Shout in the Dark

by Christopher Wright

  *

  Paris

  IT WAS EARLY evening in the north of Paris, and Karl knew he could relax for a few minutes. He'd made it.

  The journey had not been easy, but at least this part of his Total Training seemed to have been based on the practical rather than the theoretical experience of the course leader. He had just watched the Priester and his two friends book into a modern hotel north of the Périphérique, by a place that was signposted La Porte de la Chapelle. The Périphérique was one hell of a crazy road.

  The three Italians were now in the hotel restaurant having a meal, so he had enough time to find a food shop. He patted his pocket and grinned. Cash in Rome from Herr Kessel's card had bought fuel and food, as well as paying for all the road tolls. With a bit of luck it would see him through the next few days, so no one could trace him here.

  Paris seemed considerably cooler than Rome, more like Germany, and it was good to be away from the oppressive heat. He felt confident that he'd stayed out of sight on all three stops on the French autoroute, the hand of destiny keeping with him all the way. In the early morning at the service area, while it was still dark, he'd watched an elderly couple arrive and book in for the night. He'd quickly hot wired their Opel Vectra, transferred the contents of the Fiat to it, then driven up to the next rest area to wait for the woman's silver Alfa to come by.

  The Opel wouldn't be reported missing for ages, because the old people would be sure to sleep late and wouldn't discover its disappearance until they came to leave. Wearing a straw hat and sunglasses purchased while he waited, he knew he'd merged in with the busy traffic on the autoroute, and presented a lower profile appearance since exchanging the red Fiat for the Opel. Today, sometimes in front and sometimes behind, with the passenger sun blind filling the side window, he had been invisible. His instructor was right when he said a black car was inconspicuous.

  He parked the Opel near the gates of a small industrial area where some children were playing on a mound of sand outside one of the units. Three youths sat under the trees, laughing loudly and calling to two girls who were pretending to ignore them on the other side of the street.

  He felt hungry from the lack of proper meals on the drive up from Italy. Further down the street was a late shop that probably sold bread, cheese and fruit. He had plenty of money from the cash machine in Rome, but spending his cash wisely was essential because the card might have a stop put on it at any moment. Two youths lounging outside the shop eyed him up as he entered.

  They were saying something to each other in French and sniggering as they looked at him, but the humor was lost on Karl. As he peeled off some money to pay for the food and a French telephone card, the larger of the two put his hand close to his mouth, passing information to his friend.

  As Karl walked away from the shop, unwrapping a bar of chocolate, he was aware that the boys were following. He could look after himself. He'd been trained to show no emotion. As the smaller boy grabbed his arm, the tall youth in the black jeans moved round to the front, evidently preparing to bring a knee up into his crotch.

  The maneuver was pathetic. While still allowing the smaller boy to hold his right arm he butted his head forward sharply, before the tall one had a chance to raise his knee. The youth reeled back with a smashed nose. A fast turn to the surprised kid behind allowed him to raise an extended hand and bring the side of it down on the boy's neck.

  Karl stepped sideways and crashed headlong over the bleeding and screaming teenager on the ground. He tucked his head in as he fell, rolling over on the sidewalk, and was quickly on his feet to move clear of both boys.

  "Dumm Hooligans!" he shouted as he walked away, leaving the two seriously injured would-be muggers to be collected by the gendarmerie. It would obviously be some time before either boy could give a coherent statement of what had happened, and he'd be well away by then.

  He felt pleased with his performance because it proved that he had not lost his nerve for a fight. In Rome he'd behaved stupidly, but he was already over Otto's death. And over Herr Kessel's as well. But the fight had reinforced the difficulty of running this operation alone. Coping with those dim-witted kids outside the shop had been easy enough, but he felt exposed. First Rome and now Paris, both of them foreign cities, and no hope of speaking the languages. He needed help, but not from the people at Achtzehn Deutschland Reinigung in London.

  Common sense told him to go home and forget about Herr Kessel's relic. But possessing it would put him in a strong bargaining position. It might even save him if the leaders were planning to punish him for disobedience. He decided to phone one his ADR friends in Düsseldorf.

  Karl noticed that the children had left the sand and were running over to stare in fascination at the two youths moaning on the ground. Other people were joining them and probably rejoicing to see these local troublemakers get their reward.

  Feeling under his shirt he was horrified to discover that the handle of his Göring dagger had been twisted sideways in the fall outside the shop. The blade came from a genuine German military knife of high grade steel, and when his father died he had ground the shaft to a thin section so it would go into the ivory handle. It would need to be bent back carefully or it would break at the weakest point. He swore silently. The dagger had been his father's, and it was now a cherished possession.

  The phone card worked in a kiosk further down the road, out of sight of the screaming hooligans. Several ads for massage services were tucked behind the phone. Karl took a bright pink one showing a generously proportioned woman called Zeta. As he kissed the clumsy line drawing his call was answered.

  "Erich, this is Karl. Herr Kessel is dead." He wanted to sound confident. "I'm in Paris on a special mission. Things are dangerous and I need some backup."

