Murder in Belleville by Cara Black Page A

Hamid, won’t you join me?”
    “Unfortunately my fast allows only weak tea.”
    Not wishing to tower over Hamid, Bernard sat down on a nearby tattered cushion.
    “Monsieur Hamid,” he said, “my ministry wants to provide for your people. We wish to work with you. After the dust settles, so to speak, we’ll make sure provisions allow for their return.”
    Bernard had spoken quickly, dropping the bad news. He clung to the idea that Hamid would hear the sincerity in his voice. Somehow miraculously believe him and shuffle the sans-papiers down the aisle and into the planes.
    Hamid shook his head. His eyes mirrored the sadness Bernard felt. “I apologize in advance for whatever happens,” Hamid said, bowing his head, flecked with gray under the Chechia. “Violence is never called for.”
    “I’m sure you’re not threatening retaliatory force, Monsieur Hamid,” Bernard said, recovering quickly. “That would surprise me, coming from a leader and a man known for peaceful negotiations.”
    “I speak not so,” Hamid said. “The teachings of Allah embrace the family of man, evidenced by those you see around us. Not distinguishing us as Hindu, Muslim, or Christian.”
    Hamid raised his arm, then dropped it. The effort of exertions appeared to tire him.
    A man with a heavy beard, dressed in the same style, appeared. “Monsieur Hamid’s health bears watching,” he said. “I’m sorry, he’s very weak. Please discuss with him later.”
    “Bien sur,” Bernard agreed. “A very delicate situation.”
    The last thing Bernard wanted was for Hamid to become a martyr. Visions of the Ivory Coast Bureau, manned by disgraced bureaucrats at half their pension, danced in his mind.
    He retreated to the vestibule, seeking a silent spot.
    What had Hamid insinuated by mentioning violence? The hidden fundamentalist cells dotting Paris and their retributions loomed in his mind … Metro bombings, explosions in department stores … innocent people commuting to work, families buying school clothes, killed due to fanatics. His heart hardened. He’d thought Hamid was different, from a peaceful sect.
    “Get me access to le Ministre” Bernard said, eyeing the buses lining rue de la Mare. Their rumbling engines and exhaust fumes filled Place de Menilmontant.
    “As you wish,” the lantern-jawed CRS captain said.
    By the time le Ministre came on the line, Bernard had rehearsed his plan mentally several times. He’d avert a crisis the only way he could think of and get Hamid out of the church. Hopefully the sans’papiers would follow.
    “Hamid’s weakened condition demands attention,” Bernard said to le Ministre. “Setting him up as a martyr, canonized by the immigrants, is the last thing we want.”
    “And what do you propose to do about that?” le Ministre asked.
    A rustling came from the minister’s end as he put his hand over the phone. Bernard heard applause and murmuring voices in the background.
    “A tactic to diffuse his power,” Bernard said.
    He explained his plan.
    Three minutes later the minister agreed, with one caveat. “He’s out, Berge. Or you are.”

Tuesday Early Evening
    A IMEE HAD DEPOSITED M OMO , a well-coiffed shih tzu, at Serge’s mother-in-law’s, declining tea despite the insistent invitation. More than a month had passed, she realized guiltily, since she’d taken Miles Davis for a trim.
    In her office, she rang Philippe again, but he was out. His secretary promised to reach him and have him get back to her. She worried. Anais hadn’t returned her calls either.
    Aimee stood reading Serge’s unfolding fax over Rene’s shoulder.
    “The Yvette’s identity hasn’t yet been established,” Aimee said as she read the report. “But Anais identified her as Sylvie Coudray. Yet the neighbor and the custodian referred to her as Eugenie. According to this the National Fichier in Nantes hasn’t ID’d her, either.”
    She shook her head, unable to figure it out. The Fichier, known for quick response