Apostazia - The Marcarelli chronicle.
Chapter 2 : Intercepted
“They never tell you what you're chasing. Only what to do when you catch it.”
DATE: September 8th, 1997
LOCATION: Interpol Central, Lyon
FILE REF: A02 – Initial Subject Briefing
CRS Officer: Raphael Marcarelli /Commission Liaison: “Sveta”
The Interpol headquarters in Lyon was clean; Glass corridors, quiet footfall in the earlier hours, low lights, polished floors. Raphael Marcarelli sat at a narrow tea table, fingers lightly tapping the surface below him. Across from him, her dark eyes sharp but unreadable, sat the woman named Sveta, no last name,no rank, just Sveta.
“She’s aged between 14 -17,” she said, sliding the folder across to him. “She’s created problems. Organized a number of cells ; mostly disbanded now…… or even killed off. Pseudo-political, fringe mystic affiliations, took part in two coordinated attacks on ex-military caches. She’s a ghost, but she makes noise.”
“That’s a bit vague to pull someone from CRS.” Raphael said as he finally met her gaze.
Then opened the file; thin, too thin. Surveillance notes, disconnected case numbers. No photos. Just descriptions ;one line stood out:
Potential occultist influence - unconfirmed.
“She’s what… ?a cult leader?” Raphael asked, tone dry. “You sure this isn’t just another Paris Noir sidetrack?”
Sveta stood near the tall window now, arms crossed.
“That’s why we brought you in,” she said. “You already flagged unusual interest in the Monstrum case; you saw something in the foreign Legion report two years ago. You know how to spot patterns.”
The blond woman pulled a photo out of her office drawer and handed it over to Raphael.
The officer took a look at it; a black and white surveillance photo ,a girl, mid teens, narrow face, light-colored hair. No context, no date.
“We had a name recently :Maude Holtzmün.Alias, possibly one of several. That’s all we could gather about her.” Sveta said.
After a pause, she added, “But there’s a hint of hope ;someone ,name’s Louis Bouchard. You’ve heard of him I suppose.”
“Unfortunately.” He replied.
“He has ties to certain trafficking chains. He may have seen her, or worked with someone who did. But I still doubt he’ll elaborate. He won’t talk to anyone else.”
“Is that what's bothering you this whole time? “The officer scoffed .
“You really think he’ll help?” Sveta lifted her eyes.
“I only need access to him that’s all.I think he’ll say something,and that’s more than anyone else in your circle is doing.”
Sveta gave a nod that wasn’t quite of an approval.
“We’re not sending you to confront him,just to gather.”
Raphael didn’t reply. He kept looking at the image.
“I’m still not convinced; what does all of this have to do with me?”
Sveta didn’t answer right away. She sat on the sofa facing him directly staring into his eyes.
“You’re mobile,clean record,good instincts.You’re French, but not too French,” Sveta said. “That matters in operations like this.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Meaning I’m expendable?”
Sveta didn’t smile. “Meaning you’re flexible. You’re the kind of man who notices what others dismiss.We want someone who can track quietly ; not spook her, not lose her.”
He looked up, he let that sit for a moment. Then glanced down again.
“What’s her connection to the Parisian gang boss again?”
Sveta crossed one leg over the other.
“They dealt with the same figure ,allegedly. The human trafficking lord ;that’s what they call him in the black market. Acquisition and movement of people and goods,no direct line to the girl, but their circles overlapped in Milan not long ago. He has ties to Louis Bouchard.”
He tilted his head. “And you want me to find her,not detain, not extract. Track.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You’ll understand once you find her.”
That was it. No elaboration.
Raphael kept flipping through the pages,no direct charges,no confirmed affiliations,no solid ID.
“She’s not just running,” he said.
“No,” Sveta agreed. “She’s looking for something.”
Raphael kept silent waiting for more explanation.
“We don’t know yet.” she said as she started pouring tea in both cups on the table.
The officer tapped the photo. “You think she’s connected to the Monstrum killings ?”
Sveta’s answer came colder this time. “That’s classified. For now.”
He watched her carefully; every word measured, every omission heavier than the sentence it replaced.
Raphael closed the file.
“That case’s been closed for years .”he said .
“It’s been contained. Not closed.” she replied back.
“Let’s say; I may never find her?”
“Then someone else will, but they won’t do the right thing.”
There was something in the way she said it ;hazy encouragement with sharp corners.
“And if she’s not just a seeker?”He asked.
“She’s already crossed lines,” Sveta said. “You’ll see who she really is when you look closer.”
Raphael put the folder aside and leaned back in the chair, eyes fixed on her.
“You know more than you’re telling me.”
Sveta grabbed the filled cup smoothly from the table and sipped the warm tea with ease.
