He stopped and smiled his excuse to their new colleague.
“Almost all of you know that road along the coast; for several kilometers there are no houses except a few old fishermen’s shacks near the lake. The gendarmes were planning to put out a call for witnesses, but obviously the ball is in our court now.”
“I’ve talked with the prosecutor, and he has okayed that,” the superintendent added. “The appeal will be put out tomorrow in the newspapers and on the radio. For once the journalists will be useful to us, and we’ve got to take advantage of that. A few words about the victim, Gilles?”
“André Roman was born in Algiers in 1939. His father worked for the post office and his mother was a housewife. André began work at the age of sixteen, as a mechanic in a garage. When he arrived in France in 1962, he took over a car dealership in Perpignan. He sold Simcas, a brand that later became Talbot, and was then absorbed by Peugeot-Citroën. His business did well, and when he retired in 2005, he owned a dozen garages in Perpignan, Prades, Leucate, and Narbonne.”
“He managed better than Martinez did,” Llach commented.
“You could say that, yes. André Roman had, in addition to his fine villa, a twenty-one–meter boat moored in the port at Canet, an apartment in Font-Romeu, and a small house in Tunisia. He inherited the latter . . . ”
Castello was getting impatient.
“Is there anything else, Gilles? You have photos, I think.”
“Yes. These.” He circulated copies.
“I’ve e-mailed them to you,” he explained.
“What are they?” the superintendent asked.
“In the first photo, I think the two men are André Roman and Bernard Martinez, but the second one is the more interesting. There we see four young men—including Roman and Martinez, grouped around a soldier.”
He turned to Ménard, who had returned from Marseille over the weekend.
“François sent them to his historian, who had no difficulty identifying the central figure . . . ”
Ménard put two handwritten pages on the table. He looked at the first.
“It is in fact the notorious Lieutenant Degueldre,” he confirmed. “Born in 1925 in the north of France, he was a young resistance fighter under the German occupation, then a hero of the war in Indo-China, decorated with the military medal for bravery. Having become a lieutenant in the first foreign regiment of paratroopers, he participated in the Algerian conflict before going underground and operating within the OAS to lead the redoubtable Delta commandos. He was arrested in 1962, sentenced to death, and shot by firing squad.”
“The name Degueldre was inscribed on the monument that was destroyed at the cemetery,” Sebag added.
“Four men around this Degueldre,” Joan Llach said. “Were Martinez and Roman thus part of a single group that is supposed to have included two other members?”
“At least two other members, in any case.”
“Then we’ve got to find these two guys quick,” the Catalan policeman concluded.
“That is in fact our priority,” the superintendent reminded them. “This second murder tells us that our killer is not striking blindly just any Pied-Noir, or even just any former member of the OAS: he has an account to settle with a precise group that included at least four men. With Roman, we were unlucky. If it had happened twenty-four hours later, Gilles would have gotten in contact with him before the killer did. We have to get there first the next time.”
“Except that the killer probably already knows his targets,” Molina interrupted. “That’s a major advantage.”
“But he may not have localized them all yet. We have to remain optimistic, Lieutenant Molina. Besides, at this very moment the prosecutor is giving a press conference on this case, and we have to realize that we can’t get along without the media at this point. The prosecutor is going to reveal what we know about the commando, the two victims, and the two other potential victims. The press conference won’t be attended solely by the local press; correspondents from the big national media will also be there, and the case will soon become known throughout France. Wherever the two other members of the group live, they will soon know what’s happening and we can hope that they will make themselves known.”
“They may already be dead,” Llach dared to say. “I mean, they might have died of natural causes.”
“That is also a possibility, and it would make our job easier, in a way. In that case we could still hope that their relatives would recognize them and get in contact with us anyway. However that may be, we have to move forward. And fast. We know our job and we’re going to treat this case like a normal case, without forgetting the fundamentals of the profession.”
He bent over a sheet of paper on which he had written his instructions before the meeting:
“Starting tomorrow, there will be an investigation around Canet and along the coast road. The gendarmes didn’t find anything today, we’ve got to go back there. Llach and Lambert, you will take care of that. You have new evidence, since the tire tracks lead us to look for a small car. Sebag and Molina, you will follow the call for witnesses and compare the testimonies. Ménard, you and Julie will follow up the leads connected with the past . . . ”
François Ménard raised his hand and the superintendent gave him the floor.
“On that subject, Gilles also asked me to look into the battle against the barbouzes Mathilde mentioned.”
“Oh yes, that’s right, the barbouzes . . . I think that was one of the most incredible episodes of the Algerian War,” Castello recalled.
Ménard agreed and consulted his second page of notes.
“The term barbouzes designates the agents of a secret, parallel police force sent to Algeria in late 1961 to wage a kind of antiguerrilla war on the OAS. Two to three hundred men in all, including a handful of Vietnamese karate champions who didn’t go unnoticed. Initially assigned to gather intelligence, they also blew up bars and restaurants frequented by members of the OAS. But they were soon identified and the houses they were occupying in Algiers became in their turn targets for attacks organized mainly by Lieutenant Degueldre’s Delta commandos.”
