Children of War

by Martin Walker

  ‘And the second incident?’ Yveline pressed.

  ‘After the end of his relationship with Fabiola he turned his attentions to another medical student, very forcefully, but without obtaining his goal. The young woman resisted, her clothes were torn, his face was scratched and her screams attracted a neighbour. Deutz left in a hurry. The woman went straight to the school authorities, not to me. The matter was hushed up and the authorities arranged for the young woman to be transferred to another medical school. Deutz left shortly afterwards. I have made a note of the names of the two women involved. I’m afraid I don’t have the address of the first one, Iphigène Vaugaudry, but I believe she is now practising in Nancy. The second is Monique Jouard, graduated from the medical school in Rennes and now lives in Cherbourg.’

  She handed across a sheet of paper with the two names and Bruno helped her draft a statement and sign it. The coffee that Professor Waldeck had offered them remained on the table, untouched.

  As they took their leave, Waldeck remained in her chair, her head down, her hands clenched together so tightly in her lap that Bruno could see the skin white around her knuckles.

  ‘I wanted to say that I grew up in another time,’ she said quietly. ‘Things were different then. And at the medical school, it was a man’s world.’ Her pedantic manner had disappeared.

  ‘Women deserve to live in it peaceably, Madame,’ said Yveline.

  ‘I feel very ashamed of myself. I know what Fabiola went through.’

  Yveline was grimly silent. Bruno, thinking of the way he might have made the same flawed judgement at the time, tried to offer her some comfort.

  ‘You’ve done the right thing, Madame,’ he said. ‘If we can get statements from these other two women, I think Deutz will at last have to answer for his crimes.’

  Yveline gave him a cold look, shook her head and turned to leave the room. At the door, she stopped, looked at Waldeck and said, ‘I just hope I can do a better job for any young women in my care than you did with yours. Don’t get up. We’ll let ourselves out.’

  24

  ‘Put the siren on and go as fast as you can to the château,’ said Bruno, closing his phone. ‘That was the Brigadier. There’s trouble.’

  Yveline complied and then, raising her voice above the electronic howl from the roof, asked, ‘Trouble at the château? Does Sergeant Jules know?’

  Bruno explained, briefly. It was hard shouting over the siren. There had been another riot at the mosque, the Brigadier had said. Hundreds of young Muslims had gathered to protect the sprawling complex against a planned demonstration by some anti-immigrant groups. The head of the city’s social services was trying to deliver a warrant for an inquiry into the condition of the children in the orphanage, but the city police had been unable to force their way through. The Imam had been on the phone to the Elysée, saying he would calm the youths around the mosque but demanding that he be allowed to come to the château to speak to Sami and Momu. Somebody powerful on the President’s staff had told the Brigadier to take the Imam there by helicopter as soon as possible.

  ‘That story on the radio probably won’t make things any easier,’ said Yveline.

  Almost as soon as they had started the journey back to St Denis, she had turned on the radio to catch the local news bulletin. The second item had been announced as ‘Millions from Israel for St Denis’, quoting Philippe Delaron’s story on the Sud Ouest website. Philippe had had his tape recorder running when he shouted his question to Maya as she left the presentation at the collège.

  ‘Two Jewish children, hidden and saved from the Nazi death camps by St Denis, are giving millions to the town to build new housing and a museum of the Resistance,’ the announcer had read. ‘Better known this week as the home town of the famous terrorist bomb-maker of Afghanistan known as the Engineer, St Denis is now to receive millions from multi-millionairess Maya Halévy, who left France after the war for Israel, where she made her fortune as a venture capitalist.’

  As soon as he’d heard it, Bruno felt with foreboding that he could already imagine posters proclaiming, ‘St Denis saves Jews, abandons Muslims.’

  And now the Imam was coming to the château, and probably carloads of Muslims were planning to follow him, while listening to the radio news about the Halévy bequest. No wonder the Brigadier was worried. Bruno looked at the road. They were on the long, straight stretch that went past the hilltop bastide of Belvès and there was little other traffic. He asked Yveline to turn off the siren so he could use the phone and called Sergeant Jules, to learn that the region’s Gendarmes had been placed on alert and reinforcements were coming from Bordeaux. Then he called Nancy to find out what was happening at the château.

