Page 71 of Shadow of Doubt

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 dadandhis 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 someonelikely 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 movieEscape 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 noidea 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 façadesof 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 neighborhoodaunties.”

“You mean a local busybody.”

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

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