‘One of the men he was accusing: Lakhdar Farek.’
That name again. Rocco felt a familiar drumming in his ears. Hearing it twice in short order was bad news. First as a direct threat… and now in connection with a dead petty crook.
‘It sounds like Farek didn’t waste much time.’
‘He or one of his people. Vieira would have known he’d be on a hit list from the moment he walked into the station. Once in the prison system he’d have been an easy target for a revenge hit. And that wasn’t the only reason he’d have been scared; it would have come out in court in his defence that Vieira had been a paid informant for the last six months and that he’s been earning cash for information all that time. I don’t know all the gory details but I reckon he’s been responsible for convictions against nearly a dozen members of organised gangs here and further south. There would have been a lot of men inside queuing up to get even with him for that, and it wouldn’t have been pretty.’
‘That would explain where the money for the jacket came from.’
‘Exactly. My guys say JoJo liked to dress sharp, if cheap, and act the big man around town. But whatever money he had usually slipped through his fingers, mostly on drink.’
‘Maybe this time he decided to buy something other than alcohol.’
‘Maybe. Anyway, I hear he dropped out of sight three days ago and hasn’t been answering calls. Now we know why.’
‘He was on the run. But why out this way?’
‘Beats me. Maybe he developed a taste for turnips. I’ll get my guys to ask around, see what they come up with.’
‘Thanks, Michel.’
Rocco put the phone down, deep in thought. Paid informants rarely lasted long before they were dealt with, usually because they couldn’t keep their sudden and unexplained bouts of wealth to themselves. They drank, they talked, they flashed their newfound cash around, and if they were known petty operators like Vieira, customarily living hand-to-mouth, sudden signs of money were like a red light to their associates and enemies. It didn’t take long before somebody began to wonder, especially if the cops showed signs of overlooking any transgressions. Putting all those things together signalled money coming from somewhere – and the most likely source was the police.
And now Farek was in the picture, and likely to be the instigator of Vieira’s demise. It meant that if Farek was going to live up to his threats, Rocco should expect a visit any time soon. The thought didn’t worry him unduly because he couldn’t live like that. The job brought its dangers, but it was something he’d become accustomed to a long time ago. Even so, it wouldn’t do any harm to take precautions.
Right now, though, he needed to find out more about Farek’s current movements and associates. Protection against an upcoming threat was only as good as the information available, especially about the men most likely to carry it out. And there was one person Rocco could think of who knew more about Lakhdar Farek than anyone else.
He picked up the phone and dialled a Paris number.
Nine
Marc Casparon, known as Caspar, had once been a top undercover cop with the Sud-Méditerranée Task Force and the Paris anti-drug group, targeting organised gangs involved in drug imports and bank heists. He had lived out of the mainstream, first in the south, then moving to Paris to follow the targets he knew well, working the streets and back-alleys, always on the periphery but rarely noticed. His record for gaining inside information had been unsurpassed, and he had never been rumbled. But the pressures of living such a stressful and lengthy lie had been enormous, and had eventually taken their toll. He’d been forced to retire, with considerable persuasion from Santer and his close colleagues, who’d seen what it was doing to him.
When Rocco had last spoken to him, he’d been working as a security expert and missing the excitement of his old life. But Rocco wasn’t about to ask him to step back into the gutters; that would have been cruel. Instead, he was after Caspar’s inside knowledge of the Paris gang community and in particular, Lakhdar Farek.
‘Lucas.’ Caspar sounded pleased to hear from him. ‘You were lucky to get me. I was on my way out.’
‘Work?’
The other man chuckled. ‘Yeah, but not the old kind. I’m reviewing security for an electrical factory up near Orly. The pay’s good and I can choose my hours. Anyway, how are you? It’s been a while.’
They traded information for a while, until Caspar said, ‘What can I do for you? You know I’m not in the job anymore, right?’
‘I know. But I was guessing you might still have your ear to the ground. I need information on someone you might know.’
‘Go on.’
‘Lakhdar Farek.’
