The Witness (5 page)

“Of course,” Marwan snapped. “Why else would I go to Marseille?”

“Hey, hey, relax,” Ramy said. “I’m just trying to help.”

His brother had to be joking. Relax? Now?

“I’m just saying,” Ramy continued. “Who are you going to be tonight?”

“Make me Cardell,” Marwan said.

“Jack Cardell?”

“Right.”

Marwan rolled to a complete stop and turned on his flashers.

“Fine,” Ramy said. “Aisle or window?”

Marwan glanced at the pistol on the seat beside him and held his breath.

“Marwan—aisle or window?”

Marwan said nothing. He slowly set down the phone and began reaching for the pistol. He could still hear his brother shouting through the phone; he felt the cold steel and tightened his grip on the handle.

“Marwan? Are you there?”

His palms were sweaty. His heart was racing.

“Marwan?”

The patrol car rushed by.

It was not after him. It pulled over another car—a red Porsche Turbo—half a kilometer ahead, and a shudder ran through Marwan’s body. But it was not relief. It was revulsion. He couldn’t believe what he had just done. Or almost done. He hadn’t just considered killing an innocent police officer in cold blood, had he? Had he actually been preparing himself to pull the trigger? What was wrong with him? What was he becoming?

For a split second, it was as if Marwan could stare into his own soul, and as he did, he found it darker than the night through which he drove.

“Marwan?”
Ramy shouted again. “What in the world is going on?”

Marwan set down the pistol, wiped his hands on his suit pants, and tried to breathe. Then he picked up the phone and said, “Yes, Ramy, I’m still here. Sorry.”

“What happened? Are you all right?”

“No,” Marwan said. “Actually, I’m not.”

He gunned the engine and raced onward toward Marseille. But as he did, a dam broke deep within Marwan’s heart. He began telling his brother all that had happened. His conversation with Ramsey. The assassination. The car bombing. The gunfight at Le Méridien. The taxi driver. The residential shoot-out. The stolen car. His decision to run. And how close he had just come to murder.

It was a confession borne partly of anxiety but mostly of guilt. But it was also information Ramy had to have. He was, after all, the number two man in Marwan’s company, and everything that had just happened was about to dramatically affect that company. Perhaps more importantly for the moment, Marwan needed from his brother a level of clarity and emotional distance from the events of the last few hours that he himself could not muster.

“You think I made a mistake?” Marwan asked when he had finished the story.

“What, you mean leaving Monte Carlo after all that?” Ramy asked.

“Right.”

“Not at all,” Ramy said without hesitation. “I would have done the exact same thing.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” Ramy insisted. “You had no choice.”

“And if the patrol car had stopped you?” Marwan pressed. “What would you have done then?”

“Just thank God it didn’t come to that,” Ramy replied.

The truth was Marwan was in no mood to thank God. He had been angry with God for years. His prayers seemed to count for nothing. Every day they seemed to evaporate like the morning dew. He had questions that were never answered. He had wounds that were never healed. He had lost everyone he had ever loved, except for Ramy. And now all that he had worked for was about to slip away.

“This thing could sink us, Ramy,” Marwan said after a pause.

“Or kill us,” his brother noted.

Marwan’s stomach tightened. Ramy was right, and Marwan felt terrible for putting him in this situation. He had always been Ramy’s protector. Now he had exposed them both to great danger.

“I’m so sorry,” Marwan said. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

But Ramy wouldn’t hear of it. “Hey, don’t worry about me,” he said.

“But I do worry about you,” Marwan replied.

“Marwan, really, I’ll be fine,” Ramy insisted. “So will you. We’ve been through worse, right?”

“I’m not so sure, little brother,” Marwan sighed. “I’m not so sure.”

11

Police helicopters buzzed over the city. Checkpoints were up on all roads leading in and out of Monte Carlo. Cars, taxis, buses, and trains were being checked, as were hospitals and hotels. The harbor had been shut down; so had the private heliports. Officials at the airport in Nice, the closest airport serving Monaco, had been notified and were on the lookout.

