Autumn, All the Cats Return

by Philippe Georget

  He took a deep breath.

  “There were lots of operations like that one, and some that were even worse. Women and children were killed in the same way. It’s true that all that mattered to us was that they were Arabs. Just as to fire on us, it was enough for the fellaghas that we were Europeans. I told you: it was war. For my part, I booby-trapped cars and put bombs in Arab cafés. I was caught, tried, and went to prison. I paid.”

  Mercier cleared his throat before going on.

  “Because we did pay, we all paid. We lost our battle, and as a result, History has decided that we were in the wrong. History is always a bitch for the losers. It has made our actions crimes and those of our adversaries great military feats. The former fellaghas have become cabinet ministers and our fighters have become pariahs who don’t even have the right to have public monuments to their memory in France. But we did nothing that was worse than what the FLN did.”

  “Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. It’s pretty classic, after all,” Sebag summed up. “You began by talking about spectacular, daring actions. Up to now, I haven’t seen anything like that.”

  “The Babelo group was in the forefront of our battle against the barbouzes. You’ve heard about the barbouzes?”

  “Only recently, but now I know who they were.”

  “Battle-hardened veterans with powerful weapons. They bombed our bars, killed our fighters, tortured some of us. They gave us no quarter . . . ”

  “You didn’t give them any, either.”

  “That’s true,” said Mercier, with intact pride in his voice. “They didn’t stay in Algiers long. Three months after they got there—and despite reinforcements—they all went back to metropolitan France.”

  “Those who were still alive.”

  “The others, too,” Mercier said mockingly. “I can guarantee you that their bodies weren’t buried over there.”

  Sebag noted down a few more words, and then rapidly reread what he’d written since the beginning of the conversation. Next he asked Mercier what the Babelo commando could have done that could have elicited such a belated vengeance.

  “In my opinion, nothing. Or else everything! What I mean by that is that I don’t see anything in particular in their acts that could explain it.”

  “Can you envisage it as revenge taken by former barbouzes?”

  “Had you asked me that question forty years ago, I would probably have answered yes, but today! Why today?”

  “Some barbouzes are still angry at the OAS.”

  “Just as we are still angry at de Gaulle and the FLN. It’s always in the camp of the losers that you find the people who want revenge. But I ask again: why today?”

  “Because before, the murderer didn’t know that Martinez, Roman, and other . . . ‘Babelos’ were responsible!”

  “That wasn’t known to everyone, but it wasn’t a secret, either. And even if it was! That was half a century ago! Who can still harbor such a tenacious hatred after so long a time? No, if you want my opinion, the only really tenacious hatreds are found . . . ”

  Gérard Mercier suddenly stopped.

  “Yes?” Sebag asked.

  “No, nothing. I’m letting myself get carried away by passion and I was going to say something stupid.”

  “Go ahead, say it. I’ll tell you what I think.”

  “These are only speculations that are of no interest.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Yes, necessarily. If I’m wrong, it’s stupid. And if I’m right, it’s even stupider.”

  Mercier tried to snigger, but his laugh sounded false.

  “Don’t leave me hanging,” Sebag tried again.

  “Don’t insist. I believe I’ve already helped your investigation quite a bit. You’ve gotten more out of me than I intended. You’re redoubtable, Lieutenant Sebag. Goodbye.”

  With that cheap flattery, he hung up. Sebag, perplexed, wrote a series of question marks at the end of his notes. Then he took the photo of the commando’s four men and looked again at the infamous Babelo. Older than his three accomplices, he wore with pride—and perhaps a certain self-importance—an elegant, fashionable suit. A light-colored kerchief poked out of one pocket. His oiled hair, slicked back in waves, revealed a broad, triangular forehead. Straight eyebrows, a long nose squeezed between protruding cheekbones, and a thin mustache protecting a winning smile. The guy had an obvious charm and charisma. Sebag made himself a promise:

  “My dear Babelo, whoever you are, wherever you are, and whatever you think, I’m going to find you. I just hope I find you before you die.”

  Later that morning, Sebag received a call from Ménard.

  “I’ve just spoken with Garcin’s sons. They confirm that their father has never completely gotten over the Algerian War and is still angry at Pieds-Noirs in general and the OAS in particular. They have always heard him say that the criminals of French Algeria got off too easily, that the Republic had been too lenient with them, and that it should have shot a lot more of them. But they also say that’s just talk, and that he’d never have actually done anything. And in any case, he’s now physically incapable of it.”

  “Who says that? His sons?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You should go talk with the doctors at the retirement home and get their opinion. Find out, for instance, whether it’s possible to pretend to have Alzheimer’s.”

  “O.K., I’ll try to see them this afternoon.”

  “Does the old man wander off frequently?”

  “Apparently.”

  “How long has he been gone this time?”

  “Three days.”

  “So, since Sunday, the day Roman was assassinated. About what time?”

  “He didn’t come to breakfast, which is served at 7 A.M.”

  “And at the time of Martinez’s death, were you able to find out where he was?”

  “He was gone then, too.”

  “For a long time?”

