A World I Never Made Page 15

“Can you help me talk to him, Abdullah? I am interested in this anger in the street. I have written about it, as you know.”

  “I will try, but do not expect much. He is a restless fool, nothing more:”

  “Thank you.” Megan recalled the burning look in al-Majid’s eyes as he listened to Mohammed in the courtyard. Restless fools, she knew from experience, tend to spill their guts. If she could get him to talk, from such dross she might find gold.

  ~18~

  PARIS / RIYAHD, JANUARY 6, 2004

  What exactly did they tell you, Charles?“

  “That a witness saw two Arab men throw the old man off the cliff. They were carrying automatic rifles.”

  “Who is the witness?”

  “It was an anonymous call. A woman:”

  “You don’t believe that my people did this, do you?”

  “I don’t know what to believe:”

  “As I said, our men went to Cap de la Hague. Monsieur Peletier would not cooperate. They left. Someone else is looking for our Monsieur Nolan. That is what I think:”

  “Who? Why?”

  “To find his daughter, of course:”

  “Well, the DST is looking for her as well, now.”

  There was a pause as Mustafa al-Siddiq took this in. “How is that?” he asked, keeping his voice casual.

  “The Cherbourg police called them. They hear Arab men with automatic rifles; naturally they think terrorists:”

  “Yes, but how do they know about Nolan père et fille?”

  “They took apart Peletier’s computer. Apparently he made inquiries to Europol concerning Megan Nolan and a suspected terrorist named al-Zahra. He was asked by his niece to run some fingerprints. One set belongs to a known terrorist, Ahmed bin-Shalib. They discovered that Monsieur Nolan was in the country. They called Paris and were told about the suicide:”

  “But they believe the suicide was real, no? The body identified by the father?”

  “They are confused, Mustafa, but they have enormous resources and they are very curious:”

  “And what is your role?”

  “I have no role. DST advised us of the situation because it appears an American citizen is involved:”

  “You told them nothing about me?”

  “No.”

  “Well then, I will contact Onyx. I will tell him the chase is off. He and his people must leave the country.”

  “Why not coordinate with the DST? Your people developed this case. The background you can provide would be invaluable. We don’t have to tell them of our initiative:”

  “No, Charles, we must withdraw. I am sure your DST will hunt down the Nolans and their friends and that justice will be done:”

  Now Charles Raimondi was silent. He had covered up the dead body—one of al-Siddiq’s agents—in Volney Park. Now a respected former French policeman was dead. Thrown off of a cliff at around the same time other Saudi agents were in the vicinity. And neither Patrick nor Megan Nolan were any closer to being found. Had his decision to help al-Siddiq been wrong? Who actually was this Megan Nolan, and why exactly did al-Siddiq want her so badly?

  “And you would like to be kept out of it?” he asked finally.

  “I would prefer that, yes. We broke several rules, as you know. Why cause a fuss among the diplomats? They’re sensitive to these things. Good-bye, Charles. I look forward to seeing you at our next conference in Brussels:”

  Charles Raimondi was a diplomat himself. His only connection to the world of intelligence was his role as liaison between the Foreign Office, where he worked as an assistant to the French Foreign Secretary, and the DST, France’s very powerful and very secretive intelligence agency. He had often used this connection to impress certain people, usually women, but the aura of danger that he liked to surround himself with did not exist. Until now. After hanging up the phone he considered his situation. How exactly had the shooting in Volney Park occurred? Was it possible that al-Siddiq’s men had attacked Laurence and Nolan first, rather than the other way around, as al-Siddiq had informed him when he asked for help in covering up the incident and getting the body returned to Saudi Arabia? Could a known terrorist—Ahmed bin-Shalib—be on the payroll of the Saudi Interior Ministry? Was it possible that al-Siddiq’s people killed Peletier? Looking around his lavishly appointed office and down at his manicured hands, it occurred to him how much he had to lose if these questions were to be answered in the affirmative and his role—perhaps rashly undertaken—discovered. He had known al-Siddiq for many years and trusted him, but perhaps it was better that he and his people, including the secret agent oddly code-named Onyx, disengage, and quickly.

  Only two people besides al-Siddiq knew of Charles’s involvement in lire de Megan Nolan. Catherine Laurence and Inspector Geneviève LeGrand. LeGrand was due to land in Nuremburg for a law enforcement conference in thirty minutes. He had left a message on her cell phone for her to call him as soon as she landed. Laurence had gone missing. Perhaps she had visited her uncle in Cap de la Hague, perhaps not. It would not do now to alert the local police to pick her up if she appeared in the vicinity. It would look too suspicious. He had asked the police in Rambouillet to look in on her husband’s house on the chance that she was there. She was not, but it appeared, they said, that the house had recently been used by more than one person. There were several brands of fresh cigarette butts in the trash, two sofas had been used as beds, and the wood-burning stove was still warm.

