‘Did she describe him?’
‘She was breathless and didn’t say much. A guy in a long black coat. That’s all I remember. She said she’d seen him before and she was certain he was coming for her.’
Ben thought, Nazim. Of course she knew him. She’d seen him in Tripoli just three days ago. ‘What else did she say?’
‘She said she was doubling back towards home, and that she was going to lock herself in her apartment. I told her I’d come straight over, and she said, “Get here fast, okay?” She was so frightened. I dropped everything and ran. But I don’t have a car. I was too slow getting there.’
Michel’s eyes became wet and his voice started breaking up as he went on, reliving the moment. ‘By the time I reached her place, the street was full of flics. I watched from a distance. I knew something terrible must have happened. I was about to call her number to ask if she was okay, but just then an ambulance arrived. Then … then I saw them bringing her down and loading her into the ambulance. I mean, I just knew it was her. She was covered under a sheet. I almost died myself. I turned and ran and didn’t stop running. I can’t even remember how I got back to Saint-Denis. I just felt numb, like it was all a dream. Next thing I was at the Geronimo, wanting to drink myself into a hole that’s so deep I never come out. But I don’t even have the money to do it.’
Michel broke down and his body heaved and rocked as he wept bitterly. Ben let him cry for a minute, then asked, ‘Why didn’t you stay and tell the police what you knew?’
‘Because I was scared they’d start asking all these questions, and next thing my criminal record would come out. Wouldn’t take much for them to start suspecting me, would it? As you can tell, seeing as they apparently already think I did it.’ Michel stared at his hands, which were shaking. Then made a fist and punched himself in the face, again and again, as though he hated himself as much as he hated the man who had murdered her. ‘Why? Why couldn’t I have got there sooner? Why couldn’t I have saved her?’
Ben thought Michel was going to break his own nose. He grasped his wrist and held it tight to stop him from hitting himself. ‘We can’t always save the ones we love, Michel. That’s just how it is.’
‘I don’t understand why she didn’t call the police after she called me.’
‘She’d dropped her phone, remember?’ Ben said. ‘Even if she’d realised before she reached home, she was too scared to do anything except keep running until she got there. Then she probably needed something to settle her nerves. She’d put on some coffee. She might have been planning on calling the police on her landline phone after she’d drunk a cup or two. Only she never had the chance, because Nazim al-Kassar got to her first.’
‘But she must have locked her door. How did he get in?’
‘Maybe she answered it thinking it was you,’ Ben said. He regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth.
Michel sank his head into his hands. ‘Oh, God.’
‘You wouldn’t have stood a chance against him, Michel. You’d be dead too.’
‘I wish I was.’
Ben put a hand on his shoulder and could feel his dreadful pain. ‘I can’t bring her back,’ he said softly. ‘I wish I could, but I can’t, and I’m truly sorry. But I intend to make it right, for her sake, and for yours, as much as something like this can be made right.’
‘By doing what?’
‘By making sure that Nazim al-Kassar never hurts another innocent person. This stops, now.’
‘I want to help. Let me team up with you.’
Ben shook his head. ‘You don’t even know me.’
‘But I can tell you’re the kind of guy who can handle trouble.’
‘And you’re not. Not this sort of trouble.’
‘I know how to pull a trigger. I’ve done it once, I can do it again.’
‘No offence, but it’s a little different when they’re shooting back at you.’
‘What the hell more have I got to lose? You think I’m scared of getting killed?’
‘Of course you are,’ Ben said. ‘So am I. Only a lunatic isn’t scared of getting killed. But whether you are or not, it doesn’t affect the outcome. And if something happens to you I can’t have that on my conscience too.’
‘Then what am I supposed to do? If everyone thinks I killed Romy, that means the cops are after me, right? So I can’t go home.’
‘You’ve been a fugitive before,’ Ben said. ‘You know what to do.’
‘I have no money, nothing. I have no idea where to go.’
