The Children Return

by Martin Walker

  Bruno couldn’t resist. He checked the action and ensured the chamber was clear and then squinted down the barrel. It was clean. He examined the magazine and saw there were still seven rounds. That would do. He pulled a paper tissue from his trouser pocket and twisted off two strands and put them into his ears. He looked for the safety, dry-fired to test the trigger pull and then prepared to load the magazine.

  “Range going hot,” he shouted.

  “Range hot,” she called back. “Firing approved.”

  He moved sideways to go for one of the fresh targets. Never too proud of his shooting, he used the standard two-handed grip, holding the weapon high and then lowering it slowly to the target. He fired one shot to assess the recoil, aimed again and then shot off four more. Then he looked at the target.

  His first shot had missed altogether, which didn’t surprise him. The next four were all on target, two shots in the outer ring and two in the inner. It was significantly worse than Nancy’s performance.

  “Not bad for a new weapon,” she said. “Try it with the one you know.”

  Why am I doing this? Bruno asked himself. He was not fond of handguns and tried not to carry one on duty unless he felt a special need to do so. He conscientiously did his annual refresher course at the police range in Périgueux and scored decently, if not as well as he had in the army. Was he so childish that he wanted to show off, or did he dare not refuse the challenge from a woman he found attractive? Probably the latter, he thought, having few illusions about himself. Now concentrate, he told himself sternly. There is nothing more dangerous than a man with a gun whose mind is elsewhere.

  The feel and weight of the PAMAS were familiar, and there were eight rounds in the magazine. The gun came up cleanly to the target as he breathed out and fired two quick shots, a double tap. He stepped to one side and fired another. He stepped aside again and went down to one knee and fired one more. Six rounds and that was it. He was done. He cleared the chamber and ejected the magazines from both guns.

  “Range cold,” he shouted.

  “Range cold,” Nancy echoed. “That looked like fun, and good to watch. Let’s see what the target thinks.”

  All the rounds were in the inner ring and he had two bull’s-eyes.

  “Best shooting of the day,” she said, and he felt ridiculously pleased. “I want you on my side. Let me clear the magazines and we’ll talk.”

  “Range hot,” she shouted when her ear protectors were in place.

  “Range hot,” he echoed from behind her, and watched as she quickly emptied each gun. Three shots, two inners, one bull, probably from the familiar Glock.

  “Honors even, I’d say.” She looked at him boldly, eyebrows raised in challenge, and again he sensed that she was feeling the same attraction that he did. Maybe it was just the effect of gunfire and shooting with someone from the opposite sex. “Except I just had more practice and you’d never fired a Glock before.”

  “This is like the kids’ tennis games, when I have to pick one winner for the over sixes and another for the fives and under,” he said, smiling to take any sting from the remark. “So you win the girls’ trophy and in the absence of any competition I get the prize for the boys.”

  “Your prize is you get to clean the PAMAS, and I’ll clean my Glock.” She pushed the pull-through and oil along the table, tossed him a clean rag and watched him strip the weapon. It had once been second nature to him; he could have done it blindfolded. Showing off, he kept his eyes on her as he dismantled the gun.

  “And now let me tell you what’s going on here,” she said, and made a point of keeping her eyes on him as she stripped her Glock, as if to teach him she could play the same game.

  “The tribunal is not getting along. That’s not what Deutz says, but the other two are quietly furious with him. I got this from Amira. He took each of them to one side and suggested to Professor Weill that Amira’s judgment might be in question because of her Muslim background. Then separately he went to Amira and said the same thing to her about Weill being influenced by his Jewishness. He didn’t seem to know the two of them were old friends. So now they both think he’s a manipulative son of a bitch who wants to take control of the tribunal so it turns out his way.”

  “And what is his way?” Bruno asked, squinting down the barrel after using the pull-through. “I mean, what’s Deutz’s agenda in all this? What’s he trying to achieve?”