“To which our four guys belonged,” Castello added.
“Probably. The OAS won that episode of the Algerian War because almost half of the barbouzes were killed, and the survivors were brought back to France during the emergency of March, 1962.”
A profound silence followed. The inspectors remained perplexed. This plunge into a recent, violent history troubled them. How could they untangle the ties linking the past to their double murder?
“You’ve got your work cut out for you, Ménard. Among the barbouzes who survived the war, a few may still be alive and want to take revenge on former members of the OAS. That should give us loads of suspects. And we mustn’t forget, either, the French policeman who was killed. Get his name and find his descendants. There’s work to do! Also talk to Sebag, who seems to have a good contact with a former member of the OAS.”
Finally, the superintendent turned to the pair of friends who hadn’t said a word since the beginning of the meeting.
“Raynaud and Moreno, you will concentrate on the affair of the monument, which mustn’t be neglected. Personally, I still have trouble understanding what that act of destruction is doing in our double murder case. If our killer is settling a particular account with a precise group in the OAS, I don’t see him vandalizing a funeral monument at the same time. On the other hand, another element common to the two cases has been added today: Lieutenant Degueldre. There, I have to admit that I don’t know quite what to say.”
He stopped to survey his inspectors, but none of them had a hypothesis to offer. They all took care to look elsewhere.
“By the way, that makes me think again of that matter of the hairs found on the site of the first murder and near the monument: we need to accelerate the analysis of t
hose. Pagès is back, and he’ll be glad to look into that again. Raynaud and Moreno, you talk to him about that. And then you will go back and investigate the leftist milieus hostile to the Pieds-Noirs. Just because we couldn’t prove anything against Abbas doesn’t mean that his whole group is cleared. O.K., good evening to everyone, see you tomorrow.”
The inspectors immediately stood up with a shrill concert of chairs screeching on the linoleum. The superintendent had called them by their last names rather than by their first names. That was a sign. A very bad sign.
CHAPTER 21
Algiers, December 29, 1961
Night has fallen in two stages on the Rue Faidherbe. The first time gradually, after the pale winter sun disappeared over the horizon. The second time more suddenly, when the streetlamps went out all at once.
Since then, a dense silence has reigned on the sidewalks.
A few timid fireflies still pierce the dark from time to time. One of them leaps from the hand of a phantom and goes to die as a cigarette butt in the dirty dampness of a gutter.
A cool wind is blowing down the street, forcing the men lying in wait to pull up the collars of their overcoats. The OAS’s men all keep their eyes on the façade of the Villa Dar-Likoulia. Soon, they’ll be warm. Soon, daylight will return. Soon, the tempest will succeed the silence.
Babelo’s hobnailed boots ring on the pavement. They advance about fifty meters and stop in front of a car. One of the windows is slowly rolled down in the back, letting out damp, polluted air. Despite the darkness, Babelo recognizes on the back seat the massive silhouette and oval face of Lieutenant Degueldre. He makes a vague salute that is more respectful than military.
“Everybody is in position, Lieutenant. There are six commandos, including a team with the bazooka on the terrace of a neighboring apartment building. There are twenty-four men in all.”
“Are there people in the house?” the leader of the Delta commandos asks.
“According to our two sentries, who have been there since this morning, there are at least fifteen barbouzes. We cut their telephone line in the early afternoon: they have not been able to warn anyone.”
“Perfect.”
Degueldre opens the door and gets out; he is immediately flanked by two bodyguards.
“Is your commando there as well?”
Babelo raises his arm. Sigma, Bizerte, and Omega step out of the shadows. One of the Lieutenant’s guerillas gives each of them a grenade.
“You will come with me,” Degueldre orders in a cheeky voice in which a heavy northern accent makes itself heard.
He strikes a match and holds it up to look at his watch, illuminating at the same time his craggy old paratrooper‘s face. His rectangular forehead is framed between a bar of thick eyebrows and a strict military haircut. His desertion from the army hasn’t changed him in any way. A soldier he was, and a soldier he will remain. Until death. It’s not a matter of a uniform or paycheck but of genes and guts.
“11:15, it’s time,” he announces without emotion.
He gives the roof of the car two brisk taps. The driver responds by briefly flashing his headlights twice. Three seconds later, a streak of lightning crosses the area and thunder descends on the street. Behind the villa’s façade, an explosion resounds. The first shot has hit its target, striking a stock of munitions inside the building.
The bazooka fires again six times before Degueldre gives the order to attack. About twenty men, armed with submachine guns, move toward the main entrance. In the villa, the last intact windows are broken out with gun butts, and barrels appear that spit lethal sparks. The OAS men take shelter behind the trunks of trees in the garden and fire back.
Lieutenant Degueldre takes Babelo and his commando toward the back of the building. They walk slowly through the brambles and weeds. Without difficulty, they approach to within ten meters of the house wall.
