The Witness Page 3

  “Mon dieu,” cried a woman’s voice from the house in front of him. Marwan twisted to his left and fired, a lucky guess that saved his life. The fourth man buckled forward, then collapsed toward the curb.

  In a squat, Marwan made a circuit of the cars, making sure that no attackers were left. He heard voices and looked out. People were beginning to come out of their houses.

  “Are you okay?” one man called out. “I saw the whole thing. Who were those men?”

  Instead of answering, Marwan quickly assessed the situation. His car and the car that he hit were clearly undrivable. But the Peugeot . . .

  “I called the police. They’re on their—”

  Marwan pushed past the first man who had arrived at the scene. The man called out to him, but he ignored him. He reached into the taxi and pulled out the bag he had taken from the couple at the hotel.

  Then, amid the angry curses of the neighbors who had come to help, he slid into the front seat of the Peugeot. He twisted the key, threw the car into reverse, and backed down the street, hoping that no one had written down the license plate number from the back bumper.

  When he got to the next intersection, he slammed on the brakes, pulled the car into a one-eighty, then raced off the way he had come.

  7

  Soon Marwan was heading west again. He kept a close watch on his mirrors but this time didn’t see anything. Keeping his right hand loosely on the wheel, he reached up and gently touched his shoulder.

  He sucked in air through his teeth. The pain, although extreme, he had expected. The dampness from his blood soaking through the hotel washcloth, he had not. His jacket and the black T-shirt would hide the spreading stain for a while, but not long enough.

  Pulling to the side of the road, he took out a small pocketknife and used it to cut a large swatch out of the fabric of the passenger seat. He folded the square twice over.

  Gritting his teeth, he reached under his shirt and tugged at the washcloth. When it finally gave, he quickly tossed it to the ground. He threw his head back against the headrest and rode the wave of pain. When it finally subsided enough, he slid the fabric square under his shirt and over the wound.

  His head spun as he slowly pulled out into the street. Keep it together! he told himself. You’re still a long way from safe. He needed to get to Marseille. But first he had to get rid of the car.

  He was still trying to come up with a plan when he crossed from Monaco into France—a border that was rarely, if ever, monitored. Soon after, he saw a sign for the town of La Turbie. A plan began forming in his mind.

  Upon entering the town, he followed the signs to the Trophy of Augustus. This stone monument that towered more than thirty meters into the sky was built in 6 BC by the Romans to celebrate Emperor Augustus’s victory over the tribes that once ruled the Alps. The monument and the surrounding ruins drew tens of thousands of visitors each year.

  But Marwan wasn’t going there for the history. In fact, he wasn’t planning on getting beyond the parking lot.

  He drove past the line of tourist buses and in among the cars. Finding an open space, he pulled in and waited. He drummed his fingers on the Peugeot’s steering wheel out of nervousness and impatience.

  Once he saw that the lot was clear of people, he quickly got out of the car. Using the butt of his gun, he smashed the rear driver’s side window of an Avis rental Citroën C3. Reaching in, he opened the rear door. Then he transferred his bag over and popped the lock for the front door.

  Once in, he reached under the dash and got the car started—a skill that he and his brother, Ramy, had practiced often but never really thought they’d use. As he pulled out, he looked to the great stone structure that towered over the city. I wonder if life was as complicated back then as it is now. It couldn’t have been. You either worked a farm and waited to be raided by a conquering army or a wandering horde of barbarians, or you fought with a conquering army or a horde of barbarians. Either way, you knew that whatever you started out as in life, that’s probably how you would live, and that’s probably how you would die.

  We travel all over the world. We go places we have no business being. We have weapons to kill each other at long distances. And it’s not always easy to tell the good guys from the bad ones.

  Despite himself, he started laughing—a dark, brooding sound. Look who’s talking! You think of yourself as a good guy. Yet you’ve killed how many people today? And now, here you are making your escape in a stolen car. Face it, Accad, no matter what you tell yourself, ultimately, you’re not a good man. The only difference between you and the people you killed today is who’s paying you.

