The hotel’s proprietor and both housekeepers heard the commotion, but none of them recognized it for what it was. The maintenance man, however, a middle-aged immigrant from North Africa who’d done a stint in the Moroccan Army, recognized the sound of gunfire.
He was unclogging a toilet on the second floor when the first shots rang out, and he called the police right away using his mobile. When the shooting ended as abruptly as it had begun, his curiosity was piqued. The action, he thought, seemed to be taking place one floor above, although he knew from experience that sourcing such staccato sounds could be difficult. He cautiously took the service stairwell to the third floor, and right away noticed that the door to number 14 was ajar. Everything seemed quiet, and with nothing more than a plunger in his hand, he moved guardedly down the hall and peered inside.
What he saw was perplexing. The room was a wreck. Both windows seemed to have shattered inward, leaving glass strewn across the carpet. There were holes in the walls, and the floor was covered by stuffing from a chair that seemed to have exploded. The other big chair looked untouched, and on it he saw a folded jacket and two handguns. There was no one in the room, but he did see one sign of human habitation—on the central floor a dark red stain that could only be blood.
* * *
The gendarmes arrived within minutes, and their first determination was clear-cut: Whatever battle had come to the small boutique hotel in Courbevoie, it had run its course. The building was secure. With everyone on edge given the recent spate of attacks, the assault on Room 14 was immediately stamped as having possible terrorist involvement. Evidence technicians were quick to arrive, and their initial findings sent straight to the DGSI command center.
Charlotte LeFevre—who had been on duty for forty-eight hours—was the first to see the results. Based on the preliminary report, she ordered the immediate acquisition of CCTV footage for the area around the hotel. She soon found what she was after. LeFevre copied the best image from the video, and forwarded it to the detectives on scene, along with a question. They reply came almost immediately. She rushed two floors up to the director’s suite.
Baland’s receptionist tried to turn her away, but LeFevre was adamant. She waited breathlessly while her arrival was announced, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she stared at the heavy door. She thought she might have heard a desk drawer slide shut. Finally, Baland appeared at the threshold of his office.
“Yes, Charlotte, what is it?” he said, gesturing for her to come inside.
LeFevre followed the director-designate toward one side of the room, and they settled into large chairs. She covered the essentials of what had happened. “Our people have been interviewing the hotel staff, and when I heard their description of the man who’d rented the room, I began going over CCTV footage.” She slid the photograph onto the desk. “This was captured by a camera across the street minutes before the shooting started. I remembered the description you gave me of the man who brought Uday in—the one you thought might be responsible for the bombing at The Peninsula.”
Baland looked at the picture. “Yes,” he agreed, “I think that might be him.”
“Three hotel employees confirmed it—he’s been staying in this room for the last few days. There’s also footage of a woman—I think it’s the one we’ve been after, the one responsible for Director Michelis’ death.” LeFevre waited for a reaction from Baland, but saw little. “She can be seen leaving the scene of this shooting one minute after it was called in.”
Baland seemed to consider it all. “Did you say there was blood on the floor of the room?”
“Yes. The teams are recovering samples as we speak.”
“But this woman didn’t appear injured?”
“Nothing obvious. If anyone was wounded, they managed to escape. I’ve alerted hospitals to watch for gunshot victims seeking treatment.”
“Yes, very good.”
LeFevre went over other initiatives she’d ordered in the burgeoning investigation, all quite standard, and Baland nodded his agreement. She thought he seemed distracted, and, hoping to draw him out, she asked, “Have you heard anything new from the Defense Ministry on this boat in Gravelines?”
“Gravelines … no, nothing of importance. One more crisis averted. Let’s get back to finding these two.”
“Of course, sir,” said a deflated LeFevre. The eagerness of the chase she felt was apparently not shared by her soon-to-be boss.
She was nearly to the door when Baland forestalled her departure with, “Tell me something, Charlotte … is LeFevre your maiden name?”
A bewildered LeFevre turned back around. “Well … yes, sir, it is.”
“But you are married.”
“Of course. I kept my maiden name for professional reasons. My husband’s name is Weiss.”
“Ah, yes. I remember now. I met him at the New Year’s party—Avrim. And you have two boys?”
“That’s right,” she said, thinking the trajectory of the conversation odd. “Eight and ten.”
“If you don’t mind my asking … do you raise them in the Jewish faith?”
“We do, yes. We attend Temple Beth Israel every Saturday. Why do you ask?”
Baland smiled a smile that was benevolence itself. “Temple Beth Israel—yes, I know exactly where that is. Isn’t it wonderful how people of different faiths can live together so agreeably in France? Always remember that, Charlotte—it’s what we’re fighting for.”
She nodded.
“Keep up the good work.”
LeFevre took this as her cue to leave. Once in the outer office, with the door closed behind her, she looked at Baland’s receptionist, a sprightly older woman, and mouthed the words, Is he all right?
The woman smiled understandingly, and whispered back, “He’s been under a great deal of stress lately.”
LeFevre started back to the command center, thinking, Aren’t we all.
On the other side of the door, Zavier Baland walked to the far side of the room. He stood motionless in front of the great window, taking in the evening landscape of Rue de Villiers and Paris beyond.