Dance of the Angels

by Robert Morcet

  “It’s fifty-fifty. But our boys know their job.”

  “I don’t like suicide operations, Commissioner.”

  “With all due respect, sir, you’ll have bodies on your hands one way or another. All the more reason not to remain passive for much longer.”

  “I’m going to call the minister,” said the terror-stricken chief before heading to his car.

  The paramedics were already carrying away the victim in a body bag.

  Le Goënec looked at Tavernier and saw true horror written across his boss’s face as he walked toward him and asked, “So, what’s the news?”

  “Hervet is calling those assholes at the ministry for authorization to get our hands dirty! That wimp makes me want to puke,” said Tavernier as he restlessly checked his watch. “Meanwhile, we’re really up shit creek. We’re all gonna come out of this badly, except that motherfucker of a police chief, obviously.”

  “I might have a solution, but it’s risky,” ventured Le Goënec.

  “I’m ready to sign a pact with the devil if it’ll get us anywhere.”

  The two men walked a few paces farther off to ensure they couldn’t be overheard.

  “All banks have an air conditioner system,” explained Le Goënec. “Gérard and me, we can climb up on the roof and slip inside a ventilation shaft.”

  “Your plan sounds great, but then what?”

  “Well, I’ll find a way to get inside and defuse the explosive charges.”

  Tavernier whistled before saying, “That’s dangerous, my man. It’s double or nothing. If you mess up, that fucker Hervet will sideline you for the rest of your days.”

  “I don’t give a damn! He’s clearly not going to put himself out to free those hostages!”

  “Careful, son.”

  With a wave of his hand, Le Goënec summoned Gérard, a twenty-year-old trainee of slender build and determined gaze.

  “It’s a go. Bulldozer has given us a free pass.”

  “Awesome! You can count on me.”

  “But watch out, kid; this ain’t no Spielberg flick.”

  Le Goënec and his young partner made their way to the building adjacent to the bank. They took the elevator to the top floor, then used a ladder to access a transom opening onto the roof.

  “Careful, Gérard, this is serious stuff. Stay behind me!”

  The two policemen climbed out into the open air at the top of the building. The ventilation shaft soon came into view. Le Goënec had to accept the fact that his wrestler’s build would never allow him to squeeze inside.

  “Fuck, I won’t fit!”

  “I think I can.”

  “Out of the question. You’re a newbie. It’s much too dangerous for you to go alone!”

  “We don’t really have any choice.”

  Le Goënec looked at the trainee, sizing up his 115 pounds. The youngster clearly had some guts. He was one of the best recruits the police academy had seen in years.

  With his internal jitter-meter jumping, Le Goënec finally gave the green light.

  “OK, but watch yourself.”

  “Thanks. Just wait and see, sir. You won’t be disappointed!” said Gérard, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

  Five years of rock climbing and mountaineering had prepared him for the most perilous situations. He loved extreme sports.

  With the agility of a contortionist, Gérard slipped inside the mouth of the ventilation shaft and began his vertiginous descent into the bowels of the bank. He moved as though he’d been doing this all his life. It was as hot as a sauna inside the shaft, and the young trainee very soon felt like snow melting in the sun. It was as dark as a mine, too, and his feet probed cautiously to find footholds. Up top, Loïc listened to his colleague’s progress and tried to keep his cool. The kid was now out of sight.

  Biting his nails with anxiety, Tavernier scrutinized the roof from the patio of the shopping mall, but he couldn’t make out anything at all from where he stood.

  After ten minutes of intense effort, Gérard reached the end of a duct that opened up into the bank’s lobby. Out of breath, his lungs on fire, he stayed still for a few seconds. Then he heard voices:

  “If the cops don’t give in, there’ll be a massacre.”

  “Too bad. We warned them!”

  “We can’t chicken out now!”

  Gérard understood that he had very little time to act. A crazy idea came to him. He drew his service weapon with calculated slowness. This was make or break. The young trainee had balls, but he knew he was taking a real risk, and his heart accelerated until it became painful. Leaning back as far as he could, he braced himself, ready to spring like a leopard. With a powerful kick that sent the protective grille flying, he launched his 115 pounds and landed, muscles locked into the shooting position, in the middle of the crooks, who were caught off guard. The first shot from his .357 Magnum turned the first guy’s chest into mush. Before the three others had time to retaliate, Gérard’s still-smoking gun spat a second bullet, which pulverized the head of another gang member.

