MoMo shook his head. “What you see on the screen is what we’ve got.”

  “Maybe we should take a closer look at the comings and goings of the drivers themselves. It’ll take a while to match them to their cars, but I don’t see that we have much choice.”

  The young man looked at Brunelle. “Hypothetically, there might be a faster way.”

  Brunelle nodded. “Do it.”

  “Do what?” Gibert asked.

  “You’ll see,” she responded.

  Within moments, MoMo had used the AI software to match the drivers with their vehicles and to pinpoint when they had parked and walked out of the garage on foot, and when they had come back.

  Brunelle then said, “Jadot was murdered Sunday evening. How many of the cars arrived during that day and then left on Monday morning?”

  “Four,” MoMo responded, isolating the vehicles, along with footage of their drivers walking in and out of the garage.

  “What about gait recognition? Do any of the drivers match our suspect—with or without his limp?”

  The young man typed in a command for the AI, but then shook his head. “No match.”

  Gibert smiled when he recognized what software they were using. “None of this will ever be admissible in court.”

  “It’s never going to see a court,” she responded. “The minute we step away from this desk, it’s all going to be deleted.”

  “We just don’t have the storage capacity to hang on to these training simulations,” MoMo said grinning as he tried something else. “If our suspect snuck into the garage via the Métro tunnels, maybe that’s how he snuck out in the first place.”

  “Meaning someone might have driven into the garage with him in the trunk, left the empty car there, and then drove back out with him once the job was finished?”

  “Exactly.”

  Brunelle and Gibert watched as the young man accessed the network of street cameras and zeroed in on the feed showing the faux façade airshaft on the Rue de Chapon. MoMo then pulled up the footage from Sunday and set the AI loose.

  The moment he engaged it, the AI got a match. Their suspect could be seen exiting the little blue door. MoMo’s hunch had been correct.

  Now that they knew how the suspect had traveled to and from the National Archives, they only needed to figure out which vehicle was his.

  “This one,” said MoMo, enlarging an image of a chalk-colored Peugeot sedan. “And here’s the footage of the driver.”

  “Can you get a better shot of his face?” Gibert asked.

  The young man shook his head. “Nope. He paid close attention to where the cameras were and made sure we wouldn’t get a good look.”

  “Just like his partner at the archives,” Brunelle stated. “These people knew what they were doing.”

  “Like I said,” Gibert remarked. “Professionals. Can you zoom in on the license plate?”

  MoMo did and Gibert texted the number to his office. And though la Crim wasn’t using AI, yet, he received an answer back rather quickly.

  “The vehicle was stolen sometime early Sunday morning. It was discovered last night in Seine-Saint-Denis. Torched. It took longer than it should have to extinguish the flames. Firefighters believe some kind of special accelerant was used. I wouldn’t hold out much hope for recovering any evidence.”

  “Think there are any witnesses?” Brunelle asked.

  “In Seine-Saint-Denis? Who will talk to the police?” Gibert replied, shaking his head. “Less than zero.”

  MoMo chuckled.

  “Why are you laughing?” the cop asked.

  “Because you’re wrong,” the young man answered. “It’s not that the people from Seine-Saint-Denis don’t want to talk with the police. It’s that the police don’t know how to talk with the people from Seine-Saint-Denis.”

  Gibert looked at him. “How would you know?”

  “Because I’m from Seine-Saint-Denis. If there are any witnesses there, you need the right person to get them to talk.”

  “And who would that be?”

  Dead serious, MoMo responded, “Me.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Gibert wanted it clear, for the record, that he didn’t just think this was a bad idea, he thought it was terrible.

  Considering MoMo’s family history, he was one of the last people they should be going into Seine-Saint-Denis with.

  His father, an immigrant from Morocco, was an ultranationalist who wanted to lock the door behind him, pull up the drawbridge, and cut off any further immigration to France. He supported a host of political candidates who were widely despised across the immigrant-heavy population of Seine-Saint-Denis. When certain politicians wanted to make it look like they had broad support in the Muslim community, they often called on MoMo’s father to comment on TV or help fill seats at rallies.