  What had at first seemed impossible, that Laurence was continuing the search for Megan Nolan on her own, or worse, in league with Nolan père, who was also missing, had now to be seriously considered. The thought of the two of them together—the sad and beautiful Catherine and the obtusely handsome and “rugged” Nolan, was very distasteful. Catherine was to be Charles’s prize in this affair, one of the reasons why he had agreed to help al-Siddiq in the first place. The reward seemed worth the risk at the time. Now Catherine was officially on a leave of absence. He could not ask the police or the DST to track her down without risking exposing his own involvement. But Nolan was a different matter. Geneviève LeGrand would have no reason to question his instructions to her to aggressively hunt him down. She had been more than happy to help Charles in his sub rosa terrorism investigation. Perhaps he would have to bed her to keep her happy, which was why, always thinking, he had wired flowers to her hotel room in Nuremburg. His hunch was that if he found Nolan, Catherine would be with him.If he could get his hands on them, they might lead him to the mysterious Megan Nolan, a wanted terrorist. He might still do himself a world of good. Indeed, with al-Siddiq out of the picture, he would get all of the credit if he could pull it off.

  Charles’s phone rang and he saw on his caller ID screen that it was Inspector LeGrand calling. You might get some small portion of the credit, my dear Geneviève, he thought, reaching for the receiver and smiling to himself, but your real reward will be a night or two with me. What more could you ask for at this stage of your lonely and empty life?

  Mustafa al-Siddiq wasted no time after his telephone conversation with Charles Raimondi. He immediately placed a call to a cell phone in Germany. While waiting for a return call, he reviewed the situation. Megan Nolan was still at large. Her father, who had identified a stranger’s body as his daughter’s and was therefore highly suspect, had escaped the net. Detective Catherine Laurence, assigned to follow Patrick Nolan, had, probably with the help of Mr. Nolan, killed four Saudi nationals, one in Volney Park and three at her uncle’s house in Cap de la Hague. She had lifted the fingerprints of the two downed men in Volney Park and asked her uncle to run them through Europol’s database. She had also asked her uncle to inquire with Europol about Megan Nolan. And, most intriguing, she had initiated the wild goose chase—as the Americans called it—to the house in Courbevoie, where it turned out no one remotely fitting Megan Nolan’s description had ever lived. It was safe to assume that Detective Laurence and Patrick Nolan were searching—desperately searching—for Megan. And now the DST was
in on the hunt. Megan Nolan would be a new name to them, but Ahmed bin-Shalib would not. The French were suspected by the Americans, rightly so in al-Siddiq’s opinion, of being corrupted by huge Middle Eastern oil money. They would therefore be highly motivated to hunt down Megan Nolan if they had even a slight hope that she would lead them to the leader of the cell that beheaded the journalist Michael Cohen. The Chirac government could stay corrupted but take some heat off itself in America. In fact, the stakes were much higher than the French could even imagine them to be.

  Onyx, a royal prince in a bloodline much favored by King Faud, was al-Siddiq’s nephew, the only son of his beloved dead sister. Childless himself, al-Siddiq loved Onyx like a son. When last they spoke, Onyx had mentioned a prayer card found by his men in the house in Cap de la Hague, a prayer card from the Convent of St. Thérèse of Lisieux, with the name and address of a François Duval written on it. He would have to follow that lead on his own. The jihad was more important by far than one man, one life. It remained only for Charles Raimondi, the one person besides Onyx with knowledge of al-Siddiq’s involvement in the case, to be dealt with. He had been feeding Raimondi caviar, handing him expensive gifts and stroking his bloated ego for years, all against the day when the ridiculous would-be Casanova might prove useful to him. That day had come and gone. While talking to Raimondi, al-Siddiq had flipped through his old-fashioned Rolodex and stopped at the diplomat’s card. He was ready, therefore, when the return call came, probably from a cell phone in Greece or Turkey, though it could have been anywhere. He pushed the speakerphone button, then, reading from the card, said, “One Boulevard Capucine, Apartment 22.” The phone on the other end went dead and al-Siddiq clicked off as well.

  “Good-bye Charles,” he said softly to himself. “You were an even bigger fool than I thought. And about as useful:”

  ~19~

  PARIS, JANUARY 6, 2004

  Catherine used one of the cell phones taken from the dead Arabs to call the Cherbourg police to report that she had witnessed two men, two Arab men with automatic rifles, throw an elderly man off a cliff in Cap de la Hague. Then she put her head on Pat’s shoulder and slept. Two hours later, the Peugeot stopping and starting in city traffic woke her.

  “We are in Paris?” she said.

  “Yes. I”m glad you’re awake. Where is Rue de Matisse?”

  “There is a Rue de Matisse in Montmartre. We will head there. But first I have to use a restroom. Pull in at that gas station on the corner. When I come out I will drive:”

  Pat did as he was told, but before Catherine could exit the car, he took hold of her hand and held it firmly in his.

  “How was your sleep?”

  “Good. Bon.”

  “I’m sorry about your uncle:”

  Silence. The silence that death brings when it hovers close to life.

