by Chris Pavone
Which is: bang with her fists, one, two, three times.
Then she screams, “À l’aide!”
Simpson stands, pushes his chair away from the table. It’s a heavy wooden desk chair, the type you find in a library, or a bookstore, the seat worn into butt-cheek buckets by generations of occupants sitting down, sliding around.
“Stop it,” Simpson says and takes a step toward Colette, his back now completely turned to Hunter.
“S’il vous plaît!!” She bangs again, with both fists.
Simpson takes another long stride, and that’s when Hunter makes his move, rushes up to grab the two rear legs of Simpson’s sturdy chair, keeping his wrists firm, his forearms flexed, maintaining his balance with all his core muscles engaged, everything straining to stay in control, as Colette continues to bang on the door, and Hunter pushes up from his quads, lifting the chair aloft, holding it above his head now, taking quick steps to catch up behind Simpson, with Colette’s racket providing aural cover for his footsteps, and Simpson helping the effort by yelling, “Stop!”
Hunter squeezes his grip even tighter, and raises his arms higher, his muscles burning, everything straining as he begins the swing while he’s still hustling up to his target, just one more stride will do it—
The chair-back meets Simpson firmly on the top of his head, and Hunter continues to power through with a full swing, the wood now hitting the guy in his upper back, he’s buckling, collapsing to his knees, and Hunter is losing his grip, he doesn’t fight it, he lets the heavy piece of furniture fall onto the guy, another insult to the injury, and now all this wood is in the way, so Hunter shoves it aside with his knee, and yanks Simpson by the hair, spinning the guy’s face around so Hunter can punch him once, twice, the guy’s nose bleeding and his upper lip split—
Colette drops to her knees and reaches inside the guy’s jacket and finds the holster and removes the gun and leaps back to her feet, fumbling with the weapon, which almost slips from her hand once, now twice, and she steadies her hands with both fists encircling the grip, aiming the weapon at the man who’s lying on the floor, not moving, not at all.
“Okay,” Hunter says, breathing heavy. “Good. We’re good.”
His hands are already hurting, possibly broken bones in both of them. Fuck. This is why you wear boxing gloves.
“Are you okay?”
Colette doesn’t answer. She’s entirely focused on her white-knuckled death grip of the pistol, hands shaking, eyes wide.
“Okay,” he says again. “We’re good.” Trying to convince himself as much as her.
He finds the keys in Simpson’s jacket pocket. “I’ll take that gun now.” Hunter needs to pry Colette’s fingers off the weapon, then fills her empty palm with the keys. “Here. You’re going to unlock the door, and turn the knob, and pull open the door while you step away in that direction.” He points to the far side of the door. “Understand?”
“Oui.”
“I’m going to be over there, lying on the floor, aiming the gun at the opening of the door. If anyone is waiting for us on the far side, I’m going to shoot.”
“Oui.”
“If no one is there, we will wait one minute in case someone arrives. We will wait in the same position, you there, me there, hidden, unmoving, until I get up. Then we will leave, me in the lead. In front. D’accord?”
She nods.
“You did good, Colette.” He rubs her upper arm. “You did great.”
“Merci.”
“Are you ready? We should not wait long.” How long has it been since she started banging and screaming? Sixty seconds? Is that enough time for someone downstairs to rush up here?
“Oui.”
Hunter crosses the room, and drops to his knees, then stretches himself flat on his stomach. He extends his arms, grips the semiautomatic with both hands, aiming at the edge of the door, up at an imaginary spot that’s four feet high: center of mass for a man at the door.
“Okay,” Hunter says. “Now.”
Colette turns to the door. The first key she tries doesn’t fit, nor the second. She looks over at him.
“It’s okay,” he says, “one of them will work.”
The third does. Colette turns the key slowly, trying to minimize the noise. Then she leaves the key in the lock, the whole ring hanging there, and places her hand on the knob. She glances at Hunter again, and he nods.
She turns the knob—
50
PARIS. 1:46 P.M.
“The license plate of the van?”
“Van? What van?”
Ibrahim has been on an extended break. He went to the bathroom, ate a sandwich, called his parents. They know what is going on in Paris, they know that their son is at the scene. They know he cannot talk about it on the phone.
Now he is back in position, along with all these other men who have been up here for four hours.
“The van that delivered the bomber here.”
“Ah. That van.”
“Its license plate was reported stolen three weeks ago, from a car park in Reims.”
“Naturally. If the name painted on the side of the vehicle is a fiction…” The speaker trails off, probably shrugs, what do you expect.
“Maybe the bomber was visiting for the harvest.”
“Muslims do not tend to be Champagne connoisseurs, you know. They—”
“I was kidding.”
“Ah, I see. Very amusing. It was a public car park with a security camera at the entrance. The vehicle whose plate was stolen—a farmer’s truck—was parked for forty minutes, during which ninety-two other vehicles were in the building.”