‘I can help you get out of the city,’ Ben said. ‘This place isn’t getting any safer for anyone.’
Chapter 22
Ben drove Michel Yassa to the RER rail station in nearby Bondy, gave him all the cash he had so he could take a train as far away as possible and have some living expenses once he got there, then wished him good luck and drove off.
Michel was on his own now. The best Ben could do for the guy was catch the real killer before the police caught up with him and shot him full of holes.
Ben was driving away from the station, still feeling exhausted and depressed after their painful conversation, thinking about what he’d learned and what to do next, when he got a call.
He’d been expecting either Ken Keegan to phone him, finally passing on a contact for Tyler Roth, or Thierry, preferably to say he was finished working on the audio and you could now hear every word of the recording as clear as a bell. But the call was from neither of them. The phone ringing was Romy Juneau’s.
Ben pulled into the side of the road and answered.
The voice on the line was a woman’s. She sounded hesitant and perplexed that a man had picked up the call. ‘This is Françoise Schell. I’m responding to a voicemail message I received two days ago. Is this the right number?’
Françoise. The mystery woman who Romy had said could help her. ‘Romy Juneau called you,’ Ben said. ‘This is her phone.’
‘The name she gave was Jane Dieulafoy. But I figured that was a fake. I get that a lot, in my line of business.’
‘Which is what?’ Ben asked.
‘I’d actually rather speak to … what did you say her name was? Romy Juneau. Is she available?’
As they talked Ben was whipping out his own phone and running a web search on Françoise Schell. He found her right away. She was an investigative reporter and the top search result with her name on it had three lines of metadata that contained the title of an article she’d written. It was called HOW THE ANTIQUITIES TRADE FUNDS TERROR.
And a light bulb lit up inside Ben’s head. He said, ‘Please don’t hang up. This could be very important.’
‘Why would I hang up?’ she asked, sounding as though she was arching an eyebrow.
‘Because you can’t talk to Romy Juneau.’
‘I see. And why is that?’
‘Because she can’t talk to you. She was murdered this morning.’
‘I’m hanging up.’
‘Don’t do that,’ he said. ‘Talk to me instead. You’re the reporter she tried to call. She thought you could help her.’
‘I can’t talk to you if I don’t know who you are.’
‘My name’s Ben Hope. I was Romy’s friend.’
‘As in boyfriend?’ The way she said it sounded jaded and cynical. But then, in Ben’s experience seasoned investigative journalists were generally a jaded and cynical bunch.
‘Just a friend.’
‘She was killed only this morning, but you don’t sound like you’re exactly paralysed with grief.’ Direct, too.
‘I express emotion in other ways,’ he replied. In the middle of talking he clicked open the article Françoise Schell had written and quickly scanned the text. It was from a few months earlier. There was a photo image of her beside the title. It showed a thin-faced woman with long blond hair and intense, intelligent eyes, maybe forty or a little younger.
Below that was another picture embedded into the article, featuring a group of maske
d men in black robes with AK-47s and lump hammers, busily smashing up what looked like a collection of ancient statues not too unlike the ones Ben had seen in Romy’s video. The rest of the article was full of information about the involvement of terror groups like ISIL in the illegal trade of old Near East and Middle East treasures. It was too much for him to take in at a glance, but there was no question that the author had delved deep into that world. Ben was certain she could potentially offer valuable insights into whatever dirty kind of business Julien Segal and Nazim al-Kassar were mixed up in together.
‘What happened to her?’ asked Françoise Schell. Ben could picture her at her end, tapping computer keys to look up Romy now that she knew her name. Before he could reply, she said, ‘I found it. Looking at it now. Found dead at her home in Paris. Suspect has been identified. Police are launching a manhunt. Oh, right, she worked for ICS? Hmm. Interesting.’
ICS. Institut Culturel Segal. Ben said, ‘But the police are after the wrong person.’
‘You’re not going to tell me you did it, I hope.’
