Babayaga: A Novel (49 page)

Maroc threw out his hands. “Ah, I had forgotten what a frustrating man you can be, Vidot. You reappear out of nowhere, offering no explanation of where you have been or what you have been up to. You have nothing to say regarding the fate of your colleague Bemm. You vanish, lose your partner, and now you’re ordering
me
about? Who is in charge here?”

Noticing that officers coming out of the station were staring at the two of them, Maroc grew a little self-conscious. He did not want to make a scene by losing his temper, but Vidot was especially skilled at getting under his skin.

The detective was nonplussed by his superior’s outburst. “Of course, sir, you give the orders and I merely carry them out, but when I come across significant crimes being committed in our city that need a timely response, you will forgive me if I expect our leaders to respond forcefully,” he said.

Maroc paused, looking Vidot over. The detective’s attitude repulsed him. As humble as the detective tried to sound with his “sirs” and his formal manner, there was an insubordinate note of condescension in his tone. The superintendent took a step back and changed the subject. “Have you been home yet?”

Vidot raised one eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

Maroc smiled mischievously. “I only wondered if perhaps this little adventure of yours might merely be a way of avoiding returning to your apartment. Perhaps this ‘mission’ you describe is not very so important, perhaps you’re only popping up and hauling me off on some merry goose chase so you will not have to explain to your lovely wife why you have been away and out of touch for so long?”

Vidot paused for a moment before he answered. “You are correct about one thing, sir. My wife is a lovely woman.” If Vidot’s tone had been cool before, it was now arctic. “But I was not aware you had met her.”

Hearing the edge in the detective’s voice, Maroc decided to leave the subject alone for the time being. He realized it might be a good idea to come along with Vidot on this arrest: Why should the arrogant little officer get all the credit? “Very well,” Maroc said, indulgently patting Vidot on the back, “let’s look into this lead of yours.”

Twenty minutes later they pulled up in front of an ordinary-looking building. Going directly to the front door, Vidot knocked hard. No one answered.

“See if it’s open,” said Maroc. It was unlocked. “Voilà!” he said with a smile.

Inside the room there was a scientific lab set up along three long aluminum tables. A line of storage cabinets stood behind them. Rubber tubes, glass vials, and various joints, pipes, and screws ran down the length of the tables, past a series of silent Bunsen burners. At the end of the tables sat a pile of loosely arranged thick manila packets. Maroc went over and pulled one open. It was filled with a white powder. “Well, well, what do we have here?” he said, dipping his finger in for a taste.

“I would not do that,” said Vidot, grabbing Maroc’s hand before it could reach his tongue.

“You want to tell me what’s going on here?” asked Maroc.

Suddenly, a loud voice with a broad American accent filled the room. “Well,
bonjour
!” They looked over to the staircase, where a broad-shouldered man in a dark blue suit descended, followed by another man. Maroc suspected the men had been hiding, hoping they would leave. Maroc looked to Vidot, but the detective clearly did not know these men.

The American stepped forward and spoke again, but this time only in English, which Maroc did not understand. The American took his wallet out of his jacket, pulled out a card, and passed it to Maroc. It read:

He said a few more words Maroc could not understand and then he ceased talking and broke into a broad smile.

Maroc looked around a little bewildered until Vidot spoke up: “The gentleman says he is General Philip Strong, and he says he’s from the American embassy. He says he is waiting here for his team and he says he would like to know who we are and why we feel we have the right to walk into someone’s private property.”

“Well, tell him the door was open.”

Vidot and the man proceeded to have a conversation in English while Maroc stood there feeling increasingly frustrated. Finally, Vidot turned to him. “He says that he and his team have been working with the United States Department of Defense in conjunction with both NATO and Interpol. He claims he has oversight on a project being run out of this building and says the contents of those envelopes are United States property. He apologizes for his English, but neither he nor his colleague speaks French. And, finally,” said Vidot with a bemused smile, “he is requesting we leave the building now as it is a matter of national security.”

This annoyed Maroc even more. “Oh really? Whose national security is he talking about? Ours? Are the Basques somehow involved, the Kabyle, the Pieds-Noirs? I sincerely doubt it. We don’t need an American cowboy strolling in to lecture us about his idea of national security. And I would specifically like to know what that substance is in those packets over there, in fact I demand to know—” At that moment, mid-rant, Maroc glanced over at the grinning American and realized there might be some opportunity here that he was missing. “Ahem, yes, let me begin again. Vidot, please tell this gentleman we apologize, but this is a major investigation, and while we respect his credentials, in fact he has no authority here, we are—”

At this, the American cut him off, talking now even more volubly with a great booming voice that echoed through the room. This interruption once again infuriated Maroc, and he started shouting and shaking his finger in the air. “Tell this man to shut up while I am speaking! I am the law here! I want an explanation!” Vidot was attempting to make sense to both sides but neither would be quiet. The American, while still shouting, strode to the middle of the room and slammed his briefcase down on the countertop. Maroc was still yelling, Vidot was trying to translate, but then the American opened up the case and everyone got quiet.

The American peeled two piles of ten-thousand-franc notes off the stack, placed them on the counter, and pushed them toward Maroc. Vidot explained, in a slightly disapproving tone, “He says he would like to pay us, in order to reimburse us both for wasting the Prefecture of Police’s time.”

Maroc looked at the money, he looked at Vidot, and then he looked at the American. “He is offering this as some sort of a payoff?”

“Yes, that appears to be the case. It is clearly an attempted bribe,” said Vidot.

