by Michel Bussi
“No problemo. Ciao.”
Marianne went back into the hive, where ten of her worker bees were gathering nectar. JB was getting annoyed, shrugging, and clicking from one screen to another, as if his belief in Papy’s hunch was decreasing by the minute. Replacing towers with chimneys, knights with factory workers. Time was passing, and the poor darling was stuck here with them.
Angie’s voice continued to echo in Marianne’s head.
I need you.
More than a declaration of love, it had sounded like a cry for help.
Marianne chided herself, feeling simultaneously like a strict teacher and an unruly child. It was ridiculous—she wasn’t going to start stirring up all those parasitical ideas in her head. Besides, it wasn’t difficult to find something else to concentrate on; all she had to do was move a bit closer to the speaker next to the mahogany sideboard, from which Gouti’s voice emerged.
He took out his big knife. The blade gleamed in the night, as if the moon in the sky above them were merely a piece of cheese that this immense weapon could slice into pieces.
Officer Bourdaine was standing to attention in front of her, back straight as a lamp post.
“For me?”
He nodded, keeping his body completely still.
“Captain Augresse. I’m listening.”
“The name’s Hubert Van de Maele. I’m an engineer at the seaport. Well, a retired engineer. The director called me. Apparently you’re looking for a specific site, in connection with an investigation? He didn’t have time to deal with it himself, so he asked me. I don’t mind, keeps me busy. Helps the fight against Alzheimer’s, Alexander, Parkinson’s, and Huntington’s, all those diseases that might come to get you once you’re thrown on the scrap heap. The director knows that I never say no. So what exactly are you looking for?”
Wearily, Marianne explained. A site that might resemble a castle, close to the sea and to a boat that might resemble a pirate ship . . . but they hadn’t found anything, even looking fifty kilometers further up the estuary, or following the coastline from east to . . .
Van de Maele cut her short:
“Did you think about the old NATO base?”
“Sorry?”
“The abandoned NATO base. In Octeville-sur-Mer, just after Cap de la Hève, near the airport.”
Marianne’s heart started pounding.
“Go on.”
“In the early sixties, in the middle of the Cold War, the French state decided to build a small base five kilometers north of Le Havre, in case the main port was bombarded. Sixty-centimeter-thick concrete walls, four fuel tanks, each capable of holding ten thousand cubic meters, anchorage for oil tankers and battleships, all of it hidden at the foot of the cliff, with a stairway of four hundred and fifty steps leading up to the top. The army occupied the site for twenty years, but it was kept secret. As in The Tartar Steppe, they waited for the enemy for years on end, but no Cossack or red submarine ever came near, as you can imagine. The base was never really used at all. In the early eighties, it was put out of service. They poured cement into the oil tanks, the doors of the blockhouse were soldered shut, and the place was abandoned. All that remains is a rutted path and the stairway. Ten or so houses were built there, making use of the access to the sea and the old equipment. All completely illegal, of course, like a squat with a sea view. But then everyone, except for a few environmental charities, forgot the whole story.”
“The four tanks, what do they look like?”
“They’re lined up, facing the sea, above the concrete blockhouse. They’re pretty big. If you’re down there, they’re all you can see. It isn’t hard to imagine the place being the set of a science-fiction film, or the villain’s lair in a James Bond film.”
“So, you told me the base was never used. There aren’t any boats there then?”
“No. All the quays were destroyed when the base was shut down. And five spikes planted in the seabed are supposed to prevent anyone mooring there.”
Another red herring?
“Although,” Van de Maele added, “just to give the place an even more sinister feel, between the rusted fuel cisterns and the corrugated iron huts on the beach, no one ever had the courage, the time or the money to get rid of the wreck.”
“The wreck?”
“Yes. It’s part of the decor too. A ship that washed up there, a good thirty years ago. First-generation tanker, cut in two. At high tide, it looks like it’s still afloat, like a ghost ship, but at low tide, when the sea pulls back, you can see that it’s mired in the sand. It’s black. Standing almost proudly in the mud, but trapped there forever. Because of a war that never took place. Just like The Tartar Steppe.”
Marianne wasn’t listening anymore. She had already handed the phone back to Bourdaine, without even thanking the retired engineer. She paused for a moment by the child’s drawings spread out on the table, then called over Lieutenant Lechevalier, thinking that they had to act fast as fast as possible.
“The place does exist, JB! The kid didn’t make anything up, he just distorted reality a bit. It all fits. This has to be the place where Malone spent the first years of his life.” She took a deep breath, attempting to slow her racing heart. “And where he might be spending his final hours.” Slow down. Breathe. “He could be there right now, with a killer . . . ”
60
Little hand on the 2, big hand on the 9
Alexis Zerda watched the stilts vibrate, tremble, become as soft as rubber. The rising tide had almost completely covered them and the bolder waves were now reaching the terrace of the house. They had to get out of there.
The kid didn’t know anything, that was obvious. He just repeated what had been imprinted on his brain: that story about the Amazonian rat that buries its treasure and never finds it, searching for it until it grows crazy.
