The Mosque of Notre Dame

^{CHAPTER 5} AHMAD IBN SALIH

The next morning Jeanne brought Valerie a bottle of soap solution for blowing bubbles. The little girl was rapturously blowing into the pink plastic frame and laughing merrily as the iridescent balloons filled up and launched themselves into the air. Jeanne and Eugène-Olivier were catching them, sometimes trying to save them on the palms of their hands, sometimes bursting them with a clap in mid-air, rejoicing in Valerie’s delight.

But suddenly the little girl stopped, not because she had tired of blowing bubbles, but because she seemed to forget about them. She crawled into a corner and began thinking her own thoughts. When she stood up, she noticed the plastic bottle she was still clutching in her hand with puzzlement, and then put it down as something quite useless.

“Where’s she going?” Eugène-Olivier whispered as he watched her incredibly thin little back moving away down the corridor.

“To the city,” Jeanne answered nonchalantly. “Probably Notre Dame again. She’ll cry there. The buttocks are afraid to chase her away.”

Eugène-Olivier started, as if he had accidentally touched a toad. He had been to Notre Dame only once, and that was enough for him. He had seen the mihrab, the concrete building resembling a kiosk that had been added in the south-southeast.

To go inside and look at the bishop’s throne, now transformed into a minbar with two crescent moons haphazardly stuck to its back, and on to the gallery, which was now divided by a wall to separate male from female—where two dozen foot baths were installed, looking like a public toilet…

Muslim women washed their feet where the organ once stood. Another level was set apart for them to pray, reached by stairs awkwardly added to the outside of the building. Instead of stained glass with decorations, the windows were plain glass. Eugène-Olivier could not imagine returning to see the backward squiggles that were posted to replace serene, dignified Roman letters, to see the scars on the floor where statues once stood. Or to guess where the Holy Virgin stood as Grandfather Patrice fell… No, no, once had been enough.

Valerie went there almost every day, Jeanne said.

That must be more painful to her than any whipping. How could he protect her from that? How could he ensure that “the buttocks don’t go there”?

“I must be going mad,” said Eugène-Olivier. “It’s so stupid. No one will ever drive them out.”

“Forget it,” Jeanne said irately. “She doesn’t need your pity. She wants only one thing from us, and we can’t do it for her. We’re the weaklings. By the way, here are your documents.”

Eugène-Olivier did not tell Jeanne they had just been thinking the same thing. Jeanne was right; he was a weakling. Eugène-Olivier realized that he was looking at the sealed envelope in his hand with the same puzzlement as Valerie looking at her toy.

It was a whole pile of documents. Someone had done a lot of work. A certificate that he lived in the ghetto, a permit to work in the city, a city climber’s card, a commonly used credit card. Also in the bag was a newspaper in French, wrinkled, with a coffee stain on it, cheaply printed and meager in content. In the censored edition, what else could remain besides tips for the care of houseplants, recipes, ads for the sale of automobiles and the rental of rooms, and crossword puzzles? Somebody had managed to solve a few words of the crossword.

Eugène-Olivier stopped at a nearby phone booth and made a call, as if responding to an ad in the newspaper.

“You’ll get your equipment in Violette Street number ten. The apartment occupies the entire twentieth floor.” The young male voice sounded familiar, but Eugène-Olivier forced himself not to try to recognize it. Only a fool could claim he won’t talk when the buttocks start pulling out his intestines. The less you know, the less of a danger you are to everyone else. “You know a lot about computers?”

Eugène-Olivier nodded automatically, even though there was no way for the voice to see him.

“Copy everything, all the files, the entire hard drive, just in case. You’ll have a lot of time to work, about four hours. But try to keep it to two and a half. And don’t leave a mess. No prints; leave everything clean. Good luck!”

The wrinkled newspaper flew into the trash.

Less than an hour later, Eugène-Olivier, dressed in synthetic overalls and a red helmet, was moving up the wall of a high-rise building, built in Islamic times, in the basket of a crane. There were no normal windows until the fifteenth floor. On the lower floors, windows had been replaced by long, narrow openings under the ceiling with some sort of strange glass, a row of tinted glass, then a row of matte glass, then again tinted glass. Above that, the windows were quite normal; those apartments were probably more expensive. He passed the twentieth floor, carefully inspecting the plastic frames. They were closed, of course, but there was a set of special openers in one of his pockets.

Below him, he could see the penthouse roofs of the old buildings. The leaves of the trees planted in big pots cloaked the old roofs decorously. For a moment, he imagined that this was all a nightmare, that he was just a normal workman singing to himself in the fresh air, and that after work he would go to a disco with a girl who looked like Jeanne.