“Ninety-two, okay, we can work with that.”
“Of those, only seventeen exited while the camionette was parked.”
“Seventeen? That is a much more manageable number.”
“Of those seventeen, two are registered here in Paris.”
“Only two?” An appreciative whistle. “We should send teams.”
“They are already en route.”
Ibrahim can feel the satisfied silence all around him, these men congratulating themselves, in their minds, for the solid, industrious work of their underlings.
“This is how we find them, you know. Every plot has its holes, blind spots that even the author cannot see. One tiny mistake, that could make all the difference.”
* * *
“Is this Dr. Féraud?”
“Yes.”
“My name is a Colonel Étienne Desmarchais. You are on speaker-phone with a number of military, law-enforcement, and political personnel.”
“That is unusual.”
“You have a patient named Mahmoud Khalid.”
Silence on the phone.
“Doctor? Mahmoud Khalid is the name of the man standing in the middle of the Louvre, wearing a suicide vest.”
More silence.
“Doctor, did you hear me? Do you understand?”
Finally: “How is it that you think I can help you, Colonel…?”
“Colonel Desmarchais. Please, tell me, what is wrong with Mahmoud Khalil?”
“Well, Colonel, if what you say is true, then what is wrong with Mr. Khalid is that he is standing in the middle of the Louvre, wearing a suicide vest.”
“Are you trying to joke with me?”
“Unsuccessfully?”
“Listen, Doctor Fér—”
“I am sorry, but I simply cannot share a patient’s confidential records with someone who calls without a proper medical reference. I am sure you understand.”
“Reference? No, I certainly do not understand.”
“Doctor. This is now the deputy chief of police speaking.”
“Hello deputy chief.”
“We can get a court order.”
“Then
I look forward to examining it, and I will respond as quickly as circumstances allow. Now, if you will excuse—”
“This is not finished.”
“I do not doubt it. But I am simply following the law, which, as a law-enforcement officer, I am sure you can appreciate.”
* * *
“The back-trace is now complete. Here, look…”
“What? What is this? I do not understand what I am looking at.”
“This is a map of Paris, sir.”
“Am I stupid?”
“Of course not, no sir, I was…er…Using the surveillance-camera network, we have traced the van’s route back to its first movements of the day, at seven this morning.”
“Good. This is quite good. And this is it, here, this big red dot in Clignancourt? Okay. We should breach as soon as possible.”
“Yes, the teams have already been dispatched. Arrival in five minutes.”
“But the driver will not be there now, will he? Have we traced his route?”
“We are still trying. It appears that he entered the parking garage here at this spot, then entered the Métro system here. It is likely that he walked right past a patrolman who was stationed at the entrance.”
Ibrahim is beginning to fatigue of holding this position, this level of concentration, this preparedness. Also of listening to these men, and saying nothing.
“It does not really make a difference, does it? The type of cancer. The treatment.”
“Well…”
“There is obviously a very large difference between Stage I carcinoma and Stage IV lung. In terms of his thought processes. His motivations.”
“Yes, obviously, I understand, but does any of that matter to us? To our decision-making? Listen. Perhaps Mahmoud Khalil is a very sick man, a dying man, so he has nothing to lose by dying here today, because he may very well die tomorrow.”
“Exactly.”
“But still, the fact is that he is standing here today, ready to die today, and perhaps ready to take half the population of Paris with him—”
“Oh, let us not exaggerate—”
“—and create a crater of the Louvre that will be radioactive for a century. Regardless of his own prospects for a tomorrow, this man is a threat to Paris, to all of us, today. And I assert that regardless of the severity of his illness, it is time for us to blow his brains out all over the cour Napoléon.”
“What a surprise! The police want to shoot a Muslim man. I am shocked.”
“Everyone, calm down. Keep this rational. And civil. I am talking to you, Yves.”
Hrumph.
“What precisely do we have to lose by waiting?”
“Control.”
“Control? Are you out of your mind? We already do not have control. We cannot lose what we do not have.”
Ibrahim knows that sooner or later everyone will accede, and his long period of inaction will come to an end; that might happen any moment.
“If it looks like we have control, Bertrand, then we do have control. And at this moment, there is only one way for us to create that perception.”
It will be such a small motion, a nearly imperceptible physical exertion, it will last less than a second. Then his role will be finished.
* * *
“Fils de pute. The van driver, we lost him. We have him all the way to this Métro platform, there, do you see? But then we lose him in the station. Three of the cameras are broken, which was noticed yesterday, and a work order was created immediately. The repairs are scheduled for Friday.”
“Hmm. Suspicious. And surface cameras?”
“None seem to have captured him.”
“Are there any other exits from the station? Service tunnels? He could have used the unmonitored station to disguise himself.”
“Yes, that is possible.”
“Then he could have returned to the platform. Or to the platform of the other direction. Or he could have changed platforms to another line. Or he could have fled through the tunnels.”
