in a hospital or anywhere else, Poincaré checked the locks of the briefcase. Neither showed signs of tampering. More reassuring still, the wheeled tumblers—both right and left—were set as Poincaré had left them the morning before. In a ritual as routine as brushing his teeth, he had for decades changed the combination to his briefcase every week; and for the first time in a quarter-century that simple precaution returned the favor. He would need to check, for Bell was a clever and determined man; but Fenster's hard drive was likely safe. "Charles," he said, standing to receive the flowers. "I suppose I owe you my life."

  CHAPTER 26

  Bell had overheard the nurse's advice and insisted on driving Poincaré to his hotel. He accepted, then abruptly declined when Bell steered the conversation to their last meeting. "Inspector, I'm hoping we've settled your concerns. I don't like loose ends."

  A car roared from an underground garage, and Bell peeled a tendollar bill from a clip for an attendant. Poincaré faced him and said, "You're prepared to spend hundreds of thousands in legal fees for a hard drive that's meaningless? And Harvard would do the same? I somehow doubt either of you would go to war over a principle."

  "I'm spending the company's money, not mine."

  "So much the worse," said Poincaré.

  The attendant opened the passenger's door, and Poincaré promptly shut it. "You know, Mr. Bell. The more you talk, the more confused I get. I'm going to sleep, and then I'm traveling for a few days. But I'll be calling again. If business takes you out of town, tell your assistant where I can find you." He left the man slack-jawed at the curbside and walked to the head of a taxi queue without a backwards glance. Let him twist in the wind, thought Poincaré. Minutes later he opened his briefcase and found Hurley's envelope, untouched. Well, then, he thought. If Bell were a killer, at least he was honest.

  Poincaré postponed his flight until the morning and stopped at an electronics store for a cable that would let him connect his computer to Fenster's hard drive. He showered, ordered in food, and devoted hours to untangling what a team of data analysts, with powerful computers, could not achieve in months. But Poincaré had an advantage, he believed: the analysts had worked in a lab, running random numbers—brute force, Chambi would call it; Poincaré had seen Fenster's apartment and interviewed Roy and Silva and had a feel for the man himself. The odds of accessing the drive were still long, but he set to work and offered up an amateur's best.

  First, he typed Fenster's home address, manipulating abbreviations and spacing until he counted sixty-seven characters. Nothing. In dozens of combinations, he typed the names of the foster families that had taken him in. He typed the names of courses Fenster had taught and their numerical IDs, and versions of his name and Madeleine Rainier's. Nothing worked. Exhausted, he shut down his computer and slipped the hard drive beneath his pillow— the way he had done once with a book in a failed high-school experiment the evening before an exam. This time, who knew? The information on that disk might somehow work its way into his slumbering brain.

  In the darkness, Poincaré thought of Claire. There was no point calling to say he was ill. Instead, he thought of better times when a word was enough to bring her to his side, where he wished her to be now. He had sent a telex on his return from an assignment in Lebanon: Air France. 10 AM tomorrow. Flight 2113. Ticket bought. Dress for five days on wine dark sea. HP. He sent nothing more, confident she would rearrange her life on impossibly short notice and step from the plane in Athens. She arrived wearing a sun hat and carrying her foldaway easel, a bathing suit, and little else. On the ferry from Piraeus, they retched in heavy seas. But no sooner had they landed and bathed then Claire handed him a pair of swim trunks and hailed a taxi from their balcony. "Perivolos," she told the driver, Poincaré having no idea who or what Perivolos might be. Thirty minutes later they lay on a stretch of black volcanic beach, Claire curled to his side as Poincaré contemplated the drift of clouds and a distinct impression that he was floating in time.

  That evening, she sat across from him over a checkerboard tablecloth, not just the café but the town itself perched on a cliff above the sea-swamped caldera. For three days they drank too much wine and dozed, entangling themselves in a bed by a window that opened to the sea—both old enough to know it could not last. Life, or death, would intervene and their moment would be gone. But it was not gone then, nor was it now. Yet.

  QUÉBEC IS the only walled city in North America. As the taxi approached one of its fortified gates, Poincaré imagined that the brief flight from Boston had somehow veered east and deposited him in medieval France.

  "Où voulez-vous aller?" asked the driver.

  "Chateau Frontenac."

  The Chateau was several blocks from his hotel, and he wanted to see it again and walk. The morning was bright, and with the new medication taking hold, he felt his energy returning.

  "C'est impossible, Monsieur."

  Poincaré soon understood why. The first sign he saw read "G-8 Criminals Out of Québec!" Initially, he thought the number thirty-two posted on trees and nearby buildings had something to do with the summit; but then he recalled the Soldiers of Rapture. The newspaper folded in his lap was dated July 14th, which meant that Jesus, provided He did not get delayed by traffic, was due to redeem the world in one month. "A security cordon at the Frontenac?" he asked.

