Black Diamond

fire’s out,” called J-J from the window. “They used a couple of extinguishers, and it looks like the street’s clear.”
    “Front and rear secure,” Bruno heard one of the Fusiliers shout up the stairwell. The brigadier was at the door beside Bruno, his gun in his hand.
    “You watch the door,” said Bruno. “I’ll find out what happened.”
    Aware that Bao Le was on his heels, Bruno followed Isabelle down the stairs and out through the empty ground floor of the restaurant to the street. The bomb had been aimed at the front window but had missed and hit the brick wall to one side and part of the front door, now covered in foam from the extinguisher. Beside him, Bao Le was talking into the phone in Vietnamese. One of the Bordeaux police from the unmarked car that had been blocking the street entrance approached cursing, his clothes spattered with white paint.
    “Three motorbikes, coordinated so they hit at the same time, two men on each bike,” he said. “One bike for each of the cars, a paint bomb on the windshield, then a third bike swerved around our car and into this street, and the guy on the back tossed the bomb.”
    Bruno could feel the broken glass from the bottle that had held the gasoline grinding under his feet.
    “They’ve gone,” the policeman added, looking down in dismay at his paint-smeared coat. “Too fast for us to react. We need some paper towels or something to clear the windshields, or the cars are useless.”
    “Towels will just smear it,” said Bruno. “You’ll need turpentine. Better call in and ask for another car to bring some.”
    Bao Le grabbed Bruno’s arm, his phone at his ear. “I thinkwe’ve got one,” he said. “I had men around the corner in case of something like this.”
    Bruno pulled out his own phone, called J-J’s mobile and reported what he had heard. Then he followed Bao Le around the corner where the hood and windshields of the police cars were drenched with paint. Along the street a trail bike lay sprawled on its side beside a garbage bin, spilling empty tins and plastic bottles. Three figures were struggling on the pavement and front doors were opening, more people looking out windows.
    Bao Le shouted an order in Vietnamese, and the struggle suddenly became orderly, two Asians in black raincoats holding between them a man in a motorbike helmet. Bao Le spoke again. It sounded like a question. One of the men in raincoats replied, and Bruno could see that his nose was bleeding.
    “I asked them what happened to the second man on the bike,” Bao Le explained. “They said he ran away while they were struggling with this one. They did well to stop the bike. They threw the garbage can at it and knocked the bike over.”
    “Let’s take this one back to Tran’s place and find out what we’ve got,” said Bruno. “But first, I need a number where I can reach you. It’s about something else. I need to find Hercule Vendrot’s daughter, and I think with your connections you should be able to help me.”
    Bao Le made as if to speak but then stopped. He took an embossed card from a card case and slipped it into Bruno’s hand.
    Siren howling and blue lights flashing, a fire engine appeared at the far end of the street and headed toward them. Bao Le took a plastic cord from one of his men and roughly bound the elbows of the prisoner together behind his back.The two Vietnamese in raincoats stayed on watch, one of them picking up the motorbike and wheeling it to the side of the street. Bruno scribbled down the registration number and then steered their stumbling prisoner back to the corner where the police in their unmarked but paint-smeared car were arguing with the firemen and refusing to move.
    Ignoring them, Bruno marched his charge to the foam-smeared door and into the restaurant. Isabelle, J-J and the brigadier were already there, each talking on a different phone.
    “Bao Le’s men caught one,” Bruno announced, and pushed the slim figure down into a chair. Three telephone conversations were hurriedly ended. “I got the license plate of the bike.” He read it out, and J-J punched a new number into his cell.
    Bao Le removed the helmet from the prisoner and stood back. Bruno gave a start of recognition.
    “I know him,” he said. “It’s the guy we arrested in St. Denis for the assault on Vinh’s stall. He’s supposed to have paid his fine and left the country by now.”
    “The one who had that bastard Poincevin as a lawyer?” asked J-J,