Black Diamond

by Martin Walker

  “We only have Vinh, and he’s disappeared,” said the mayor.

  “You mean that he’s gone into hiding, but he was attacked here in our market, which makes it our business.”

  “It’s a problem for the Police Nationale,” said the mayor.

  “But you already approved that request from the prefect asking for me to be seconded to the Police Nationale for Hercule’s murder inquiry.”

  “And you’re telling me that Hercule’s murder is connected to this trouble between the Chinese and Vietnamese?”

  “I’m sure of it and so is J-J, and our old friend the brigadier in Paris is showing interest,” Bruno said. “Hercule was some kind of legend in the intelligence business and had a special connection to Vietnam after his time there in the war. He had a Vietnamese wife and child and helped a lot of our Vietnamese friends settle here when they had to leave the country in a hurry. There’s a lot more to this than meets the eye.”

  “His funeral is at Ste. Alvère this afternoon?”

  “Three o’clock. Shall I see you there, or do you want to drive over together? I’m going in the baron’s car, but there’s room for you.”

  Back in his office, Bruno had just finished booking the table at Ivan’s bistro after learning with pleasure that the plat du jour would be calf’s liver with sage leaves when his desk phone rang.

  “Is that the police?”

  “Oui, madame. Chief of Police Courrèges à votre service.”

  “Oh, Bruno, you’re in the paper today, saving that little boy.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “It’s Amélie Condorcet here, you know, from Laugérie.”

  “Yes, Madame Condorcet. We met at your neighbors’ house, the Vinhs, and I know your husband from the rugby club.” Bruno could place her now, a quiet, rather faded woman with a long nose and a bad leg. Her husband worked for France Télécom.

  “Well, my husband says it’s nothing and I’m dreaming things, but something suspicious has happened at the neighbor’s place, at the Vinhs’. You know they’ve been away. It might be nothing and I don’t want to waste your time.”

  “Go on, madame. What was suspicious?”

  “Last night I was woken up by a car. I don’t sleep too well. Anyway, it stopped at the Vinhs’ house, and thinking it might be them coming back I got up and looked through the window. It wasn’t them. It was Asians, but not the Vinhs. But since they were Asian, I assumed they must be friends. Then I heard what sounded like breaking glass, and then they left so it wasn’t a burglary.”

  “It certainly sounds suspicious.”

  “Well, it’s been on my mind since, so I went over there just now, and in the kitchen window there’s a small round hole cut in the glass and some kind of message pinned to the door in a foreign language. That’s all I could see that was wrong. But the Vinhs gave me a key. They have one of ours, you know, like neighbors do, so I thought you might want to take a look, just to be on the safe side.”

  “I’ll be right there, Madame Condorcet.”

  Vinh lived on the outskirts of the hamlet, and the Condorcets lived in an identical house, one of a group of four squeezed into what had been a small tobacco field. Madame Condorcet was already waiting on the front doorstep, a key in her hand, when Bruno pulled up in the Land Rover.

  “That’s not your police van,” she said.

  “I’m waiting for the new one to be delivered. The last one got wrecked by some criminals in a car chase,” he said. “It sounds more exciting than it was. But let’s go and see this hole in the window.”

  The hole was about eight inches in diameter and below it was an empty sack, one of the old-fashioned sort made of rough burlap. Although Bruno’s first thought was that the hole had been cut so that gasoline could be poured into the house, there was no smell of it, and looking through the window Bruno could see nothing wrong and no sign of life. He bent to look more closely at the sack.

  “One of them was carrying something,” said Madame Condorcet. “It could have been that, but it looked full.”

  Bruno opened the sack. Inside there was a whiff of something feral, something animal. He stood up to look through the window again and saw something dart across the far corner of the room. One of the curtains had been torn, and an empty cereal package was on the floor.

  A piece of cardboard had been pinned to the kitchen door, with what Bruno presumed was Vietnamese writing scrawled on it with a thick black marker. He pulled out his mobile and called Tran, his old army contact in Bordeaux.