  ‘All quiet on the outside, somewhat tense on the inside. I’ll fill you in when you get here. When should we expect you?’

  Yveline dropped him at the Mairie car park so that he could take his van. Bruno drove direct to the château, where the military were on alert. He was stopped and checked twice on the approach road. When he reached the gate for the security clearance he heard the steadily paced shots that meant somebody was using the shooting range. He hadn’t known one had been established. After a thorough search of his van and a check of his papers Bruno was allowed to park inside the outer walls. He asked the sergeant of the guard where he might find the American woman, to be told she was the one on the shooting range. Bruno was directed to the outer ward, and the sergeant shouted after him, ‘Pay attention to the red flags. You know what they mean?’

  Bruno knew, and followed the sound of the gunshots until he reached a part of the grounds just inside the outer walls, but with a further wall before one entered the château grounds. A long, thick row of sandbags had been erected against the outer wall, about three metres high and almost as thick. There were red flags at each corner and three paper targets, each one metre square, pinned at about chest height.

  ‘Rangemaster,’ Bruno called between shots. ‘Permission to enter range.’

  ‘Permission granted, range cold,’ came Nancy’s voice. ‘Is that you, Bruno?’

  ‘It’s me.’ He rounded the corner and saw Nancy removing her ear protectors and as her hair swung free and he felt her eyes on him Bruno once again knew the rush of sexual attraction. And what was going on in Nancy’s mind? She knew he was on his way to the château, so she must have expected he’d arrive to find her shooting. Was she trying to impress him or was this just the way Americans were supposed to be with guns?

  Two handguns lay on the table before her, about thirty metres from the targets and the sandbags. As he came close, he saw one gun was a Glock, a standard weapon in American law enforcement. The other was a familiar PAMAS G1, the universal 9mm weapon for the French army and Gendarmes. He glanced at the target. Her shots were well grouped, all within the inner rings.

  ‘You’re good,’ he said. ‘Do all FBI agents shoot like you?’ Each gun had its magazine removed, in accordance with usual Rangemaster rules. He approved.

  ‘It helps to have a daddy who loved guns. The day I was born he bought me a lifetime membership of the National Rifle Association.’

  ‘Which do you prefer, our PAMAS or your Glock?’

  ‘Strictly speaking the Glock is Austrian, but it’s the weapon the FBI prefers us to carry. Our lawyers like the triple safety system. This one’s a Glock 22, chambered for the ten-millimetre round. In stopping power, they’re much the same. Want to try it?’

  Bruno couldn’t resist. He checked the action and ensured the chamber was clear and then squinted down the barrel. It was clean. He examined the magazine and saw there were still seven rounds. That would do. He pulled a paper tissue from his trouser pocket and twisted off two strands and put them into his ears. He looked for the safety, dry-fired to test the trigger pull and then prepared to load the magazine.

  ‘Range going hot,’ he shouted.

  ‘Range hot,’ she called back. ‘Firing approved.’

  He moved sideways to go for one of the fr
esh targets. Never too proud of his shooting, he used the standard two-handed grip, holding the weapon high and then lowering it slowly to the target. He fired one shot to assess the recoil, aimed again and fired a double-tap and then another. Then he looked at the target.

  His first shot had missed altogether, which didn’t surprise him. The next four were all on target, two shots in the outer ring and two in the inner. It was significantly worse than Nancy’s performance.

  ‘Not bad for a new weapon,’ she said. ‘Try it with the one you know.’

  Why am I doing this? Bruno asked himself. He was not fond of handguns and tried not to carry one on duty unless he felt a special need to do so. He conscientiously did his annual refresher course at the police range in Périgueux and scored decently, if not as well as he had in the army. Was he so childish that he wanted to show off, or did not dare refuse the challenge from a woman he found attractive? Probably, he thought, having few illusions about himself. Now concentrate, he told himself sternly. There is nothing more dangerous than a man with a gun whose mind is elsewhere.