Maroc’s face grew red with revulsion and he slammed his hand down hard on the counter. “This is absolutely disgusting, Vidot. Tell him that as an officer of the law I am appalled at his offer. Anyone with even an idiot’s sense of justice would see that our time—which he has absolutely wasted—is worth much more than this insulting sum.”

Vidot looked at him, stunned.

“Go ahead,” said Maroc. “Tell him.”

“I will not,” said Vidot. “Crimes have been committed in this room, there are bodies buried in the basement, there is a homicidal scientist loose—”

“You tell him what I said, Detective, or I swear I will have you tied up in months of internal investigations for the little holiday you’ve been off on.” Maroc stepped up to Vidot and seethed in his face. “And I promise you it will be a very thorough investigation, an inquest in which even the tiniest stones of your personal life will be turned over, and I am sure you do not want to put your sweet wife through that, do you?”

Vidot’s eyes flashed as Maroc let the last words slip out. Maroc felt bad playing so low, it was not his style, but he was not about to let this arrogant detective get between him and the American’s money.

Vidot slowly turned and spoke to the American, who without hesitation reached into the case again and unpacked more cash, not stopping until almost fifty percent of the case’s contents was stacked high on the counter. The American looked up at Maroc, gesturing with his hands as if to say, “Is this enough?” Maroc smiled and pantomimed that he should put the cash back into the case. The American looked at it, hesitated for a moment, and then refilled the briefcase and handed the whole thing to Maroc.

Moments later, Maroc was walking out with a taciturn Vidot by his side and the case of cash in his hand. The mission was over. He turned to wave farewell to the American and his associate, who both stood in the doorway, watching them go. “What did he say as we were leaving?” he asked Vidot.

“He said he hopes someday he can show us the same hospitality in America that France has showed him here.”

“Ha ha, I bet he does.” Maroc felt absolutely victorious: like Charles Martel, who had fearlessly fought back the hordes of invading infidels at Tours, he had just taken on the great American army and won.

When he and Vidot got into the car, he did not start the engine right away. They both sat still, facing the small laboratory building. Maroc was waiting for his heart to stop its tremendous and wonderful beating. The case of money sat between them. Finally he looked at Vidot. “You can take your share now.”

“Excuse me?”

Maroc patted the case and smiled. “Go ahead, take some.” Vidot did not move. Maroc went on: “I was very rude to you in there. I owe you an apology. Besides, I am not as greedy as you think I am. So, go on.”

“No,” Vidot said, shaking his head, “I cannot take this money.”

“Oh, but you can.” Maroc turned and faced him while Vidot continued to stare straight ahead. “You can and you should, Detective, for your own protection. You see, if you do not accept my generosity, you will stay absolutely pure, and I do not like pure people. In fact, they make me sick. So, please, Detective, it has been an eventful enough morning, so simply take your share.” He pushed the case forward, cracking it open so that the money faced the detective. Slowly and reluctantly Vidot looked down at the cash.

Watching the detective’s hand reaching tentatively into the case, Maroc felt calm again. In fact, he felt better than he had all day. Vidot paused. “I do have one request.”

“What’s that?” asked Maroc.

“Do you think you could drop me off by my tailor?” he asked.

Maroc burst out laughing. There, see, he said to himself, no one is as noble as they seem. In the end, we are all parasites.

He did wind up dropping Vidot off at his tailor’s by the Madeleine church and then headed back to work. It was still early in the afternoon, and, after parking the car, Maroc strode in through the station’s front doors, feeling as good as he had felt all day and going at full steam. The adrenaline from his little adventure still had his blood coursing and he was thinking up ways to make the most of it. He would only stay in the office a few minutes, he thought, check in with his staff, and then head to the bar again and get his hands on that sweet Camille. Striding down the corridor, Maroc was so distracted thinking about grabbing hold of Camille’s perfectly pear-shaped rump that he did not notice the other officers in the station staring as he passed by. He ran through his options with rough logic. He could not realistically spend a whole night again with the barmaid right on the tail of last night, his stupid wife might finally see the light, but the case of money in his hand inspired him to think he could dash out and buy Camille some Ladurée macaroons and maybe some shiny earrings and then get in a quick fuck with her before heading back home to his wife. Of course, though he’d try to buy her off with macaroons too, his wife would also probably be in need of some physical attention; she was always like that after he spent a night away. What was he complaining about? So, there would be a lot of serious fucking ahead? That would not be so bad, he thought with a grin, he only hoped he could get it up for— Maroc’s train of thought shuddered to a halt as he came upon the small crowd that was assembled around his office door.

“What is going on, why are you here?” he asked, but the group of policemen standing there did not say a word, merely parted to reveal the shivering, stark-naked man, with a coat wrapped around him, who was sitting alone on the floor in front of Maroc’s desk.

“Bemm?” Maroc said, recognizing the officer. “Bemm! What are you doing here?”

“That is what we were wondering,” said Officer Pingeot. “The maid says she came in to clean early last night and the office was empty. She locked it up when she left. Then a little while ago, I came to drop off the transcripts from Madame Vidot’s phone tapping. You were not here yet, so I got your key from Anna and unlocked the office, and that is when I found him curled up, shivering there, like he is now, only without the coat.”

Maroc was bewildered. “How did he get in? Does he have an explanation?”

“He has been unable to speak, he clearly has been through some sort of horrible trauma. We are awaiting the ambulance.”

“Well, there must be some explanation!”

The officer gave him a polite smile. “We were hoping you could provide that.”

“How would I know? I was not here last night, I was home.”

“We called your wife, looking for you, and she said you were not home last night, that you had told her you had to work late, in your office.” The last three words came out with a barely restrained emphasis that managed to offend Maroc to his core.