A French state criminal investigator, grandson of a Nazi propagandist during World War II, tries to forget his family’s infamy. But a murder forces him to confront the ugly past.
The two men jumped Stanislas outside the burned-out apartment building, and he realized he had made a mistake. He raised his cane to strike, but too late. They muscled him, shouting, up the long flight of stairs and into the drafty room, and then they got serious.
The one with the German accent, grunting exertion, bear hugged him several steps and threw him hard onto a stool, making Stanislas cry out from pain that spiked up his bad leg. Next the accomplice yanked his arms behind, and he went to work, and everything went dark.
And afterwards, when Stanislas jerked to struggle loose, the man with the accent clamped a hand on his shoulder and warned in French, “Monsieur Cassel, please don’t.” This menacing courtesy frightened Stanislas even more. This stranger, who had helped ambush him, knew his name.
“Monsieur Cassel,” the man continued, “you are a powerful examining magistrate in Paris. You have investigated and solved many crimes. You know the high and mighty and have even indicted some. Fearless, according to the media. But you do not sit in your Ministry of Justice Annex office. And you cann’t command the police to rescue you. You are in an abandoned tenement, alone and powerless.
“Our house rules: Not a word, please. I talk. You listen. You answer. A simple shake of your head for a ‘no.’ A simple nod for a ‘yes.’ Short and simple. House rules, as I said, because we cannot waste time. Understand?”
And Stanislas, through his shock at having walked into a trap, just nodded. House rules.
The man with the accent squeezed his shoulder hard. “Luc has roped your hands behind you. Understand?”
Stanislas nodded yes.
“He has blindfolded you. Understand?”
Yes.
“He has taken away your cane. Briefly, monsieur, you are our prisoner. Do you understand how serious your situation is?”
Again, yes.
A cell phone beeped. Another man answered, Luc, no doubt, Stanislas guessed, and in French, and on the second ring, as though expecting the caller. In the near silence, as Luc listened, someone somewhere outside in the fog pounded an angry beat on congas. Through the throb, Stanislas could hear behind him Luc mumble words that sounded like code. Something about bringing the car around. Something about keeping the headlights low. Do this, Luc ordered. Do that. And Stanislas thought, they’re going to kill me….
Copyright 2008 Steve Haberman. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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