  The driver nodded. Soon enough, Poincaré saw the show of force for himself. Six blocks out, Canadian military police with automatic weapons patrolled the streets. Closer to the hotel, army units had established command posts. In addition, Poincaré knew, national security services from each of the G-8 countries would provide their own protection for heads of state. The Old City was in lockdown, and not even Poincaré's Interpol credentials could get him within strolling distance of the hotel.

  The summit of the Indigenous Liberation Front was a different matter. Quito and company wanted to attract as many people and as much press attention as possible. For three years the ILF had mounted a counter-summit to the G-8, enjoying the reflected glare of press lights on the world leaders whose economies dominated global trade. ILF spokesmen would make their case against trans-global power while conferees attended sessions on topics ranging from sustainable farming to preserving indigenous languages.

  By 8:30, Poincaré had checked into his room at Hotel SainteAnne and found Paolo sitting in the breakfast room with a plate piled high with cheeses, smoked meats, and pastries, reading Le Soleil de Québec. Poincaré sat and Paolo said: "So you've given up on sleep entirely? You're a medical wonder."

  "It's good to see you, too." Poincaré pointed to the newspaper. "Anything interesting?"

  "Same old mayhem. The ILF issued a report last night accusing the G-8 nations of promoting a new colonialism. The phrase is getting some play." Ludovici cut into a particularly ripe goat cheese and smeared it on a crust of bread. "Aside from that, the usual wars and famine. How was Boston?"

&nb
sp; "Useful."

  Ludovici arched an eyebrow. "I heard you had an adventure. Stay here, and I'll get you some food."

  "I'm not a patient anymore. I'll get it myself."

  "Sit!"

  Poincaré unfolded a napkin and contemplated their day ahead as Ludovici worked his way through the buffet line. Quito was scheduled to speak at a rally across a park from the Frontenac. After that, they would meet and Poincaré would ask him about Chambi.

  "Two of everything," Ludovici said, returning with a plate piled as high as his own. "Eat, so you don't faint with the news I'm about to tell you. And remember: it's poor form to kill a messenger."

  Poincaré worked a spoon into a poached egg.

  "Well, don't you want to know?"

  Poincaré set down the spoon. "I can guess."

  "You've been promoted, Henri. Congratulations. Out of the field, to an administrative spot being created just for you. You're off the ammonium perchlorate case."

  "Last I checked, the file name read Fenster."

  "Come on, Henri. Since when did Interpol care about the death of a single person—even someone with Fenster's résumé? We're not equipped for that. Our interest begins and ends with keeping a recipe for souped-up rocket fuel from the marketplace. Those are my instructions. I'm your replacement, by the way."

  "A man died in that hotel room."

  "True—and that's going to go unsolved unless the Americans invest some resources. But whatever they do, we will find the source of that explosive. What part of this surprises you?"

  "None of it," he said. "Nothing. You're right."

  As Poincaré ate, Ludovici explained how the axe finally fell on Albert Monforte and how the new director—an American from their Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives—was instituting a policy to retire all field agents older than fifty, effective immediately. In Poincaré's case, an offer was being made to fill a newly created post: "Something like Senior Mentor to Field Operatives," said Ludovici. "You'll be the Uber-Op. The director texted me this morning and asked me to ask you how your heart is holding up. They received a message from a hospital in Boston, and he's pissed he can't get hold of you. Have you tried turning your phone on?"

  "It's on."

  "And you didn't take his calls?"

  "I'm busy when he calls," said Poincaré. "And my heart is fine."

  "Except that it puts you in the hospital. This new guy—Felix Robinson—isn't taking chances. He knows what happened to your family. He heard how you took a beating from Banović's wife in The Hague and wondered what the hell you were doing there in the first place, which I defended as proof of your professionalism—some bullshit about your commitment to justice. As if that could explain your sitting in the gallery with a gun—which, by the way, Robinson doesn't know about. Maybe I should have told him you intended to kill Banović. And now a heart attack? You're falling apart—and you had better quit before you embarrass yourself or this agency. His words, not mine."

  "It wasn't a heart attack."

  "He doesn't care if it was a hemorrhoid. You're gone in a week. He wants you in Lyon on the 23 to turn over your credentials and firearms. He wants you home with your family, and he's willing to set you up with a secure line to Fonroque where you can be a resource to reckless people like me. This will be perfect—you sipping bad wine, dispensing wisdom."

  Poincaré had to admire the new director. Termination by promotion was clever. "So I'm to think of this as my final assignment."

  "I'd say the winding down of your final assignment, because if you haven't cracked this case in three months, you're not going to crack it in a week. Maybe it's for the best, Henri. Maybe it's time to stop."

  "You think so?"

  "I don't know."