‘No, but I know who did.’
‘Why are you telling me this, and not the cops?’
‘Why did you wait two days before you replied to her message?’
‘I get a lot of crank calls. Ninety-plus per cent of them lead precisely nowhere. I was in two minds whether to even call back. Answer the question.’
Ben replied, ‘There’s no point telling the police. In fact it’s doing them a favour not to tell them. If they went after the real killer, he’d slaughter anyone they sent and then just disappear for ever. They’re out of their depth dealing with someone like him.’
‘I see. And you would know all this how, exactly?’
‘Because I’m privy to certain insider information that’s very hard to come by. I might be prepared to tell you about it.’
Françoise Schell paused, and he could sense the wheels turning in her mind. She said, ‘I feel my journalistic antennae twitching. Are you trying to dangle me a story here?’
‘I’m looking at your article about the antiquities trade. Are you still interested in that kind of material?’
‘I’m a reporter. I have an endless appetite for all that’s dark and ugly. So do my readers. Let’s say it’s an ongoing research project.’
‘Good. I have reason to believe there’s a connection with what happened to Romy, and I think that once I show you what I’ve got, you’ll agree. I’d also like to know more about why she thought you could help her.’
‘The real Jane Dieulafoy was a French archaeologist who died in 1916. Like I said, a lot of people give me fake names on the first contact. Usually it’s because they’re either full of crap or they’re clinically insane, but either way they don’t have anything interesting to offer me. Now and then, I get one who hides their real identity because they actually have something to say, hence they’re scared shitless. Your Romy was one of those. Something in her message caught my attention. One thing, in particular. That’s why I eventually decided to return the call.’
‘Then it sounds like we can help each other,’ Ben said. ‘We each have information to trade. Are you based in Paris? I’m headed back towards the city and I have time on my hands right now, if you do.’
‘I’m not giving out my address.’
‘I’m not asking for it. We could meet at a public place. Somewhere crowded and busy. Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. If you think I’m full of crap or clinically insane you can just get up and walk away.’
She fell silent again, hesitating before answering. ‘Okay, then, I’m interested in hearing what you’ve got. But it had better be good.’ She named a popular café on Boulevard du Montparnasse, in the sixth arrondissement. ‘Do you know it?’
‘I know where it is.’
‘One hour,’ Françoise Schell said.
Meanwhile, Nazim’s men had moved fast. Sarfaraz, the whizzkid, had been whisked back to his place by Muhammad in the silver Mercedes, along with their other colleague called Mohammed. While they were still on the road Nazim had called his Parisian associate and demanded the Juneau woman’s mobile number. His associate had little choice in the matter.
Once he had the number, Nazim phoned Sarfaraz, who duly fed it into his GPS phone tracking app. Sarfaraz called back within five minutes.
‘Okay, I nailed him for you, just like I promised. He’s on the move. A flashing red dot on my radar screen, and I can follow him wherever he goes.’
Nazim felt his blood stir. Modern technology might be generally considered haram by Islamic purists, but it certainly had its uses. ‘Where is he now?’
‘About ten kilometres north-east of the city centre, incoming.’
‘I want you to follow him. Don’t use the silver Mercedes, he’s seen it.’ Paris was full of silver Mercedes, but Nazim knew how observant the man with no name was. All his kind were trained to notice details.
Sarfaraz said, ‘I have another car. It’s a Mercedes too, but it’s black.’
‘Take Mohammed and Muhammad with you. See where he goes, and report back to me.’
‘Do we need to bring anything with us?’ Sarfaraz was referring to armament.
‘Bring plenty. I want this dealt with fast, efficiently and as soon as possible. When the job is done, take whatever phones he’s carrying and deliver them to me personally.’
‘No problem, boss. On our way.’
Nazim ended the call and smiled to himself. The man with no name was already as good as dead. It was just a question of time.