There was a brief silence, and Rocco could picture Caspar trawling through his memory, the name rolling through files and slotting into position like a juke-box selector. Eventually Caspar said, ‘What did you want to know? You know he’s not like Sami, right? He’s worse.’
‘So I gather.’ He relayed what Santer had told him about Farek’s threat, and added the latest information on the death of the supposed JoJo Vieira.
He heard Caspar take a deep breath. ‘Yeah, I heard Farek was going after a cop, but I didn’t realise it was you. And I’m a bit surprised about JoJo being on the take as an informant. I knew him from way back and he was strictly fifth grade, mostly surviving on what he could steal, which wasn’t much. I never thought he’d risk being a snitch; he wasn’t any kind of a hero. He might have seen it as an opportunity to get a regular handout for whatever he could slip past the cops as information, but he must have also been pretty desperate. Are we sure it’s the same man?’
‘Not totally. But if it helps, this one’s got the Chinese symbol for good luck on his left shoulder.’
‘There are plenty of those, but it might narrow it down. I’ll see what I can dig up.’
‘The other thing I’d like to know is, who does Farek use for his dirty work?’
‘He’s got a couple of guys, both from down south and clean – at least, on the surface.’
‘Suspected but nothing proven?’
‘Not yet. The most obvious is a Corsican named Borelli. Jean-Michel Borelli. He’s dark, with short cropped hair, aged thirty-five and looks like a boxer. Imagine Aznavour only bigger and uglier. I heard he had to leave the town of Bastia when he got into a fight over a woman with the son of a local clan chief – one of the ‘old men’ who control things down there. Borelli beat the kid up but stopped short of killing him. The father gave him two hours to disappear and he came to Paris via Marseilles. The other man is younger, an Algerian, like Farek. His name is Mokhtar Abdhoun. He looks like a teenager but don’t be fooled – he’s vicious and very quick-tempered. He comes with a bit of a reputation back in Algiers.’
‘Are there any photos?’
‘Not sure. Like I said, they’re clean as far as I’ve heard, so unless you can get something from official travel records, no. But I’ll see what I can find. It might cost you a few drinks, though.’
‘I’ll cover whatever it takes. But I don’t want you getting close to Farek or his people. It’s too risky.’
‘Nor do I. I have an old contact who probably knows more about Farek than most people and owes me a favour. Anyway, I just got engaged, so I’ve got good reasons to stay safe.’
Rocco was pleased to hear the news. ‘Congratulations. Who’s the lucky girl?’
‘Her name’s Lucile. She’s a former cop so she knows the game. We’re getting married next year and probably moving out of the city. You’ll have to come.’
‘I’d like that. Just make sure you don’t get spotted with this Farek thing. I prefer weddings to hospital visits.’
‘Me too. Anything else?’
Rocco remembered the receipt for the jacket. He read out the number at the top and Vieira’s name. ‘If you could follow that up for me, it would help a lot. Anything you can get. I’m stuck here on a protection job, so I can’t get away. I’ll make good any expens
es.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m glad to help, to be honest. Gets the old blood moving again. I think I know this shop so it shouldn’t take long.’ With a promise to call as soon as he had anything, Caspar rang off.
Ten
The house assigned to Bouanga went under the name of Les Sables, which was a misnomer; if there was a grain of sand anywhere within kilometres, outside of a construction site, he’d be amazed. Maybe the original owner had been a secret beach lover, consigned by circumstance to a life far from the sea.
He climbed out of his car and studied the building. Hidden behind a spread of trees at the end of a long track, and secured by twin wooden gates, it was quite an impressive sight for this region. A traditional French farmhouse originally, it had been given an almost colonial look, complete with columns at the front door and small balconies at the upper windows. The garden had once been neat and carefully styled, he noted, but was now a shadow of its former glory. Whoever had lived here last hadn’t wasted any time on keeping up appearances, and clumps of weeds and coarse grass ran rampant everywhere.