  “Who knows? My guess is that he wants Sami under his control in the prison system, in a hospital where he can study him at length and write a book that will make him rich and famous. The Engineer and Me or How I Turned the Dreaded Engineer into a Compliant Little Vegetable. Sorry, I’m just letting off steam. But what have you guys got on the bastard? Did Fabiola’s old professor come up with the goods?”

  “We got a good statement from her, confirming everything,” he replied as he put the gun back together and cleaned off the excess oil with a rag. He popped the spring from the magazine to clean that, too. “As we speak, Yveline will be tracking down another possible witness, or rather victim. Did you know the brigadier is heading this way by helicopter with the imam from Toulouse in tow?”

  “Yes, the e-mail was copied to all of us. I expect he’ll be here sometime in the next fifteen minutes. Deutz is probably rehearsing some carefully chosen verses from the Koran as we speak,” she said drily. She put the newly cleaned Glock back together, slipped it into a holster above the curve of her left hip and began to load a spare magazine. “If you haven’t got your own weapon here, you’d better hang on to that one. It’s signed out to me, so take care of it. And I’d feel better if you filled at least two magazines, just to be on the safe side. I saved the best news till last. The brigadier didn’t pass this on, but I got a call from your old flame.”

  “Isabelle?”

  “Who else? She wanted me to be sure to tell you that it’s not just the imam who’s left the mosque. The bad guys seem to have slipped out during the riots yesterday—your friends the Caïd and the one they call the strong man, along with their boss, the Niqab. With the streets full of tear gas the brigadier’s watchers lost track of them, but I suspect they might be heading this way. That’s why I thought I’d get in some shooting practice.”

  25

  His képi held firmly on his head, Bruno stood by the wind sock with the duty lieutenant watching the helicopter descend. The grit and leaves stirred up by the rotor blades made him close his eyes until the engine coughed to a halt. He saluted as the brigadier, the white-bearded imam in his robes and a third figure in an elegant suit and neatly buttoned collarless shirt descended in turn. The brigadier’s two passengers looked curiously around them at the outer walls and the imposing château before them. The imam touched his hand to his heart and bowed his head slightly as he was introduced to Bruno and the lieutenant. Bruno recognized the third figure, Ghlamallah, from his TV appearances as the man came forward to shake hands, marking the contrast between his modern style and the courtly greeting from the imam.

  The brigadier dismissed the lieutenant and led the two imams to his office, gesturing to Bruno to follow. There was a tray of fresh tea, coffee and fruit juice on his desk; he must have radioed ahead, Bruno thought. The imams took tea, Bruno and the brigadier had coffee. The brigadier served and introduced Bruno as “the local policeman who’s known Sami since he was a boy and is probably the only official Sami really trusts.”

  “From what we can gather, Sami doesn’t much trust you or your mosque,” the brigadier said briskly, staring directly at the old imam. “That’s unfortunate, but it brings us to a point I am instructed to make before we take you to see the young man. There is considerable concern in official quarters about jihadist influence in your mosque. It is very worrying that some of the young men in your care have gone on jihad in Afghanistan. It’s also outrageous that someone as troubled as Sami should have been under so little supervision that he went with them. And now we hear more troubling news about the children in your orphanage
. There will, of course, have to be an official inquiry by the regional child service authorities and a review of the education license for your mosque’s school.”

  “I welcome those inquiries and promise you my full cooperation,” said the older imam, in a voice much stronger than Bruno had expected from the man’s frail frame. His French was precise, the accent Parisian, despite his birth in Tunis and the long years he had spent studying at Cairo’s Al-Azhar University.

  “Thank you,” said the brigadier, looking agreeably surprised. “This will also mean some very thorough inquiries into your security team at the mosque. Three of them at least will be facing very serious criminal charges. A fourth is already in custody, having been found in dubious circumstances with two of the children from your orphanage, apparently attempting to burn down the house of Sami’s adopted parents. Happily, he was prevented and is now giving us full cooperation. The children are now being cared for properly.”