  “I need you to translate something. Remember I told you about Vinh disappearing? There’s some writing I found nailed to the door of Vinh’s house,” he said. “It’s in what I think is Vietnamese.”

  “Spell it out, or describe each letter to me.”

  Bruno did so, letter by letter, Madame Condorcet standing nervously at his side.

  “It says ‘Next time we set them on your children,’ ” Tran said. “It’s bad Vietnamese, written by someone who’s almost illiterate or not a native speaker.”

  “Next time we set what on your children?” Bruno asked.

  “Not clear. It could mean ‘these things’ or ‘this item’ or even ‘this shit’—it’s a slang term. What is it about?”

  “I don’t know yet, but there’s a hole cut in the window big enough to put a cat through. I’m here with a neighbor who has a key. Stay on the line. We’re going inside now.”

  He handed the phone to Madame Condorcet, took the key and opened the door carefully. He slipped inside, closing the door behind him, and his nostrils caught the same feral scent he had noticed in the sack. There was more darting from the far side of the room. As he moved into the sitting room beyond, he saw droppings on the carpet and sofa. Rats! A knot of four or five of them were huddling in a corner. In the bedroom, the coverlet had been pulled from the bed to make a nest, and more droppings were smeared on the bed. More rats were squeaking by the window. He checked the other rooms before he let himself out, depressed at the mess a dozen rats could make in what had been an impeccably neat home.

  “Rats,” he told Madame Condorcet, taking the phone as she put her hands to her face in horror. He spoke to Tran again. “They emptied a sackful of rats into the house. It’s quite a mess.”

  “So the message is, ‘Next time we let the rats loose on your kids,’ ” said Tran. “Putain, you know that was an old Chinese punishment. They tied you down and left you in a sealed room with some hungry rats. Some of the triads are supposed to do it still, exemplary punishment for traitors. Threatening to do this to kids is about as deadly an insult as you can get.”

  “Are you kidding me? This still happens? It’s medieval,” Bruno said, turning away lest Tran’s voice reach Madame Condorcet. He didn’t want word of this getting out in St. Denis.

  “The Chinese were supposed to have done the same thing to some Viet prisoners of war in seventy-nine when they tried to invade and we stopped them at the border. I say ‘we,’ I mean the Vietnamese army. A short war but a nasty one. There were lots of rumors about atrocities against our POWs.”

  “I don’t believe this is happening in France,” Bruno said.

  “I told you, bad times,” Tran said. “This is very serious shit, Bruno. Remember how it was in Bosnia? That’s how it’s going. We’re having to organize to defend ourselves.”

  “That includes burning down Chinese restaurants?”

  “We have some real militants of our own, but this is getting beyond them. Look, I’m glad you called. I put the word out about your wanting to see Vinh and got the message back that there are some people you ought to meet. They very much want to see you. Maybe you should come here to Bordeaux and have that dinner we always talked about. The sooner, the better. And don’t worry. We’ve got lots of protection.”

  “When’s a good time?”

  “How does tonight sound? You can stay with us overnight.”

  “I’ll call you back and let you know,” said Bruno. “How would you
feel if I brought somebody else along who needs to know all this, another policeman. A good one.”

  “Anyone you vouch for would be fine,” said Tran. “Call me.”

  Bruno closed his phone, wondering whether it would be a good idea to take J-J along. He sometimes took a rather literal view of the law, and if he thought he was meeting people involved in throwing gasoline bombs into Chinese restaurants, he might feel compelled to take official action. On the other hand, J-J needed to make some contacts in the Vietnamese community if he was going to stop this gang war from turning into something more sinister. He was smart enough to balance the short-term benefit of making quick arrests against the more important long-term benefit of getting to know what kind of people Tran wanted Bruno to meet. Tran had been a good soldier, one of the team who counterattacked the Serbian platoon and got Bruno to the medevac helicopter after he’d been shot. Bruno trusted him, and he trusted J-J. He’d take the risk of inviting J-J and make sure it worked.

  “Who would want to put rats into a nice house like that?” asked Madame Condorcet.

