Taking care of the Vega Maritime shipments was Boisier’s concern, but he wasn’t here today. A violent case of thegrippe, Simonet had heard. Servedle conright.
The only thing was, expediting the company’s ship’s transit through the port was now his concern. The captain of theMarie Clairehad failed to file an F–45 and Simonet had to go out to collect it because the captain wasn’t responding to his cell phone. Without the form, the next port of call wouldn’t accept the ship.
It was the hottest day of the year so far, with 100 percent humidity. It was almost half a kilometer from Simonet’s air-conditioned office in the customs house to the bulk terminal where the stinking, rustyMarie Clairewas waiting. For a moment, Simonet was tempted to just let it go. Fuck it. Fuck them. He could have a heart attack walking half a kilometer along the dock in the broiling sun, unless he could grab one of the electric shuttles thefonctionnairesused.
But if he didn’t go, Boisier would miss out on his bribe and take it out on him. Boisier was a master of bureaucratic rules and could make Simonet’s life miserable in any number of ways. Simonet was retiring in December, all he wanted was to keep his head down. So, okay, he’d make the trek out to the end of the dock, make sure the captain filled out the form and come back. He’d let Boisier know what he’d done. Boisier could pick up his bribe next time around and he’d better be grateful to Simonet.
Simonet only found a shuttle about a hundred meters from where theMarie Clairewas moored. He stopped the cart on the dockside and looked up with disgust at theMarie Claire. It was a miracle she hadn’t already sunk under the weight of the rust. She was scheduled to sail out at 1600 hours. Her entire crew should have been on deck, preparing the ship for departure, but Simonet couldn’t see a soul.
Merde, he was going to have to do this the hard way. Grumbling to himself, he walked up the broad gangplank, looking around when he reached the deck. He was aft, near the forecastle, and completely alone on deck.
This was strange, and slightly eerie. Ship decks just before departure were hives of activity. Time was money, and docking at the harbor unnecessarily was expensive.
Simonet walked along the side of the ship, next to the huge containers that filled the mid-ship line. Doubtless there were double the number of containers belowdecks.
He finally reached the stern section, the radar tower and stack rising high above him. He still had not seen anybody. Simonet eyed the ladder leading up to the bridge and the chart room with loathing. It was steaming hot and this was way beyond the call of duty. Fuck Boisier.
But then again, Boisier definitely had the ability to make his life truly miserable in the remaining six months on the job. With a huge sigh, Simonet started climbing and was dripping with sweat and feeling faint by the time he got to the chart room, where most captains spent their time while docked.
Empty.Merde.
It was perfectly pointless calling out, because of the noise of the overhead cranes. He’d simply have to go through the ship looking for the captain.
Simonet found the ladder down into the hold and scurried down it, welcoming the slightly cooler temperature belowdecks. There was some noise at the end of a long corridor and he followed it, making no attempt to soften his footsteps. Men’s voices, low and sonorous, concentrating on a task. He heard the sounds of hammers striking metal. Probably trying to repair the rust bucket themselves, without calling in the shipyard crew.
Simonet reached the end of the corridor—and froze. He took in at a glance a scene that sent ice through his veins, understanding it instantly. Heart thudding with fear, he backed slowly away, the form fluttering unnoticed to the deck.
He couldn’t be seen! These men were heartless, utterly ruthless. Unworthy of the name of human beings. They didn’t hesitate to massacre women and children. A low-level clerk was nothing to them.
Where he’d walked down the corridor without any attempt at quiet, he now flattened himself against the bulkhead, wishing he could simply melt into it, through it.
Oh God, he had to get out without being seen.
The longer he stayed, the greater were his chances of being discovered. Simonet moved as fast as he could back down the corridor, throwing frantic glances behind him. The men he’d seen were armed. He was totally defenseless in this steel corridor, an unmissable target. He had no idea what kind of noise he was making because he couldn’t hear anything above the thudding of his heart in his ears.
By some miracle, by the grace of God, Simonet managed to make it up on deck and down off the ship without being seen. He found the electric cart where he’d left it, and ten minutes later, he was locking his office door behind him, sweating profusely, gulping in air, totally terrorized.
Oh God, oh God.
This was ten million times worse than cigarettes or contraband goods or even cocaine. This wasterrorism. This was what had taken his two daughters, Hélène and Josiane, on that terrible day in Toulouse. The day his world ended.
He could still remember frantically calling the Railway office in Toulouse because his two daughters, his two treasures, were visiting the city, thinking—my two darlings will call me and tell me they’ve been out shopping or visiting a museum or flirting with handsome young men.
But it wasn’t to be. Josiane and Hélène had been on the train coming into the Toulouse Station, and had been blown apart. Someone had pressed a detonating device that turned human beings into human hamburger, including his beloved daughters.
Simonet had travelled to Toulouse and brought his daughters home in body bags that contained small body parts instead of bodies. And he’d come home to a wife whose broken heart had simply given out during the night.
The jihadists had cost him everything he held dear, everything he had in the world, and he made it his business to study everything about them. He bought books, read magazine and newspaper articles, watched Al Jazeera, attended night courses on the history of Islam. Over the past few years, he’d become an expert on Islamic terrorism.
So Jean-Paul Simonet had understood immediately the significance of what he’d seen in the hold of theMarie Claire. If he closed his eyes, he could see it as if he were right there again, standing terrified and quaking in the doorway.
Ten crew members working on the door to a secret cavity that had been cut out of one of the holds. Simonet could see into the cavity, see the air mattresses, the stock of bottles of mineral water and several large canisters with the black-and-yellow international biohazard sign.
And most terrifying of all, at least forty men, prostrate at prayers just inside the door. Forty men withshaheedjackets stacked on one side and lime green scarves around their shoulders, just waiting to becomeshaheed batal—martyr heroes.
Terrorists. Headed for New York with bombs strapped around their torsos and access to radioactive material. Simonet’s fingers trembled as he fumbled for the phone, dropping the cordless receiver in his haste. His hands were slick with sweat, he could barely breathe around the terror in his chest. His fingers punched in 17, the emergency gendarmerie number, but he hung up almost immediately. This information was too important to be given to a telephone operator.
His brother-in-law knew theCommissaire de Police.That’s it—he’d plead a headache and leave early. There would be suspicions if the police swarmed his office building, people would talk, his name would be known. If there was one thing Simonet knew, it was that these people were vicious. He didn’t have much to live for but by God, he didn’t want to die at the hands of thesecanailles.