They would enjoy the music in the flashing, polychromatic darkness and they would giggle at bad jokes. It would be a triumph of the joy and youthful folly to which he had a right. How he wished he could believe in it! But he couldn’t. First of all, he could not imagine himself as a construction worker. In a normal world, he would be studying at the Sorbonne, at the greatest of universities. Second, some forty years ago, when it still seemed that nothing could threaten the normal way of life, a girl like Jeanne Saintville would not exist. Girls like Jeanne were only born under overcast skies. And he didn’t feel like going anywhere with a girl, even to a disco, if she were not actually Jeanne.

What a shame! He had just wanted to dream a bit, but it was pointless. Father Lothaire would no doubt say that from a Christian point of view, daydreaming was a useless activity, just a waste of spiritual energy.

Eugène-Olivier positioned his basket between the twenty-first and twenty-second floors. In the right place. With the basket hanging here and the employee entering there. A sight that would not attract attention.

He climbed down the wall carefully. He had the necessary skills, but he was out of practice. He managed to open the window and easily slipped inside.

He should have put plastic covers over his shoes while he was still outside. As soon as he touched the floor, the shoes left dirt marks on the carpet. The large room, some 300 square feet, was completely covered in plush carpet. Only the devil knew whether it was Persian or Turkmen. It was a luxurious apartment, to be sure.

It had light-green leather furniture that looked so soft, you could fall sleep in the armchairs. There were unusual plants in antique flowerpots and vases. In the bedroom, there were also white furs on the floor as if the carpeting hadn’t been enough. And look, this must be his office. There was an oak desk in the middle of the room, and a computer monitor on the desk.

Something wasn’t quite right, though—something was urging him to be cautious. This venerable Ahmad ibn Salih was somehow too correct. What did he use to watch movies, to listen to music? Of course those was forbidden, but educated Muslims indulged themselves in such luxuries. Converts were afraid to, but born Muslims thought nothing of it.

Maybe he put everything on his computer. But look, the computer didn’t even have password protection. Anybody could look at anything on it. There was no music or television on the computer.

Eugène-Olivier started copying files with disgust. This was all for nothing. He didn’t even want to know what headquarters was hoping to find, but he would be willing to bet there was nothing useful on this all-too-orderly, all-too-obedient machine.

What if all this were camouflage? What if there were a laptop with less obedient files, somewhere on this huge desk among the meticulous file folders and scientific journals?

As he asked himself these questions, Eugène-Olivier did not forget to place the copied disks in his breast pocket. He still had plenty of time. His cheap digital watch was actually an alarm-signal detector. If Ahmad ibn Salih suddenly decided to return home, the men monitoring the entrance would have enough time to inform him. One could say he was completely safe. Maybe he should check out his hunch.

Eugène-Olivier sat in the comfortable leather rocker, placed his head on the high headrest with his hands on the armrests and closed his eyes. Let’s say that he was the successful, perhaps slightly lazy, head of a research laboratory. Where would he put his laptop so it was not in direct sight, but still close at hand? He was right-handed, judging from the position of the mouse. It would be awkward to pull anything out with his left hand, so it must be on the right side—and close enough not to make him get up from his armchair. (Eugène-Olivier rejected the cozy assumption that Ahmad’s real workspace was somewhere in the kitchen next to the apricot jam jar he had left on the table).

And what do we find on the right side? A pile of books on a table and a cabinet below it. A pile of colorful magazines—in English, of course. One couldn’t very well follow scientific developments in Arabic. There were a few Russian magazines with inserted slips of paper inscribed with the repulsive squiggles—not for all texts, just those marked in red. So he could read English, but not Russian. Nor Japanese, apparently, according to the next pile…. Aha! A handwritten notebook, and another… And here it was!

Eugène-Olivier was not in the habit of speaking to himself, but in his moment of elation he couldn’t resist uttering a exclamation of triumph.

What at first glance appeared to be another notebook turned out to be a laptop in a raspberry-colored plastic case. It was manufactured by the Farhad Corporation in Paris, although any fool could see that only the design of the box and perhaps a few keyboard details were Farhad’s. Everything else was Chinese, down to the last chip. China insisted on selling finished computers, not just parts, which is why Farhad computers cost 50% more. The buyer paid for the design.

Eugène-Olivier hesitated as he held the computer—as if he were trying to weigh the repulsive things on it. He might not be able to get in without a password. Somehow, he almost didn’t want to turn the thing on.