  “No, just one day.”

  “He takes off that frequently?”

  “Three or four times a month, on average. Sometimes a few hours, sometimes a few days.”

  “Those are long walks, in fact.”

  “You could say that.”

  “We’re laughing but we still can’t exclude the possibility that these walks lead to murders. Were you able to get a photo of him?”

  “Yes, his sons gave me a picture. The most recent one. I’ll photograph it with my iPhone and e-mail it to you. The quality isn’t great but it will be useful all the same.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll be waiting for it.”

  A miracle of modern technology, the photo appeared on his computer screen only three minutes after he hung up. Despite his age and his illness, Maurice Garcin had retained a slender figure and a certain presence. The flames of strong passions still burned in his pale blue eyes. His square, wrinkled face was framed by white hair thinned by age.

  Sebag immediately called Ménard back. He’d forgotten one detail.

  “Try to get one of Garcin’s hairs while you’re at the retirement home. Maybe you’ll find one on the pillow of his bed or on a comb in his bathroom. Then we can compare his DNA with that of the hairs we’ve already found.”

  The hair or the hairs; were the other two from the same man? Sebag tried to call the head of the forensic team. Since there was no answer, he left a message. But he knew that he’d have to try again; Pagès never called back.

  Sebag printed the photo. Molina could show it to his witness Charles Mercader that afternoon. He hadn’t been able to meet him this morning, the retiree having a longstanding appointment with his cardiologist. Sebag stretched and then got up. He went to the office next door where Llach and Julie were calling car rental agencies.

  “We’ve already done all the agencies in Perpignan,” Julie expl
ained. “Now we’re starting in on the agencies in Narbonne. We decided to follow the rail line: we figure that after he’d turned in his car, the killer would have no choice but to take the train to get back to Spain.”

  “That seems me an excellent supposition.”

  With that compliment, Sebag left them. He took the police vehicle to go to find out how Guy Albouker was doing. He found the president of the Pied-Noir Circle comfortably settled in a large armchair, his feet resting on an ottoman. He’d put on a dressing gown over his shirt and pants, and was reading a magazine for the Pied-Noir community. He seemed to be recovering quickly from his attack.

  “The night was a little difficult. The wound hurt every time I turned over in bed. But this morning it’s better. I was able to take a little walk around the neighborhood.”

  “And psychologically, you’re O.K.?”

  Albouker’s wife answered for him.

  “He’s less affected than I’d feared.”

  Albouker grimaced as he sat up in his chair. His face hardened.

  “My body is all right and my mind, too. It’s my heart that hurts. I thought all that was over—the hostility, the resentment, the hate. You’d think that time hadn’t changed anything. History still casts us as the bad guys.”

  Marie tried to calm him: “Stop, there’s no point in stewing about all that,”

  “Stop, stop . . . Precisely, I’d like all that to stop some day. But we’re still the victims of the same ostracism. So I get stabbed, I can handle that, it’s only a flesh wound, it’ll heal up; what I can’t stand is being called a murderer. No one in my family killed anybody.”

  He put his hand on his stomach.

  “We’re often accused of brooding on our bitterness, but do you know why we can’t heal, Mr. Sebag?”

  “Yes, you told me last Sunday. To heal would be to die. To die as a community.”

  “Did I say that? Damn . . . Sometimes I say stupid things.”

  He refrained from smiling, he hadn’t yet vented his anger.

  “Do you know what makes our tragedy unlike any other? Yes, I know I’m exaggerating . . . Let’s say what makes it so different from many other tragedies suffered by many other peoples? Well, it’s that today, History hasn’t changed. It remains fixed. We’re the bad guys, and the bad guys we’ll remain. The truth has not been restored. People don’t want to see that we are victims first of all. Granted, some Pieds-Noirs did terrible things, but collectively we’re victims. France has to do us that justice. We weren’t racist colonists, and still less murderers. It’s not de Gaulle who betrayed us, it’s France! And today it’s still going on.”

  Marie Albouker sat down alongside her husband and took his hand without saying a word. She knew that if she spoke she would only make things worse.

  “We have to express our anger again and again. Otherwise we’ll all die from holding it in. My father died of that. An ulcer and cancer. A marvelous combination. Thanks, France! I still often mourn my father, because I don’t even have a grave where I can go and think about him. And do you know why?”

  Sebag shook his head. He also preferred to remain silent.

  “My father, like many Pieds-Noirs of his generation, did not want to be buried in the earth of the country that had betrayed him. We cremated my father’s body and I scattered his ashes in the Mediterranean. That was his last wish. He hoped that the current would carry him to the shores of Algeria. And I want to think that that’s what happened. Because if there is no justice in this world, we have to believe that at least there will be justice in the next world.”

  He leaned back in his chair, exhausted. His diatribe was finally over. His wife gently patted his hand.

  “You know that Mr. Sebag is not to blame.”

  “Yes, I know the inspector’s not to blame. But he’s the one who’s here, so too bad for him.”

  Marie Albouker gave Sebag a little smile of excuse.

