Chapter 33

CHAPTER 33

Gibert wanted it clear, for the record, that he didn't just think this was a bad idea, he thought it was terrible.

Considering MoMo's family history, he was one of the last people they should be going into Seine-Saint-Denis with.

His father, an immigrant from Morocco, was an ultranationalist who wanted to lock the door behind him, pull up the drawbridge, and cut off any further immigration to France. He supported a host of political candidates who were widely despised across the immigrant-heavy population of Seine-Saint-Denis. When certain politicians wanted to make it look like they had broad support in the Muslim community, they often called on MoMo's father to comment on TV or help fill seats at rallies.

MoMo's uncle, on the other hand, occupied the exact opposite end of the spectrum. He was an extremely religious Salafi-Jihadist who wanted to see much more immigration, particularly from the Islamic nations of North Africa. He was a proponent of sharia law and a known agitator who specialized in riling up Muslim neighborhoods and getting masses of protestors into the streets.

How MoMo had ever passed the background checks and had been hired by the DGSI was beyond Gibert, though the cop suspected the young man's language skills and tech proficiency probably outweighed his family's political volatility.

Nevertheless, no one in Seine-Saint-Denis loved both MoMo's dad and his uncle. Residents always hated one of them—usually with a passion. Riding into town with anyone from MoMo's family was like showing up at a natural gas plant with a flamethrower. Not only was someone likely to get burned, but the whole experience was probably going to be explosive. Gibert suggested they might be better off by simply abandoning the idea and taking turns slamming their heads in his car door. He was only half-joking.

A third of the 1.6 million people in Seine-Saint-Denis lived below the poverty level. Islamism, crime, and drugs were rampant throughout. They were at their worst in the dreaded Le Franc–Moisin neighborhood, which is where the burned-out, once-chalk-gray Peugeot had been found. Gibert was going to make an additional joke about not having packed enough hollow points for the trip, but it would have been a lie. His trunk was loaded with additional guns and ammunition.

After a quick stop at the DGSI café for MoMo to grab a chai, they piled into Gibert's vehicle and headed up to Seine-Saint-Denis.

Though Brunelle hadn't said anything, he could sense her trepidation as well. She liked to play the cold, unflappable federal agent, but she wasn't stupid. Far from it. Brunelle had cut her teeth as a street cop. She knew the reaction white faces got in certain Parisian neighborhoods. With the recent death of an immigrant teen at the hands of law enforcement, white faces with badges would likely draw an even more hostile response.

They needed to get in, maintain the lowest possible profile, and get out as soon as possible. In the absence of a couple of riot brigades backing them up, even the mildest of situations could quickly escalate and they could become trapped. Temperatures were running extremely hot.

It was technically a misnomer that Paris had "no-go" zones; neighborhoods that police were locked out of or refused to go into. What there were, however, were areas considered "combustible" and likely to produce civil unrest with little to no provocation. In these neighborhoods, police officers, firefighters, and ambulance crews had been attacked, simply for doing their jobs, and now refused to respond to calls without sufficient backup. Le Franc–Moisin was one such area.

Gibert and his colleagues at la Crim likened it to the old Kurt Russell movie Escape from New York, where the entire island of Manhattan has been turned into a maximum-security prison. Getting in wasn't the problem. It was getting out, unscathed, that was the challenge.

Having only shared a bed with Brunelle, not a firing range, he had no idea if she could shoot. And, even if she could, was she any good? Dropping into the hornet's nest with one person who couldn't defend themselves, much less two, was a recipe for disaster. He prayed that the pair could carry their own weight.

As they drove, no one spoke. Not even MoMo. He just sat in back, sliding his straw in and out of the plastic lid covering his chai.

The sound was getting on Gibert's nerves. "Do you mind?" he asked, locking eyes with the young man in his rearview mirror.

MoMo, unaware that he was annoying the inspector, apologized and stopped making the sound. "I do things like that sometimes when I'm tense."

"What's wrong?" Brunelle asked from the front seat. "Why are you tense?"

"Officially, this is my first time in the field."

"Great," Gibert lamented as he changed lanes.

"You're going to be fine."

"We hope," the cop added.

"Ignore him, MoMo," Brunelle advised. "Everyone's a little tense their first time out. But you grew up in Seine-Saint-Denis. You know the people. That gives you an advantage. You've got nothing to worry about."

The young man appreciated her reassurance. He also hoped that she'd be proven correct.

He kept in touch with enough of his childhood friends to know how on edge everything was. People were still angry. In the aftermath of the young teen being shot, there had been violent demonstrations. Shops had been looted. Buildings burned. Despite the passage of a couple of months, tensions remained only a few degrees below the boiling point.