  MoMo’s uncle, on the other hand, occupied the exact opposite end of the spectrum. He was an extremely religious Salafi-Jihadist who wanted to see much more immigration, particularly from the Islamic nations of North Africa. He was a proponent of sharia law and a known agitator who specialized in riling up Muslim neighborhoods and getting masses of protestors into the streets.

  How MoMo had ever passed the background checks and had been hired by the DGSI was beyond Gibert, though the cop suspected the young man’s language skills and tech proficiency probably outweighed his family’s political volatility.

  Nevertheless, no one in Seine-Saint-Denis loved both MoMo’s dad and his uncle. Residents always hated one of them—usually with a passion. Riding into town with anyone from MoMo’s family was like showing up at a natural gas plant with a flamethrower. Not only was someone likely to get burned, but the whole experience was probably going to be explosive. Gibert suggested they might be better off by simply abandoning the idea and taking turns slamming their heads in his car door. He was only half-joking.

  A third of the 1.6 million people in Seine-Saint-Denis lived below the poverty level. Islamism, crime, and drugs were rampant throughout. They were at their worst in the dreaded Le Franc–Moisin neighborhood, which is where the burned-out, once-chalk-gray Peugeot had been found. Gibert was going to make an additional joke about not having packed enough hollow points for the trip, but it would have been a lie. His trunk was loaded with additional guns and ammunition.

  After a quick stop at the DGSI café for MoMo to grab a chai, they piled into Gibert’s vehicle and headed up to Seine-Saint-Denis.

  Though Brunelle hadn’t said anything, he could sense her trepidation as well. She liked to play the cold, unflappable federal agent, but she wasn’t stupid. Far from it. Brunelle had cut her teeth as a street cop. She knew the reaction white faces got in certain Parisian neighborhoods. With the recent death of an immigrant teen at the hands of law enforcement, white faces with badges would likely draw an even more hostile response.

  They needed to get in, maintain the lowest possible profile, and get out as soon as possible. In the absence of a couple of riot brigades backing them up, even the mildest of situations could quickly escalate and they could become trapped. Temperatures were running extremely hot.

  It was technically a misnomer that Paris had “no-go” zones; neighborhoods that police were locked out of or refused to go into. What there were, however, were areas considered “combustible” and likely to produce civil unrest with little to no provocation. In these neighborhoods, police officers, firefighters, and ambulance crews had been attacked, simply for doing their jobs, and now refused to respond to calls without sufficient backup. Le Franc–Moisin was one such area.

  Gibert and his colleagues at la Crim likened it to the old Kurt Russell movie Escape from New York, where the entire island of Manhattan has been turned into a maximum-security prison. Getting in wasn’t the problem. It was getting out, unscathed, that was the challenge.

  Having only shared a bed with Brunelle, not a firing range, he had no idea if she could shoot. And, even if she could, was she any good? Dropping into the hornet’s nest with one person who couldn’t defend themselves, much less two, was a recipe for disaster. He prayed that the pair could carry their own weight.

  As they drove, no one spoke. Not even MoMo. He just sat in back, sliding his straw in and out of the plastic lid covering his chai.

  The sound was getting on Gibert’s nerves. “Do you mind?” he asked, locking eyes with the young man in his rearview mirror.

  MoMo, unaware that he was annoying the inspector, apologized and stopped making the sound. “I do things like that sometimes when I’m tense.”

  “What’s wrong?” Brunelle asked from the front seat. “Why are you tense?”

  “Officially, this is my first time in the field.”

  “Great,” Gibert lamented as he changed lanes.

  “You’re going to be fine.”

  “We hope,” the cop added.

