Sebag and his daughter got to the cemetery in Passa shortly before 10:30. She was holding a big bouquet of roses and he was carrying a pail of water in which he’d thrown a large sponge.
In front of the gate to the cemetery, Sévérine had stopped and smiled at her father.
“I’m not sure I’ve really thanked you for finding the person who was really responsible for the accident,” she told him. “So thanks, Papa.”
She stood on tiptoe and gave him a kiss on his forehead. He would have liked to take her in his arms but the pail was in his way.
“I’m not sure I deserve congratulations. The guy is still on the loose.”
“But you’re going to arrest him, I’m sure of that.”
He didn’t know what to reply and limited himself to putting his free hand on her shoulder.
“Shall we go? It isn’t too hard for you to come back here to Mathieu’s grave?”
“I’ll be O.K. And then, you’re with me. Thanks for that, too.”
They pushed the heavy gate open and went in. Before leaving the house, Sebag had called headquarters. Llach was on duty but there was nothing new. Not on the French side, and not on the Spanish side, either: Cousin Jordi hadn’t called. To keep busy, Joan had gone back to the list of the car rental agencies he’d contacted three days earlier with Julie Sadet. He was planning to call them again, one by one.
“It’s either that or do nothing at all . . . And then, you never know!”
Mathieu’s grave was separated from the entrance only by a short row of vaults. After that of the Vila family, they turned left. Sévérine froze, speechless, in front of a shiny marble tomb surrounded by a garland of red and yellow flowers. The name “Mathieu Farre” was engraved on it in gilt letters.
“I don’t understand . . . ”
Sebag’s eyes jumped from his daughter to the carefully maintained tomb and back to his daughter. Sévérine seemed embarrassed by her bouquet.
“Friends of Mathieu’s parents, the Vidals, called me yesterday. They told me that the tomb was covered with mud and that there were no longer any flowers. I . . . I don’t understand.”
“Somebody else must have come first.”
“Who?”
“Mathieu had other friends, didn’t he?”
“But when did they come? The Vidals called me late yesterday afternoon. The cemetery had just closed, and since they couldn’t come this weekend, they asked me to take care of it.”
“And if I correctly read the plaque at the entrance, the cemetery has been open for only half an hour . . . ”
As he talked, Sebag was making a rapid calculation. Half an hour was not very much time to clean up and arrange all these flowers. If someone had come this morning, they should at least have seen him in front of the cemetery. He knelt down near Mathieu’s grave. A white thread caught his eye. He picked it up and had a closer look at it. It was a hair. In a flash, he saw in his mind’s eye Elsa Moulin, his colleague on the forensic team, standing in the rain with her yellow rain parka and her red boots. She was putting a white hair in a plastic bag. They were in a different cemetery.
“It’s not possible.”
“What isn’t possible, Papa?”
Sebag did not reply and started to examine the tomb and its surroundings. He soon found a red stain on the gray gravel. He touched it with his index finger. It was wet. He rubbed his finger with his thumb. It was sticky. He held his finger to his nose and sniffed it.
“Blood.”
At the same moment, he heard the cemetery gate squeak.
“Damn . . . ”
He put his hand on Sévérine’s arm and whispered an order to her:
“Above all, don’t move.”
Then he started running toward the gate.
To avoid being noticed, he’d parked his rented VW Golf a hundred meters from the cemetery. Jean would have liked to run, but after such a long time his legs had forgotten how to do that.
In any case, it was bad luck.
He’d just finished decorating the tomb when he’d heard footsteps on the other side of the cemetery wall. Then he’d overheard the conversation between the father and his daughter. There was no doubt about it: the guy was a cop! He’d hidden behind a vault and kept an eye on the two intruders. He’d seen them coming closer. No, really, what bad luck!
Another fifty meters to reach the car.
His legs hurt terribly and his wound did, too. He’d felt it opening up when he got behind the wheel. A little more at every turn. Then it had bled while he was cleaning the tomb of that poor boy. Soon it would stain his raincoat.
He heard a sound behind him and turned around.