The kid was just a parrot who’d learned a fable by heart. The person who had engraved this tale in his head was obviously the same person who’d stolen the loot. Mad bitch! To taunt him like that, and then leave the kid in the bargain . . .
Zerda slid his right hand under Malone’s hood and caressed the boy’s hair, while his left hand moved slowly along his belt, reaching for the Zastava. He had to get rid of Amanda first. He’d take care of the kid later. He found it hard to understand why, but for society a kid was worth a fortune, an incredible amount, more than three suitcases containing two million euros’ worth of goods. So for a mother, how much more was a child worth?
“Amanda, let’s go.”
Zerda gave the order calmly.
He turned his eyes to the house’s interior, went in, and closed the door behind him. Amanda was standing motionless at the back of the living room, amid the smashed-up furniture. He thought she looked almost sweet like that; almost desirable with her blouse open, her body trembling, the life she was starting to regret, now that it was over. Almost beautiful, even with the imploring look in her eyes.
Do what you want with me, but leave the child.
That look of total abandonment . . . Would he ever encounter such complete submission in his life again? Such absolute resignation? Such self-sacrifice? No, he probably never would. Not in any woman. Even if he tortured her.
The love of a child made women sublime.
But vulnerable and predictable too. He took a step forward, taking care to check that Malone was still standing where he had left him, playing with his rat and dreaming about pirates. He moved the Zastava behind his back.
Zerda would be with other girls, even if he had to pay to seduce them. Pay through the nose.
The love of money also made women sublime. Other women. Elsewhere.
Blindly, his thumb released the safety on the pistol.
“I won’t hurt him, Amanda. I won’t touch the kid, you have my word.”
His way of ending this with dignity. Cleanly. His in
dex finger touched the trigger. He would whip it out and fire at the same time, so Amanda wouldn’t have time to realize what was happening. She wasn’t being executed by a firing squad for desertion; she was just another breadcrumb on his path.
Get rid of her, then get the hell out of there.
“I know, Alexis,” said Amanda. “I know you won’t touch the kid.”
She was smiling. It was better this way. Zerda was relieved that she was taking it well. He just had time—a fraction of a second—to think how ridiculous that idea was.
Taking what well? Her death? Her execution?
He heard Amanda’s last words as if in a fog.
“Because you won’t have the time.”
Suddenly his attention was fixed on the arm that Amanda held out, pointed at him. In her hand, a revolver.
She fired. Four bullets.
Two hit Zerda’s chest, the third went through his shoulder blade, and a fourth went a good meter to his right, into the plasterboard wall.
Zerda collapsed.
Dead on the spot.
Amanda performed the gestures that followed automatically, making a list in her head just like she did every day for the usual myriad tasks of a housewife and mother. She put the revolver—which she’d found in the drawer—into her right-hand pocket. She would throw it in the sea once she got outside. Into her left-hand pocket, she put the two airplane tickets. Then she would tidy up, a little.
Create a diversion—as much as she could—the way Zerda would have done. Alter appearances so that the police would be stuck in the place for as long as possible.
Then get the hell out of there.
* * *
“I’m tired, Maman-da.”
Malone had climbed less than a quarter of the way up the stairway. Amanda tugged harder at his hand. One step more, one of the three hundred that remained. The wind pummelled at their backs.
“I want to stop, Maman-da. I want to rest. I want to go back to my house, the one near the sea. I want to wait for Maman.”
Amanda did not reply. She pulled his arm. One more step.
298.
“It’s too long. It’s too high!”
297.
“Stop! You’re hurting my arm!”
296.
“You’re nasty, Maman-da. You’re nasty. I don’t love you.”
296.
“I don’t love you. I only love my mother. I want Maman!! I WANT MY MAMAN!”
296.
Abruptly, Amanda let go of Malone’s hand. Then, before he could react, she tore the cuddly toy from his left hand. The child’s eyes registered panic in the face of Amanda’s cold fury. Not another word escaped his mouth.
Amanda didn’t hesitate for a second she threw Gouti as far as she could. He landed a few meters below, bouncing like a rag doll on the bare limbs of a hazel tree, above a ditch filled with brambles and nettles, finally coming to rest—arms crossed, head hanging—suspended from a thorny branch.
Gouti!
Malone stared at his toy open-mouthed, eyes full of tears, incredulous.
Amanda’s firm hand grabbed his five little fingers, like five irritating little insects. Then she pronounced four words, only four, each one separated by a long silence, and the wind whipping the cliff face seemed to make the words echo for a long time, carrying them right up to the top.
“I am your mother!”
III
ANGÉLIQUE
FRIDAY
THE DAY OF LOVE
61
Havre-Octeville Airport,
Friday November 6, 2015, 3:20 P.M.
Angélique was in pain. Her position was almost unbearable. Her thighs, buttocks, and back were resting on cardboard boxes, but she was desperately trying not to crush them, keeping still because the slightest movement might make them collapse under her like a house of cards.
She had to stay balanced, like a tightrope walker sitting on a glass stool balanced on a rope suspended over a void. Whenever one of the boxes showed the faintest sign of weakness, she would press her hands against a wall, to take the strain off it by redistributing her weight. Her muscles were almost paralyzed from having to maintain this pose.