  A dark cloud came over Marwan as he drove. The thought that he was no different from those he had always considered “the bad guys” weighed heavily on him. Finally he turned on the radio to try to distract his thoughts, but it didn’t help.

  By the time he finally reached La Provençale and began his run to Marseille, the darkness had settled into his heart. He was desperate to hunt down whoever was behind all this, and he was ready to kill whoever got in his way. And if I should die in the process, so be it! Whatever I get, I deserve—both here and now and in whatever happens once this sorry life of mine is over.

  8

  Inspector Jean-Claude Goddard eased his aging, two-door Renault through a maze of emergency vehicles and TV satellite trucks (already beaming the sensational story to millions) and found a place to park outside Ramsey’s building. He grabbed his sidearm and badge out of the glove compartment and stepped outside into the November chill.

  He had been a detective in Monaco for almost twenty years, chief of detectives for the last five. But in all his years, he had never seen a crime like this.

  With a population of only thirty-three thousand people, the principality was the second-smallest sovereign territory in the world, after the Vatican. Nestled between Italy and France, along less than two square kilometers of rugged mountains sloping down to gorgeous and high-priced beachfront property, Monaco certainly had its share of petty crimes and burglaries and other assorted troubles. And with more millionaires per capita than any other place in Europe, one could expect it to be a natural target for those driven by envy and greed. But car bombings? Assassinations? Multiple homicides in multiple locations—all on the same day, no less? Never. It was unheard of. Until now.

  He passed the charred remains of the Range Rover, still smoldering in the street, and entered the lobby of Ramsey’s building. Then he took the elevator up to the central crime scene.

  His assistant, a twenty-eight-year-old brunette named Colette DuVall, met him in the living room as Goddard’s small but professional team of investigators gathered clues throughout the flat. “Brace yourself, boss,” DuVall said. “This one’s pretty bad.”

  Goddard found himself stepping over bodies and bullets from the moment he walked through the front door. “What do we know so far?” he asked, trying to maintain his cool as he surveyed the carnage in one of the most lavish apartments into which he had ever set foot.

  “You got the basic overview from the chief, right?” DuVall asked.

  “I did.”

  “Then let’s start over here.” DuVall walked him to the portly corpse at the center of the room. “Meet the late Rafeeq Ramsey.”

  “So this is definitely him—the Rafeeq Ramsey?” Goddard asked. “The Egyptian millionaire?”

  “I’m afraid so,” DuVall said. “Why, do you know him?”

  “I met him and his wife at the Grand Prix a few years ago,” Goddard recalled, “but he’s definitely aged since then. We talked for a while. Fascinating man, really. He and his brother grew up penniless in Aswan or Luxor or somewhere and went on to become richer than the pharaohs. Mining, at first—iron ore, steel, gold, phosphates, that kind of thing. After his brother passed away, he got into the natural gas business, mostly in the Nile Delta. Made a fortune. Seemed like a decent guy, actually—charming, unassuming, down-to-earth. His wife, on the other hand, she was a rea
l . . .”

  Goddard suddenly lowered his voice and asked, “Is she here?”

  DuVall shook her head. “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean, not exactly?”

  “She was kidnapped two weeks ago in Paris.”

  “Oh,” Goddard said, feeling a twinge of guilt.

  “It gets worse,” DuVall said.

  “How?”

  “Ramsey’s daughter—his only daughter, from his first marriage—she was murdered the same day that her stepmother disappeared.”

  Goddard winced. How was that possible? The father was dead, the daughter was dead, and the wife was kidnapped. What curse had fallen on this poor family?

  “How old was she?”

  “Forty-two.”

  “No, not the wife,” Goddard said. “The daughter.”

  “Oh, sorry.” DuVall checked her notes. “Brigitte was only twelve.”

  Goddard shook his head. His own daughter was about to turn ten. “Any suspects yet?” he asked, vowing in his heart to find whoever had done these horrible crimes and bring them to justice.