A number of outhouses and a small barn lay to one side and to the rear of the property, and in the distance a couple of rusting farm implements were sinking into the soil. A plough he recognised, but the others, all angles and brutal lumps of brown metal, were a mystery.
He looked beyond the house towards where he calculated Poissons-les-Marais lay, some half-dozen kilometres away. Unlike the marshlands around Poissons, the countryside here was wide open, with a few trees dotted about in an almost random fashion and an occasional ditch or embankment to mark the edge of one field and the beginning of a neighbouring plot. Any optimism he might have harboured about this task was dwindling fast. The basic start-point in keeping someone safe was at least to have them in a secure environment. And this place was like a giant bar-billiard table.
He lifted the heavy metal knocker in the shape of a horse’s head and let it drop, producing a loud echo from inside the house. The door was sturdy, a plus point, as were the metal shutters over the windows. Preventing access to a safe house was a must, but rarely achieved one hundred per cent.
The door was opened surprisingly quickly, which indicated that his arrival had been noted, and he saw a small figure standing in the shadow of the interior.
‘Can I help you?’ The voice was pitched high, and little more than a whisper. It took a moment for Rocco to realise that he wasn’t being greeted by a child, but a very thin and small but perfectly-proportioned man. He had deep button eyes set in coffee-coloured skin, and was dressed in a crisp, white shirt and a neat suit over shiny shoes. He was holding one hand behind his back and looked up at Rocco without expression, waiting for an answer.
Rocco introduced himself and handed over the letter of authority from Monteo. ‘Are you Mr Bouanga?’
The man shook his head. ‘Bouanga? No.’ He studied the letter for a moment, his lips moving slowly, then said, ‘Wait one moment, please.’ He closed the door in Rocco’s face and his footsteps faded into the background, leaving Rocco with what he was certain had been a glimpse of a pistol in the man’s other hand.
Two minutes later the footsteps returned and the door swung open again. This time the little man had both hands free. He beckoned Rocco inside and led him down a darkened hallway towards the rear of the house. The air smelled stale, evidence of a building unoccupied for a long time and showing its age, but it seemed clean enough. The ceilings were high, with moulded edges and a web of hairline cracks in the yellowed plaster, and the floor of the hallway was tiled and cool. Rocco’s footsteps echoed loudly in the silence of the building, whereas the other man appeared to drift along with barely a sound.
They arrived in a space ablaze with light, a stark contrast after the hallway, and Rocco was surprised to see he was in a glass conservatory dotted with large pot plants in decorative urns. A couch occupied one wall, with two armchairs and a coffee table. The air here smelled fragrant, the atmosphere warm and welcoming.
A man was seated on the couch flicking through a thick folder of papers. Dressed in an immaculate suit and a white shirt, he was heavily-built and bespectacled, his head shaved and glossy under the light. The letter of authority from the Interior Ministry lay beside him on the couch.
‘Bouanga,’ said the little man, and stepped back.
The man on the couch looked up. ‘Inspector Rocco?’
‘That’s correct. I’m here to check the property and see how we can make you more secure during your stay.’ It made Rocco feel as if he were a hotel flunkey checking that the pillows were soft enough and the carpet was of the right depth, but he couldn’t think of any other way to describe his reason for being here. Bodyguard seemed altogether too dramatic a description. ‘You’re very exposed in here,’ he suggested. ‘It might be safer if you could work in one of the other rooms.’
‘I will take that advice into consideration,’ said Bouanga. ‘Anything else?’
Rocco noticed a bow and a quiver of arrows lying in one corner. It seemed out of context in this pleasant room, like a theatrical prop someone had left behind in error.
‘Yours?’ he asked. The bow looked in good condition and something told him it was no museum piece. Partly wrapped in tooled leather, it was decorated with various motifs and looked well-used, like the quiver alongside it.
‘It belongs to Delicat,’ said Bouanga. ‘I was dismayed to learn that he is not permitted to carry a gun in your country. The bow, however, is allowed. I’m sure your ministry will confirm that they have no objections should you feel the need to ask.’
