Bred to Kill

by Franck Thilliez

  Lenoir spoke with a certain amount of compassion and respect in his voice.

  “Arthur Chimaux knew the Amazon very well. He was highly influential in political circles in northern Brazil and got a lot of support from people like the heads of mining concerns or prominent opponents of natives’ rights. He died tragically in 1963 in Venezuela, a year before his son discovered the Ururu. He’d left him a huge amount of money.”

  Lenoir picked up the book and handed it to the inspector.

  “Discovering the Savage Ururu. It was the only book Chimaux wrote about them. He talks about his incredible expedition, all the times he barely escaped death, the horror of his first encounter with the people he calls ‘the last living group from the Stone Age.’ He passes the population off as a living relic of prehistoric culture, capable of phenomenal violence. He says, and I quote: ‘Before me is an incredible picture of what life must have been like for a good portion of our prehistory.’”

  Lenoir apparently knew the work by heart. Sharko leafed through the pages and stopped at a black-and-white photo of a native. A colossus with bellicose eyes and fleshy lips, completely naked, staring at the camera as if he were about to devour it.

  Lenoir commented on the photo: “The Ururu have light skin and hazel eyes. Chimaux called them the ‘White Indians.’ In 1965, he brought back skeleton fragments that suggested ‘Caucasoid’ features.”

  “Meaning that the Ururu originally came from Europe?”

  “Like all the Indians native to America. They descended from the first hunters of the Paleolithic Age, who crossed the Bering Strait at least twenty-five thousand years ago. That said, they’re most likely the only tribe to have remained morphologically and culturally similar to the Cro-Magnon.”

  The inspector handed the book to Lucie. In silence, they exchanged a troubled glance, through which snaked the same incomprehensible path: Cro-Magnon, the Ururu, Carnot, and Lambert . . .

  The chain of time.

  Leaning on his cane, Lenoir began walking through the house toward the stairway, still pursuing his explanations:

  “Chimaux isn’t very kind to the Ururu in his book. He describes them as bloodthirsty, a horde of killers who constantly start tribal wars. Most of them are young, strong, and aggressive. They practice barbaric rites, culminating in a horrific death. Chimaux lays a lot of stress on his description of their extreme violence, the archaic and direct way they kill, which they learn at a very early age. If you look at the photos, you’ll see that their tools and weapons are made of wood and stone. In 1965, the year his book came out, they hadn’t yet discovered metal.”

  Sharko, who had continued to leaf through the book, pointed at a photo of four Ururu men armed with axes.

  “Come over here, Lucie. Look how they’re holding their axes.”

  Lucie went closer and, even before looking at the photo, knew the answer.

  “Four men, three of them left-handed . . . Does Chimaux talk about that peculiarity?”

  The anthropologist peered at the photo as if seeing it for the first time.

  “Left-handed? Goodness, you’re right. No, he never mentions it. It’s strange there are so many of them.”

  They went upstairs. The creaking steps reinforced the sense of violating someone’s privacy. Lenoir had switched on a flashlight. On the walls, kids had left a bunch of messages along the lines of “Marc + Jacqueline” in a heart. Lucie felt profoundly uneasy in this silent, lifeless, pernicious house. They entered a small bedroom, its window looking out on the fields. A mattress lay on the floor next to its dilapidated box spring.

  “This is where Napoléon Chimaux grew up with his mother.”

  They could still make out the wallpaper of a child’s room, its regularly repeating pattern of boats and palm trees. Foretastes of travel.

  “In his book, Chimaux establishes a strict parallel between the structure of Ururu society and that of numerous primates. As with certain baboon troops, the villages split once they exceed a certain size. According to Chimaux, the ‘savages’ are like those monkeys: Amazonian primates whose complete lack of morality turns murder and bloody rituals into tribal ideals.”

  Standing in the middle of the room, Lucie looked through the book in turn, stopping at each photo. The Indians had terrifying faces, and some of them wore makeup. Lucie couldn’t help thinking of the movies about cannibals she’d seen when she was younger, and she shuddered involuntarily.