  "I'll stop when I catch Chambi," he said.

  "You'll stop on the 23rd. I'm to meet you in Lyon, and you're to hand over everything you have."

  Poincaré set down his fork and knife. "She was in Amsterdam, Paolo. Gisele confirmed that Chambi left the day of the bombing. She was too nervous to discuss Fenster's murder when I questioned her in Boston. Now she's dropped out of sight."

  Ludovici rolled a slice of ham. "Not enough," he said, stuffing his mouth. "You want to find her because of Chloe, not Fenster or the rocket fuel. The new director agreed with Monforte on that point, at least. He's made finding Chambi a priority—but that's an altogether separate case. Interpol will find her. Let it go. It's clouding your judgment."

  "The cases are connected."

  "How?"

  "I don't know yet."

  "Well, there you go."

  "It's called an investigation, Paolo. You begin with questions, not answers."

  "So that's how this job works? Now you tell me . . ."

  "She's implicated. Of all the people to attack Chloe, it was James Fenster's assistant? I'm the link. I was investigating Fenster. Somebody wanted me off the case because I was too close to something, and I don't know what that is."

  "And I'm supposed to chase this woman's shadow around the world based on your intuition? When the case is mine, I'll start at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory and run down the chemical signature of that bomb, then I'll figure out how Madeleine Rainier, an antiques dealer, managed to dust her clothes with ammonium perchlorate. If you're going to search for anyone, search for her."

  "I'm already on that," said Poincaré. "I'll be at the Jet Propulsion Lab in two days, and tonight I'm on my way to Minneapolis, where Rainier was born. I'll leave my notes in the file."

  "Go back to France, Henri. Take the week off. Relax for once in your life."

  "No, thank you."

  "Suit yourself. I'll be at Fort Benning in the meantime."

  "Georgia? Doing what?"

  "The International Sniper Competition, at the army base. I'm thrilled."

  "Give it a rest. You use your brains in this job, not guns."

  A waiter filled their water glasses. "What's it to you? I'm taking a week's vacation, and I have the honor of being the only non-military member on the Italian team. Look, I was never any good at soccer. But this? I can make Italy number one in the world."

  "Doing what, exactly?"

  "Aerial shooting, convoy live fire, night shooting, anti-sniper ops, and who knows what else—shooting the fuzz off peaches at three hundred meters. Thirty marksmanship teams compete, including the US military, and the winner gets bragging rights for a year. The individual points leader wins a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots. I intend for the Italians to win, and I intend to wear those boots."

  "Excellent," said Poincaré.

  Ludovici snapped a breadstick. "Spare me. You make bad wine. I've got this—" He held up the trigger finger on his right hand. "Which is a God-given talent."

  "I mean it," said Poincaré. "Go win the competition. You're the best marksman I know. As for handing over this case, I'm glad it will be to you." He set a fork on the rim of his water glass, and they both watched it teeter, then balance. "I'm also glad you're here today. You're the only one I could have called."

  Ludovici put a napkin to his lips.

  "It's OK, Paolo."

  "I'm not going to let you die out here, Henri. Go back to France."

  "No one's dying. Not yet."

  "Then finish your damned breakfast. The ILF Summit concludes with the rally near the Frontenac. Twelve hundred delegates flown in from around the world—with what, for money, I couldn't tell you. But they're here and they've been protesting the G-8 non-stop. I saw Quito yesterday at a smaller rally near the Parliament Building and passed him a note, just as you asked. He told me he was looking forward to the meeting."

  "He said that—those words?"

  "He wants to express his condolences personally." Ludovici tapped the table to get the waiter's attention, looking in every direction but Poincaré's. He took another sip of coffee. "What's next for you?" he finally asked. "After Interpol, I mean. What will you do?"

  "That depends."

  "On what?"

&nb
sp; "On whether or not I find Dana Chambi this week."

  CHAPTER 27

  When Poincaré arrived at the rally site, he found rented propane cook stoves, portable sanitation stalls, and gas-powered generators for a sound system and lights—the cables for which had been carefully laid and secured. He also saw a first-aid tent and a raised platform that offered the press corps good angles across the crowd to the speaker's dais and the Chateau Frontenac beyond. It was an impressive show of logistics. Drummers were in place, pounding out rhythms unheard in Québec since the time of Champlain.

  The delegates mingled, the mood festive but also tense; for on the far side of a barricade stood a police line in full riot gear. Between the police and the Chateau, army regulars patrolled a small park with automatic weapons slung across their shoulders. A helicopter hovered nearby; men in sunglasses and bulky jackets worked the edges of the crowd, speaking into their lapels. The Canadians would allow freedom of assembly because not to would make them look like Soviet-era thugs in full view of the international press. But the freedom would extend to speech, not movement: no one from the ILF side of the barricades would be allowed to approach the Chateau.