“Just come. It’s an emergency. Right now, please.”
Chapter 84
I KNEW THAT, ironically, an “emergency” had to be considered good news at this point in the countdown. At 8:30 that morning I was inside a speeding police cruiser, the blare of its siren disturbing the peace all along our route across Paris.
My God, the streets were bleak and deserted. Except for soldiers and the police, anyway. My part in an ongoing interrogation was explained to me during the ride. “We have an arms dealer in custody, Dr. Cross. We have reason to believe that he helped supply the bombs. Maybe he’s one of the men who you saw out in the country. He’s a Russian—with a white beard.”
Minutes later we arrived in front of the Brigade Criminelle, a dark, nineteenth-century building in a quiet neighborhood along the Seine. Actually, this was the infamous “La Crim” from countless French movies and police stories, including several about Inspector Maigret that Nana and I had read together when I was a kid. Life imitates art, or something like that.
Once inside La Crim I was led up a rickety staircase, all the way to the top floor, the fourth. The interrogation was being conducted up there.
I was brought down a narrow hallway to room 414. The brigadier who escorted me knocked once, and then we stepped inside.
I recognized the Russian arms dealer instantly.
They had caught White Beard, the one who’d told me he was the Wolf.
Chapter 85
THE ROOM WAS small and cramped, as it was situated right under the eaves. It had a low, rain-stained, sloping ceiling and a tiny Velux, a skylight. I looked at my watch—8:45. Tick, tick, tick.
I was hurriedly introduced to the interrogation team of Captain Coridon and Lieutenant Leroux—and their prisoner, a Russian arms dealer, Artur Nikitin. I already knew Nikitin, of course. He wore no shirt or shoes and was cuffed, hands behind his back. He was also sweating profusely. He was definitely the white-bearded Russian from the farmhouse.
I had been told during the ride over that the Russian hoodlum did business with al Qaeda that had made him millions. It was believed that he was involved with suitcase nukes, that he knew how many had been sold, and that he knew who had bought them.
“Cowards!” he was shouting at the French police as I entered the room. “Fucking goddamn cowards. You can’t do this to me. I’ve done nothing wrong. You French claim to be such liberals, but you are not!”
He looked at me and pretended he had no idea who I was. His bad acting made me smile.
Captain Coridon told him, “You may have noticed that you have been brought to the Préfecture de Police rather than the offices of the DST. That’s because you’re not being charged as an ‘illegal trafficker in arms.’ The charge is murder. We are homicide detectives. Trust me, there are no liberals in this room, unless it’s you.”
Nikitin’s brown eyes remained wide with anger, but I also detected traces of confusion, especially now that I was there. “This is bullshit! I can’t believe it. I’ve done nothing wrong. I am a businessman! A French citizen. I want my lawyer!”
Coridon looked at me. “You try.”
I stepped forward and threw a hard uppercut into the Russian’s jaw. His head snapped back. “We’re not even close to being even,” I told him. “No one knows that you’re here! You will be tried as a terrorist, and you will be executed. No one will care, not after tomorrow. Not after your bombs help destroy Paris and kill thousands.”
The Russian yelled at me. “I tell you again—I’ve done nothing! You can’t do anything to me. What weapons? What bombs? Who am I, Saddam Hussein? You can’t do this.”
“We can, and we will execute you,” shouted Captain Coridon from off to the side. “You are a dead man as soon as you leave this room, Nikitin. We have other scum to talk to. Whoever helps us first, we help them.”
“Get him out of here!” Coridon finally said. “We’re wasting time with this bastard!”
The brigadier grabbed Nikitin by his hair and by the band of his pants. He threw him halfway across the room. The Russian’s head smacked against the wall, but he scrambled to his bare feet. His eyes were large and fearful now. Maybe he was beginning to understand that the rules of interrogation had changed. Everything had changed now.
“Last chance to talk,” I said. “Remember, you’re just a gnat to us.”
“I didn’t sell anything to anyone here in France! I sell in Angola, for diamonds!” Nikitin said.
“I don’t care, and I don’t believe you!” Captain Coridon shouted at the top of his voice. “Get him out of here.”
“I know something!” Nikitin suddenly blurted out. “The suitcase nukes! The number is four. It’s al Qaeda who’s behind it. Al Qaeda made the plan! They call the shots. The prisoners of war—everything.”
I turned to the French policemen and shook my head. “The Wolf gave him up to us. And he’s not going to be pleased with his ‘performance.’ He’ll kill him for us. I don’t believe a word he just said.”
Nikitin looked at the three of us, then he spit, “Al Qaeda! Fuck you if you don’t like it, or believe it.”
I stared back at him. “Prove what you’re saying. Make us believe you. Make me believe you, because I don’t.”