Their extremism was frightening: these brothers in arms with their shorn heads and steely eyes were not yet thirty years old, and they were ready to die at a moment’s notice for the French flag.
Sharko’s attention was suddenly drawn by a one-story building, in front of which was a sign that read DCILE: COMMUNICATION AND INFORMATION DIVISION. He quickened his step to catch up to his guide.
“Tell me… what exactly do they do at DCILE?”
“It’s a public relations office that processes requests for information and coordinates with the news media. The production office handles promotion for the Foreign Legion throughout France and abroad.”
“Do you also have a video department? Shooting and postproduction of films for the army?”
“Yes, sir. Documentaries, promotional and commemorative films.”
“And it’s legionnaires themselves who handle this?”
“Senior military staff. Officers and noncommissioned officers from the land army, mostly. Any other questions, sir?”
“No, that’s it. Thanks.”
Sharko thought of the men who had killed the film restorer, Claude Poignet. One of them was a filmmaker attached to the military, and he was surely hidden here, safe and sound in his combat boots, in one of those huge barracks… It fit together more and more.
They arrived at the buildings for the 1st Foreign Regiment, seat of the high command, where the CO resided, the absolute authority. Sharko’s throat was dry, his hands moist, and he would have felt much less apprehensive facing a bloodthirsty killer than a decorated colonel, who had presumably devoted part of his life to serving his country. As a professional, the cop had deep respect for these soldiers and their sacrifice.
They walked down muffled hallways; the soldier knocked three times and stood at attention in front of the closed doorway.
“At ease! Come in!”
After introducing Sharko and executing his regulation about-face, the second lieutenant left the cop alone with the colonel, who was busy signing papers. The policeman estimated that the commanding officer must have been about his age and build, minus the pudginess and taller by an inch or two. His faultless gray crew cut further amplified the Euclidean geometry of his face. On his dark uniform, a small badge read COLONEL CHASTEL in red letters.
“I’ll ask you to wait a few more seconds.”
The superior officer raised his ice-blue eyes, then went back to his chore without exhibiting any particular emotion. If the colonel was involved in the affair, Sharko thought, if he had kept up with the news following the discovery of the bodies in Gravenchon, he would certainly know Sharko’s face, who he was. If so, had he been steeling himself for this visit since the corporal on guard had called ahead? Or had he simply not recognized him?
While Chastel signed papers, Sharko took the opportunity to check out the office. The seven articles of the legionnaire’s code of honor dominated a bay window that looked out on the parade ground. The walls were covered with countless commemorative plaques and photos, in which the colonel, at various ages, posed alone or with his regiment. The ocher soil and dust of Afghanistan, the shattered structures of Beirut, the exuberance of the Amazonian jungle… A muffled violence radiated from those faces with their sharply etched features, from those fingers clutching their assault rifles. At bottom, these pictures showed nothing other than war, conflict, death, and in the middle of it all, men who felt at home there.
The colonel finally stacked up his papers and pushed them to the edge of his impeccably neat desk. There was no other chair. Here, one tended to remain standing, at attention.
“I still envy those years when no one had heard of paperwork. May I see your ID?”
“Of course.”
Sharko handed it over. The officer looked at it scrupulously before giving it back. His fingers were thick, his nails well manicured. Like Sharko, he had left the field some time ago.
“You are looking for someone in our ranks who committed murder, if I’ve understood correctly. And you’ve come to arrest him on your own?”
His voice was deep, monolithic, rough. If he was dissimulating, he was good at it.
“For now, we’re only at the investigation stage. A surveillance camera proved that his vehicle was present about ten miles from Aubagne, at the A52 tollbooth. But there’s no trace of the same vehicle when you get to the A50. Therefore, he has to have stopped between the two.”
“Have you found the vehicle?”
“Not yet, but we’re working on it.”
Colonel Chastel shook the mouse of his computer, then typed what was no doubt a password on the keyboard.
“You are surely aware that the Legion does not recruit men who have committed rape or murder?”
“He probably used a false identity.”
“Not very likely. Give me his name.”
Sharko looked him in the eye, as deeply as he could. It was there, soon, in the flash of an instant, that he had to catch the tiny sparkle that could turn everything around. He undid the elastics holding his folder shut and took out an enlarged photo. He placed it on the desk, facedown on the wood.
“It’s all on there.”
Bertrand Chastel pulled the sheet toward him and turned it over.
The photo showed Mohamed Abane when he was alive. A close-up of his face.
Chastel should have reacted. Nothing—not the slightest emotion on his closed features.
Sharko clenched his jaws. It couldn’t be. The inspector felt destabilized, but tried not to show it and to stay on point.
“As it says under the photo, he must have presented himself here under the name Akim Abane.”
The legionnaire pushed the sheet back toward Sharko.
“Sorry, but I’ve never seen him.”
Not a tremble in his voice, lips, or fingers. Sharko took back the picture, his brows knit.
“I imagine you can’t see every new face that joins your ranks. In fact, I was rather expecting you to type his name into the computer, as you were getting ready to do before I showed you his portrait.”
A short pause. Too long, deemed Sharko. Nonetheless, Chastel lost none of his composure or self-possession. Thick-skinned, this one.
“Nothing happens here without my knowing or seeing it. But if it will reassure you.”
He typed the information into the computer and turned the screen toward Sharko.
“Nothing.”
“You didn’t need to show me the screen—I would have taken you at your word.”
With a firm motion, Chastel pulled the monitor back toward himself.
“I’m quite busy. Second Lieutenant Brachet will see you to the exit gate. Good luck with your fugitive.”
Sharko hesitated. He couldn’t leave like this, with all these doubts. Just as Chastel moved to pick up his phone, Sharko leaned toward him and pressed on his hand, forcing him to put the receiver back in the cradle. This time, he knew he was crossing the line, and that it could all come tumbling down.
“I don’t know how you knew I’d show up here, but don’t try to fuck with me.”
“Remove your hand at once.”
Sharko pushed his face to within four inches of the officer’s. He went straight to the point, all or nothing.
“Syndrome E. I know all about it. For God’s sake, why the fuck else do you think I’d be here?”
This time Chastel registered the blow and couldn’t entirely hide his astonishment: eyes wandering, temporal bones rolling beneath the skin. A bead of sweat pearled on his forehead, despite the air-conditioning. He kept his hand on the phone.