  “I am distressed to hear of this but relieved that the crime was prevented,” the imam replied. “Let me be frank. I am grateful that all this has come to a head. For some time, my young colleague and I have been worried that parts of our mosque were drifting out of our control. The school, the orphanage, above all the security team, we had already discussed seeking the help of the authorities, but you will understand the constraints that prevented us from doing so.”

  “No, I do not understand,” said the brigadier, coldly. “You are the imam. You are the religious and legal authority of the mosque. Whatever happens under its auspices is your responsibility.”

  “Perhaps I might help explain.” Ghlamallah spoke for the first time. “You must know that the house of Islam is sadly divided, that traditional authority is being challenged by militants, the ones you call jihadists. Our mosque was originally founded in a modest way by our own faithful in Toulouse but was then built to the glory of Allah with considerable financial help from our Saudi brethren.”

  “Thirty million euros, as I recall,” said the brigadier. “Almost as much as they’re putting into the new Grande Mosquée in Marseille. And the Saudi ambassador chairs your board of trustees. He can’t be pleased at what’s happening in your mosque. They didn’t install you to run a recruiting station for al-Qaeda.”

  Ghlamallah winced as if he’d been hit. “There are Saudis and Saudis,” he said, and then glanced at the older imam. “We get funds from the Saudi monarchy, and then there are other donations from Saudi individuals who do not share the views of the monarchy and give their money to others, for other purposes.”

  “You mean the people who have been funding al-Qaeda?”

  “Not just al-Qaeda, but the extreme Salafists in Algeria, Mali, Somalia,” Ghlamallah replied. “They are the worst of the Ahl as-Sunnah, the ones who reject following any of the four traditional schools of Islam, which is why they condemn even the Wahhabis of Saudi Arabia. They are to us what your extreme Puritans or your Inquisition were in your wars of religion. They have their own funds, their own followers, and we fear they have taken over much of our mosque because we did not recognize them soon enough for what they were.”

  Bruno wondered how much of this was true. The fine points of Islamic doctrine were lost on him. He could understand that the imams felt squeezed between the conservative Saudis who held the purse strings and the increasingly radicalized young members of their congregation, but could they really have allowed the other departments of the mosque, the school, the orphanage and the security service, to be run by jihadists as separate entities?

  “You two are the imams. It’s your mosque. Take back control.” The brigadier’s face was impassive, but there was a tone of mockery in his voice. “It’s four years since Sami was taken off to Afghanistan. So if four years have passed since the jihadists took over the school, you’ve had long enough to work out what to do.”

  “We have a management committee for the mosque and its various services, and it pains me to admit that it has been some time since we could count on having a majority,” said Ghlamallah. “Ever since the Iraq War the Salafists have been winning support among the youth. It has become increasingly difficult for me to function. They’ve already tried to get me dismissed as a modernist, one who is prepared to abandon the traditional ways of Muhammad, peace be upon him.”

  “So you’re hoping we can help you get your mosque back before your Saudi benefactors notice you’ve lost it?”

  “Yes, but you need us to help you prevent the mosque from becoming a Salafist stronghold in France, and one capable of delivering twenty thousand well-disciplined votes. Your politicians offer a great deal of protection in return for a voting block like that. I think you understand what I mean. Without our support and our invitation, I’m not sure your politicians would take the risk of sending in the police to our precincts to impose French law.”

  Watching this exchange Bruno understood that this visit, supposedly to see Sami, was in fact a bargaining session with the French state. And Ghlamallah was sufficiently astute to realize that the French state, its permanent government of institutions and prefects and procureurs and officials like the brigadier, was something different from its politicians.

  The old imam, a faint smile on his face and his fingers stroking his white beard, gazed benignly as if the conversation had nothing to do with him.

  “Are you prepared to invite us in to enforce the order to investigate the children’s services and your security team?” the brigadier asked.