When they arrived, no one needed to see a sign announcing they had crossed into Seine-Saint-Denis. You could sense it. The cars, the people… even the graffiti was bleak. Then they drove into Le Franc–Moisin and things really got dark.

It looked like the riots had happened only yesterday. Scorched fa?ades of buildings had yet to be repainted. Broken windows had been left unrepaired. Piles of rubble remained uncleared.

Over it all hung a thick, soot-riddled, grimy pallor. It was as if the neighborhood itself had been consumed by a terrible case of tuberculosis; unable, even momentarily, to prop itself up and drag a damp cloth across its face.

Gibert arrived at the charred remains of the stolen Peugeot and pulled over. There was barely anything left. It looked like it had been hit in a missile strike.

"Now what?" he asked, putting his car in park and turning off the engine.

"Now we find a Khalah," replied MoMo. "One of the neighborhood aunties. "

"You mean a local busybody."

"This is why no one wants to talk to you. You have no respect for anyone."

"Look around this place," Gibert responded. "It's a war zone. Hard to have respect for people who don't even respect themselves."

"You're a real asshole," MoMo said as he climbed out of the car. "You know that?"

"Trust me," Brunelle stated as she also stepped out of the car. "He doesn't have a clue."

"For fuck's sake," said the cop. "Can we just focus on what we're supposed to be doing here?"

MoMo and Brunelle ignored him as they walked over together to examine the Peugeot.

Having seen more than a few burned-out cars in his day, MoMo wasn't particularly impressed. Instead, he was interested in who was looking at them as they looked at the car. It took him a moment, but then he found a window and a pair of eyes.

"Be right back," he said, before crossing the street and approaching a building on the other side.

Brunelle continued to investigate the Peugeot.

When Gibert joined her, she remarked, "That was one hell of an accelerant. Look at how badly everything's melted."

"If the goal was to destroy evidence," he replied, his head on a swivel, taking in their surroundings, "that's the way to do it."

"Let's hope MoMo has some luck," she stated.

Nodding toward a group of young men who had gathered up the block and were checking them out, he added, "And let's hope it's soon."

It only took MoMo about five minutes, and when he came back he had struck gold.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where are we going?" Gibert asked, his eyes still on the group of young men.

"The soccer field around the corner."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

Worried that the kids there might disperse if the trio rolled up in an unmarked police vehicle, MoMo convinced Gibert that they should leave his car behind and walk the short distance. The cop wasn't crazy about the idea, but understanding its merits, agreed to go along with it.

When they arrived at the field, a half-dozen kids were playing soccer. MoMo walked over to where their sweatshirts and jackets were in a pile on the ground and said, "Boom."

"?‘Boom'?" Gibert repeated. " Boom what?"

"What else do you see?" MoMo asked. "Besides the jackets and sweatshirts?"

The cop looked. "A bunch of empty energy-drink cans."

" Brand-name energy drinks. Not cheaper knockoffs. And what's going on out on the field?"

"They're kicking a soccer ball around."

"Notice anything about the ball?"

Gibert looked. "No. Should I?"

"It's brand-new."

"These kids have come into a little bit of money," Brunelle responded.

"Precisely," said MoMo. "And they're about to come into a little bit more. Which one of you has some cash on you?"

"I only have credit cards," said Brunelle.

Reluctantly, Gibert reached for his wallet. "How much?"

"Twenty each will probably do it."

"No way," the cop replied. "Here's fifty. They can take it or leave it."

"An asshole and cheap," said MoMo as he snatched the fifty-euro note and strode onto the field.

Brunelle stifled a laugh as she and Gibert watched MoMo go chat with the kids.

Soon enough, he pulled out his cell phone and showed them something, presumably CCTV images of the two men they were looking for. One of the kids then took out his own phone and showed something to MoMo.

They chatted for a few more minutes before MoMo handed over the fifty euros and walked back to Brunelle and Gibert.

"The men we're looking for parked a second vehicle here. They paid those kids to keep an eye out and make sure nothing happened to it."

"That was their getaway car," said Gibert. "After they torched the Peugeot."

MoMo nodded.

"Did the kids tell you anything about the men themselves?" Brunelle asked.

"They were in their forties. Spoke terrible French. Heavily accented. One of the kids said the men sounded Russian. And one was walking with a limp."

"Definitely our guys," Gibert replied. "Anything about the other car?"

MoMo smiled and held up his phone. "One of the kids took a picture of it."