“That will be perfect,” he had replied. “If you want, you don’t even need to tell her that I’m going to visit you.”
“We’ll have an hour and a half to talk, will that be enough?”
“I think so. Otherwise we’ll meet again later.”
“Thanks for your understanding.”
Luck was on his side. The bad weather made the headlines and journalists seemed already to have lost interest in Martinez’s murder. His second target probably suspected nothing.
Besides, he wondered if his target had been afraid when he heard the news. For these bastards, this all happened a long time ago. Did they even remember everything they’d done at that time?
He saw an orange light flashing on the wall of the house that he’d been keeping an eye on for a good half hour. The heavy gate slowly opened to allow a luxurious Audi to pass through it. He waited another five minutes before starting the engine. He drove around the neighborhood once and then came back and parked in front of the house.
Getting out of the car, he pulled up the collar of his raincoat. What weather, he sighed as he walked up to the gate. On the first floor of the house, the lights had been turned on and he could see the living room through the large picture window without curtains. He saw a stooped figure and stepped back. He pulled his raincoat’s hood over his head.
The old man was ready to put his gnarled index finger on the button to ring the doorbell when he jumped. Behind the window, a second silhouette came into view. Small, joyful, and bouncy. A young child. He swore. There was a kid in the house. A young kid. Less than ten years old. Hardly any older than his Gabriella.
He’d have to postpone the operation.
He returned to his car, simultaneously disappointed, annoyed, and touched. Gabriella . . .
He thought about his target again and gripped the steering wheel with his hands, triggering an acute pain all the way back to his wrists. An idea occurred to him. He took out his cell phone and called the house.
“Hello, it’s Mr. Malpeyrat. I’m sorry, but something has come up at the last minute and I won’t be able to come this morning. Could we possibly meet this afternoon?”
“The problem is that this afternoon my wife will be here.”
“Oh, yes, that’s true.”
“Next week?”
No, the next week was too far off. It would become increasingly dangerous. He could take some risks for his third target, but not now.
“Unfortunately, that would be too late. My editor is pressuring me, he wants me to send him the manuscript as soon as possible. It’s too bad; your testimony would have been invaluable.”
“It’s really too bad, yes . . . ”
He said no more and waited. Not for long.
“I could meet you somewhere else tomorrow if you want.”
The old man grimaced. He was ready. It was supposed to be today. Tomorrow would be too complicated. Too risky.
“Sorry, my plane leaves early tomorrow morning.”
Another pause.
“I can arrange it for this afternoon, I’ll find a pretext.”
“How about 5 P.M.?”
“Fine. Where?”
“On the beach road between Canet and Saint-Cyprien, for example. I happen to have an appointment not far from there. What kind of car will you be driving?”
“A blue Audi A8. And you?”
He hesitated. It had to happen in the target’s car.
“I don’t know yet. But I’ll be able to find you easily.”
“That’s for sure, with this weather there won’t be anyone at the beach.”
“Then we can do what we need to do without being disturbed,” the old man concluded, a predatory smile on his lips.
His little SEAT Ibiza was buffeted as he drove down the road between the Mediterranean and Canet Lake. The wind off the sea was blowing a sticky mixture of water, salt, and sand onto the windshield. White with anger, the waves merged with the sky not far off the coast.
The old man hunched over the steering wheel, leaning far forward to see the road. In spite of the poor visibility, he had no trouble spotting the blue Audi, the only car parked that Sunday morning on the ten-kilometer stretch between the seaside resorts of Canet and Saint-Cyprien.
He stopped his car next to the Audi. He was late, but on purpose. It was important that his target get there first, that he be comfortably settled in his car, and especially that he stay there. That was also why he hadn’t said what car he’d be driving. If the target had any doubts, even small ones, regarding who was in the car that stopped alongside his, he wouldn’t venture into the storm to find out.
Once he’d gotten out of the Seat, the old man looked quickly around. He could pick out the headlights of another vehicle coming toward them. He walked up to the Audi and looked at the backseat before knocking on the passenger door. The door opened. He got in. The other car with its lights on passed by them and disappeared in the direction of Canet.
Once he was inside the car, he held out his hand to his target. He hadn’t changed much, despite his features deepened by age and swollen by good food and luxury. The target hesitated for a second, then mechanically shook his hand while he sifted through his memories.
“It’s funny, your face seems familiar, but I don’t think we’ve already met. Your name doesn’t ring a bell: Jean Malpeyrat, that’s it, right?”
André Roman was still looking at him trying to recognize his face disguised by the mask of time. His memory was slowly coming back to him.
He opened his eyes wide, and then his dumbfounded mouth murmured:
“It can’t be . . . ”
His eyes slowly moved from the old man’s face to his hand. It was already holding a gun. A Beretta. His astonishment increased.
“It must be a dream . . . ”
“A nightmare, you mean.”
“What do you want?”
“To kill you. I’ve come a long way to do that.”