The policeman had just come out of the cemetery and had spotted him. Jean put his right hand on the Beretta stuck into his pants.
“Excuse me, Monsieur . . . ”
Sebag had reached the gate in no time. Now he saw him. The infamous Sigma. A broad, muscular figure shrunken by age was hurrying with difficulty toward a red car parked at the curb.
“Excuse me, I’d like to talk to you.”
He saw the old man stop and turn around to face him. He saw the dark eyes. He saw the big, gnarled hand moving toward the belt. He glimpsed the pistol, which was raised toward him like a snake preparing to strike. He saw its dark, gaping mouth ready to spit out death.
He didn’t have a weapon on him. He never carried one.
He stopped.
His blood froze in his veins when he noticed the sound of footsteps behind him. He couldn’t keep his head from turning partway around. His gut cramped when he saw Sévérine. She had disobeyed him. She was there, without any protection other than her father’s body.
He put himself squarely in the line of fire.
It was bad luck, really.
Servant had taken a risk, he was aware of that, but he’d never imagined he would have such rotten luck. Being taken by surprise by the cop assigned to the investigation. An unarmed cop who’d come there with his daughter! At least if there had been several of them and they’d taken out their revolvers, he would have fired the way people cast dice.
And then Insha’Allah.
The wound to his left shoulder was shooting jolts of pain through his body. He gritted his teeth and thought very hard about his little Gabriella. He mustn’t flinch, not now, if he wanted to hold her in his arms again someday. He shouted, in his firmest tone:
“On the ground, that’s an order.”
He saw the policeman turn to his daughter and speak to her. The girl lay down on the ground and put her hands on her head. The policeman seemed to be about to do the same. He went down on his knees.
Sigma’s hand relaxed on the gun.
His knees on the ground, Sebag told himself that he wouldn’t go any lower. No question of lying flat on the ground. Not here. Not like that. He tried to control his breathing. Keeping breathing meant keeping calm.
“Nothing’s going to happen, Sévérine, don’t be afraid. And above all, stay flat.”
Sebag said to himself that Servant had taken a hell of a risk coming to put flowers on Mathieu’s grave. The old man was a ruthless, methodical killer, but he still had a conscience. Moreover, Sebag had seen his relief when he began to obey him.
He raised one knee and then put his foot on the ground, watching Sigma’s reactions. Despite the thirty meters that separated them, he could discern a little trembling at the corners of Sigma’s mouth. This sign of perplexity encouraged him. He put his other foot on the ground and stood up very slowly as he continued to speak to Sévérine.
“Keep down, honey, don’t move.”
What is that idiot doing? Sigma’s hand tightened again on the Beretta, sending an electric shock to the old man’s brain.
Why has he stood up?
He watched uneasily as the man took off his jacket and let it fall to the ground. Thus he could be sure that the policeman wasn’t armed.
“I told you to lie on the ground.”
Sigma cursed himself inwardly. His voice had lost its assurance and betrayed his agitation. The policeman took one step forward and then another.
“Don’t try to be a hero, don’t force me to shoot you.”
Sigma bit his tongue. He was talking too much. A man who was determined to kill didn’t waste his breath. Too bad! His big finger deformed by arthritis caressed the trigger. The cop took another step in his direction. Sigma shook his head and fired.
“Papa!”
Sévérine had screamed before she raised her head. She saw the smoke come out of the barrel of the gun. Her father was still standing. She heard his astonishingly calm voice.
“Don’t move, Sévérine, please.”
The sound of the shot had shattered the calm of the morning. Despite his painful eardrums, Sebag had heard, just after the discharge, the dull sound of the bullet crashing into the pavement. Bits of the asphalt had spattered on his shoes.
He took another step.
“I’ve already killed cops,” Sigma threatened, taking a step backward toward his car.
“I know.”
Sebag moved forward again. He remained lucid and knew he was staking his life on a gamble. He himself thought it was idiotic. He thought he’d be better off letting the old man get away, he couldn’t go far. As an experienced cop, he’d already memorized Sigma’s license number and every feature of his face. His description would be precise. The old man had no chance of escaping.