The laptop came on by itself as soon as he lifted the lid. No password was needed. Everything loaded at lightning speed. He could see how much more powerful this device was than the desktop. A menu appeared, but Eugène-Olivier didn’t get to make a selection; the laptop continued working on its own.

And what was this now? Some kind of stupid chat window appeared on the screen. In English—or more precisely in the Anglo-Arabic slang spoken today in England—the monitor advised that an unknown person had entered the chat room.

Apparently, opening the laptop had been a mistake. Ahmad ibn Salih only used this computer for virtual communication. It might not be a bad idea to check out what his contacts blathered about, but it really was better that he leave. He had already downloaded the needed information.

“Unknown: Uninvited guest, enter,” appeared on the computer in bright orange letters.

He decided not to leave after all. It wouldn’t take much time to see what was going on.

“Unknown: Uninvited guest, enter,” reappeared on the monitor.

“Unknown: Uninvited guest, I know you are there.”

Who was playing hide-and-seek with whom? Probably these were some kind of love games. There was no reason for him to waste his time.

Eugène-Olivier began to close the lid of the computer.

“Unknown: Uninvited guest, you are sitting at my desk and you still have not logged off. Do not log off.”

The laptop fell on Eugène-Olivier’s knees. It stayed there; instead of falling to the floor, it spit out a new line of orange text.

“Unknown: Uninvited guest, that would be stupid. I am not guessing, I know.”

Apparently, he really did know. He had been caught. But he had the files he had already copied, so there was no reason to worry.

“Uninvited guest entering chat room,” advised a gray caption.

“Uninvited guest: Unknown, take a hike…”

Eugène-Olivier knew he was writing nonsense but his fingers flew on the keyboard with a will of their own.

“Unknown: Uninvited guest, you have no reason to concern yourself with where I should go. All the more so since you can’t go anywhere anymore.”

That, my dear, is where you are wrong, Eugène-Olivier mentally replied. Whatever is installed on the door, you relied too much on your altitude. If there had been a sensor, it would have gone off a long time ago.

“Unknown: Uninvited guest, see for yourself.”

Something clicked, but not in the computer. A steel grate, sturdy in appearance, descended instead of the blinds. Casting the computer aside, Eugène-Olivier lunged toward the other windows—where the same thing happened, as it did on the front door and the emergency-exit door.

What an idiot he was! The laptop was actually the signal device. But not for thieves—only for those who wanted to get their hands on information.

Inside his thin plastic gloves, Eugène-Olivier’s his hands were suddenly wet.

Cold sweat ran down his cheeks, and the hair on the back of his neck was completely soaked.

The laptop on the carpeted floor continued to spit out more new lines.

“Unknown: Uninvited guest, I need to talk to you.”

Who would have guessed?

“Uninvited guest: Unknown, shut up.”

The bright lines stopped making sense—the mere flickering of letters. Out of the corner of his eye, Eugène-Olivier noticed that they continued, but he didn’t want to read them. The only thing he was sorry about was the files.

And you, filthy pig, won’t get a chance to talk to me. To hell with you! You won’t cut me in little pieces or burn out my eyes with cigarettes like you usually do. You won’t get the chance… It’s my own fault.

Eugène-Olivier passed through the spacious apartment and entered the kitchen. The stove was electric. No good. Hmmm. One of the kitchen drawers was also sealed off with a grate. Everything that stabbed and cut was probably in there. He was afraid of resistance.

And if I had brought my gun? They would have spotted me from somewhere and suffocated me with gas. But I don’t have a gun. And in about five minutes there will probably be a whole gang of them here. Not the security guards from downstairs. They would have been here by now. A car will arrive with some kind of privileged unit of the religious guard. I have to hurry.

What could he find here for a quick snack? Ah, look. Eugène-Olivier picked up the toaster and unplugged it. You’re a moron, Ahmad ibn Salih. No, you’re not exactly a moron; you just don’t understand.

The bathroom was all in marble, amber-like, glistening. The enormous jacuzzi bathtub and champagne-colored sink were framed in ebony. How you filthy pigs love the good life. Let’s hope that, for that very reason, there’s an electrical outlet by the sink… So there is!

A pale face with dark circles under the eyes peered at him from the bathroom mirror. For some reason his gray eyes looked black. Only his hair looked the same—fair, quite light-colored on the surface, and somewhat darker inside. The Norman type, as Father Lothaire had said.