  “He was a good man, Patrick,” Catherine said, speaking quietly but clearly. She was hurting, but relieved to be. As opposed to those moments in Cap de la Hague after learning of Daniel’s death, when the pain was so great that her mind had banished it, leaving her free to take her revenge the way it should be taken: cold and quick. Looking at Pat, she could see the relief in his eyes as well. He had seen what he had seen and would have to live with it, but she was glad, for his sake and for hers, that she had returned to herself. “And he liked you,” she continued. “He approved of you. He hated my husband:”

  “He died because of me, and Megan:”

  “No, he died because evil has reappeared in the world:”

  “We will go back and bury him properly.”

  If we live, Catherine thought, and then realized that if we live would be built into every statement, every thought, every hope they had for the future from now on. Until there was no more future or until the people who were pursuing them—whoever they were and in whatever number—were killed. Looking down, she saw Pat’s hand, his lion’s paw of a hand, still gently clutching hers. Pulling it to her lips, she kissed it and said, “Mais oui, chérie. Of course:”

  “Catherine, one more thing:”

  “Yes.”

  “I left the prayer card with Duval’s address on it in our bedroom in Cap de la Hague. I took it out to read the prayer to St. Thérèse while you were sleeping. I left it on the night table. I remembered it while driving:”

  “I see,” Catherine replied.“They may not have found it. If they did, they could not know its importance. And only one survived, don’t forget. And he fled abruptly, you recall:”

  “The police will have found it by now.”

  “Possibly. But we have no choice but to visit Duval. We will be careful. There is nothing else we can do. We have no other leads:”

  Thirty-three Rue de Matisse was a storefront on a corner across from the Cimetière de Montmartre, the famous burial place of many of France’s favorite sons. Through the cemetery’s wrought iron fence could be seen asymmetrical rows of stone markers and, in the distance, crypts, all weathered to a dirty gray that perfectly matched the watery grayness of the early winter day. The storefront’s plate glass windows, on either side of an opaque glass door, were painted black. On each could be seen the faded yellow lettering, Achat de Chevaux, and beneath the letters a rearing white horse.

  “Duval sells horses?” Pat asked.

  “No, it must have been a butcher shop at one time, specializing in horse meat:”

  “I never saw that on Julia Child:”

  “Julia Child?”

  “Never mind. What do you think?”

  Catherine had driven past Duval’s storefront twice and then found a place to park on a side street with a head-on view of it. She had been a cautious policewoman, a trait drilled into her head by her father and uncle from an early age. Act swiftly and decisively when it is time to act, but until then take no unnecessary risks. Do not make assumptions.

  No suspicious cars or people were hanging about and no one had gone in or out of the old butcher shop in the last half hour.

  “You must go alone, Patrick.”

  “Fine. But why?”

  “He is expecting Megan’s father, not Megan’s father and a woman.

  He likely will not talk with me present, or let us in for that matter. Besides, if someone follows you in, I will come. To lend my support. Do you have your gun?”

  After two knocks, the frosted glass door swung open and Pat stood facing a dark-haired, dark-eyed gypsy boy of ten or eleven. He stood mutely, staring up at the giant gadgo—nongypsy—while a second boy, who had been sitting on an overstuffed sofa watching two televisions, jumped up and ran through a curtained doorway off to Pat’s left. Pat stepped in and closed the door behind him. Across from the sofa and the TVs was a large dresser covered with statuary of what looked to be Catholic saints surrounding a gold-plated samovar. The floor and walls were covered by thick oriental carpets, and there were maroon brocade drapes covering the already blackened plate glass windows. Light came from several ornate lamps placed with no seeming plan in mind. Heavily shaded, these lamps did not do much to brighten the cavelike enclosure in which Pat found himself.

  “Je m’appelle ...,” he said to the boy.

  “We saw you in your car,” the boy said, interrupting and startling Pat with his strangely accented English and his directness. “Will you give me money for food?”

  Before Pat could answer, a paunchy, thick-set middle-aged man, perhaps forty, perhaps fifty, came through the curtain and said something swiftly to the boy in a language Pat didn’t know. The boy turned and ran into the back room. The man then went to the far end of the thick draperies to his right and, pulling them aside a few inches, peered out to the street for a long moment.

  “What is your business?” the man said finally, turning to face Pat.

  “Are you François Duval?”

  “Yes, but there was another François Duval. My father. He died a month ago.” The man was pale to the point of whiteness, and balding, his wisps of black hair sticking like painted stripes to his n
aked head in a bizarre gypsy version of a comb-over. His baggy gabardine trousers were held up by suspenders worn over a plaid wool shirt. He wore slippers on his feet.

  “I am searching for my daughter. Her name is Megan Nolan. Do you know her?”

  “What makes you think I would know her?”

  “Your name and address—or your father’s—were written by Megan on a prayer card and left at the Convent of St. Thérèse in Lisieux.”

  “Can I see this prayer card?”

  “I seem to have lost it:”

  “Lost it? I see. Do you have money in your wallet, Monsieur Nolan?”

  “Yes. How much do you want?”

  “Do you have half of a hundred?”

  “Fifty dollars? Of course:”