A blindfolded tightrope walker at that. Yes, she was crouched there in total darkness too, just to spice things up.
Angie was prepared for more pain, an eternity of pain if need be. How could she complain about the blood that she lacked in her curled-up legs and her flattened fingers when blood had been leaking out of Timo’s body for the past three days? How could she curse the foul odor that rose to her nostrils—this mixture of ammonia, lavender, and shit—when the smell of death had embalmed the body of her beloved, that stink which she could only combat by pressing her body against his?
She had to hold firm, for these endless minutes, just as she had been doing for nearly an hour. Just as Timo was holding firm, in the Twingo, out in the parking lot.
The screen of her watch gave off a dim light, just enough for her to be able to read the time without anyone spotting her.
3:23 P.M.
She would call for an ambulance as soon as she was safe.
Millimeter by millimeter, she accentuated the pressure of her hands on the walls, and that tiny movement was enough to help her maintain her balance. Or at least, so she imagined. So she had read. She’d read everything that might be useful to her. Written down everything, planned everything, to give herself the best possible chance of succeeding, even if that chance was only one in a hundred, or one in a thousand.
Angélique heard footsteps break the silence. Doors opening, banging shut. Very few words, no laughter, no music, only footsteps, noises and sighs. She held her breath, even if no one could possibly have suspected that she was there. So close by.
Silent images appeared to her in the darkness. The Deauville robbery, Ilona and Cyril shot dead before her eyes, their corpses lying on the ground near the spa, the bullet that smashed the back window of the Opel Zafira, the rain of glass, the crowd of vultures around them, and her casually brushing the shards from her son’s hair as if she were sweeping away bits of confetti after a carnival.
Time accelerated and she saw Alexis Zerda’s face, his panic, his fury at Ilona and Cyril, even though they were dead; his anger with Timo, even though he’d been wounded when his helmet had fallen off and bounced on the sidewalk outside the racecourse.
Zerda had left their hiding place and walked down to the beach. It was evening, and there had been no one else at the foot of the cliffs for kilometers in either direction. Zerda had said the cops were bound to connect the robbery to him, if they managed to identify the other three robbers; all they’d have to do was think about the street where they’d grown up together: Rue des Gryzon´s.
“They don’t have any proof, Alex,” Timo had found the strength to murmur. “And even if they put me in prison, I won’t say anything.”
Timo’s comment wasn’t calculated, a ploy so that Zerda wouldn’t leave him to die like an injured dog, or put him out of his misery. He was sincere. Yes, Angélique thought, her simpleton lover had felt sincerely sorry for that bastard Zerda; he was sincerely ready to apologize for having allowed his helmet to fall off, for having taken a bullet to his lung, for not having been able to measure up to the perfect plan conceived by the gang’s brains—a man who did not even dare meet Timo’s tear-filled gaze.
No, those snakelike eyes, Angie had immediately understood, were avoiding Timo’s so they could linger on the face of her son.
Malone. She had to call him Malone now.
Zerda had stared at the two-and-a-half-year-old boy for a long time, with the same look in his eyes as he had when he stared at cops, informers, anyone who got between him and his freedom.
Malone knew Alexis’s face.
If the cops traced the clues back to this child, all they wo
uld have to do was show him a photograph—any of the photographs taken in Potigny, at the football club or in the local Bar de la Mine—and Malone would nod his head and say yes. A toddler probably couldn’t be summoned to testify in court, but his testimony would nevertheless constitute proof in the eyes of an investigating judge, enough to get Zerda arrested, locked up, enough to set in motion the entire machinery of the police and the judicial system.
In fact, it would be better than proof, if Malone nodded to say yes, he knew Zerda: it would become a certainty to the investigators. From then on, they would know that the four of them had spent months preparing the robbery together, watched by this child, that they had spent hours talking through every detail. Timo wouldn’t say anything, even if he was taken, and neither would she, if the cops managed to identify her. Only the child represented a danger.
Angélique’s brain had had to work as fast as a windsurfer skimming over the dark sea behind the fuel tanks. She had to convince Zerda that Malone was not a dangerous witness, or at least that he was less dangerous alive than dead; the arguments had come to her naturally, just after she sent her son out to play on the beach.
“A three-year-old kid forgets things, Alex. He forgets quickly. In a few weeks—a few months at most—your face will have been wiped from his memory. We just have to wait, play for time, leave the loot where it is for a while.”
Alexis Zerda had observed Malone for a long time, watching him in his red boots as he picked up bits of lichen from the beach and put them in a circle between tiny piles of pebbles.
Perhaps, deep down, Zerda had realized that he had no choice; that, if he decided to eliminate the child, he would have to kill his mother too, before she strangled him with her bare hands—and he didn’t want to kill her.
Zerda had always had a soft spot for her.
The idiot.
Her plan had been born in that moment, as she looked out at the three different horizons that opened up before her: the rusted door frame of this house on stilts in the foreground; Malone’s red boots on the vast beach in the middle ground, and the immensity of the sea in the background.