  “Where is he?” she asked. “Where is Chimaux today?”

  “I’m getting to that, just let me finish. In 1964 and ’65, Napoléon traveled the world, talking about his discovery and writing his book. He went to universities and research institutes with his photos and bone fragments. A number of scientists were interested in his findings.”

  “Scientists? Why?”

  “Because the ‘market value’ of a tribal group rises depending on how remote or isolated they are. For scientists, biologists, and geneticists, blood from someone in those tribes is worth more than gold. The blood from another age has unique genetic properties, you understand?”

  “I understand all too well.”

  “But in neither his book nor his lectures did Napoléon ever divulge where in the Amazon the Ururu lived, so that no one could ‘steal’ his population from him. Only he and his expedition crew—outlaws and gold diggers, whom he jealously protected—were able to retrace that path . . . In 1966, Chimaux suddenly disappeared from civilization. According to the locals, he only came back to this house now and then, and only for a few days at a time.”

  “Nineteen sixty-six was the date of the film,” Lucie pointed out.

  Yves Lenoir nodded, a somber look on his face.

  “We know that for all these years he’s been living in the largest of the Ururu villages, where apparently he reigns as supreme master over the entire population. You know, the passage of time has done away with virgin territories. Today, there isn’t a square mile of this planet that hasn’t been charted. Satellite photos, airplanes, increasingly lavish and well-financed expeditions. We now know geographically where the Ururu live; it’s around the upper part of the Rio Negro. You can even get there relatively easily. But the Ururu are one of sixty Indian communities that have no contact with the outside world. For years, explorers were afraid to go there, because Chimaux’s book had described them as being so vicious. But the spirit of adventure proved too strong, and there were more and more expeditions. Still, those who ventured into those regions to find the Ururu were driven out by force, with a clear warning from Chimaux never to come back.”

  Each of his words was like a poisoned dart. The people and the area he described sounded like hell on earth. Still, Lucie was convinced that Louts had managed to get to Chimaux, and that she’d intended to go back again.

  In the narrow confines of the room, Lenoir struck his cane against a wall, knocking loose a bit of plaster.

  “We anthropologists couldn’t figure out how Chimaux had managed to become so integrated into this population, how he’d been able to climb to the top of their hierarchy and impose his rule on them. Seeing your film, I now know the answer, and that’s why this document is crucial. There’s no question that Chimaux went back in 1966 with the measles virus in his bag.”

  There was a silence disturbed only by the rain and wind. Sharko took a moment to absorb Chimaux’s madness and cruelty.

  “Do you mean that . . . that he brought it on purpose, like in a vial, specifically to wipe out some of the Ururu?”

  “Precisely. Primitive peoples have their beliefs, their gods, and their magic. Carrying such a weapon of mass destruction, the anthropologist made himself look like a god or a demon, who could annihilate dozens without laying a hand on them. From then on, the Ururu must have worshiped him as strongly as they feared him.”

  “That’s monstrous,” murmured Lucie.

  “And that’
s exactly why this film has to be shown to the anthropological societies. People need to know so that they can take the necessary action. Today, no foundation or NGO knows how to integrate the Ururu into the Amazon Indian populations. They’re all afraid to go near.”

  “It’s certainly monstrous, but it doesn’t explain the title ‘Phoenix number one,’ which was written on the tape,” noted Sharko. “It’s not just about measles. Phoenix suggests something bigger, something even more monstrous. That contamination was only the beginning of something . . .”

  Lucie took up the thread, on the same wavelength as her partner.

  “It must have been Napoléon Chimaux who was here in France, in Vincennes, in 1984 and 1985, along with another man. The two were in contact with a gynecologist. They gave him several tapes of the same nature. Does that ring any bells?”

  The anthropologist thought for a few moments.