  The feel and weight of the PAMAS were familiar and there were eight rounds in the mag. The gun came up cleanly to the target as he breathed out and fired the first double-tap. He stepped to one side and fired another. He stepped aside again and went down to one knee and fired one more. Six rounds and that was it. He was done. He cleared the chamber and ejected the magazines from both guns.

  ‘Range cold,’ he shouted.

  ‘Range cold,’ she echoed. ‘That looked fun and good to watch. Let’s see what the target thinks.’

  All six rounds were in the inner ring and he had two bulls, one of them just barely inside the black circle.

  ‘Best shot of the day,’ she said, and he felt ridiculously pleased. ‘I want you on my side. Let me clear the magazines and we’ll talk.’

  ‘Range hot,’ she shouted when her ear protectors were in place.

  ‘Range hot,’ he echoed from behind her, and watched as she quickly emptied each gun. Three shots, two inners, one bull, probably from the familiar Glock.

  ‘Honours even, I’d say.’ She looked at him boldly, eyebrows raised in challenge, and again he sensed that she was feeling the same attraction that he did. Maybe it was just the effect of gunfire and shooting with someone from the opposite sex. ‘Except I just had more practice and you’d never fired a Glock before.’

  ‘This is like the kids’ tennis games, when I have to pick one winner for the over-sixes and another for the fives and under,’ he said, smiling to take any sting from the remark. ‘So you win the girls’ trophy and in the absence of any competition I get the prize for the boys.’

  ‘Your prize is you get to clean the PAMAS and I’ll clean my Glock.’ She pushed the pull-through and oil along the table, tossed him a clean rag and watched him strip the weapon. It had once been second nature to him; he could have done it blindfold. Showing off, he kept his eyes on her as he dismantled the gun.

  ‘And now let me tell you what’s going on here,’ she said, and made a point of keeping her eyes on him as she stripped her Glock, as if to teach him two could play at that game.

  ‘The tribunal is not getting along. That’s not what Deutz says but the other two are quietly furious with him. I got this from Amira. He took each of them to one side and suggested to Professor Weill that Amira’s judgement might be in question because of her Muslim background. Then separately he went to Amira and said the same thing to her about Weill being influenced by his Jewishness. He didn’t seem to know the two of them were old friends. So now they both think he’s a manipulative son of a bitch who wants to take control of the tribunal so it turns out his way.’

  ‘And what is his way?’ Bruno asked, squinting down the barrel after using the pull-through. ‘I mean, what’s Deutz’s agenda in all this? What’s he trying to achieve?’

  ‘Who knows? My guess is that he wants Sami under his control in the prison system, in a hospital where he can study him at length and write the book that will make him rich and famous. The Engineer and Me, or How I turned the dreaded Engineer into a compliant little vegetable. Sorry, I’m just letting off steam. But what have you guys got on the bastard? Did Fabiola’s old prof come up with the goods?’

  Bruno started, surprised and impressed that Nancy knew of the trip to Villefranche; she had evidently been brought into the information network among the women. ‘We got a good statement from her, confirming everything,’ he replied as he put the gun back together and cleaned off the excess oil with a rag. He popped the spring from the magazine to clean that, too. ‘As we speak, Yveline will be tracking down another possible witness, or rather victim. Did you know the Brigadier is heading this way by helicopter with the Imam in tow?’

  ‘Yes, the email was copied to all of us. I expect he’ll be here sometime in the next fifteen minutes. Deutz is probably rehearsing some carefully chosen verses from the Koran as we speak,’ she said drily. She put the newly cleaned Glock back together, slipped it into a fast-draw holster above the curve of her left hip and began to load a spare magazine. ‘If you haven’t got your own weapon here you’d better hang on to that one. It’s signed out to me so take care of it. And I’d feel better if you filled at least two magazines. Just to be on the safe side. I saved the best news till last. The Brigadier didn’t pass this on but I got a call from your old flame.’

  ‘Isabelle?’