Chapter 23
Ben arrived at the rendezvous five minutes early, to find that Françoise Schell had beaten him to it. He recognised her from her picture. She had taken a seat next to the full-height café window that overlooked Boulevard du Montparnasse, and was attacking an espresso coffee as though she lived on the stuff. She was well dressed in a no-nonsense skirt suit topped with the kind of fashionable neck scarf that only French women can carry off successfully. Her hair was a different style from the photo, and she was wearing noticeably more makeup. Next to her on the seat was a tiny handbag. Ben wondered how many of them you could make out of a single crocodile.
Françoise Schell looked sharply up at him as he approached. ‘Not quite what I imagined,’ she commented. ‘Younger, thinner and better looking.’
He put out a hand. ‘Ben Hope.’
She took it. Her grip was dry and hard, like the look in her eye. ‘Enchantée. Françoise Schell.’
‘My pleasure. May I?’ He pulled up a chair.
‘Please do. You’re English? Your accent had me puzzled. You speak French almost like a native.’
‘Half Irish,’ he said. ‘But I live in France now.’
‘How nice for you. Tell me all about yourself.’
Not the most subtle way to pump him for information. But as he was discovering, Françoise Schell didn’t waste time on subtlety. A waiter scooted over and Ben ordered coffee, a larger version of the same thing she was drinking. When they were alone again, he said, ‘Now the formalities are over, let’s dispense with all the getting-to-know-you stuff. You said there was something in particular about Romy’s phone message that caught your attention. What was that?’
One corner of her mouth curled up in a wry smile, and she waggled a finger at him. ‘Not so fast, Buster. First you need to lay your cards on the table. What do you have for me?’
‘No cards,’ Ben said. ‘Only this.’ He took out Romy’s phone, slid it across the tabletop towards her, and directed her to the video clip file.
‘I can’t see anything,’ she complained as she began to watch. ‘The picture’s all dark and out of focus.’
‘Let it run,’ he said, and waited while she went on watching, holding the phone close to her chest like a poker player. When the artifacts came into shot, he knew it by the curious look she fired at him.
He said, ‘This was taken three days ago in Tripoli.’
‘It looks like a warehouse.’ She paus
ed, watched for a few seconds longer, then said, ‘Now I’m seeing two men.’
‘The older, shorter one is Julien Segal, whom you might recognise since you know about ICS. You won’t know the other, but you’ve heard of the people he works for. They go by the Arabic name al-Dawla al-Islamiya fi al-Iraq al-Sham, Daesh for short. Most people know them by the quaint little acronym “ISIL”.’
Françoise Schell narrowed her eyes at the mention of the name. Just then the waiter scooted back over with Ben’s coffee. She paused the video playback and waited for the waiter to be gone again. Glancing about her as though to check nobody was listening in on their conversation, she said in a lowered voice, ‘Are you serious? Segal is one of Europe’s most respected archaeology experts. His name came up again and again during my research for the article I wrote. You’re suggesting he’s in contact with terrorists?’
Ben tried the coffee. Excellent. ‘I’m not suggesting it. The only possible way to avoid that conclusion would be that Segal didn’t know who he was talking to. Which is beyond improbable. Plus, it gets better. The second man is Romy Juneau’s killer.’
She was looking at him intently. ‘And you know that for a fact.’
Ben nodded. ‘I saw him at the scene. No question. I’d recognise him anywhere.’
‘Which suggests you know him.’
‘Knew him. A long time ago.’
She frowned, arching a suspicious eyebrow. ‘This is where we get to the insider information part. You’re not just some friend of Romy Juneau. Who are you, really? What were you doing at the scene of the murder?’
Ben pointed at the phone in her hands and said, ‘Go on watching.’
Françoise Schell was visibly simmering with questions as she resumed the playback. ‘What are they talking about?’ She held the phone close to her ear, and shook her head. ‘The sound is terrible.’
‘We’re working on it.’
‘We? You’re part of a team?’
‘I wouldn’t call it that, exactly.’
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