“I always do.”
He smirked slightly. “And someone’s playing two games at once.”
Sveta’s eyes narrowed,not anger; interest.
“You’re sharp,” she said smiling. “I like that.”
He stood. “Then you won’t mind if I start asking my own questions.”
“Like I said ;you’ll get your answers,eventually.”
Raphael collected the folder and stood.
“Anything else?” he asked.
Sveta put the cup aside, stood up from her seat , walked towards him and revealed a thick wallet to him. Inside, a clearance badge and an earpiece; temporary, coded, untraceable. Interpol colors.
“Your commission is confidential,” she said. “You report to me, and only me.”
Raphael took the wallet and the badge then walked toward the door.but paused and looked at her.
Sveta met his eyes at the back.
“I’ll call you if I find anything, and expect you'll do the same.”
She gave him a"for sure" thumbs up.
Then he carried on walking on his way out without looking back.
Late afternoon back at the Parisian CRS department:
He stepped into his office and closed the door behind him, ignoring the stack of folders waiting on his desk and even his chair.
He collected them ,moved them aside, draped his jacket over the chair and sat.
Sleeves rolled to the elbows,his eyes traced the edge of the Interpol file Sveta had left him with that is now closed, but not dismissed.
The weight of her words hadn't left him. “She has the kind of silence we’re all afraid of. “
That kind of silence haunted people,or pulled them in.
The lighting got dim by the passing hours, the ceiling fan barely whispering above his head, as he sat behind his desk doing paper work.He lit a cigarette; a rare thing,he hated the smell, but he smoked when he was stalling, when something in him couldn’t decide if he was about to do something stupid or necessary.
The flame flickered against the window reflection, the girl’s photo was half-visible under the manila flap. Silver hair maybe,blurred,eyes unsure,ethnicity redacted.
He took one drag, then set the cigarette down in the tray.For moments he watched it curl into ash.
The door opened. His assistant Alain stepped in, jacket still on, fingers gripping a folded paper.
“I found you a way in,” he said.
Raphael raised an eyebrow.
“That was fast.”
“You said Louis Bouchard, right? I reached out to someone who still owes me a favor.”
He held up the paper.
“Someone in his inner circle ;Anton. Ex-boxer. Bouchard’s head of security now,he’s running private doors at Le Serpent Rouge. Sunday night ;Bouchard will be there. He'll talk ,maybe not kindly, but he’ll talk.”
“Anton? From the Marseille underground?”
“Yeah, that Anton. I kept him out of custody back in ’92, he remembers.”
Raphael leaned back.
“You’re sure this’ll get me close to Bouchard?”
“It’ll get you through the first door. The rest’s on you.”
A hum of silence.
Raphael glanced back down at the file.The photo, the age circled; 14 to 17. Alain stepped further in and noticed the half-lit cigarette smoldering in the tray, untouched.
“You look like a man stuck between protocol and instinct.”
“I look like a man about to go to war over a name that may not be real.”
“You think your commissionaire is using you ?”
“It’s not the case,” Raphael said, standing. “It’s the age, no matter what the interpol says, my gut doesn’t buy the narrative; dangerous or not . A teenager shouldn’t be in this deep.”
Alain tilted his head, studying him.
“Then don’t take the mission.”
Raphael stared at him.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t.”
“You’re hesitating."
“No,” he said after a pause. “I’m weighing the cost.”
Raphael exhaled slowly.
“She’s just a kid.” Raphael rubbed his brow. “Something’s off.”
He stubbed out the cigarette. Grabbed his jacket.
“Le Serpent Rouge?”
“Sunday,” Alain confirmed. “Don’t flash your badge,and don’t try to be charming.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Good,” Alain said, sitting at his desk . “They eat charm alive in there.”
Sunday night September 14th - 11th district / Parisian Ghetto Rue Saint Mark.
The sign flickered above; a red serpent or a dragon,it wasn't clear what it was,but it was eating its tail.Raphael stepped through the entrance. The bass hit him first ; low, humid, predatory,laughter bleeds from the alley.
The neon pulse of “ Le Serpent Rouge” hit his eyes before the music reached his ears. He moved through the alley like he’d done it years ago ,head down, jacket collar up, gun holstered but loaded.
Raphael approaches.
His badge stays in his pocket ,but his hand doesn’t leave his jacket.
Somewhere in the haze of dancers and shadows, Anton would be waiting.
End of chapter .
To be continued.......................
question: What are the factors or moments that stimulates your imagination or gets you inspired? for me while cleaning the house, dreams and even nightmares, music and fanfics.
Private Memo : R. Marcarelli /Encrypted/
“They told me she’s dangerous.They didn’t say what she’s running from, or what I might be running toward.”