  ‘Who else? And she made a point of telling me to be sure to tell you. It came through to her on the Brigadier’s intel net, which I’m not cleared for and I suppose neither are you. It’s not just the Imam who’s left the mosque. The bad guys seem to have slipped out during the tear gas and the riots yesterday; the Niqab, the Caïd and the one they call the strong man. They’re the ones that flattened you with the cattle prod. The Brigadier’s watchers lost track of them but I suspect they might be heading this way. That’s why I thought I’d get in some shooting practice.’

  25

  His képi held firmly on his head, Bruno stood by the windsock with the duty lieutenant watching the helicopter descend. The grit and leaves stirred up by the rotor blades made him close his eyes until the engine coughed to a halt. He saluted as the Brigadier, the white-bearded Imam in his robes and a third figure in an elegant suit and neatly buttoned collarless shirt descended in turn. The two Imams looked curiously around them at the outer walls and the imposing château before them. The Imam touched his hand to his heart and bowed his head slightly as he was introduced to Bruno and the lieutenant. Bruno recognized the third figure, Ghlamallah, from his TV appearances as the man came forward to shake hands, marking the contrast between his modern style and the courtly greeting from the Imam.

  The Brigadier dismissed the lieutenant and led the two Imams to his office, gesturing to Bruno to follow. There was a tray of fresh tea, coffee and fruit juice on his desk; he must have radioed ahead, Bruno thought. The Imams took tea, Bruno and the Brigadier had coffee and the Brigadier served. Once they were all seated, the Brigadier introduced Bruno as ‘the local policeman who’s known Sami since he was a boy and is probably the only official Sami really trusts’.

  ‘From what we can gather, Sami doesn’t much trust you or your mosque,’ the Brigadier went on briskly, staring directly at the old Imam. ‘That’s unfortunate but it brings us to one point I am instructed to make before we take you to see the young man. There is considerable concern in official quarters about jihadist influence in your mosque. It is very worrying that some of the young men in your care have gone jihad in Afghanistan but it’s outrageous that someone as troubled as Sami should have been under so little supervision that he went with them. And now we hear more troubling news about the children in your orphanage. There will, of course, have to be an official inquiry by the regional child service authorities, and a review of the education licence for your mosque’s school.’

  ‘I welcome those inquiries, and promise you my full cooperation.’ The older Imam spoke in a voice much stronger than B
runo had expected, from the man’s frail frame. His French was precise, the accent Parisian, despite his birth in Tunis and the long years he had spent studying in Cairo’s al-Azhar university.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the Brigadier, looking agreeably surprised. ‘This will also mean some very thorough inquiries into your security team at the mosque. Three of them at least will be facing very serious criminal charges. A fourth is already in custody, having been found in dubious circumstances with two of the children from your orphanage, apparently attempting to burn down the house of Sami’s adopted parents. Happily, he was prevented, and is now giving us full cooperation. The children are now in care.’

  ‘I am distressed to hear of this, but relieved that the crime was prevented,’ the Imam replied. ‘Let me be frank, sir. I am grateful that all this has come to a head. For some time, my young colleague and I have been worried that parts of our mosque were drifting out of our control. The school, the orphanage, above all the security team … We had already discussed seeking the help of the authorities, but you will understand the constraints that prevented us from doing so.’

  ‘No, I do not understand,’ said the Brigadier, coldly. ‘You are the Imam. You are the religious and legal authority of the mosque. Whatever happens under its auspices is your responsibility.’

  ‘Perhaps I might help explain.’ Ghlamallah spoke for the first time. ‘You must know that the house of Islam is sadly divided, that traditional authority is being challenged by militants, the ones you call jihadists. Our mosque was originally founded in a modest way by our own faithful in Toulouse but was then built to the glory of Allah with considerable financial help from our Saudi brethren.’

  ‘Thirty million euros, as I recall,’ said the Brigadier. ‘Almost as much as they’re putting into the new Grande Mosquée in Marseille. And the Saudi Ambassador chairs your board of trustees. He can’t be pleased at what’s happening in your mosque. They didn’t install you to run a recruiting station for al-Qaeda.’