“Yes, those are all possibilities. Where is this station?”
“Odéon.”
“Odéon? In St-Germain.”
“Obviously.”
“That is where one of the cars is registered.”
“Cars? What are you talking about?”
“The cars that were in Reims at the same time the license plate that was on the van that delivered this bomber to the Louvre was stolen. Those cars.”
* * *
“This is bad.”
“What?”
“The wife: she was killed during a police action in Belleville.”
Belleville. This time, Ibrahim holds his tongue.
“I remember that. It was the roundup after the arrests at Bastille, yes?”
“Yes. But Neela Khalid was completely innocent.”
“That is what they all say.”
“They all? You really are a racist son of—”
“No, truly, she was walking to the station after visiting her colleague, who was just home from hospital.”
Ibrahim remembers this. How could he not? Belleville is where he lives.
“Oh yes. This woman was a complete bystander.”
“That is right. She was hit by a stray bullet.”
“And it was not just any stray bullet, was it?”
“No.”
Ibrahim feels a hand on his shoulder. He flinches, almost screams, Do not fucking touch a man whose finger is on a trigger.
“Officer, is everything okay?”
“Yes sir,” Ibrahim says.
“Good. Can I ask, what is your confidence in this shot?”
“My confidence?”
“Yes. What are the odds of an instantaneous kill?”
When the bullet exits the muzzle, it will be traveling at 900 meters per second. During flight, the bullet will slow due to air friction, but the target is only about 400 meters away, so the speed diminution will be negligible, and will not compromise the trajectory. The wind is practically nonexistent, and there is no sun in Ibrahim’s eyes. He is in a comfortable, stable position, not overly fatigued. The sightline is clear. The target is surrounded by nothing distracting, nothing that might move at the last second.
The conditions could not be more perfect.
The flight of the bullet will last a half-second, and it will make contact with the target somewhere inside a zone that is about the size of a mobile phone. A small mobile phone.
“One hundred percent.”
51
PARIS. 1:59 P.M.
Colette yanks the handle, and the door flies open.
Nothing.
There’s no one on the other side, nothing but the dim quiet space, the dingy dinged-up walls, the chipped-paint floorboards.
Colette is standing behind the open door, flat against the wall. Hunter is still lying on the floor, twenty feet from the door, obscured from view by furniture but not totally hidden, aiming the gun at the now-open doorway, waiting for someone to arrive.
Will he shoot absolutely anyone who appears? He hopes he wouldn’t shoot an innocent old lady, a curious little kid. But he’s not confident that he’ll have the poise to tell the difference.
He’s really fucking terrified. And he has only the vaguest idea of how to handle this gun.
Ten seconds have gone by, and no one has appeared.
Twenty seconds.
Hunter once had a shotgun pressed upon him for the purpose of shooting skeet. Making a sport, a casual pastime, out of hurling high-speed bullets at things. Whooping it up with those guys, wearing the ludicrous outfits, the glasses, the padded-shoulder vests, it’s always about the accessories, the toys. He abhorred it. He was disappointed in himself for allowing anyone to talk him into it.
He has never before he
ld a handgun. Handguns aren’t for sport. Handguns are for only one purpose: killing other humans.
Thirty seconds.
Colette is still behind the open door, trembling.
Hunter shifts his weight slightly, so less of it is pressing down on his right elbow, which is beginning to hurt.
Forty.
New York still won’t be open for another hour and a half, if he can get out of here now, get himself to a working phone, make a couple of reassuring calls, let people know he’s alive, push back the press conference a few hours…
Fifty.
He’s relieved that he hasn’t yet needed to shoot anyone. But he’s also disappointed that he hasn’t yet shot anyone, because that means his captors are still out there, unshot. And now he needs to get up, walk out of here, and either get by them or confront them.
Hunter tiptoes toward the door, toward Colette. He nods at her, she nods back. He steps through the doorway first, into the short hall with the stairwell opposite. Just a single light, a bare bulb hanging from a cloth cord. Are there neighbors at home, people who heard this commotion, peering through peepholes, peeking through cracked doors? Is someone going to intervene? Call the police? If the police show up, he doesn’t particularly want to be a man creeping around holding a gun. But if they don’t, he does.
He creeps to the stairs, which turn back upon themselves in all four directions, a narrow shaft in the middle, he can see all the way down to the bottom, it looks like fifty feet. He tries to carry the gun like guys do in films, which is how we all learn to hold guns: actors, in movies, where the good guys shoot the bad guys. In real life, though, it’s almost always the other way around.
Hunter takes one tentative step down. Another. Another and another until the first landing, the first turn, affording a different angle on this stairwell, on the openings to the other floors. Still no sign of anyone.
Colette follows a half-dozen steps behind.
Hunter picks up his pace, descends all the way to the floor below without pausing. Should he peek his head into this hallway? What might he find? Nothing useful. Just a way to get himself shot.