  “Ignore him, MoMo,” Brunelle advised. “Everyone’s a little tense their first time out. But you grew up in Seine-Saint-Denis. You know the people. That gives you an advantage. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  The young man appreciated her reassurance. He also hoped that she’d be proven correct.

  He kept in touch with enough of his childhood friends to know how on edge everything was. People were still angry. In the aftermath of the young teen being shot, there had been violent demonstrations. Shops had been looted. Buildings burned. Despite the passage of a couple of months, tensions remained only a few degrees below the boiling point.

  * * *

  When they arrived, no one needed to see a sign announcing they had crossed into Seine-Saint-Denis. You could sense it. The cars, the people… even the graffiti was bleak. Then they drove into Le Franc–Moisin and things really got dark.

  It looked like the riots had happened only yesterday. Scorched façades of buildings had yet to be repainted. Broken windows had been left unrepaired. Piles of rubble remained uncleared.

  Over it all hung a thick, soot-riddled, grimy pallor. It was as if the neighborhood itself had been consumed by a terrible case of tuberculosis; unable, even momentarily, to prop itself up and drag a damp cloth across its face.

  Gibert arrived at the charred remains of the stolen Peugeot and pulled over. There was barely anything left. It looked like it had been hit in a missile strike.

  “Now what?” he asked, putting his car in park and turning off the engine.

  “Now we find a Khalah,” replied MoMo. “One of the neighborhood aunties.”

  “You mean a local busybody.”

  “This is why no one wants to talk to you. You have no respect for anyone.”

  “Look around this place,” Gibert responded. “It’s a war zone. Hard to have respect for people who don’t even respect themselves.”

  “You’re a real asshole,” MoMo said as he climbed out of the car. “You know that?”

  “Trust me,” Brunelle stated as she also stepped out of the car. “He doesn’t have a clue.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” said the cop. “Can we just focus on what we’re supposed to be doing here?”

  MoMo and Brunelle ignored him as they walked over together to examine the Peugeot.

  Having seen more than a few burned-out cars in his day, MoMo wasn’t particularly impressed. Instead, he was interested in who was looking at them as they looked at the car. It took him a moment, but then he found a window and a pair of eyes.

  “Be right back,” he said, before crossing the street and approaching a building on the other side.

  Brunelle continued to investigate the Peugeot.

  When Gibert joined her, she remarked, “That was one hell of an accelerant. Look at how badly everything’s melted.”

  “If the goal was to destroy evidence,” he replied, his head on a swivel, taking in their surroundings, “that’s the way to do it.”

  “Let’s hope MoMo has some luck,” she stated.

  Nodding toward a group of young men who had gathered up the block and were checking them out, he added, “And let’s hope it’s soon.”

  * * *

  It only took MoMo about five minutes, and when he came back he had struck gold.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  “Where are we going?” Gibert asked, his eyes still on the group of young men.

  “The soccer field around the corner.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Worried that the kids there might disperse if the trio rolled up in an unmarked police vehicle, MoMo convinced Gibert that they should leave his car behind and walk the short distance. The cop wasn’t crazy about the idea, but understanding its merits, agreed to go along with it.

  When they arrived at the field, a half-dozen kids were playing soccer. MoMo walked over to where their sweatshirts and jackets were in a pile on the ground and said, “Boom.”

  “ ‘Boom’?” Gibert repeated. “Boom what?”

  “What else do you see?” MoMo asked. “Besides the jackets and sweatshirts?”

  The cop looked. “A bunch of empty energy-drink cans.”

  “Brand-name energy drinks. Not cheaper knockoffs. And what’s going on out on the field?”

  “They’re kicking a soccer ball around.”

  “Notice anything about the ball?”

  Gibert looked. “No. Should I?”

  “It’s brand-new.”

  “These kids have come into a little bit of money,” Brunelle responded.

  “Precisely,” said MoMo. “And they’re about to come into a little bit more. Which one of you has some cash on you?”

  “I only have credit cards,” said Brunelle.

  Reluctantly, Gibert reached for his wallet. “How much?”

