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A picture appeared, showing one of the boys and identifying him as Alain Du Champs, an aspiring photojournalist who had been hospitalized in serious condition. To my surprise, I recognized him. He was the same kid who’d sung that funny version of the Billy Joel song to the Muslim—
The room phone rang. It was Louis.
“Hoskins wants you to work with a sketch artist on that redhead you saw on the bus,” Louis said.
I thought of her, saw her clearly in my mind, and somehow it all clicked.
“I know where I saw her before,” I said with growing conviction. “You’ve seen her too, Louis. Remember the day we went to Al-Jumaa tailors and there was a white kid with a camera singing to a beautiful Muslim woman?”
“I remember. It’s her?”
“Her eyes were a different color, but I think so,” I said.
Louis said in a leaden voice, “She was coming from that mosque then, Jack, so the imam has to be involved with AB-16. And by extension Ali Farad.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, and then I did.
“We’ll deal with whoever is involved later,” I said. “Right now we need to find out what hospital the rioters in Barbès were taken to last night.”
Chapter 90
12th Arrondissement
8:30 a.m.
IN THE BEDROOM of Haja Hamid’s small apartment, she and Amé watched the television footage of the linen factory collapsing upon itself and the giant winged warhorse surrounded by burning timbers, smoke, and ash. The beast was so hot that the feathers and some of the skin were going molten and falling away, revealing the skeleton.
“It’s brilliant!” Amé cried. “My God, what a statement, Haja! That image will never be forgotten in France—ever.”
As an artist, Haja was pleased with the overall effect: sculpture and fire as performance art. The whole had been better than she’d hoped, and iconic as well—a symbol of her adopted nation’s inner, hidden turmoil.
But at the same time, Haja’s satisfaction was tempered by the memory of Jack Morgan staring at her from outside the bus in Sevran. Had there been a flash of recognition in his expression?
She wasn’t sure.
But if so, Morgan had probably followed them to Sevran after he’d followed Epée to the linen factory. Haja had not told Amé of her suspicions and certainly not Émile Sauvage. As much as the major craved her, she knew his unwavering commitment to the cause. If he ever thought that she had become a liability, he would sacrifice her the same way he’d sacrificed Epée. She wondered whether it was time for her to slip off, and leave the country until things had shaken out.
“How did you do it, Haja?” Amé asked. “Make it burn like that?”
“Math, thermodynamics, and magnesium,” Haja said.
“Translation?”
“A wood fire can burn up to four hundred degrees,” Haja said. “Throw gasoline in, and a wood fire can create temperatures well over five hundred. Magnesium ignites at roughly four hundred and seventy-three degrees, and can then burn as hot as four thousand degrees. I made the horse’s skin with sheets of magnesium, which caught when the first fire was at its hottest.”
Amé shook her head. “How in God’s name did you figure that all out?”
“God had nothing to do with it. I looked it all up on the Internet.”
Her burn phone rang.
Sauvage.
“Your art,” he said. “It’s all they’re talking about. Your masterpiece is raising a revolt, chéri. I’m seeing it with my own eyes.”
Haja smiled at last. “I’m glad you’re pleased.”
“Beyond pleased,” he said, and paused. “Did you see Jack Morgan there?”
