“I’ll leave you to unsaddle the horses and brush them down,” she said, unstrapping her medical bag and heading off.
As soon as she left, Sami clambered out of the pool, unconcerned by his nakedness, and scooped Balzac into his arms, careless of the scratches the dog’s paws were raking on his chest as Balzac clambered up to lick his face.
“I’ll get him some swimming trunks tomorrow and some more clothes,” Bruno told Momu, who was smiling at Sami’s obvious pleasure.
“Maybe you should get him a dog, too,” Momu said, as Sami began running around the rim of the pool and letting Balzac chase him. Momu called Sami to come and get dressed, and Bruno went to take care of the horses, wondering why Sami had not responded to them as he had to Balzac. Maybe it was a matter of size. His phone vibrated, and he saw the green light. He checked his watch; he’d forgotten to call the brigadier.
“I heard from the security men that you’re all settled in. Who’s the doctor?” the brigadier began. Bruno explained that Fabiola was from the St. Denis clinic and was checking Sami for any urgent medical problems. He asked if there was any news from Toulouse.
“All quiet. The good news is that we got the number of that phone the two thugs were charging. We knew where they’d been in the woods and at the collège and then the route they took, so we triangulated it from there. They made a lot of calls while driving, several of them to numbers we didn’t know about. Make sure your guests don’t start using their own phones; the Toulouse gang may turn the phone trick against us and establish your location. I’ll call again tomorrow.”
When Bruno entered the kitchen, he saw that Fabiola had recruited Dillah, who was one of her regular patients, to help make Sami comfortable with her presence. Dillah stood with her arm around Sami as Fabiola examined him, stethoscope around her neck. Balzac sat at Sami’s feet, staring up at him patiently. Sami began to stroke the dog with his bare feet until Fabiola asked him to sit still. Bruno went outside to discuss with Gaston and Robert how they would parcel out the hours on watch.
“Just like being back in the army,” said Gaston. Bruno asked which unit he had been in. Gaston had been in the paratroopers and Robert the chasseurs, but they had then served together in the Thirteenth Parachute Dragoon Regiment, Rafiq’s old unit. That made sense, Bruno thought; the brigadier would automatically recruit his security men from the special forces.
“Did you know a guy named Rafiq?” he asked.
The two men nodded grimly. “We heard he got the chop,” said Gaston, the shorter and stockier of the two. “The word was he died hard, nasty stuff.”
“He was killed by the same bastards we’re guarding against here,” said Bruno.
“Understood,” said Robert, and gave his FAMAS assault weapon an affectionate tap. “If they come back, we know what to do. We’d better set up a watch list for tonight.” By the time Momu called him in to supper, they had agreed on a schedule.
“We live on frozen pizza, and there’s a microwave in our house,” said Gaston. “We’ll eat later, one at a time. We already had a snack at that bar by the gendarmerie before we met you.”
“You don’t know Dillah,” Bruno replied. “You can be sure there’ll be food for you. I think it’s chicken couscous tonight. She said it was always Sami’s favorite.”
Places had been set for everyone at the big kitchen table, but Fabiola said she’d better ride back while there was still light. Sami clutched at her arm as she turned away and stroked her hand. She smiled at him, receiving a wide grin in return.
“Demain?” Sami said, in a questioning tone, asking if Fabiola would be back tomorrow.
“Demain,” Fabiola replied, gently patting Sami’s cheek. Bruno escorted her outside and asked for her verdict. Sami was malnourished, she reported. He also had hypertension, very high blood pressure, and what she thought was a bronchial infection that she’d identify when she had the analysis of the blood and other samples she’d taken. He would need major dental work, a broken bone in his left arm would probably need to be reset, and she thought a specialist had better look at the whipping scars on his back. Some of them weren’t healing.