  “Twenty each will probably do it.”

  “No way,” the cop replied. “Here’s fifty. They can take it or leave it.”

  “An asshole and cheap,” said MoMo as he snatched the fifty-euro note and strode onto the field.

  Brunelle stifled a laugh as she and Gibert watched MoMo go chat with the kids.

  Soon enough, he pulled out his cell phone and showed them something, presumably CCTV images of the two men they were looking for. One of the kids then took out his own phone and showed something to MoMo.

  They chatted for a few more minutes before MoMo handed over the fifty euros and walked back to Brunelle and Gibert.

  “The men we’re looking for parked a second vehicle here. They paid those kids to keep an eye out and make sure nothing happened to it.”

  “That was their getaway car,” said Gibert. “After they torched the Peugeot.”

  MoMo nodded.

  “Did the kids tell you anything about the men themselves?” Brunelle asked.

  “They were in their forties. Spoke terrible French. Heavily accented. One of the kids said the men sounded Russian. And one was walking with a limp.”

  “Definitely our guys,” Gibert replied. “Anything about the other car?”

  MoMo smiled and held up his phone. “One of the kids took a picture of it.”

  CHAPTER 34

  SAINT-JEAN-CAP-FERRAT

  Harvath’s plan was to have everyone in place before Eva and Inessa arrived at the restaurant. In his experience, people already seated in a venue attracted a lot less attention than people walking in.

  Parked at the bar, he sipped a beer and enjoyed a plate of grilled octopus as he quietly monitored all phases of the operation via his phone.

  Just north of Eze, in the harbor of Beaulieu-sur-Mer, Barton had picked up Preisler and the Ukrainian commandos, and had sailed up the coast for Monaco.

  Back in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, Palmer and Ashby had hung around the port until they had seen Tsybulsky and his security detail board his yacht and depart.

  Once the vessel had cleared the outer wall of the harbor, Ashby texted Harvath and then she and Palmer walked up to Muse, where they had been able to secure an indoor table. Leaning slightly to his left, Harvath could see them from where he was sitting.

  Outside, several doors down from the restaurant, Staelin and Haney sat in the G-Wagon, keeping watch over the entrance. On the stool immediately next to Harvath was Grechko.

  Despite the space being the perfect temperature, the Russian defector had a film of perspiration across his brow.

  “Here,” Harvath said as he handed him a cocktail napkin. “Wipe your forehead. You’re sweating.”

  “Thank you,” replied Grechko, taking the napkin. “I must look rather foolish to you. A man of my age, giving up everything for a younger woman who might not want anything to do with him.”

  “I suppose in a perfect world,” Harvath stated as he took another sip of his beer, “when two people need to jump, they jump together. But life isn’t always perfect, is it? Sometimes one of those people must have enough trust for both of them and jump first.”

  The Russian liked the sound of that and nodded in approval. “Well said. Thank you.”

  “You don’t need to thank me. I’m just doing my job.”

  “You’re actually showing human compassion,” the Russian remarked. “Technically, you could sit there and not say a word to me and it wouldn’t violate the spirit of our agreement.”

  Harvath chuckled. “I think you give me too much credit. Inessa’s security team is going to be armed to the teeth. I don’t want to be sitting next to the only guy in a climate-controlled bar who’s sweating. Feel free to chalk it up to my healthy self-preservation instinct.”

  “Fair enough.” Grechko smiled. “I know you’re not very fond of Russians.”

  “I don’t have a problem with Russians, per se. What I have a problem with is the Russian government and the people who work for it.”

  “As I no longer work for Moscow, where does that leave me?”

  “I don’t know yet. We’ll have to see.”

  Raising his wineglass, Grechko clinked it against Harvath’s beer. “Here’s to seeing where things end up. For all of us.”

  Several moments passed.

  “So,” the Russian said, looking to make conversation. “You and Sølvi, eh? How’d that happen? Where’d you meet?”