She joined the early Monday morning commuters riling past her. The voices of panhandlers singing for a handout echoed off the tiled walls.
She sat down on the plastic molded seat, watching and thinking. Were those Elymani’s cohorts outside her window or men sent by Philippe?
She leaned against the Métro wall map, the station names erased by the rubbing of countless fingers. A shiny red Selecta vending machine on the platform blocked her view of the other end. But after five minutes she figured she’d lost the men tailing her.
She punched in her office number.
René’ answered on the first ring.
“You might want to get over here, Aimée,” he said.
“I’m doing my best,” she said. “What’s happened?”
“Things have gotten dicey,” he said, his voice low. “Thanks to Philippe.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a big mec sitting here who says we’re out of compliance.”
“Compliance?”
“Some ordinance infraction,” René said. “Has to do with the space we rent and the tax we pay.”
“Tell me, René,” she said. “Does the mec have a shaved head and fish eyes?”
“Exactly,” René said.
“Tell him our last adjustment should suffice,” she said. “Matter of fact, let me tell him.”
She heard the muffled sound.
“Allô?”
“Claude, what’s the problem?”
“I represent the tribunal verifying rent according to space and convenience,” he said. “Your last surface corigée assessment is invalid.”
“Not according to their report,” Aimée said. “Take it up in the appeals section.”
“I already have,” he said.
Her reply caught in her throat.
Dédé marched along the opposite Métro platform, his boots echoing off the tiled walls with their giant arching posters. Muk-tar’s clones eased among the commuters. Coming right toward her.
“Claude, this is between Philippe and me,” she said, scanning the crowds. “Tell René I might be held up, but I’m on the way.”
She clicked off. She sat in the middle of the platform, a few seats taken up by an older woman and high school students. Commuters in business suits clustered around her but would board the next train. Granted, they’d be looking for a black-haired woman first, but Dédé and the other mecs knew her face. If she stood up she’d be seen.
Should she rush into a car when it pulled into the station? The ominous bulge in the coat pockets of the two mecs weaving toward her made her think they had silencers on their guns. And what did she have? A Beretta in her faux-leopard coat—at the office.
Monday Early Morning
BERNARD PAUSED AT THE massive doors of Notre-Damede la Croix. Charcoal stubble shadowed his chin, he’d worn the same suit for two days.
This time his entry to the church had been barred. Cameras whirred and flashed, reporters stuck microphones in his face, and news cameras captured the event. Captured every tic and twitch in his face. Uniformed CRS flanked the steps in formation behind him. For once the April sun glared mercilessly, illuminating the square, the protesters, the police, and the reporters. The protesters loudly chanted, “Don’t break up families—let them stay!” to drown out the reporters.
Guittard had ordered Bernard to empty the church, put the sans’papiers en route to the airport, and escort the rest to the Vincennes detention center if they resisted.
Bernard couldn’t really hold Hamid; the man had papers, and so far he’d broken no law. Bernard didn’t want any of them bound for prison; they’d become martyrs for the cause and defeat the purpose. Of course Guittard didn’t agree.
In the hubbub and turmoil surrounding him Bernard felt curiously detached, as if he hovered cloudlike above, watching the scene unfold.
The bull horn was thrust into his hand. Nedelec, poised and immaculate in a Burberry raincoat, nodded at him. Bernard stared, immobile. He was aware of Nedelec’s thin moustache, and the set jaw of the CRS captain.
Bernard opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Nedelec elbowed him discreetly.
“Monsieur Mustafa Hamid,” Bernard began, his mouth dry and his voice a whisper. “Monsieur Hamid, the authorities have reexamined all the immigration cases.” Bernard cleared his throat, spoke louder. “So far they’ve determined permission to stay will be granted to thirty or forty percent of the sans’papiers due to extenuating circumstances. Specifically those married to French citizens or who have children born in France before 1993.”
No response.
“I’m very sorry to inform you that under orders from the minister of the interior and in compliance with the laws of France, I must ask you to evacuate the premises.”
A heavy silence broken only by the sound of a flag with HUMAN RIGHTS NOT WRONGS crudely written on it, flapping in the wind.
Moments later Bernard cringed as a police ax came down on the church door, splinters flying. The chanting protesters roared. And then the square erupted.
The CRS, attacked by the mob, rushed headlong, billy clubs raised, into the church. Peaceful sans’papiers screamed, thinking they were being attacked and prepared to defend themselves. Bernard was flattened against the church wall between a cameraman and his videocam.
“Look what you’ve done!” the cameraman yelled at him, referring to his smashed equipment.
But the feed was live, and the accusation against Bernard was broadcast across France into millions of homes.
The women and children were handcuffed together and escorted out. As they filed past him, he saw little Akim asleep in his mother’s arms. Though her chador-hidden face revealed nothing, the hiss of angry words issuing from her veil needed no translation.
If he wasn’t hated before, he certainly was now.
Monday Morning
TENSE AND WARY, AIMÉE stood on the Métro platform as the train blared its arrival. She heard the wheels clacking, smelled the burning rubber. She held her leftover newspaper over her face. Neither Dédé nor the mecs had spotted her yet. But when the platform emptied, she was afraid.
She realized what she had to do.
As she broke the red glass door on the emergency box with her miniscrewdriver, she screamed, “My baby fell on the tracks,” and yanked the switch. Every face turned toward the electric line—the train’s brakes screeched and whined, shuddering to a painful, jolting stop. Passengers were thrown against the windows.
The platform passengers looked around, asking, “Where’s the baby?” Over the loudspeaker came a recorded message, “Standard procedure allows no train to proceed without Métro personnel clearing the track.”
The anxious buzz turned into a disgruntled murmur. She wanted to melt into the crowd. Dédé and the mecs trolled the platform, bumping into people taking a good look before excusing themselves. She turned to the men standing near her, in suits, with briefcases and newspapers under their arms. She picked the one with the nicest eyes, wearing a large trenchcoat.
“Pretending you don’t remember me?” she said, sliding into the folds of the man’s coat and wrapping her arms around him. He wasn’t bad looking on closer inspection. And he smelled nice, as if he’d just showered with lavender-olive soap. She put her finger to his lips. “Shh, it’s our secret.”
“Do I know you?” the man asked, a look of happy surprise struggling with suspicion on his face.