JEAN-LUC
They pull up in front of the City Hall. Jackson switches the engine off and sits there for a minute, staring into the rearview mirror at Jean-Luc. Then the two men get out of the front, waiting for Jean-Luc to let himself out. But he’s in no rush, is even tempted to wait until one of them opens his door for him. That would put a different angle on things. Details count. Abruptly Bradley raps on the window with his knuckles. The sound is harsh, twisting the knot of fear in Jean-Luc’s stomach. But why is he so afraid? It’s totally irrational; he’s done nothing wrong. Leaning forward, he pulls on the door handle, stepping out into the morning sun.
They walk up the steps in silence, entering through the grand double doors. It’s still early, which is probably why there’s no one around. They take him down some stairs, along a dimly lit corridor, then into a room with no windows. Bradley flicks a switch, and a fluorescent light bar buzzes then flickers before flooding the room with bright white light. A Formica table and three plastic chairs on metal legs are the only objects in the room.
“This might take awhile.” Jackson removes a crumpled cigarette pack from his breast pocket, tapping it against the table. “Have a seat.” He offers the open pack to Bradley. They light up, watching Jean-Luc.
Sitting down, Jean-Luc crosses his arms, then uncrosses them, attempting a smile. He wants them to understand that he’s happy to comply, ready to tell them what they want to know.
The men remain standing, their faces rigid. Bradley’s greasy skin shines under the fluorescent tube above, shiny red pockmarks catching the light. He takes a deep drag on his cigarette, fills his lungs, then exhales slowly, leaving a thick fog hanging for a second in the middle of the room.
“Mr. Bow-Champ, where did you get that scar on your face? It’s quite distinctive.”
Jean-Luc reminds himself that in situations like this, it’s best not to provoke anything. Passivity is best; he mustn’t appear too defensive. Don’t antagonize. Stay calm. He feels a trickle of sweat slide down his ribs.
“I got it during the war,” he murmurs.
Bradley looks over at Jackson, raising an eyebrow.
“Where?” Jackson asks.
Jean-Luc hesitates, wondering if he could tell the story he’s used so far, the one where he was hit by shrapnel when a bomb fell on Paris. Instinctively, he knows it won’t help him now.
Bradley leans forward, staring intently into his eyes. “What did you do during the war?”
Jean-Luc looks straight back at him. “I was working at Bobigny—the railway station.”
Bradley raises a thick eyebrow. “Drancy?”
Jean-Luc nods.
“The concentration camp of Drancy?”
He nods again. He has the feeling he’s been cornered, forced to agree with the facts. But the facts don’t tell the whole story.
“From where thousands of Jews were sent to their death at Auschwitz?”
“I was just working on the tracks.” He holds eye contact; he doesn’t want to be the first one to look away.
“To keep the trains running efficiently.”
“I was just doing my job.”
Bradley’s face grows shinier and redder. “Just doing your job? That old line. You were there, weren’t you? You aided and abetted.”
“No!”
“Drancy was a transit camp, wasn’t it? And you were helping them transfer the Jews to Auschwitz.”
“No! I wanted to stop them! I even tried to sabotage a track. I ended up in the hospital because of it.”
“Really?” Bradley’s tone is ironic.
“It’s true. I swear.”