“But . . . why?”
“You know very well why, you bastard.”
Fear crept into André Roman’s eyes.
“That was so long ago . . . ”
“Not that long, really.”
The rain was drumming on the car’s roof, and like a metronome, it emphasized the sobriety of their conversation. Their mouths were emitting vapor that clung to the windows in an opaque shroud.
“What about the others?”
“One of them is already gone.”
André’s eyes narrowed and his mouth puckered.
“Who?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. You’re going to see him in Hell.”
Roman’s breathing accelerated, this was serious. But there might still be hope. He had money, he was rich, he’d invested his nest egg well.
He didn’t have time to make an offer. He heard a voice from the past, dry and determined.
“I don’t want your money.”
This time, André understood that there was no way out. In a few seconds, the light was going to go out forever. He squirmed on his seat and managed to slip his left hand discreetly into the pocket of his overcoat. He’d have liked to be able to warn his former boss, but the latter had long since burned his bridges. Feeling his way, he tapped in the shortcut for his home phone. He could also have called the police, he said to himself afterward. Too late. He wouldn’t be able to try again.
The old righter of wrongs had seen what he was doing but didn’t care. He was in control of the timing, and the hour had rung.
“Adieu.”
Without waiting for a response, he fired.
André opened his eyes wide. He took his hand out of his overcoat pocket and put it on his torn belly. Strangely, it didn’t hurt, but a terrible cold was overtaking him. He lifted his eyes toward his killer and then his head sank. H
e would have liked to understand.
The shooter raised the barrel of his gun slightly. A car passed close to them on the coast road. He waited until it was far away before firing a second time. Right in the heart. Roman’s body collapsed, held upright only by his seatbelt. An odor of gunpowder filled the car.
He took a deep breath.
A child’s voice made itself heard in the Audi.
“Hello . . . Grandpa? Grandpa? My Dédé?”
The voice moved farther away.
“Mama, it’s my Dédé, he’s not saying anything.”
He went through his victim’s pockets, found the cell phone, and turned it off. He had trouble swallowing. War didn’t do you any favors. Not now and not in the past, either.
He took out his can of spray paint. He still had to sign his act.
Then he got back into his own car. He’d completed the second part of his mission. The third would be more difficult because now the target was more likely to be on his guard. Even if he didn’t succeed in killing the last criminal, he knew that his life was already over. Fear would haunt him right to the end.
In a bar that was open in the port of Saint-Cyprien, he drank a pastis, shivering. In the late afternoon, he crossed the border again.
CHAPTER 19
Gilles allowed himself a second cup of coffee before leaving. The last reprieve before going to work. He closed his eyes to savor the delight of the Ethiopian mocha.
“Well, is it good?”
He opened his eyes. His son was smiling at him. A smile and a four-word sentence, two miracles at once. Sebag was about to respond with a good-natured quip when he noticed that Leo had his helmet under his arm.
“Surely you’re not planning to take your scooter today?”
“Why not?”
“Have you seen the weather?”
“It stopped raining.”
“Yes, but the wind is back. You’d be better off taking the bus to school.”
“Some of my teachers won’t be there, I get out at 3 P.M. I’m not going to wait for the school buses.”
“You can take the city bus.”
“Are you kidding? It would take me almost an hour to get home.”
“Yes, but at least you’d be sure to get here.”
“You shouldn’t have given me a scooter, then.”
“I remind you that I was against it.”
“We’re not going to go through all that again . . . ”
“We might if you don’t obey me.”
“I always obey. But you haven’t forbidden me to do anything: you just said it would be smarter to take the bus.”
Gilles took the time to look at his son. His features had gotten coarser with adolescence, and a few ugly pimples studded his cheeks. But when he joked like that, the last embers of his childhood still burned in his eyes. Like the light of a star that manages to reach us many years after it has died.
“Are you taking courses in rhetoric at school?” Gilles asked.
“Courses in what?”
“Rhetoric, it’s the art of debate. Too bad! At least you’d have good grades in that subject.”
“I’ve got some good grades in other subjects this year.”
“Sports?”
“Not only. In French and math, too, I’ve been working a little harder this fall, you’ll see it on my report card.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“Besides . . . ”
Léo hesitated, then went ahead.
“Besides, if I can get home earlier, I can do a better job of reviewing for my test tomorrow.”
Sebag couldn’t help snorting.
“Are you really trying to convince me that if you take your scooter it’s in order to do more work? Look your father straight in the eyes, you know that you can’t fool me. If you’re lying, it looks like . . . your acne in the middle of your face.”
Léo laughed, for purely tactical reasons. Sebag finished his coffee while he waited for his son to try again. He didn’t have to wait long.
“So, is it yes?”
“Let’s say that it’s not no.”
“Yes!”
Léo held out the flat of his hand. Gilles slapped it.
“Be careful, though.”
“I’m always careful.”
“I hope so, son—one burial a month is more than enough for me.”