But thus far, there had been no sighting of Marwan Accad, the only witness to a crime that had rocked the tiny coastal city, much less a serious lead to whoever had pulled the trigger and killed Rafeeq Ramsey in the first place. Inspector Jean-Claude Goddard shook his head and stepped out on the balcony. He breathed in the brisk night air and stared at the waves lapping against the cement piers, waiting for the ulcer to start forming in his stomach.

“Here’s the photograph you requested,” Colette DuVall said, handing Goddard an 8½-by-11 glossy, fresh out of the printer.

“This is from the surveillance footage?” Goddard asked.

“Yes, sir,” DuVall said. “And the video’s all cued up for you when you’re ready.”

“In a moment,” Goddard said.

For now he stared at the image of Marwan Accad in his hands. He was a good-looking young man, but not a standout, not the model or movie-star type. He had light olive skin, jet-black hair that was closely cropped, and in this photo at least, he was clean shaven. No mustache. No beard. No sideburns. No hint of stubble. He had a small nose and a strong chin and appeared to be in excellent physical condition, but as far as Goddard could tell, he had no other distinguishing features. No scars. No blemishes. Nothing that would make him stand out in a crowd. The perfect bodyguard.

What really struck Goddard were Accad’s eyes. They were large and brown and warmer somehow than he had expected. To Goddard they communicated a sharp, ambitious mind but also a sense of decency, a sense of honor. And there was something else. Goddard could not put his finger on it just now, but there was something in those eyes that intrigued him, that made him curious. A hint of sadness, perhaps?

“Get this to all our men in the field,” Goddard ordered. “And get it out to the TV stations, saying he’s wanted for questioning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And issue a reward.”

“How much?” DuVall asked.

“How much is left in the account?”

“A hundred, I think.”

“Fine, use it all,” Goddard said. “A hundred thousand euros for information leading to the arrest and conviction of those responsible for this hideous crime. And make sure you get everything we have to Interpol. See what they can send you on this Marwan Accad.”

“Right away, sir.”

“And expand the search grid,” Goddard added, his worries growing.

“You don’t think Accad is in Monte Carlo any longer?”

“I don’t know,” Goddard conceded. “Put fax bulletins out to the airports in Cannes, Marseille, and Hyères, as well as to Albenga and Genoa in Italy.”

“That far?” DuVall asked.

Goddard nodded. “We can’t take any chances, Colette. We have no idea who the killer is. Or killers, for all we know. We don’t know whom to look for. The only real lead we have at the moment is Accad. He’s probably still here, but we certainly don’t know that for sure.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Contact the train stations and ferry services in the smaller towns as well. And check back with me every thirty minutes. I want constant updates.”

“And the other thing?” DuVall asked. “Have you called him yet?”

Goddard said nothing. He just shook his head.

“Don’t you really have to?” DuVall pressed gingerly.

Goddard sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Would you like me to take care of it for you?”

Goddard wished. But as the chief of detectives, the task—however distasteful—fell to him, and he couldn’t postpone it any longer.

“No,” he said at last. “I’ll do it. Just get him on the phone. Tell him it’s urgent. Then bring the phone to me.”

“Right away, sir,” DuVall said.

Goddard retired to a small office off the master bedroom, where another of his detectives showed him the surveillance videos. He was struck by the worry in Ramsey’s eyes throughout the conversation, and by how relaxed Accad looked.

“Wait, stop the tape,” Goddard said abruptly, leaning forward in his chair. “Right—there. Okay, play that part again.”

Accad was handing Ramsey an envelope. The expression on Ramsey’s face was first one of shock and then—what was that next? Anger? Indignation?

“What is that?” Goddard asked the detective. “What did he just take out of the envelope?”

“I can’t tell,” the detective said. “The angle is partially blocked by Monsieur Accad.”

“Do you have another angle?” Goddard asked.

“No, sir, I’m afraid this is all we have.”

“Is that a photo of some kind?”

“It might be.”

“Can you zoom in on it, clarify it a bit?”

“Not here, sir,” the detective said. “But I might be able to enhance it digitally back at headquarters.”

“Do it,” Goddard ordered. “And get back to me as soon as you have something.”

12

The simple fact was that he couldn’t stand Inspector Marcel Lemieux.