Eugène-Olivier plugged the sink and turned on the tap. The water foamed and bubbled. What’s Jeanne doing now? It doesn’t matter. It’s not important anymore. The button on her shirt was nearly falling off and hanging by a thread… the radiant waves of soft hair… her little mouth the color of berberis.

His wristwatch began to beep shrilly, but the sink wasn’t yet full. Faster, faster! They will make you sing later if you don’t hurry now!

At first the plug wouldn’t go into the socket, but then it did. Eugène-Olivier pushed the switch on the toaster, grabbed the metal casing with both hands, and plunged it into the water.

Nothing happened. Could the toaster be broken? Eugène-Olivier laughed. He was still wearing the rubber gloves!

His watch was beeping. Eugène-Olivier tore off the gloves.

The last thing he heard before he fell to the floor was a man swearing in some unknown language, Persian, perhaps…

The face of a large, well-groomed man with a moustache was bending over him. Eugène-Olivier realized in despair that he was not dead. There had been no electrical shock. Instead, there had been a blow to his head, to his left temple. Everything swam before his eyes and rang in his ears from that blow.

Ahmad ibn Salih’s light brown eyes, when they met his, were full of hatred no less intense than his own. Apparently satisfied with something, the Arab straightened himself, gritted his teeth as he pulled the cord from the outlet, and mightily hurled the toaster to the tile floor with a loud clang.

To hell with everything! How was it possible for this slothful Arab to fly through the air from the door, through the large living room, into the bathroom, and to hit him, a Maquis soldier! Ah, you buttocks, damn you!

Eugène-Olivier slowly sat up, leaning against the wall. He wished he had a sharp object. Not for the Arab. That was pointless. He was surely not alone.

“Did you at least read everything, you miserable wretch?” asked the Arab breathlessly, his wide chest heaving like a blacksmith’s bellows. “I told you, I didn’t intend to turn you in to the police or the religious guard.”

“And I was supposed to take your word?” snapped Eugène-Olivier.

“Can’t you see that I’m alone? Open your eyes. Why would I need all that?” Ahmad ibn Salih took out a cambric handkerchief, rolled it into a ball and began to wipe the sweat from his face. Eugène-Olivier noted with vague pleasure that the adroit blow had not been so easy for the scientist.

The host went out of the bathroom quite calmly turning his back to the visitor, certain that he would follow him. Was he really alone? Or was he joking? Let’s see. The venerable effendi was somehow too self-confident.

“There are no bugs in my apartment.” Ahmad ibn Salih sank heavily into a leather armchair. His height saved him from being quite fat. The soft seat immediately sank 8 inches toward the floor.

“I don’t think that’s my problem,” Eugène-Olivier said with a smile.

He still could barely stand on his feet from the blow but Ahmad ibn Salih seemed not to care whether the uninvited guest would remain standing or find a place to sit down in the small guest room with three black walls and an illuminated aquarium as the fourth wall. Eugène-Olivier sat down on the couch.

“You think not? It’s about Sophia Sevazmios.” The Arab sat opposite from him without taking his ponderous, persistent gaze off the boy. That gaze was now full of cold revulsion and a sort of disgust.

“Wh-who?” His heart skipped a beat, but Eugène-Olivier knew his face would not betray him.

“You heard me. I have her address. Panthéon ghetto, corner of Seventh and Eleventh Streets.”

Eugène-Olivier was again engulfed by hatred so strong that he couldn’t think. Two years ago the mayor of Paris had suddenly ordered that the names of the streets in all the ghettos be replaced by ordinal numbers. Among themselves, of course, the French continued to call the streets by their old names. If they mentioned a number, it was with a grimace of revulsion that all understood. Only an enemy could mention a street number with such sterile indifference, but in all the eighteen years of his life, this was the first time that Eugène-Olivier was talking to an enemy—and moreover, while sitting across from him, sunk in soft pillows.

Watch out! Stay calm! The devil only knew what was happening but he should keep his eyes and ears open. Lord, if he only had something cold to put on his forehead or at least to drink, he could pull himself together right away.

“You could hardly be expected to know it, but others know it well. Panthéon ghetto, corner of Seventh and Eleventh, apartment number 5. Sophia Sevazmios has been living there for a week and she plans to stay for a few days more. As soon as you tell her someone knows this, she will, of course, change her address. But I must say that would be a superfluous hassle. She doesn’t have to do that. She can stay there in peace. The point is that the religious guard doesn’t have this information. Although if I were in your shoes, I would be cautious about being seen in the ghetto.