Degueldre signals them to wait and stay in the shelter of the pine trees. He rests his left arm on a tree trunk. Then he puts his right hand, holding a pistol, on it.
He fires.
The light in a window goes out. Degueldre fires a second time. Another lamp is out. Calmly, the former legionnaire puts out the lights in the barbouzes’ house. Between shots, he takes a long breath.
Degueldre reloads his weapon, then orders the men to advance. But the Delta group can’t go far. A burst of stars suddenly illuminates a dormer window. The sound of the volley reaches them with a slight delay. Omega, hit, is already down.
The men in the commando dive into the weeds. Degueldre is the first to fire back. The others quickly do the same and bullets make brick fragments fly all around the little window. The barbouze is still firing. He fires in brief bursts and then takes cover again. His volleys are aimed by guesswork but they’re on target.
“The bastard is good,” Degueldre comments without anger. “And on top of that he’s an acrobat. He must be standing on a toilet seat to be able to fire through that window.”
After a few seconds of lying motionless on the ground, Omega has crawled warily behind a large palm tree. Bizerte goes over to him. He gives his comrade a questioning look. Omega points to his bloody leg. The wound is not serious, the bullet having only gone through the fleshy part of his calf.
The firefight lasts a good quarter of an hour. After being surprised, the barbouzes have quickly regrouped and their fire continues unabated. They probably have large stocks of munitions inside the house. Degueldre orders his men to throw their grenades to cover their retreat. The storm redoubles in fury for a few seconds, and then slowly dies down.
Bizerte and Sigma help Omega walk as far as the street. A small van stops near them. The side door slides open and a man gets out to lift Omega inside. The driver floors the accelerator and the little van speeds off. It will take the wounded man to a doctor who can be trusted. There is no lack of such doctors in Algiers.
Degueldre puts his hand on Babelo’s shoulder.
“Good work. Just one man wounded on our side and probably several dead on theirs. Their hideout is finished. Stay here and keep an eye on the area for a few minutes. You never know.”
The lieutenant-deserter turns on his heel, still followed by his bodyguards. Bizerte goes off to get their Dauphine, which is parked in a nearby street. He returns shortly afterward. Babelo gets in the front seat and Sigma in the back.
They don’t have to wait long.
The garage door on the villa opens noisily and a black Peugeot 404 roars out with two men in it. Bizerte follows them at a prudent distance. The barbouzes are driving at breakneck speed through the dark, deserted streets of Algiers and finally stop in front of another villa in the Rue des Pins. Another hideout.
“What a bunch of degenerates,” Babelo chortles. “If they give away their hideouts that easily, I don’t think they’ll last a month before they’re on a ship back home. We’re going to have these guys for lunch!”
CHAPTER 22
Sebag’s office was disappearing under the spread-out pages of French newspapers. Most of them mentioned the double murder in Perpignan, but only the local paper, L’Indépendent, connected it with the destruction of the monument and echoed an increasing anxiety in the Pied-Noir community. At the bottom of the page there was an appeal for witnesses who might have seen cars parked along the coast road on Sunday afternoon. The radio had conveyed the same information in its morning news broadcasts.
There was nothing more to do but wait for the first phone calls.
Molina opened the office door. He was holding a coffee cup in his hand.
“I didn’t bring you any,” he said, holding up his cup.
“Pouah,” Gilles said in disgust. “How can you drink such dishwater?”
“I don’t know anything about coffee, this or any other, I don’t give a damn so long as it’s black and hot. Apart from liquid shit . . . ”
�
�Well, precisely!” Gilles interrupted.
“Why don’t you give me a real coffee-maker and put it on a table in here? And at the same time you could educate me about coffee . . . ”
“I’d rather give up right away: you’ve been impossible to educate for years!”
“You sound like my ex-wife. But seriously, why don’t you buy the same coffee-maker you have at home?”
“Because I’d drink coffee all day long and that wouldn’t be good for my health. And then good coffee is expensive. I’d spend half my salary on it.”
“It’s true that we’re not paid very much . . . You’re right, drinking the cafeteria’s coffee allows you to save money.”
“Especially since I don’t drink it.”
“Reasoned perfectly,” Molina concluded, emptying his cup in a single gulp without making a face.
He quickly flipped through the national press and then took the Midi Olympique out of his jacket pocket and sat down at his desk.
Their desks faced each other. Sebag was looking at the photos that Jacques had put up behind him. They all dated from June, 2009, the year the local rugby team had finally won its seventh national championship after fifty-four years of trying. One of the pictures particularly impressed Sebag. It showed the team’s return to Perpignan the day after its victory: an enormous, dense crowd of fans in red and yellow was massed in front of the Castillet. A human tide to celebrate a people’s heroes. On that day, Sebag had been working and was helping the uniforms maintain security in the streets. Faced with the fervor of this familial, friendly crowd, he’d been sorry not to be Catalan. He was even almost annoyed with himself for not liking rugby. That’s how much this moment had moved him . . .
Autumn, All the Cats Return Page 19