Black Diamond

have experience in this field of immigration,” Vien said. “We know how the system works. For large-scale movements coming by ship, you need an onshore base and a fast distribution system to get the arrivals away from the coast. We developed a technique that involved renting or buying beachfront trailer sites and camping grounds with campers waiting to move them on. We could move a hundred people across France within twelve hours of their coming ashore.”
    He pushed the plastic folder across the table to the brigadier. “The same
treizième
holding company that organized the bankruptcy and takeover of the supermarket here in Bordeaux has recently bought a large campsite south of Arcachon. Last month they also took over a company in Lille that buys and sells used campers. Over the last week, forty of these vehicles have been driven down to this region, converging on the campsite. The implications of that should be obvious.” He looked up at Tran. “Now may we have dinner?”
    Bruno looked across at Isabelle, who’d nodded at the brigadier and picked up Vien’s folder. She leafed through the documents, pulled out her mobile phone and opened a programthat brought up maps. Bruno leaned over to watch her thumb in the coordinates for the Arcachon region, a vast lagoon of a bay south of Bordeaux, famous for its mussels and for a giant sand dune, two miles long and fifteen hundred feet high. She checked the address on Vien’s dossier against her map and nodded again. Then she looked up, her eyes shining.
    “I think we’re in business,” she said.

21
    “Tamarind tree soup and lily blossom fish and coconut prawns,” said Tran, taking dishes from the hatch where the dumbwaiter had just arrived from the kitchen. “
Gio thu—
that’s pig’s head pie—and
kim long
, minced pork with sugarcane. And here’s the
com hen
, rice cooked in mussel juice, and
tom chua
, sour shrimp from Hue.”
    “And
banh chung
, there must be
banh chung
,” said Vien, rubbing his hands together.
    “Of course, the dish that won the kingdom for the young prince who was wise enough to know his father would insist on rice for his favorite dish,” said Tran, grinning as he brought dishes to the table, evidently proud of the food his restaurant was serving. “
Banh chung
is sticky rice with pork, cooked in banana leaves,” he explained to Bruno.
    Bruno had eaten Vietnamese food in the occasional restaurant in Paris and in Vinh’s home, but never like this. He had thought of it as a variation on Chinese food, but these flavors and textures were quite distinct, and the green coloring of the rice and subtle taste of the
banh chung
surprised him. He looked around to see the others intent on their food. Isabellewas still standing by the door. He stood and offered to take her place while she ate.
    “Finish your own meal first,” she said, smiling. It was a real smile this time, with affection and a suggestion of happy memories in her eyes, not the automatic greeting she had given him in the alley. She looked tired and a little drawn.
    “I’m fine,” he said. “You didn’t even take a drink. Go and eat. If I want more, I can always go back.”
    “Are you armed?” she asked. Bruno shook his head. Isabelle handed him her Sauer automatic, squeezed his hand in thanks and moved across to the table. Bruno felt Bao Le’s eyes on him as the Vietnamese stood up and held the chair for Isabelle. Tran served her a bowl of soup, and Vien poured her a glass of champagne despite her polite refusal. She ate quickly, exchanging brief words with the brigadier.
    Isabelle had barely begun on a new plate of fish and
banh chung
when there was the sound of shouts, swiftly overtaken by a high-revving engine roaring up the street outside and a sudden flare of light through the louvered shutters of a window. Then came two shots in quick succession, and then a third, more distant.
    J-J was close to the window, but Bao Le beat him to it, a heavy automatic in one hand and a cell phone in the other.
    “Gasoline bomb,” Bao Le said, standing to one side of the window and looking down. He punched a number into his phone.
    Isabelle was suddenly at Bruno’s side, retrieving her weapon and darting through the door and down the first flight of stairs, calling to the Fusiliers Marins below.
    “Wait,” Isabelle called up. Bruno looked down to see her on the lower landing, half hidden by the balustrade post, her knees bent and both hands on the gun.
    “The