  “No, not yet,” DuVall said.

  “Any witnesses?”

  “There may be one.”

  “Who?”

  “A man named Marwan Accad,” DuVall said.

  “Find him,” Goddard ordered. “And bring him to me.”

  9

  Marwan knew he was in trouble the moment he walked in the door. He was an hour and a half late coming home from school on a day that his parents had made him promise that he would be home on time. His mind raced through excuses.

  I could say that I was in a study group. Or better yet, I was meeting with a teacher—Mr. Chehab—getting help with my physics. They’ve already told me I should try to spend some time with him to bring my grade up.

  But in the end, when his father confronted him, he simply admitted to the truth. He and Kadeen al-Wadhi had gotten caught up in a football game, and he had lost track of time.

  The next three minutes were spent enduring a typical chewing-out by his dad. Words like selfish, irresponsible, and child were used multiple times. Finally he was saved by his mother, who stepped in the doorway and tapped her watch.

  Taking Marwan by the shoulders, his father said, “Son, you’re nearly fifteen now. You’re almost a man. I’m very proud of much that I see in you. You are everything that I hoped for when I first held you in my hands so long ago. The only thing lacking is that I need to be able to trust you. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  Marwan knew his dad was unique. So many of his friends would have just received a slap across the face from their fathers. He wanted to do right for him. Sometimes it was just so hard.

  “I do understand. Again, I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “I know you are. And you’re forgiven,” his dad said, pulling him into a hug. “Mom and I will be gone at the banquet until late tonight. It’s a school night, so you make sure that Ramy is in bed by nine. If he gives you trouble, remember, ‘A firm hand . . .’”

  “‘. . . and a soft heart.’ I got it, Dad.”

  Marwan’s mother stepped back into the room. “Adib,” she said impatiently.

  “I’m coming, Sarah,” Marwan’s father answered. Then, to Marwan, he said with a smile, “I guess you’re not the only one running late today.”

  Sarah gave her husband a light slap on the shoulder as she passed him. After giving Marwan a hug and a kiss on the cheek, she said, “Have Ramy—”

  “In bed by nine. Dad already told me.”

  After saying their good-byes to Ramy, they left the apartment. Ramy and Marwan went to the balcony of their flat to wave to their parents as they walked to their car. It was a tradition that they had kept for countless years and one that Marwan was feeling a little old for. But it was still important to Ramy, so Marwan kept up the ritual for his sake.

  Soon, Adib and Sarah Accad exited the building. Automatically, upon reaching the street, they turned and waved at the boys they knew would be there. The brothers returned the wave, and when their mom blew them a kiss, Ramy returned that also.

  Suddenly a sound like a lightning strike crashed through the air, and the two brothers were thrown back into their flat. Heat and flames poured through the balcony doorway and caught the gauzy drapes on fire.

  As he lay on the ground, Marwan heard a voice. It sounded like it was echoing down a long tunnel. He shook his head to clear it, and the pain that caused made him vow not to do it again. Gradually, as he began to regain his senses, he realized that the voice he heard was Ramy screaming next to him.

  Movement caught his eye, and he saw that the curtains were burning. He jumped up and staggered to the doorway, then snatched a pillow from a couch and began trying to beat the flames out. Moments later, he saw Ramy doing the same thing on the other side of the door.

  Once the flames were out, the brothers locked eyes. At once, the same thought came into both their minds.

  “Mom,” Ramy cried out, running toward the doorway to where the balcony used to be. Marwan just had time to catch him by the collar of his shirt. He yanked him back with all of his might. Both brothers tumbled to the floor.

  “Wait here,” Marwan ordered his little brother. He could see that all of Ramy’s feelings had settled into one overwhelming emotion—terror.

  On his hands and knees, Marwan crawled to the balcony door. When he looked out, he could see it was now a sheer drop down the three stories to the ground below. Rubble was strewn all about the place. A car burned across the street. All around, people were screaming, and Marwan could hear the first of the sirens coming from a distance.

