Chapters (99)
- About the Author
- Also by John Connolly
- THE NAMELESS ONES
- John Connolly
- Dedication
- Contents
- Author’s Note
- I
- Chapter I
- Chapter II
- Chapter III
- Chapter IV
- Chapter V
- Chapter VI
- Chapter VII
- Chapter VIII
- Chapter IX
- Chapter X
- Chapter XI
- Chapter XII
- Chapter XIII
- Chapter XIV
- Chapter XV
- Chapter XVI
- Chapter XVII
- Chapter XVIII
- Chapter XIX
- Chapter XX
- Chapter XXI
- Chapter XXII
- Chapter XXIII
- Chapter XXIV
- Chapter XXV
- Chapter XXVI
- Chapter XXVII
- Chapter XXVIII
- Chapter XXIX
- Chapter XXX
- Chapter XXXI
- Chapter XXXII
- Chapter XXXIII
- II
- Chapter XXXIV
- Chapter XXXV
- Chapter XXXVI
- Chapter XXXVII
- Chapter XXXVIII
- Chapter XXXIX
- Chapter XL
- Chapter XLI
- Chapter XLII
- Chapter XLIII
- Chapter XLIV
- Chapter XLV
- Chapter XLVI
- Chapter XLVII
- Chapter XLVIII
- III
- Chapter XLIX
- Chapter L
- Chapter LI
- Chapter LII
- Chapter LIII
- Chapter LIV
- Chapter LV
- Chapter LVI
- Chapter LVII
- Chapter LVIII
- Chapter LIX
- Chapter LX
- Chapter LXI
- Chapter LXII
- Chapter LXIII
- Chapter LXIV
- Chapter LXV
- Chapter LXVI
- Chapter LXVII
- IV
- Chapter LXVIII
- Chapter LXIX
- Chapter LXX
- Chapter LXXI
- Chapter LXXII
- Chapter LXXIII
- Chapter LXXIV
- Chapter LXXV
- Chapter LXXVI
- Chapter LXXVII
- Chapter LXXVIII
- Chapter LXXIX
- Chapter LXXX
- Chapter LXXXI
- Chapter LXXXII
- Chapter LXXXIII
- Chapter LXXXIV
- Chapter LXXXV
- Chapter LXXXVI
- Chapter LXXXVII
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
And so the questioning had continued until, having deprived Diop of sleep, restricted his access to food and water, and beaten him a little, his interrogators decided that he had told them all he could, and it was time for him to languish in a cell until the courts got around to trying him as an accessory to terrorism. Only as he was being taken to Fleury-Mérogis did Diop learn of Fouad Belkacem’s murder. He already knew that Marković had been shot and killed. The police had appeared curious to learn who might have been responsible, which surprised Diop since he had assumed that the police had themselves killed Marković. Now, it seemed, Fouad was also dead. Baba Diop found this troubling because he recognized that, depending on the culprits, he might be next in line.
All of which explained how Baba had come to be confined in Fleury-Mérogis. After being brought before an investigating judge, he was remanded to a supposedly secure unit of the prison’s maison d’arrêt des hommes, where he was likely to remain for the foreseeable future. Following his eventual trial, the end result of which Diop could gloomily predict, he would most likely end up back at Fleury-Mérogis, or even be given the opportunity to find out for himself whether La Santé was, in fact, cursed, or if its refurbishment had succeeded in banishing the hex. This was how Diop saw the next decade or so of his life unfolding. It made him sad. He was not a wicked man. He had tried not to hurt people unless absolutely necessary, but it had been his misfortune to fall into bad company on many occasions, and in at least four different countries.
Diop was not unalarmed at the prospect of incarceration in Fleury-Mérogis. He was aware of its large Muslim contingent and its reputation as a font of radicalism. Amedy Coulibaly, the Malian who murdered a policewoman and four Jews in Paris in 2015, and Chérif Kouachi, one of the two brothers who shot twelve dead at the Paris offices of Charlie Hebdo magazine, had both been radicalized by their time at the prison. Diop, one of his fellow detainees warned him as they were placed in the van, would be entering an environment that was unsympathetic at best to non-Muslims, and policed by unarmed guards who preferred not to risk their lives by stepping into the exercise yard when the prisoners were at liberty there.