The door opened. The blond woman held a phone to her ear, saying, “Simon? But I thought you were—” the words catching in her throat.
“Hello, Mandy. We need to talk.”
Chapter 59
Paris
Mattias rolled into Paris early Friday evening. A pewter sky hovered low, the streets slick after a spring downpour. They’d come from the east, across the German plain, over the Rhine, through Saarbrücken, then into France. Omar, the driver, had found asylum in Sweden like him. Hassan, whom they’d picked up at the refugee center in Ingolstadt, had been denied entry to Europe after the tragedy. His path had led him to Syria, Greece, then northward up the Balkan Peninsula—Macedonia, Albania, Croatia—and finally, after seven months, Germany.
To look at, the three were brothers. All came from North Africa. Mattias and Omar from Tunisia, Hassan from Mauritania. Their features were markedly European—straight noses, prominent cheekbones, slim, well-defined lips. Their eyes, though brown, were light. It was the color of their skin that marked them as foreigners.
Mattias called out instructions as they drove. Straight on the Boulevard Macdonald. Left on Rue d’Aubervilliers. He had never been to Paris, and though he knew it as a great world capital, he was unimpressed. To him, it was an endless parade of soot-stained concrete, abominable traffic, and hostile faces.
“Porte de la Chapelle,” said Omar, banging his hand on the wheel. “How hard can it be to find?” Traffic slowed and he laid on the horn, to no effect. In his former life, he’d been a taxi driver, an excellent one in his own estimation.
“Right at this street,” said Mattias, motioning for Omar to turn. “And here, right again.” It was at Porte de la Chappelle on the northern rim of Paris that the immigrants had taken up lodging.
Omar spun the wheel. The car disappeared into the shadow of the Périphérique, the elevated eight-lane highway that circled the city perimeter. They rounded a corner. In an instant, they’d reached their destination.
In the dank, shadowy enclaves beneath the highway, a patchwork encampment of domed tents had been set up, hundreds of them, multicolored mushrooms springing from every crevice for blocks. Their occupants milled about in droves, spilling onto the streets, unmindful of the traffic passing within inches. The smell of burning wood and unwashed hordes penetrated the car.
“Keep going,” said Mattias. “Turn left here. Find a place to park, then we can call him.”
“A place to park,” said Omar, surveying the uninterrupted line of automobiles filling every space. “You might as well ask me to fly to the moon.”
They made six circuits of the surrounding area before finding a space. Omar killed the engine and the three men climbed out of the Volkswagen Polo. It was a small car for the tall men and the long drive had been taxing. They stretched and clapped their arms and joked around. Mattias spotted a boulangérie and went inside to buy them sandwiches and drinks.
“You must pay,” shouted the clerk, his arms gesturing for him to get out.
“I have money,” said Mattias in his soft voice.
“Pardon me,” said the clerk. “I was rude. It’s just that…” He shrugged, motioning to the camp city outside his window.
Mattias purchased three cheese sandwiches, soft drinks (Fanta orange—his favorite), and an éclair for them to split. His companions devoured the food as if starving.
Omar tried the number for Mohammed, then frowned. “No longer in service.”
“He said he was selling cigarettes,” said Mattias.
“In a kiosk? He doesn’t have a work permit.”
“I think he meant on the streets. Loosies.”
“Spread out,” said Omar. As the driver, he had assumed the role of de facto leader.
Mattias crossed the road and started along a band of asphalt skirting some of the tents. The men were from everywhere. Tunisia. Algeria. Egypt. Libya. Sudan. Somalia. Ethiopia. “Do you know Mohammed from Tunis?” he asked over and over again, stopping at each knot of immigrants. It was like asking a European “Do you know Pierre from Paris?” The answer was either a laugh, a dark look, or a simple “No.”
He continued another two hundred meters, arriving at the end of the encampment. He found no sign of Mohammed and, to be honest, was no longer sure he remembered him. It had been a long time and not something he cared to remember. Still, a small, wiry man with an eye patch shouldn’t be too difficult to find.
“My friend, my friend, come here.” Three men looked him over. Not immigrants; locals, Parisians, though one might have had Middle Eastern