‘I’ll be sure to check it out,’ he murmured politely, and wondered who Delicat was. Monteo had made a brief mention of a housekeeper and a servant accompanying Bouanga, but so far he’d seen only the small man who had remained silent and was now standing nearby. In the meantime, however, there was a problem with the gun he’d seen in the little man’s hand.
Before he could speak, Bouanga indicated the small man, ‘Delicat is my bodyguard. It was he who let you in.’
Rocco turned his head and met Delicat’s blank stare. ‘If he has a bow, why does he carry a gun?’
‘Does he?’ Bouanga feigned innocence but didn’t look at Delicat. ‘I can’t think where he got it. I’ll have a word with him. He speaks very limited French, I’m afraid – barely the basics, in fact.’ He smiled, as if that were the end of the matter. ‘Leave it with me.’
‘Why do you need weapons, anyway? Have you received any direct threats since arriving in France?’
‘So far, no, Inspector. I’m hoping that very few people know that I left the country. But that situation cannot last long, I fear. There are eyes and ears everywhere.’
Rocco said nothing, and Bouanga sighed and took it as a sign to continue. ‘I cannot return to my country due to a… a change in the political situation there. As you may have been informed, I was forced to leave in a hurry after receiving death threats and having my house attacked by an angry mob stirred up by opposition malcontents. I have many enemies at home who would be happy to see me dead, wherever I am. So yes, I feel there is an element of danger for me.’
‘Even here.’
‘Especially here. There are members of existing opposition groups expelled from my country in the past couple of years who have taken up residence here while they plot against the democratic government. Certain individuals, myself included, have been receiving threats of assassination for a long time now. These groups will not hesitate to take advantage of the… turbulent situation I am in to make a move against me if they think it will help their plans. I have explained the situation to your ministry and they have accepted my need for caution, for which I am most grateful.’ He looked around with a frown. ‘Tell me, where are your other men?’
‘He’s on his way here. He won’t be long.’
‘He? One man?’ Bouanga looked astonished. ‘I was told there would be more. This is not acceptable, Inspector! I am a guest in your country
and require more protection. I must insist on more personnel.’
Rocco took care in formulating his response. He wasn’t sure how important Bouanga was in the grand scheme of things and in his limited experience ministry officials in Paris had a habit of saying much but not always delivering. No doubt that was even more the case in the tricky area of international politics. ‘Sorry. All you have is me and one other. But don’t worry – he’s an excellent shot.’ Just then the sound of a car engine intruded on the silence. Rocco stepped across to the end of the conservatory where he could see the approach from the main road. Claude’s ancient 2CV was bouncing along the track, dragging a cloud of dust in its wake like a long, floating scarf. ‘In fact, here he is.’
With a warning sign for Bouanga to stay where he was, Delicat disappeared like a wraith, leaving his boss looking disgruntled. Rocco ignored him and studied the fields to the rear of the house. If he couldn’t get Bouanga to move somewhere more secure, he’d be wasting his time, no matter how many guards were posted. Minutes later Delicat returned with Claude Lamotte in tow. The garde champêtre looked huge next to the bodyguard and was dressed in his usual all-weather clothing. With him came a distinctly earthy smell of the great outdoors, and Rocco guessed he’d been out on his patrols.
‘Morning all,’ Claude said cheerfully, and held out his hand to the minister, who looked at it with reluctance before touching it with the tips of his fingers. ‘Nice place you have here.’ He nodded at Rocco and said with unaccustomed formality, ‘Reporting for duty, Inspector. Where do we start?’
Eleven
Bouanga looked puzzled. ‘I thought the extra man you mentioned would be a police officer, Inspector. This man is a civilian, is he not?’
‘Officer Lamotte is a policeman, Mr Bouanga,’ Rocco confirmed, thinking that Lamotte just didn’t have a hope in hell of looking like one. ‘He will be on duty patrolling the grounds.’
Rocco and the Nightingale Page 5