“A new procedure is going into effect. They will start arresting teenagers and young people for minor infractions from every twentieth family, but not entire families. The detainees will be prosecuted and sent to the jails for infidels—to Compiègne, for example. I think you have heard what things are like there. It will not be unusual for a fifteen year-old boy to be caught in some undesirable gesture during prayers, prosecuted and sentenced. But the parents will be ready to do a lot to ease their child’s stay in Compiègne. Not even for the sake of getting him released—just to better his lot. To give him a chocolate bar, to bail him out from solitary confinement under the toilets, to save him from sexually serving the wardens. They will decide that a dozen strangers’s lives is a reasonable price for this.”

Whatever was in the smooth, well-modulated voice of Ahmad ibn Salih, it was certainly not pity toward people forced to make this undignified but terrible choice.

But what if he is not lying? thought Eugène-Olivier quickly. He probably wasn’t. It was true that they had begun to arrest more young people. He hadn’t thought about it much. In any case, he himself was unlikely to end up in prison. Compiègne was for minor violators. The Arab wasn’t lying about that, but what about the rest?

“Why are you telling me all this? I have no intention of continuing to play cat and mouse with you. What the devil do you want from me?”

“Now, why would I be talking in Maquis passwords with someone who broke into my house to steal my spoons?” Ahmad ibn Salih grinned for a moment, glancing at a small turtle peering through the glass of the aquarium.

Eugène-Olivier could tell him that he had come to steal antiques, but he had gotten distracted and began to play with the computer. Ahmad would never believe it.

The turtle for whom Ahmad ibn Salih was rapping on the glass was opening its mouth, not understanding why it could not catch anything except the smooth surface.

“I need to meet with Sophia Sevazmios. I understand that you don’t know who she is. But the guarantee of my interest in such a meeting is that I know what the religious guard does not, and that I remain silent.”

He was an ordinary fool, nothing more! Sophia would never trust any of them or believe anything they said. She would never allow them to dictate the rules of the game.

“You can give her something for me.” Ahmad ibn Salih suddenly got up and left the room. To bring his men? To make a phone call? Eugène-Olivier silently slipped toward the door. The only thing he could hear was impatient banging, as if all the drawers of a chest were being pulled out one after another.

“You can give the files you copied to anyone you want. I believe you have my entire hard drive,” the scientist called from the other room. “But I must warn you that they are unlikely to interest Madame Sevazmios. They have been absolutely filtered. But I think she will find this more interesting.”

With these words, Ahmad ibn Salih, who could move noiselessly, it turned out, despite his weight, appeared in the doorway, one step away from Eugène-Olivier. In his hands was a cellophane bag with a small box inside. The Arab shook the box out onto the palm of his hand; it was a little smaller than a pack of cigarettes, made of pear wood, with half-erased carvings on the lid.

“Here.” The Arab held the box out to Eugène-Olivier.

“Open it,” Eugène-Olivier said, taking a step back.

Nodding, Ahmad ibn Salih carefully lifted the lid, showing its contents—or more accurately, the absence of contents. The little box was empty. Then he brought the box closer to his face and sniffed it.

“The smell is very strong but it’s not dangerous.”

The dark wood smelled strongly of some kind of spice. Eugène-Olivier turned the box over in his hands several times, perplexed. It was an old thing. At one time it had been decorated with amber, but almost all the stones had fallen out. So now what? He hated such games! Before him was an enemy, a real enemy, who didn’t even know how to hide it.

“You could, of course, toss it into the first trash can you find as soon as you are in the street.” Ahmad ibn Salih stepped into the hallway, clearly showing that the conversation was over. “But in your place I wouldn’t do that.”

And my life depends on knowing what you would or wouldn’t do in my place? What’s more important to me is figuring out what I should do in my place. What if this is all some kind of fiendishly clever trap? It’s no big deal sacrificing a pawn to claim a bishop. Or better yet, a queen. So, thanks for your advice about the trash can. It won’t be in the first one I see.

Ahmad ibn Salih, who had been walking ahead of Eugène-Olivier toward the front door, suddenly stopped as if he had read his mind, and turned around. “You know what? If Sophia Sevazmios is at that address tonight, that means I’m right. See for yourself whether she’s there or not.”

There was a small antique shop at the address the Arab gave him, although it would be more accurate to call it a run-down second-hand store. There were racks on the walls hung with clothing preserved from earlier times. Women’s sleeveless and short-sleeved blouses were still sewn for lounging at home, but those were emphatically sensual. It would not have occurred to any Muslim designer to make a blouse such as this one, made with a modest checked fabric with pockets. Or that one, which was solid beige.