  Where are they? Marwan frantically searched the dazed people wandering below. Come on, Mom, Dad, let me see where you are!

  Deep inside, he knew where he needed to look, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  Then, from next to him, a hand pointed down, and a voice screamed, “Mom!”

  Marwan followed Ramy’s finger to the center of the street. It was impossible to make out any facial features, but the clothing was familiar. What sealed it was the purse ten feet from the bodies. It was a Parisian purse, one that their mom was so proud of. One that she loved so much that her hand still held it, even in death.

  10

  Marwan woke from his daydream with a start. He wiped a tear from his eye, then pinched himself hard on the forearm to help himself focus. He had been on the road for almost an hour. It had all been a blur. A debilitating cocktail of fear and fatigue and burning pain ran through his veins, blurring his thoughts, dulling his senses.

  At every toll station he expected to be stopped. With every sighting of a police car, he expected to be pulled over. But so far, the drive had been quiet. Too quiet.

  The clock was ticking. The authorities in Monaco had to be looking for him. Which meant the French and Italians were looking for him. Which meant even if he wanted to hide out in Europe, he could not. He had to get to North Africa. But he couldn’t take a ferry. That would take too long. He had to go by air. But he couldn’t fly under his own name. Which meant he had to get those fake passports he had stashed away for such a time as this. Which meant his only shot at freedom was catching the last flight out of Marseille.

  If he remembered correctly, Royal Air Maroc had a flight that left at ten, which would put him in Casablanca sometime around midnight. It was a gamble, to be sure. He’d run the risk of being arrested at either airport, but he didn’t see any other choice. He had to try.

  A road sign whizzed by. He still had more than a hundred kilometers to go. He cursed under his breath and tromped on the accelerator.

  As Marwan sped west on Highway A8, he knew all too well that he was dangerously exposed on a main thoroughfare like this. But he wouldn’t be much safer even if he took the coastal road or back roads or zigzagged his way in. And even after he made it to the airport, what was he going to do with the stolen car? And how was he supposed to board the flight? He didn’t even have
a reservation, much less a ticket.

  He dialed Beirut. A familiar voice answered at the other end.

  “Hello?”

  “Ramy, it’s Marwan.”

  “Marwan! Is that really you? Are you okay? I just heard a report on the radio. . . . Something terrible has happened in Monte Carlo—a shooting, a bombing, but they didn’t have many details.”

  “I’m fine, really,” Marwan said. “Just a little shaken up.”

  In truth, the pain from the wound in his shoulder was almost unbearable, but there was no point in worrying his only brother. Not about this, anyway. There was so much more.

  “Are you alone?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Ramy said. “Everyone else has gone home for the day.”

  “Good. I need your help.”

  “Anything, Marwan. Just tell me what happened.”

  “In a minute,” Marwan said. “First, I need you to book me a flight.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Where to?”

  “Marseille to Casa.”

  “Marseille?” Ramy asked. “I thought you were in—”

  “Ramy, please, I’ll explain in a moment. Marseille to Casa. When’s the last flight leave tonight?”

  “Eight thirty, but I don’t—”

  “No, no,” Marwan said. “I thought the last flight left at ten or thereabouts.” Marwan suddenly spotted what looked to be a patrol car coming up on his left. He eased off the accelerator ever so slightly as Ramy corrected him.

  “Trust me, Marwan. I’ve taken it a hundred times. Flight 256. Royal Air Maroc. It’s a code-share with Air France. Departs at eight thirty. Lands in Casa at ten.”

  The patrol car turned on its lights. Marwan cursed aloud.

  “What is it?” Ramy asked.

  “Nothing,” Marwan insisted. “Isn’t there anything else?”

  Should he pull over? What then? How would he explain the busted-out window? or the fact that his name didn’t match the one on the rental agreement? He could hear his brother typing away feverishly on his laptop. He could picture him checking all the travel search engines.