“In Bayeux, he overheard a phone conversation between Violette and Nasrene in Arabic,” Sarraf told him. “He heard her use the word ‘henna,’ which is Algerian for grandmother. When she hung up Khateb told her off for being disrespectful to her grandmother. It was obvious to him that Violette wasn’t where she was supposed to be. She’d described the weather as bitterly cold, for one thing. In the middle of August. So Violette told him to mind his own business, but then came back to say she was sorry.”
“Do you believe him?” Bish asked, remembering the “stickybeak” comment.
“Yeah I do. Nasrene’s a stickler for manners, and one of the big rules is to respect your elders.”
“Ask him why he disappeared the day of the bombing,” Bish said.
Sarraf asked, then translated. “He says his wife is working illegally for a wealthy Algerian family in Paris. She sends home money, but mostly he’s raising these kids on his own. When he’s away for work for more than a week, he leaves them with a friend in Amiens. He went to collect them after being gone for eight days, and by the time he returned, his photo was plastered all over the TV. He’s been hiding in this dump ever since.”
“I’m not buying it,” Bish said. “Why not go talk to the police? He could have cleared things up with the truth.”
“Really?” Sarraf’s voice was icy. “Because coppers believe the truth, do they?”
“Look—”
But Sarraf cut him off with another question to Khateb. It was a quick exchange. Then silence.
Sarraf glanced at Bish. He went to speak but Khateb stopped him.
“What?” Bish asked.
Khateb was agitated. Whatever he had just revealed to Sarraf, he seemed to regret. Khateb spoke rapidly and Sarraf held up a hand, as if asking the Algerian to hold on. To trust him.
“What’s going on, Jamal?” Bish asked.
“He lied about leaving the kids with a friend in Amiens. They aren’t enrolled in school. He needs the older ones to look after the younger ones while he works. He’s scared the authorities will find out and take them away.”
Bish sat forward, his eyes meeting Khateb’s. “I’ll bring you in to Attal.”
“No!” Khateb shouted. No translation needed there.
“You heard him,” Sarraf said. “We’re finished here. Let’s just leave these people alone.”
“He’s a terror suspect. They’ll come hunting him down. Tell him that if he gives himself up as a person of interest, it’ll go much better for him.”
“You’re asking too much,” Sarraf said.
“Then why did you bring me here?”
“To find out if he was a threat to Violette! That’s all I wanted to know.”
“Well, how about you answer to Violette when antiterrorism catches up with this guy and starts shooting? Because God help you all if five innocent kids get caught in between.”
Bish retrieved his phone but Khateb was on his feet in an instant, yelling at both of them. They heard crying from the back room. “Baba. Baba.”
“Put the phone away,” Sarraf said. “You’re spooking them all. He thinks you’re calling the coppers.”
“I’m getting the name of someone who can help. Tell him to trust me.”
Sarraf looked torn.
“This isn’t a repeat of Brackenham, Jimmy,” Bish said. “Tell him I can help.”
When Bish finally got the nod he rang Rachel at the hospital. “Do you know a human rights lawyer in the Calais area who could make a big fuss if a French Algerian disappeared beyond the doors of a police station?” he asked. “Someone like a French Amal Alamuddin,” he added.
“What’s wrong with a French Rachel Ballyntine?”
“Yeah, her too.”
Once Bish had a name there was more back-and-forth between Sarraf and Khateb, but finally Khateb agreed. Sarraf phoned one of the volunteers he knew through his work with the migrant kids and organized someone to take in Khateb’s children for the time being. And then they drove to the Calais police station, where the French equivalent of Amal Alamuddin and Rachel Ballyntine was waiting outside. Lena Crozier spoke French, Arabic, and English. She had contacted Attal to say she was bringing her client in for questioning, and had informed the French press as well. She made a statement outside the police station explaining that her client was about to be questioned. It all seemed so civilized. The four of them entered the foyer under the intimidating scrutiny of the local police.
“I’m getting out of here,” Sarraf said, well aware that the hostility was directed at him as well as Khateb. “Let me know how it goes.”
“Keys?” Bish reminded him.
Sarraf went to retrieve them from his pocket and within seconds two uniforms had him facedown on the floor, with a gun to his head. Khateb got jumpy, turned to run, and there was shouting and more weapons drawn until Khateb too was down, a knee to his back. Both men were cuffed.
“Uncuff them!” Bish shouted at Attal, who had just entered the foyer and was looking stony-faced.
It was Lena Crozier’s voice of reason that seemed to calm the situation. Probably a threat or two that Bish couldn’t understand. Once uncuffed, Sarraf made an exaggerated show of removing the keys from his pocket and handing them to Bish.
“Fuck you all,” he muttered, walking out.
Attal beckoned Bish with a gesture to follow him upstairs, but Bish was too annoyed to respond.