The shelves were crammed with Faience teacups, interspersed with photo frames—which in a Muslim country were useless. The items that attracted the most attention were completely neutral: coffee pots, vases, trays, little boxes. That’s why Sophia, who was turning the suspicious parcel over in her hands, looked as if she were evaluating one of the items displayed for sale.

Even the expression on her face was that of a person lazily contemplating an unnecessary purchase.

“I really do recognize it.” Sophia was sitting back in an old rocking chair in the far corner of the smoke-filled room. “My father-in-law used to keep red myrrh in this box. Even if I had forgotten the remaining amber stones, I think that the smell would have reminded me. It was his quirk; he preferred myrrh to incense. No question, it’s useful to have a letter that only the addressee can read. That means all of this was planned a long time ago.”

Eugène-Olivier remained silent. A soldier has no right to question a general, even when the general is musing in front of him. Sophia Sevazmios, in fact, was just thinking out loud, and could not possibly be interested in the opinion of a person who had failed twice before noon today. A new record! His first failure was that he had not succeeded in killing himself, and the second, that he had endangered the safety of many others as a result. And being a fool could be considered a third failure, perhaps the biggest of all.

“Don’t worry, young man, this is a hard nut to crack for someone who still has only his milk teeth. As you can see, nothing awful happened, because you are still alive.” Sophia dropped the box in her pocket, taking out her cigarettes at the same time.

“I’m not so sure.” Eugène-Olivier dared to raise his eyes.

“You’re probably wondering if any of my husband’s relatives are still alive.” Sophia smiled, pausing. “Would you be so kind as to pass me the ashtray? If I get up, ashes will start falling on the floor and old George doesn’t have a maid. As far as I know, there’s no one left. At least not in Eurabia. Moreover, everyone knows they can’t get anything from me by blackmail.”

Eugène-Olivier had heard that they tried. The hostages were all killed, but they were avenged so horribly that the Wahhabis had not made further attempts. The retribution took half a year, and did not end until the last of those involved in taking the hostages was dead. One actually did survive, but he went mad waiting for his turn to die. Now he hid under his hospital bed whenever he saw a new nurse or aide. Unless all this was legend—one of many that accumulated around people like Sophia Sevazmios.

“It was the only thing I could think of,” he said, moving only his lips. “He’s an enemy, and what can an enemy have up his sleeve except blackmail?”

“There are a lot of possibilities.” Sophia rocked in her armchair. “Do you know why they didn’t manage to occupy the entire planet after all? You wouldn’t remember, but there was a moment when they could have done just that.”

Eugène-Olivier remained silent. The feeling of guilt gnawed at him. The only thing he could do was endure and not show it. After all, he wasn’t asking for forgiveness or trying to justify himself.

“Sit down on that crate. Quit pacing in front of me.” As usual, Sophia’s most benevolent sentences sounded like orders.

“You see, even in the old world, the sons of Allah liked to claim that they, unlike Christians, talk to the higher power, so to speak, without intermediaries. It’s all nonsense. If you want details, talk to Father Lothaire. But in this nonsense, there’s some truth—because every proud Muslim who has ‘spoken directly with Allah,’ as he describes, can’t understand why Allah has told another Muslim something very different! They can’t agree among themselves!

“That’s why we haven’t disappeared completely. And they still can’t agree now. Maybe some enthusiastic renegade is playing a game against a brother who is a true believer by helping a kafir. Whether it is this Ahmad or someone backing him, we don’t care.”

So all the pieces fell into place. There you go, buttocks. And you thought Sophia Sevazmios would want to meet with you.

“And where did this person propose that we meet?” Sophia extinguished her cigarette. Eugène-Olivier jumped up so suddenly that some Chinese paper fans spilled on the floor.

“You young people will never become gamblers,” Sophia said with amusement. “Let’s suppose he wants to use the Maquis forces for his own purposes. If he’s doing that, it’s to betray someone from his agency. Maybe it’s just to create a few opportune incidents so that an official on their side who keeps losing men, loses his job. They constantly betray each other out of self-interest—that much I know. In the process, we get a chance to play a game of cards with him—not for his advantage, but our own.

“But how does he know what the religious guard doesn’t know yet? He didn’t lie about that. I don’t like that, I don’t like it at all.

“So the effendi will have to satisfy my curiosity. There is something strange here: Where did he get this box? Father Demetrios Sevazmios left all his personal belongings in Russia.”