  `“You probably haven’t heard yet?” she asked shyly.

  “Heard what?”

  “About this afternoon.”

  “What about it?”

  “The demonstration . . . ”

  “The Pied-Noir associations have organized a rally at 5 P.M. in front of the Castillet,” the president of the Circle explained. “I’m not the instigator but I didn’t disapprove of it. Jean-Pierre Mercier, my treasurer, met yesterday with the officials of other Pied-Noir associations and they agreed to demonstrate our dissatisfaction. You understand . . . with two murders of Pieds-Noirs, the destruction of the monument, and now the attack on me, the community owes it to itself to react.”

  Sebag was not happy about the rally. It was not the kind of thing that was likely to calm people down.

  “Has the prefecture been informed?”

  “This action is largely spontaneous, largely improvised. Everything was decided at the last minute. But I think that by now, yes, the prefect has been informed.”

  “Do you think that this kind of demonstration will calm things?”

  “That’s not necessarily the goal.”

  “Thank you for recognizing that. And you think that reacting collectively to attacks directed essentially against the OAS is going to help people make the distinction between your community and, as you put it, that criminal organization?”

  Albouker scowled.

  “For the past fifty years, no one has wanted to make that distinction! So a little more or a little less, it’s all the same.”

  “I hope at least that in your condition, you’re not going to take the risk of going there.”

  “Don’t worry,” Marie Albouker told him. “He’s going to stay right here.”

  Sebag said a rapid goodbye and left. Out on the sidewalk, he called the prefect’s cabinet director on her cell phone. Having been informed by the RG, Sabine Henri already knew about the rally.

  “We’re going to take steps to prevent this demonstration from degenerating. The organizers have asked to be heard. The prefect himself will receive them. In the absence of Superintendent Castello, I’d like you to be present at this meeting to tell us about the progress of the investigation. There has been progress, hasn’t there?”

  “Let’s say that we’re moving forward step by step and that we’re following promising leads.”

  The cabinet director laughed.

  “I hope you will be able to present the case in a more attractive way. And especially present your work in a more positive manner. You’re not unaware that these days policemen also have to master the art of communication.”

  “I’ve heard that said, yes, but making things known too often substitutes for knowing how to do things.”

  “Bravo for the formula. I hope you’ll find more of those before this afternoon. And especially more appropriate ones. I doubt that one would be suitable for our interlocutors.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I’m counting on it, Lieutenant Sebag, I’m counting on it. And the prefect is, too. See you in a little while.”

  Sebag hung up and couldn’t help swearing.

  “Fuck it to hell!”

  Nearby, an old lady who was letting her dog defecate under the parasol pines jumped. She shot him a furious glance and rapidly walked away. Her dog followed her reluctantly, dropping behind him a smelly series of Tootsie Rolls.

  CHAPTER 26

  El-Biar, March 15, 1962

  The two cars are speeding down the Ben-Aknoun road that connects the village of El-Biar with Algiers. A black Peugeot 403 is in the lead. Inside it, Omega is driving silently, his hands gripping the steering wheel. Every time he’s involved in an operation he gets more nervous.

  In the backseat, Sigma is constantly asking himself questions. One of them finally makes it past his lips:

  “Why them?”

  Babelo, sitting next to the driver, turns around
:

  “The welfare centers were established by a communist, their members are all propagandists. They’re spreading the FLN’s message to the villages. It’s people like them who have made it possible for the insurrection to reach the whole country.”

  “There are Europeans with them . . . ”

  The commando leader’s mouth twists into a scornful sneer:

  “Communists, Gaullists, and liberals. In other words, traitors!”

  The cars leave the main highway and take the long avenue lined with palm trees that leads to the Château Royal.

  “The negotiations in Évian are progressing too fast,” Babelo goes on. “De Gaulle is getting ready to sell Algeria to the fellaghas. Our orders are clear. We have to hit hard and in every camp. General Salan reminded us again yesterday: war isn’t waged with choirboys.”

  He looks hard at each of his three companions and adjusts the kerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket.

  “We aren’t choirboys!”

  The two cars stop in front of the old buildings of the Château-Royal. Babelo, Sigma, and Bizerte get out of the 403. Three more men get out of the second vehicle, a beige 203: Richard Caceres, Paul Tanguy, and Antoine Hernandez. Men who can be trusted—they’re not choirboys, either—and who participated a few weeks earlier, along with Degueldre and the Babelo commando, in the attack on the barbouzes’ villa.

  The drivers make a U-turn to get into their starting positions. It’s 10:30 A.M.

  Armed with pistols and submachine guns, the six OAS combatants enter the courtyard serving the various buildings of the Château-Royal. They meet an employee who is coming down the stairs. He’s carrying a heavy load of files in his arms.

  “What are you doing here?” the employee demands without getting flustered.

  “We’re here to check papers,” Babelo replies.

  “But there’s nothing to check here!”

  Tanguy and Caceres threaten him with their guns and order him to follow them. The man doesn’t hesitate for long and allows himself to be led to a French door above which there is a sign: “Administrative Offices.”