“He’s in poor shape, but in no immediate danger as far as I can see. As for the problems I can’t see, I’ll get the blood-test results in a day or so, and I’ll let you know what they show. Physically, he needs rest, a good diet and some antibiotics. I’ve started him on a course that should clear up the infections in his scars. Dillah has the tablets. He seems calm enough, so I’ve stopped the sedatives. Psychologically, he’s obviously troubled, but that’s not really my field.”
“Is it straightforward autism?” Bruno asked.
“There’s no such thing, and a lot of us are no longer convinced it’s a useful term,” she replied. Autism used to be seen as morbid self-absorption, she explained, then it was said to be the result of bad parenting, and more recently that it was genetic. Some specialists thought it came from mercury poisoning or some other new toxin in the environment. All modern medicine could truthfully say was that “autism” was a catchall word used for people who do not react conventionally to current social norms. They could be mute, hyperactive, extraordinarily gifted in some ways and almost psychopathic in others.
“What happened to him as a child in Algeria was likely to trigger some kind of extreme reaction. Post-traumatic stress in children often presents itself as elective mutism; they just decide not to speak,” she went on. “But whatever condition Sami had when he was growing up here has been hugely complicated by the new traumas he went through in Afghanistan. On the bright side, he’s obviously capable of strong affection. He shows it for Dillah and Momu, and for your dog. That may be a good sign, but from the way he reacted to me he might have something we see in orphanages, a reactive detachment disorder. Kids starved of contact and affection when young will often grab desperately on to any adult in sight.”
“Do you think prison psychologists will be able to help him?”
She looked at him solemnly for a long moment and then at the rifle slung over his shoulder and sighed. She turned away to mount her horse, and said, “I don’t think I’m qualified to judge.”
“Will you be back to see him tomorrow?” Bruno asked. “You told him you would.”
“I’d like to, but I’m not sure your prison psychologist would want another doctor getting involved,” she said. As she settled in the saddle she added, “If I’m needed, of course I’ll come. In any event I’ll call you when I get the test results.”
At the dinner table, Sami used a spoon to devour his food and kept his left hand curled around his plate as if to protect it. Dillah was watching Sami, and she put her hand on his arm and told him gently, “It’s all right, Sami, there is plenty of food. We won’t be hungry.”
Sami smiled at her but continued to bolt his food. He seemed unconcerned at the sight of Bruno’s rifle leaning against his chair. He was evidently accustomed to the sight of armed men. That was probably commonplace in Afghanistan, Bruno thought.
“This couscous is great, Dillah, and thank you for helping with Fabiola,” Bruno said. “I was worried he might not want to be examined by a woman.”
“So was I,” she replied, smiling. “But when he came in with your dog, Balzac went straight to Fabiola, and she picked him up like an old friend. Sami seemed to think that made her his friend, too. I told him Fabiola was my doctor, and Momu’s, and that she had delivered Karim’s baby. Anyway, I asked her to take on Sami as a regular patient, and Momu signed the form. We’re still his guardians.”
“But he’s over eighteen,” Bruno said. “Guardianship lapses once he becomes an adult.”
“Yes, but when we were trying to get Sami into a special school he had to be declared incapable of running his own affairs. We had to go before the juge des tutelles, and Momu and I were appointed tuteurs,” Dillah said. Bruno nodded; he knew that the court of guardianship usually appointed family members to manage the affairs of someone judged incapable. “That means t
he guardianship is extended until the medical diagnosis changes.”
Momu cleared his throat, the sound of a man intent on changing the subject. “How long will we have to stay here, Bruno?”
“I don’t know. As long as the situation lasts that puts you and Sami at risk.”
“When can I go back to teaching?”
“It’s the same answer, Momu. They know where you teach and where to find you. If you aren’t at the collège, that means less danger for the schoolchildren and your colleagues. This is not an address they know, and if they find you, you’re guarded. And that reminds me, I have to ask for your mobile phones. We don’t want them tracking you through them.”
“Can Karim and his family come to visit us here?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll go to see Karim and make the arrangements, pick everyone up myself and bring them here.”