  “Chimaux did come out of the jungle from time to time. He was seen in Brazil, Venezuela, Colombia, and here as well. He kept up relations with people in France, we know that for a fact. In 1967, he was detained in Venezuela with a shipment of test tubes—from France, in fact—which he was planning to use to take blood samples from the Ururu. He had no authorization from any kind of scientific regulatory commission, no documents. He claimed he wanted to take the blood samples to help ‘his’ Indians, to study the different strains of malaria infecting the area. It raised a stink at the time, but Chimaux wiggled out of it, no doubt by having greased a few well-chosen palms, and also thanks to the pull his father’s name still carried in the region.”

  Lucie paced the room, hand on her chin. Napoléon Chimaux’s break with the civilized world in 1966, the film from the same year, the test tubes in 1967 . . . At the time, Stéphane Terney couldn’t have been involved: he had returned from Algeria only a few years earlier to begin a career as an obscure ob-gyn. What sinister plot was Chimaux hatching in the Amazon rain forest? Who else had been involved? Who had supplied the measles virus? And who was supposed to analyze the Ururu blood samples?

  It had to be the second man at the racetrack.

  Three men knew the secret of Phoenix.

  Terney the obstetrician. Chimaux the anthropologist. And the unknown scientist.

  “Do we know where those test tubes came from, which French laboratory?” Lucie asked, her nerves straining.

  “Not to my knowledge. A plane had left France with the crate, but Chimaux never gave any further information. He must have been working with a lab, that’s certain. But he knew how to protect his sources.”

  Lucie leaned on the windowsill. Behind her, the rain clattered against the panes like small children’s hands. She sighed:

  “He got caught that time, but you can bet he continued smuggling. What was he coming back to this house for? To do what?”

  “We don’t know that either. But after they tried to kill him, he disappeared into the jungle for good, and he hasn’t been seen since.”

  “Wait, tried to kill him? Who tried to kill him?”

  “It made the news. It was in . . . 2004, if I remember right. I followed the story closely, since I’d been so interested in Chimaux’s career. Napoléon was stabbed here”—he pointed to his left groin—“but he was with a woman that night, who surprised the killer just as he was about to strike. It saved his life. His iliac artery was barely scratched. The killer fled, and Chimaux was lucky to have survived.”

  Lucie and Sharko gave each other a knowing glance. The would-be assassin’s method left no doubt: the man who had eliminated Terney by severing his iliac artery had attempted to kill Chimaux six years earlier.

  “What did the police investigation turn up?” asked Lucie.

  “Not much. Chimaux claimed it was an attempted robbery. That said, the minute he’d recovered, he disappeared into the jungle and among his ‘savages’ forever.”

  Sharko tried to hand back the book, but the other man refused.

  “You can hold on to it, along with the photo. Give it all back when you give me the DVD.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, vexed.

  “It’s all such a waste. Today, it’s clear that the Ururu have been increasingly contaminated by civilization—even if it hasn’t entirely wiped them out, it’s encroaching more and more. They’re no longer pure, and they know the outside world exists. They’ve discovered metal, technology, they’ve seen airplanes in the sky. By keeping them for himself, Chimaux deprived the world of a paramount discovery, the chance to know the real history of his people, and what prehistory might have been like . . .”

  They went back down to the living room in silence, feeling drained. This house had sheltered a perfectly normal child who had grown into a monster. What horrors had he committed in the heart of the Ururu tribe? What other horrors were contained on those Phoenix tapes? How many pints of blood, how many samples had traveled through the jungle and on to France? And for what reason?

  As Yves Lenoir was about to head outside, Lucie stopped him.

  “Just a moment. We’d like to go there, just as Eva Louts did. Tell us how to go about it.”

  His eyes widened.

  “Go to the Ururu territory? The two of you?”

  “The two of us,” Sharko repeated, in a voice that brooked no objections.

  After a hesitation, the anthropologist returned to the middle of the room.

  “It’s no small feat. You do realize that, don’t you?”

  “We know.”

  He took a map of northern Brazil from his bag and unfolded it on the table. Sharko and Lucie squeezed in next to him.