There was no other way to put it. The idea of having to talk to him again, much less work with him, turned Goddard’s stomach. But what could he do? Lemieux was leading the investigation of the kidnapping of Claudette Ramsey and the murder of Brigitte Ramsey. The man had to be told. He would want to see the crime scene and the video from the surveillance cameras inside Ramsey’s flat. He would have to know about this Accad fellow, who could turn out to be the best witness they had, if they could only find him.

Lemieux was something of a living legend throughout the police forces of Europe. He had solved some of the continent’s biggest cases—murder, kidnapping, bank robbery; the kind of cases that involved the rich and famous and those with very powerful friends in very high places.

But Goddard still couldn’t stand him. They had worked together on two previous cases, and both experiences had left nothing but a bad taste in Goddard’s mouth.

The first time was when a French diplomat on holiday in Monte Carlo had gone missing for three days. The wife had received a ransom note but was warned not to pay. A week later, Goddard and his men found the diplomat’s body washed up onshore. The same day, a waitress at one of the casinos was found dead, an apparent suicide. Was there a connection? Goddard began interviewing all of the woman’s friends and relatives. Within forty-eight hours, he had compiled circumstantial evidence that the two cases were connected and had even been able to put together a rather compelling list of three suspects, none of whom had convincing alibis for the days in question.

But then Lemieux swooped in and essentially yanked the case away from him. Not to solve it more quickly, Goddard would later note to colleagues. Indeed, the case was never solved at all. Instead, leads went cold. Suspects walked. Key evidence was mishandled or disappeared. And Lemieux couldn’t have been more pompous or rude during the entire “investigation,” if that is what it could be called. In time, Lemieux declared the case “virtually unsolvable” and went back to Paris, leaving resentment and ill will in his wake.

Goddard’s second run-in with Lemieux occurred in the late summer of 2003 when a wealthy French shipping magnate and his sons disappeared after taking his gleaming new $25-million yacht out of Monte Carlo’s harbor for a quick spin around the Mediterranean.

Goddard remembered it like it was yesterday. The urgent phone call from headquarters just after 6 a.m. The hysterical wife. The media feeding frenzy. The sensational headlines.

It wasn’t every day a man of such prominence—a close friend of the French prime minister—vanished into thin air. But he and his sons were nowhere to be found. No bodies. No blood. No clues of any kind. Everyone demanded immediate answers. For days, the Parisian press hammered away at the Monte Carlo authorities, accusing them of dragging their feet. Goddard was under tremendous pressure to produce results—a fingerprint, a witness, anything to show progress. He didn’t eat. He barely slept. He ran his men ragged and almost had to be hospitalized himself for exhaustion.

And then it came. The break they had been working for, praying for. Goddard discovered that the shipping magnate’s sons owed money to a man they thought was a Russian banker but who in fact worked for the Russian mafia. Goddard then discovered that the Russian owned a flat in Monte Carlo and had been spotted in town just days earlier. What’s more, two of the Russian’s associates had been seen wandering around the harbor on the morning of the men’s disappearance, asking about renting a speedboat.

Momentum began building. Goddard had a suspect, a motive. He requested permission from his superiors to fly to Moscow to follow the trail. But to his shock, he was denied.

Forty-five minutes later, Lemieux walked into his office, claimed jurisdiction of the case, and demanded copies of the case files. Goddard protested but was overruled by his superiors.

The next day it was Lemieux, rather than Goddard, who flew to Moscow. Once again the case quickly ran aground. The Russian “banker’s” associates mysteriously vanished. The man himself offered up the most pathetic of alibis. But Lemieux barely pressed. Instead, Lemieux soon cleared the Russian and went back to Paris, promising to keep the case open but offering little hope of ever seeing it solved. Worse, the suspect actually received official apologies from several governments, including Goddard’s own, and Goddard was suspended for a week without pay for “unfairly impugning the reputation of a valued friend of Monaco.”

And now he was coming back, Marcel Maurice Lemieux, the most arrogant detective in Europe.

DuVall joined Goddard on the balcony and held the phone toward him.

“It’s him,” she whispered.

Goddard rubbed his eyes and then took the phone.

“Inspector Lemieux, what a pleasure to speak with you again,” he lied.