  The two imams confirmed that they were.

  “Then I think we understand one another, so let us go and see young Sami and his parents.”

  The brigadier led them up the stairs and outside to the long balcony by the battlements where Bruno remembered finding Sami and Momu playing games with maps when he’d gone to tell them the tribunal was ready. Some tables and chairs had been put out, and Momu and Dillah were sipping tea and watching Sami play with Balzac when the imams arrived. The other tables were empty except for the one closest to the parapet, where Nancy sat alone over a notebook, pen in hand and a cup of coffee beside her. She looked up briefly, gave a courteous smile and returned to her writing.

  Bruno noted that Ghlamallah walked a pace behind the old imam, as if sheltering in his shadow. Perhaps it was simply respect. Momu put down his cup and watched their approach coldly. Sami ignored them until he saw Bruno and scampered across, calling his name.

  “This has become his favorite place,” the brigadier said. “When the members of the tribunal saw how it relaxed him they started having sessions out here as well. In this fine weather, it’s more pleasant to be outside.”

  Patting Sami’s back as the young man hugged him and Balzac pawed at his leg, Bruno scanned the surroundings for danger points. The main bulk of the tower protected most of the balcony from being overlooked by anyone on the far hillside, the only logical place for a sniper. The place seemed safe enough. And at each end of the balcony Bruno saw the cameras, fresh cement showing how recently they had been installed. As elsewhere in the château, every word and action was being recorded.

  The old imam walked slowly to Momu and Dillah, stopped and took Ghlamallah’s arm for support as he went slowly down on one knee. He touched his other hand to his heart and bowed his head.

  “I have come to apologize to you for our failure to do right by your son,” he said. “You had a right to expect better of us. I cannot ask your forgiveness, only your understanding that I was too naïve to see that our mosque was being taken over by wicked people.”

  Momu sat unmoved, refusing to respond, his face set like flint. It was Dillah who broke the silence.

  “You should be ashamed,” she burst out, almost spitting at Ghlamallah. “You, in particular, who thought all we cared about was the money we had paid, thought we could be fobbed off with a refund of one term’s fees. We entrusted you with our boy, and you did worse than nothing for him. You betrayed us, your mosque betrayed us and you only come to say you’re sorry when the whole world
knows what you did. So take yourselves and your apology away with you. I stamp my foot on it.”

  Momu reached across and gripped her hand. Nobody else moved. Even Sami, still crouched at Bruno’s knee where he had recovered Balzac, sat immobile, his eyes wide.

  “I hoped I might say a prayer …,” the imam began.

  “Save your prayers,” Dillah retorted. “Save them for the grief of the mothers of those other boys you took in who were sent off to fight in a far-off land, to die for nothing. And do not even think of using the word ‘martyr’ to me. We have had too many martyrs from you old fools who claim to speak for religion. And it’s never you who die, it’s the innocent children whose minds you poison.”

  The imam tried to lurch to his feet, but Ghlamallah had to help him. When he stood at last, he bowed solemnly to Dillah, turned and bowed to Sami and said, “I am sorry we failed you.”

  Sami stared at him blankly until the old imam then said something in Arabic, and Sami edged back away from the old man, his face crumpling as if the language itself disturbed him.

  “That’s enough,” roared Momu, rising from his chair, his voice booming in a way he’d learned in mastering unruly schoolrooms. “Haven’t you tormented this boy enough? Leave him in peace.”

  Momu stood defiantly, hands on his hips, chin thrust out. Dillah darted from her chair to go to Sami and comfort him. Nancy rose from her own table to join her.

  The imam looked helpless and confused, like an old man no longer knowing where he was or how to find his way home. Ghlamallah led him gently back to the door where the brigadier was waiting.

  “That poor woman, I know she’s not his real mother but my heart goes out to her,” Ghlamallah said piously.

  “A pity your heart took four years to notice her grief,” said Bruno.