They joined a dozen other visitors, following a prison officer to the visiting room, an open-plan space with two dozen round tables, each surrounded by six chairs. All the furniture was hard resin and bolted to the floor. It was also very uncomfortable, and Mo-bot was in the process of shifting her weight to find a tolerable position when she saw Baba Saidi shuffle into the room with a puzzled expression on his face.
He had aged markedly in the months since his mugshot Porcher had shown them had been taken, as though prison had sucked the life from him.
His puzzlement was plain when one of the prison officers directed him toward Mo-bot and Sci. According to his police record, he was forty-four, but his short Afro was completely gray. The black hair in his mugshot must have come from a bottle, which might explain some of his loss of youth, but Mo-bot sensed it was more than that. He was thinner, gaunt even, and there was a slight stoop to his frame, which made him seem humble and hesitant. Had prison broken him?
He sat down opposite them without saying a word.
“Mr. Saidi,” Mo-bot said. “My name is Maureen and this is my colleague, Seymour. Do you speak English?”
Baba sat stony-faced and said nothing.
“We work for a detective agency called Private.”
His stare hardened and he got to his feet.
“Mr. Saidi,” Mo-bot went on, as he turned his back on them, “we’d like to ask you about Roman.”
It was as though she’d slapped Baba. He froze and then turned back slowly, a look of disgust on his face.
“Howa ibna sharmouta,” he said with a vicious scowl on his face.
“I don’t know what that means,” Sci remarked.
“He’s a son of a bitch,” Baba replied, retaking his seat. He directed his gaze at Mo-bot. “Go on.” His accent was a mix of French and Somalian.
“You were arrested with Roman, but he escaped justice,” she said.
“When I was tried, I thought this man was a police informant, that his escape was staged,” Baba said. “But now I have had time to ask friends to check him out, I have learned the truth.”
He fell silent and drifted away in thought. Mo-bot got the sense he was deeply conflicted.
“What truth?” she asked.
“They say he is no police informant but the devil himself. The tip-off came from the American FBI, that’s why the Marseilles police raided us,” Baba replied. “It was just bad luck. But the devil makes the most of bad luck.”
“How?” Mo-bot asked.
“He could have helped me escape that night, but he saw an opportunity,” Baba replied. “His organization is too well resourced to allow him to face justice. They rescued him and used my incarceration to take over my business. I don’t have powerful friends like he does.”
“What organization does Roman work for?” Sci asked.
“The Dark Fates,” Baba replied. “My sources tell me his real name is Roman Verde.”
Mo-bot and Sci exchanged looks of disbelief. The Dark Fates was a motorcycle gang they’d encountered in Rome, and Jack had shot the group’s leader, Milan Verde, who was currently serving life in a Roman prison for his involvement in the Vatican murders.
“Roman Verde must be related to Milan,” Mo-bot said to Sci, suddenly registering the physical resemblance between the two men. “That’s why they targeted Justine and Jack. This is personal.”
Chapter 43
When I was finally processed and released, I found Justine waiting for me in the lobby of police headquarters.
“Jack!” she said, throwing her arms around me.
I pulled her close. It felt good to hold her and smell the vanilla in her hair and her jasmine perfume.
“Thank you,” she said to Hannan, who’d supervised my release and walked out with me.
“You’re welcome, but I really didn’t do anything,” the lawyer replied. “They had footage of the murder all along. They knew Mr. Morgan wasn’t responsible.”
Justine stepped away, irritated on my behalf. “Then why hold you?”
“To make a point,” I guessed. “We’d had a deal to share information, which is apparently over because I’ve been holding out.”
Justine frowned while Hannan moved to go.
“Well, if that’s all, I should get back to the office.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome. Call me if you need anything else,” she replied. “Thank you for trusting me, Ms. Smith.”
Justine nodded and Hannan walked toward the main doors, leaving the two of us in the middle of the busy lobby, surrounded by cops and civilians going about their business.
“The deal to share information is over?” Justine asked.
“That’s what Chevalier said,” I replied.
“And what if I knew where one of the kidnappers was?”
I looked at Justine in disbelief.
“After you were arrested, the guy you were chasing — Michel — stopped running, so I followed him. On foot at first, and then in a cab.”
I smiled and slowly shook my head at her. “You’re amazing.”
“I know,” she said flatly. “He’s staying in a small apartment building in a neighborhood called La Turbie. It’s just across the border in France. I rented a car. We could take a drive and talk to him.”
Much as I relished the prospect of having a private encounter with the man, there was clearly a broader conspiracy at work that might involve the Grand Prix and put many lives potentially at risk. We knew at least one person would be targeted by this group, but they might have other plans. A terror attack at the race would send shockwaves around the world.
“I think we should share the intel,” I said to Justine, whose mouth curled at the corners.
“After what the cops have just done to you?” she asked, then thought better of it. “I thought you might.”
My phone rang. When I took it from my pocket, I saw the incoming call was from Mo-bot.
“Mo,” I answered.
“Jack, you’d better be sitting down for this. The guy who took Justine is Roman Verde, brother of Milan Verde, leader of the Dark Fates.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“This is personal for him. Revenge for what we did to his brother,” Mo-bot said. “We’re on our way back to Monaco.”
“We’ll see you at the apartment,” I told her calmly, but inside I was reeling.
The Dark Fates was the formidable criminal gang I’d encountered while investigating the Vatican murders. I thought it had been broken up by Italian authorities after its leader Milan Verde was imprisoned.
“See you there,” Mo-bot replied before hanging up.
Justine looked at me expectantly.
“The man who abducted you is Milan Verde’s brother,” I told her.
While she reacted to the revelation with shocked disbelief, I reached a decision. “This is no street organization. There’s a bigger play at work here, which means we can’t keep any useful intelligence to ourselves. There’s a chance the French or Monaco police deliberately blew the operation to rescue you, but we can’t tackle something on this scale without trusting someone. We need to inform Chevalier about the suspect in La Turbie and see how she wants to handle him.”
Chapter 44
Justine and I drove to La Turbie, a pretty town north-west of Monaco. Even though it was only three kilometers away, the drive from Monaco Police Headquarters took twenty-five minutes thanks to the heavy traffic caused by diversions on the roads in preparation for the race.
Justine had followed the man calling himself Michel Augarde to an apartment building on Avenue du Général de Gaulle in the heart of the small town. I had thought about informing Chevalier of our intention while we were still at police headquarters, but prior experience had taught me the cops moved slowly when there was any question of cross-jurisdiction. I had an idea how to ensure a rapid response if we found Michel at the apartment, one that would ensure he was taken into custody swiftly.