But there was Sévérine. The title of a film came back to him. My Father, the Hero. A third-rate film with Gérard Depardieu, he seemed to recall.
“I’ve killed many people, often in cold blood.”
Sebag looked straight into Sigma’s eyes:
“You’re trying to convince yourself.”
The second shot made him jump again. He let the echo of the detonation subside and then took another step forward. He couldn’t let the old man doubt his determination. Sebag was now no more than five meters from Sigma. In this poker game, he held the crucial cards.
“You’ve never killed someone in front of a child.”
Sigma remembered the tears in the eyes of the little Arab, back then, in the streets of Algiers. One day in November, 1961. He’d just completed his first mission, he was part of the Babelo commando, they’d killed a dozen Arab workers—enemies!—and he was proud.
“You’re wrong, my boy, you’re wrong,” he replied firmly.
Nonetheless, he felt a veil pass in front of his eyes. The pride had not lasted long. The love of his native Algeria and the fierce desire to continue to live as a free man had not been enough to transform a massacre into an act of bravery. He’d never considered that kind of action legitimate, and had always preferred operations against the cops or the barbouzes. Babelo had sensed his reservations. Very soon, he’d begun to distrust the young fanatic. But Sigma hadn’t understood that until these past few weeks.
The little Arab’s eyes had come back to haunt his sleepless nights, sometimes fusing in nightmares with those of Gabriella. Dark eyes shining with terror and incomprehension. He’d glimpsed the same flicker in the eyes of the cop’s daughter. He shivered.
“You’re wrong,” he repeated mechanically.
Sebag understood that Sigma was telling the truth, but didn’t allow that to fluster him. He’d seen the shiver, and thought he’d deciphered its meaning. His life now depended on the correctness of his interpretations.
“Then you won’t do it again,” he said.
Another step forward, the left foot, then another, the right foot. His life also depended on his resoluteness.
“Not in front of my daughter.”
Sebag was now only two meters away. If the old man fired now, at point-blank range, he wouldn’t survive. He slowly reached for the gun and took a last step. Sigma waited a few more seconds, but Sebag knew that he’d won. The old man wouldn’t fire now.
Sigma nodded solemnly. It was over. He’d never see Gabriella again. Farewell, my granddaughter. His life would end in a gloomy French prison. He gave the policeman an admiring look and handed him the gun.
“I could have done worse.”
Sebag seized the Beretta. He put on the safety and slipped it into the waist of his pants. Then he heard the light footsteps of someone running up behind him. He turned around and Sévérine threw herself into his arms. He hugged her hard.
“You’re crazy, Papa, you’re crazy. I was so scared for you . . . ”
He ran one hand through her long, silky hair. He was proud of them. Of her, and especially of this old Sigma. Of himself, too, a little. His feelings became confused and he ended up wondering if courage could be anything but victorious recklessness.
A cell phone rang somewhere far away. His cell phone. Sebag saw Sévérine pick up his jacket. When he took his phone out of one of the pockets, it had stopped ringing. There was a message from Llach. Without taking the time to listen to it, he called his colleague back.
“We’ve got him!” Llach exclaimed triumphantly. “Guzman rented a car near the train station in Perpignan yesterday. This time he chose a more conspicuous model, a red Golf, probably in order to throw us off the track. I’ve sent the license number of all our teams and to the gendarmes. Have you got anything new?”
“5704 TM 66.”
Llach remained silent for several long seconds. Gilles imagined him with his phone in his hand, mouth gaping.
“You can call off the searches,” he continued, after giving his colleague the details of Sigma’s arrest.
“I think I’m not the first one to tell you this, but it’s really discouraging to work with you,” Llach said. “Really!”
“I came across him by chance. A lucky break, that’s all. Will you send a car? We’ll wait.”
Putting away his cell phone, he found the open package of cigarettes. He took one and offered another to Sigma.
“The last cigarette of the doomed,” the old man said, accepting it.
Then they both smoked in silence.