“Presumably they know who you are,” said Dillah. “These men could be tracking you as easily as us.”
“I have a special phone. It’s as secure as we can make one.”
“I’m worried about Karim and the babies,” she said. “Shouldn’t they be here with us? There’s plenty of room.”
“That’s up to you and Karim, if he feels he can afford to close the café and forgo the income,” Bruno said. “I don’t think it’s wise for him to commute back and forth to work from here. We simply don’t know if the people looking for you are aware of Karim. His name wasn’t in their notebook we found.”
Bruno saw Momu’s face darken.
“At the mosque, they know about Karim,” Momu said. “When they agreed to take Sami into their special school, they wanted to know everything—names, relatives, how much I make, did I own my house, did I have a mortgage or a loan to buy my car. That was how they worked out how much we should pay.”
Bruno had not been aware that Momu had been paying the mosque. “How much did you pay them?”
“More than I could really afford,” he said. “And they were furious when I stopped paying when Sami disappeared. They said their religious court had ruled against me, and I still owed money. I told them I’d see them only in a French court, and they backed down. I understand now why they were so nervous at the idea. It would have meant questions about where Sami had gone.”
“I’d better take some food out to those two nice young men,” said Dillah. “I can’t stand the idea of them living on frozen pizza, not here in the Périgord.”
9
The next morning Bruno drove into town to buy more clothes for Sami, dog biscuits and a pay-as-you-go phone. If he wasn’t allowed to use his own phone, he still needed to communicate with people. And he wanted to continue his search for any trace of the Halévy children. He picked up some croissants and then drove back by a roundabout route to call at Karim’s Café des Sports. He parked around the corner by the rugby stadium and looked at the cars parked outside the café. They all carried the number 24 on the license plate, which meant they were local. Even so, he knocked on the back door, and Rashida opened it, an infant crawling at her feet and her new baby in her arms.
“Karim called the mayor to find out where they are, but he won’t tell us,” she said when he’d slipped inside and closed the door. Automatically, she began making coffee.
“I’ll take you there tonight if you like, after the café closes, but you must only go when I take you. It could be dangerous,” Bruno explained. “Don’t say anything about this to Karim unless you’re alone.”
“Should I bring some food, maybe some clothes?”
“That’s all taken care of. Dillah is feeding us. And you might want to bring your swimsuits. There’s a pool.”
She grinned. “Karim thought you’d have them all in some police barracks or on an army base. It sounds more luxurious than that. But how long is this going to last?”
“I wish I knew,” he said, and was about to take his leave when Karim came in through the doorway that led to the café, his height and bulk instantly filling the room. As soon as he saw Bruno his eyes blazed.
“What the hell is going on, Bruno? Where are my parents?”
“That’s why I’m here,” he replied calmly, and thanked Rashida as she handed him a cup of coffee. “They’re still in danger, along with Sami, but I’m hoping to arrange for you to see them tonight.”
Karim took the baby from his wife’s arms and said, “I came in for some more sugar. We’re almost out. Could you see to the bar, please, Rashida? And I was making two double espressos for Julien and Manuel. They’ll also want some of their usual lottery cards.”
As Rashida left, saying that little Pierre had yet to be fed, Karim sat heavily at the kitchen table, scooped up his toddler with his free hand and tried clumsily to seat the little boy in his high chair. Bruno put down his coffee and took the baby, and Karim settled his son and began to feed him some yogurt. Bruno bent down to sniff the baby’s head, a scent that always enchanted him.
“Who are these bastards?” Karim asked, keeping his voice mild to avoid upsetting his son.
“Jihadis, Salafists, the same kind of zealots who wiped out Sami’s family in Algeria, and now they’re here in France,” Bruno replied. “They want to kill Sami because he’s living proof that they’ve been funneling French Muslims from the mosque to fight in Afghanistan. If they have to kill your parents or your children to get to Sami, they’ll do it.”
“You saw them at the collège, you know who they are. Why haven’t you arrested them?”