  “I don’t know yet,” said Bruno. “But I’ll find out. You said you saw that the men who came were Asians. Do you think you might recognize any of them if you saw them again?”

  “There was a very young one. I’d know him because his face was in the headlights.”

  Bruno nodded, called the fire station and told Albert, the fire chief, about the problem. He did not sound at all surprised, asking only how many rats there were.

  Madame Condorcet made coffee as Bruno called J-J and explained Tran’s proposal that they should go to Bordeaux that evening, right after Hercule’s funeral.

  “Who are these people who want to meet you?” J-J wanted to know.

  “Leaders of the local Viet community, I assume. I trust Tran on this,” he said. “Maybe even some people who know about the bombings, but at this stage it makes more sense to get to know them than to make any arrests.”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday,” said J-J. “And I’ve got news for you. Paris is getting involved. I just got a call from Isabelle. The brigadier is on his way down. He’ll be in Bordeaux tonight, and he wants you and me at a meeting at the prefecture in Périgueux tomorrow morning.”

  “Should we bring him along to the meeting with the Viets tonight?” Bruno’s mind was racing. If the brigadier were there, far more intent on gathering intelligence than on making arrests, J-J’s legalistic instincts would be under control. That would suit Bruno.

  “If Paris is sending him down here, this is getting above our pay grade, so he’s probably the one the Viets really ought to meet,” said J-J. “Why not invite him? Call your friend and see what he says. But I’ll come with you anyway.”

  Tran said his people would be happy to be joined by “a top cop from Paris,” and then asked Bruno if that meant what he thought it did.

  “He’s from the interior minister’s special staff, renseignements généraux, and plugged into all the other intelligence groups. I’ve worked with this guy. He’s okay, as far it goes. But these guys always have their own agenda.”

  “So do we,” said Tran. “He sounds like just the guy we want to be in touch with. By the way, have you ever heard of the Binh Xuyen?”

  “No,” said Bruno. “I heard what you just said, but I’m not even sure I could pronounce it.”

  “I’ll spell it,” said Tran, and did so. “Look them up. From what I hear, you’ll find lots of references to them in the books belonging to that old spook who was murdered, Vendrot.”

  “I’m going to his funeral this afternoon. That should finish about five, maybe five-thirty or six.”

  “Good, you can read up on them on the way. You coming by train? I can pick you up at the station.”

  “No, I’m driving with my police friend. He’s the chief detective for this département.”

  “Good. You have the address, it’s just behind the Porte de la Monnaie. We’ll expect you sometime around eight.”

  He rang J-J again. “It’s set. Let the brigadier know he’s welcome.” He gave the address. “And you’ll be driving, since I’ve been given some homework to read while we travel.”

  “In that case we can all go together,” said J-J. “I had another call from the brigadier. He’s coming here for Hercule’s funeral this afternoon.”

  Bruno was sipping at a cup of Madame Condorcet’s strong coffee sweetened with honey when Albert’s small red van appeared up the hill, followed by Ahmed’s battered Peugeot. Albert climbed out, shook hands, accepted the offer of a cup of coffee and began pulling rat traps from the back of his van. Ahmed joined them, the noise of dogs half barking and half yapping coming from the back of his car.

  “The terriers first, then the rat traps,” said Albert. “That’ll clear them out. When it’s this many, it’s the only way.”

  Madame Condorcet came out with a tray carrying more coffee and some sweet lemon biscuits that she had made. Once they were finished, with many grunts of appreciation and the plate emptied, Ahmed put on some thick work gloves, and Albert took a large black plastic sack from his van and suggested that Madame Condorcet might want to go back inside. This would not be a pretty sight. To Bruno’s surprise, with a glint in her eye she insisted on staying to watch. Ahmed released the two terriers, and they rushed to the Vinhs’ kitchen door, yapping. Bruno opened it with Madame Condorcet’s key, and the dogs jumped inside.