  “Getting to Brazil is no problem. You don’t need a visa, just a passport. I’d strongly recommend you get vaccinated for yellow fever and take antimalarials. If your student went to meet the Ururu, she traveled about five hundred miles north of the capital, toward the Venezuelan border. She almost certainly got a plane from Manaus to São Gabriel da Cachoeira, the last town before the pure jungle. There are two or three flights a week from Charles de Gaulle; they’re popular with tourists trekking up Pico da Neblina, the highest mountain in Brazil.”

  “You seem to know a lot about it.”

  “Practically every anthropologist in the world has been there; it’s where you find the largest Indian reservations. Some have even tried their luck getting to the Ururu, obviously without success. Rather than buying your tickets alone, do it through a tour operator. This way your flights will be taken care of all the way to São Gabriel, and more to the point, they’ll take care of getting you the necessary documents from FUNAI, the National Indian Foundation. There are police and soldiers who patrol the river and they don’t go easy; you’re better off having your papers in order if you want to cross through the Indian territories along the Rio Negro. At that point, leave the tour and get your own guide. The locals there are used to foreigners; you won’t have any trouble finding one.”

  He marked the exact spot on his detailed map. A veritable no-man’s-land.

  “From here, you should count on a day’s journey by boat, then another on foot to reach the Ururu territories. The guides will bring you there if you pay them well. I won’t say people ask often, but often enough. In any case, to my knowledge, the results are always the same: Chimaux and the Ururu drive away anyone who comes near their villages, and sometimes it gets ugly.”

  Lucie looked closely at the map. Flat green areas stretching forever, mountains, vast rivers slicing through the vegetation. So very far from Juliette.

  “We’ll give it a shot all the same.”

  “I would gladly come with you if it weren’t for this leg of mine. I know the jungle pretty well—it’s not your typical forest. It’s a world in motion, made of illusions and traps, where death might await at any given step. Keep that in mind.”

  “It’s our daily bread.”

  They shook hands and wished one another go
od luck, then separated beneath the rain and drove off. Before turning the ignition, Sharko looked at the photo of Napoléon Chimaux.

  “They try to kill him in 2004 . . . right around the time Stéphane Terney starts writing his book The Key and the Lock and hides those genetic codes. He obviously got scared and tried to protect himself. Our killer must have terrified him.”

  “After the attempt on his life, Chimaux claimed it was a thief, to protect himself as well. He must have known who tried to kill him. But if he’d talked . . .”

  “. . . He would have screwed himself, because of Phoenix. And I suspect it explains Louts’s role in all this. Since Chimaux was trapped in the jungle, he might have used her as a kind of . . . scout, or courier. He sent her back to get him something.”

  “The names, faces, and characteristics of left-handed murderers?”

  “Yes, quite possibly. Extremely violent left-handed murderers, between the ages of twenty and thirty.”

  Sharko turned on the engine.

  “There’s one last thing I need to check.”

  • • •

  In the animal housing facility of the primate research center, Sharko and Lucie followed Clémentine Jaspar in silence. The latter walked up to Shery and showed her the recent photo of Napoléon Chimaux. Using Ameslan gestures, she asked: “You know man?”

  As any human would have, Shery took the photo in her large hands, looked at it, and shook her head. She’d never seen him before.

  Lucie looked at Sharko with a sigh.

  “We’ve got Terney, we’ve got Chimaux. We’re still missing the third man. The scientist . . .”

  “. . . Who casually eliminates anyone who gets in his way. A vicious, single-minded animal, willing to do anything to survive.”

  “And given where things stand, I unfortunately see only one place where we can go to learn his identity.”

  “To the monster himself: Napoléon Chimaux.”

  44

  The departure for Manaus was scheduled for the morning after next, Sunday at 10:30, which left Lucie time to get ready for the trip and especially time to spend with Juliette. Before leaving Paris three hours earlier, she had borrowed Sharko’s cell phone—hers needed to charge—to tell her mother she’d be getting home around 4:30.