“If we do that, the people who are behind this will send somebody else. It makes more sense to watch them, monitor their phone calls and their movements and build up a picture of the whole organization, not just these two thugs. They’re just pawns.”
“You make it sound like my parents are pawns, too,” Karim said. Bruno felt there was no malice in his words, simply a sense of frustration that there was so little he could do for his family.
“We don’t see them as pawns,” Bruno said, knowing his words were pompous, but they needed to be said. “We’re doing all we can to protect them, renting a discreet location, installing round-the-clock security guards.”
Karim nodded. “What about Rashida and the kids?”
“We found a notebook in their van. It had your dad’s name and address but not yours. Still, Momu says he listed the entire family when Sami went to the mosque, so they may know about you. If you want to join your parents, we can do that.”
“I can’t afford to leave the café.”
“Rashida and the kids could go, but it might be risky for you to stay on alone. These people are armed and ruthless.”
“Putain, why not round up the whole mosque? Close the bastards down.”
“Because this is France. We have laws. I have to go, Karim. We can discuss all this later. I’ll pick you up tonight after you close the café. Go to the tennis club, and I’ll take you from there to the safe house the back way, just in case someone is trying to follow you.”
Bruno kissed the baby, handed it back to Karim and strolled up the quiet side street that led to the empty rugby stadium. He used his key to enter the clubhouse and used the office phone to make the calls he had planned. He started with the mayor, then Florence to learn if the computer club had approved his appeal for their help in the search for any records of the Halévy children. They’d already begun, he was told. Finally, he called Pamela.
“Fabiola came back last night, and we ate here. She told me all about what’s going on, made it sound very cloak-and-dagger,” she said. He could almost hear the smile in her voice. “I suppose you’ll have to arrest me now that I know the secret of where you’ve taken them.”
“They should be safe there.”
“Did Fabiola say anything about that problem with Gilles? And have you called him?”
“No, she said nothing, and no, this isn’t something I could ask him about on the phone.”
“What’s this number you’re dialing from?” she asked. “I don’t recognize it.”
“I’m not using my usual phone for security reasons.”
“Take care of yourself. Should I call this number if I need you?”
“No, there’s another number, a disposable phone I bought.” He gave the number. “So long as you’re not calling to tell me to interrogate Gilles about Fabiola.”
She laughed, a sound he loved to hear, and it made him hope things were better between them again.
His calls to the Jewish Scouts and to the Shoah Foundation brought no new details, but gave him the names of some of David Halévy’s friends in Paris to whom he might have confided something. He got voice mails, secretaries, then finally Halévy’s sometime partner in a medical practice came on the line, happy to talk about his old friend.
“You’ll never guess what he told me once,” Bruno heard. “He said that he was never healthier than in the war. He never ate too much, no sugar, only water and milk to drink, and everything fresh from the garden and the farm.”
“So he lived on a farm? Not in a town?”
“He was briefly in a town, in an attic belonging to an old lady who brought them bread and hot milk for breakfast. But mostly he was on a farm, with a couple. He always called the man ‘Monsieur.’ He called the wife ‘Tante Sylvie.’ Apparently they were very devout Christians, and the man wore a porcelain mask. David spoke of it when that musical was popular, the one about the phantom living under the Paris Opéra. He said the Monsieur had been like that, a gueule cassée.”
Bruno almost jumped from his chair. This was a vital clue. A gueule cassée, literally “broken face,” was one of the many who had suffered severe facial injuries from the Great War, usually a victim of artillery fire. Some were so disfigured that they were given ceramic masks, along with a small pension, which meant there should be an official record somewhere of all those in the region with these facial mutilations. Where might the records be kept? He called the préfecture in Périgueux and was put through to the archives, only to be told the relevant records had been lost or perhaps destroyed. He tried the military archives at Les Invalides in Paris and was transferred to the archives of the anciens combattants in Caen.
The Children Return Page 8