  "Paris? What the hell are you doing in Paris, Karl? You told us you were going to Rome. The leaders already know about Herr Kessel, and have been asking lots of questions about you."

  "Don't tell any of them where I am." He steadied his voice and explained what had happened.

  "All right, I'll get as many of our gang together as I can," Erich agreed, obviously appreciating the difficulties. "We'll be with you sometime tomorrow morning. I think the station in Paris is called the Gare du Nord. Ring me later and I'll give you the time. And you'd better be there to meet us."

  Karl replaced the phone and grinned as he retrieved the card. He had been so sensible not to withdraw any money since leaving Rome. Certain members wouldn't want Herr Kessel's card traced to any particular part of Europe, and nor would he. He shrugged. He was only showing the skills of a great leader.

  It was exciting to be meeting Erich and the old gang again. The notebook from Herr Kessel's wallet could prove valuable -- should he need to bargain with the ADR. He patted his pocket and laughed.

  Meanwhile he'd go back to the Italian's hotel and keep the young Priester and his two friends in sight.

  GASTON MERLES was almost home from work. For the past six months the energy needed to get to work at Gennevilliers from his apartment in La Porte de la Chapelle -- even on his old Peugeot moped -- often proved too much. Only forty-three and considerably overweight, Gaston had been told by the doctor that his heart was overdue for an extended rest, and the first fat-free diet of its life.

  He was returning from his rotten office job which entailed copying endless entries into registers, the information from which would shortly be computerized anyway. Hand-written records would then be obsolete, but everyone said he was too old to pick up computer skills. Twenty-five years of painstaking work seemed pointless. Life seemed pointless. Even his wife was unfaithful. Gaston put the blame for that on the nightly need to rest his tired heart.

  IT WAS GETTING dark as Karl walked back to the Opel. He spotted a man bending down, peering into the silver Alfa through the driver's window. It was the dark-haired Italian from Rome. The Italian newspaper was on the back seat, and it had Herr Kessel's photo on the front page. There was also a map of Paris, which
could come in useful.

  The Italian unlocked the doors. Karl stayed in the shadows. The man turned before getting into the car, as though to make sure no one was watching. Karl knew he would never have acted this foolishly. His training had taught him how to get into a vehicle without hesitating without attracting attention.

  This was the man who had tried to knife him at the Colosseum, and it was time to pay him back. But if he tried to walk over he'd be seen, and the man would get away. He felt for his Makarov and his knife. Whichever weapon he chose, cunning was essential.

  GASTON MERLES paused for breath. The moped seemed exceptionally heavy as he struggled to get it onto the high sidewalk outside his apartment. The large scruffy youth with the shaved head looked helpful as he indicated his willingness to park it for him off the street.

  Whether his death was caused by a fall resulting from the shock of seeing the moped taken, or whether Monsieur Merles had been struck a blow, Karl thought that the coroner would probably be unable to say. But it was ironic that Gaston became more valuable at his death than he had ever been while working, thanks to a generous life insurance payout.

  Not only had Gaston's life been pointless, but even his wife would be unlikely to grieve. Her lover would move into the apartment immediately to stake his share in the instant wealth. And she would be glad never to find that old bike blocking the hallway again.

  KARL REVVED THE moped, checked the brakes, and rode past the Italian and back again, wondering whether to use the dagger. No, the blade was bent at too much of an angle to go into the man's back. When practicing in Rome with the English tourist it had been simple, but there would be no second chance here so close to the hotel.

  This might be a good time to use the handgun. The Makarov 9-millimeter automatic was for emergencies only. Borrowed without permission from the ADR in Düsseldorf, one thing was for sure: no one could ever trace it back to him. There was no serial number. But he would have to ditch it immediately, because to be caught carrying the automatic after killing the Italian would mean trouble. The police would be able to match the bullet with the barrel of this gun.

  In spite of his caution he felt excited. A gun was an efficient way of killing, and this was the right occasion to use it. His victim was walking away slowly in the dusk, reading a large map by the streetlight. The hunter should be allowed to relish the thrill of the chase -- but the Italian was making it too easy.

  MARCO was standing in Laura's small hotel room, and they both jumped when they heard the shot. At first they thought it was a backfire from the traffic, but the screams from people walking by quickly brought them to the hotel window. Within two minutes they reached Riccardo, to find him writhing in agony on the sidewalk surrounded by nervous Parisians. The bullet had entered the right side of Riccardo's chest and blood was spreading across his shirt in unremitting spurts.

  "It's that young German -- the bastard." Blood poured from the corner of Riccardo's mouth.

  Laura went to bend over him, but reared back as Riccardo's mouth disappeared under a mass of red froth.

  "Kill that German, Laura." Riccardo started to choke. "You've got to kill him."

  Laura shook her head and screamed. Then without another look at her boyfriend she grabbed Marco's arm, her eyes wide in panic. "For God's sake, Marco, I'm scared. Take me somewhere safe."