*
Contrary to what Léo had said, the rain hadn’t completely stopped. The wind was driving great black clouds through the sky and blowing them out to sea. “Terrible time to put a dog or a scooter outdoors,” Sebag said regretfully as he got into his car.
As he drove, he turned on the radio. It was time for the news on France Bleu Roussillon. After a report on a concert given by young local singer who had earlier been the star of a reality show, he listened attentively to a news flash about Martinez’s murder. As he expected, this time the information had filtered through to the news bureaus: the journalist mentioned the letters on the door of the living room and talked about the victim’s membership in the OAS, but didn’t indulge in wild speculations. On the whole, the report seemed to him pretty good.
Once he’d arrived at headquarters, Sebag stopped for a moment at the office that handled emergencies.
“Anything happen last night?”
“There was an altercation at the exit from a nightclub, a fight in Bas Vernet, and an attempted burglary at a depot in the Saint Charles market,” Lieutenant François Ravier replied. “The usual, in other words! And you, how are things going?”
“Well, I had a little argument this morning with my son about the dangers of scooters . . . The usual!”
“I hear you. My son’s sixteen and we’ve never agreed to buy him one. He worked this summer and he’ll probably soon buy one with what he earned, but that’ll be his business: if Louis has an accident with the vehicle he bought for himself, it won’t be our fault. That said, we’re crossing our fingers all the same!”
“Insha’Allah, as they say!”
“Ah? Do you say that too?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
Climbing the stairs to his office, Sebag reflected on the expression he’d just used. Insha’Allah . . . It sounded good, he thought. Better than that: it sounded right. Fatalistic at first sight, it radiated calming vibrations as soon as it had been said. Trusting in God could sometimes be good. Because whatever we say about it, in life we don’t control anything. Thinking was illusory. Worse than that, thinking meant setting the bar too high and taking on too many responsibilities. In life we can dream, wish, hope, act, try, find a way to do what we want to do, and then events end up making the decision for us. The events? A fig leaf that conceals chance, destiny, and perhaps even God, everyone being free to choose his own word to designate the inexplicable. In life, we have to act in accord with our feelings, at the moment that we have them, and afterward there’s no longer any need to cogitate, ruminate, or bother oneself about it. Afterward? Insha’Allah, yeah, that might be enough. And it was not just an expression, it was the best of all philosophies.
Before he could figure out how to apply his newfound wisdom to his personal life, Sebag had reached his office. It was time to go to work, because Insha’Allah had its limits. To solve a case, first you had to roll up your sleeves, and in this case that meant picking up the telephone. He dialed the number of the president of the Pied-Noir Circle.
“Hello, Mr. Albouker. Lieutenant Sebag here. I didn’t want to bother you about it Saturday night during the very convivial couscous dinner, but I need to contact rather urgently other people who also belonged to the OAS.”
There was a heavy silence at the other end of the line.
“Mr. Albouker?”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you. The members of our association are not classified by their former political a
ssociations, or by the current ones, for that matter. I don’t need to tell you that that would not be legal.”
“You know your members, and you know who might have acquaintances with that organization.”
“Being acquainted with it doesn’t mean belonging to it.”
Sebag was getting annoyed all the more quickly because he still resented Albouker’s having spread panic at the dinner. He didn’t find that very responsible.
“If you’re going to refuse to help me, tell me right away, that will keep me from wasting my time.”
Another silence. Then Albouker spoke again in a more conciliatory tone.
“In fact, I’m not the best person to help you. As I already told you, in my family we were on the left. So I’m not the person others confide that kind of information to. Contact Mercier.”
Sebag wrote down the cell phone number Albouker gave him, hung up, and called the treasurer. He repeated his question and was met with the same reluctance.
Along with a touch of hostility.
“You’re going to awaken painful memories, hatreds and angers that are still open wounds, and that’s not good.”
“You have to make up your mind. If you think a concerted, hostile action is currently being carried on against former members of the OAS, you have to help me. And then I have a hard time understanding your reluctance. No one is taking responsibility for what happened among you, is that it?”
First he heard very loud breathing in his phone.
“We take responsibility, Inspector, I assure you, we take responsibility,” Mercier replied. “But we’re tired of people constantly sending us back to a very precise period. The history of the OAS lasted one year. Just one year, that’s very little when you know that France remained in Algeria for a century. But it’s always for that same year that we have to take responsibility. We’d so much like to talk about other years . . . ”
“I know, I was at the couscous dinner on Saturday, I remind you. And I heard you talk about your happy years in Algeria. But Sunday is over and now it’s Monday. I’ve got an investigation to conduct, I’m doing my job, that’s all. I understand your resentment, but it’s not my fault. It’s the killer who made the choice, not me. I was born after the Algerian War and I’ve never had any interest in history. If you see some other way to conduct my investigation, don’t hesitate to tell me, I’ll be glad to hear about it.”
Autumn, All the Cats Return Page 16