  Albert and Ahmed led the way in after the terriers, and Bruno and Madame Condorcet followed, closing the door behind them. There were two rat corpses on the kitchen floor, blood on their heads and their backs broken. Ahmed casually shoved the dead rats into his plastic sack with his boot. The sound of moving furniture came from the sitting room, and as Bruno looked in he saw a terrier leap onto the back of the sofa to catch a scurrying rat by the neck. The terrier shook his head violently and tossed the dead rat aside before leaping down to growl at another hiding beneath a chair. Ahmed casually tilted the chair, and the terrier pounced as the rat tried to flee. Another shake of the head, another dead rat. In the bedroom, there were three more corpses on the bed, two on the floor and the sound of terrified squeaks from the other bedroom.

  “I think that’s all of them,” said Albert. The terriers were prowling through the house, sniffing at cupboards and wardrobes and in corners for any rats that had escaped the slaughter.

  “Twenty-two in the sack,” Ahmed announced. “But we’ll leave the rat traps here just in case. You’re lucky we caught them early. Once they start to breed, it’s terrible. The little ones can hide almost anywhere.”

  “This didn’t happen by accident,” Albert said. “And I saw that hole in the window. Somebody came here and tipped the rats in deliberately. What’s all this about?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Bruno said, and turned to Madame Condorcet. “Thank you for calling me and alerting us to this, but it’s now police business, and I’d be grateful if you could keep all this to yourself. Don’t even tell your husband about it.”

  “But who would do such a thing to the Vinhs?” she asked. “They’re such a nice, quiet family, and my husband likes those nems they make.”

  “I like them too,” said Bruno. “And the sooner I can get to the bottom of this, the sooner we’ll have them and their nems back. But I’ll need you to keep quiet about all this while I’m working on this case. Will you do that for me? And I promise that when it’s all over I’ll come back here and have some more of your coffee and those lemon biscuits and tell you all about it. How’s that?”

  “I won’t say a word,” she said. “But you’d better call before you come. The biscuits are even better when they are warm.”

  “In that case,” said Albert, “can we come too?”

  18

  It was, thought Bruno, a splendidly French compromise. On one side of the coffin, the state saluted a member of the Légion d’Honneur with an honor guard of six French soldiers in parade dress who pointed their modern rifles into the air and fir
ed a volley of blanks. As the echoes died away, civil society paid its own tribute as six members of the Chasseurs de Ste. Alvère, two with tears in their eyes and all in their hunting gear, fired their own blanks in ragged timing from an unmatched assortment of shotguns.

  The mayor in his tricolor sash and the brigadier in a uniform with a chest full of medals both made brief speeches of appreciation, and then the brigadier read out a letter of praise and condolence from the minister of the interior. Finally the priest spoke the final, ritual words, and they all lined up to scoop a handful of earth from the pile and toss it onto the lid of the coffin.

  At the mayor’s invitation, the mourners trooped off to a vin d’honneur at the mairie. Bruno drank one glass, made a swift circuit of the room and left for Hercule’s house to scour the library in search of books on—he had to look up the spelling he had written down during the call with Tran—the Binh Xuyen. The bookcase beside the big desk ran from floor to ceiling and was organized into books on Vietnam, books on Algeria and books on recent French history. The first that he found that seemed relevant was written by Capitaine Savani, who he remembered was Hercule’s boss in the Deuxième Bureau in Saigon. Titled Visage et images du Sud Viet-Nam, it had been published in Paris in 1955 and had been inscribed to Hercule by its author. Bruno turned eagerly to a bookmark, a folded sheet of paper on which Hercule had written: “This section taken largely from Savani’s secret DB report on Binh Xuyen.” Bruno assumed the initials stood for Deuxième Bureau, military intelligence.

  He put the book to one side and had just begun searching the shelves alongside, above and below, all devoted to Vietnam, when his mobile rang. He did not recognize the number on the screen but flipped it open and said, “Allo.”

  “Bruno, it’s Florence from the truffle market.” Her voice was fast and excited, almost breathless. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you. I got the job. Rollo wants me to start next month when school reopens.”