  The third hostage taker raised his .38 Special, which belched death at the young cop, who only just dodged the bullet as he threw himself behind a counter. A double squeeze on the trigger and the jacketed rounds hit the bull’s-eye, just like at the shooting range. For a few seconds, a heavy silence filled the room.

  Green with fear, the bank manager tried to get up and find a safer hiding place, but he was cut down by a burst from an Uzi. He crumpled to the floor with a pathetic gurgle. Gérard immediately fired back, his aim as terrifyingly accurate as ever. There remained just one bad guy alive, the one with the Uzi, shooting bursts that shattered all the bank’s windows. The young cop made a desperate leap from the cover of the counter, but a bullet from the Uzi hit him in the arm.

  The pain was agonizing. Tears smarting his eyes, Gérard fired again, blindly this time, before collapsing woozily to the ground and dropping his revolver. The hostages screamed in terror. Two of them had been struck by stray rounds, and others sobbed nervously, heads pressed to the floor. The last of the gang still standing knew that his chances of survival were slim. Alone, he couldn’t do very much at all aside from fleeing as quickly as possible before the SWAT team arrived to finish him off. He looked around blankly at his colleagues stretched out on the marble floor and decided to go for broke. He grabbed Gérard by the hair. The young cop screamed. His arm hurt like hell.

  “Fuckin’ cop! You’re gonna help me get out of this,” he said as he pulled the young police officer roughly to his feet.

  Gérard was now a human shield.

  The hostage taker opened the door of the bank and found himself face-to-face with a mass of policemen poised to fire.

  “Careful! Ow! Fuck!” Gérard said with a moan and a grimace. “My arm!”

  “Go on, walk, and smile at your buddies. We’re on TV!”

  The police and the gawkers froze at the sight. Even Philippe Schneider, usually so keen for fresh blood, was at a loss.

  “Which one’s Bulldozer?” asked the guy as he clutched his submachine gun.

  “I am. What do you want with me?”

  “Let me pass or I’ll shoot him!”

  “Don’t let yourself be intimidated, boss,” shouted Gérard, writhing in pain.

  The hostage taker pressed the muzzle of the Uzi hard under Gérard’s chin. Through the pain that gripped him, the kid glimpsed the Celt up on the roof, ready to act. Even though six stories separated them, the look they exchanged was enough for them to understand each other. A few yards away, the anti-crime guys remained frozen. Not even the snipers dared to intervene for fear of hitting the young cop. For a moment, the only sound seemed to be Philippe Schneider squawking a breathless commentary.

  It was now or never. With his good arm, Gérard elbowed the guy right in the solar plexus, forcing him to rel
ease his grip as he tried to catch his breath.

  Schneider was in heaven—it was the scoop of his career. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is unbelievable—the policeman who was taken hostage has escaped.”

  Just as the TV vulture finished his sentence, Le Goënec shot the robber stone dead, just beating Tavernier and the SWAT snipers. As the gangster fell, his finger convulsively jerked the trigger of the Uzi, blasting Gérard off his feet and slamming him onto the ground. Police and paramedics swarmed around him, but it was too late.

  Deathly pale, the hostages emerged from the bank and into this commotion, collapsing tearfully into the arms of their loved ones, who had been waiting for them since the start of the holdup. Hervet took the news of the bank manager’s death in his stride, feeling vague relief. The blackmail of which he had been victim for several months was now over. The bank manager had gone to join his ancestors.

  Before getting back in his car, Hervet yelled at Tavernier, “You disobeyed my orders, Commissioner. I’m going to open an inquiry to find out where the real responsibility lies. You and Le Goënec will have to answer for your actions.” Turning on his heel, the Peacock got into his XM and left this parking lot of misery and death.

  Tavernier couldn’t stand to be humiliated by this excuse for a police chief. For some time now, the head of the Anti-Crime Brigade had known he was in Hervet’s sights. Now the chief would use any means to rub Tavernier’s face in the dirt.

  All eyes turned to Le Goënec, sitting despondently on the steps of the building, his Magnum hanging useless by his side, the barrel still warm. The supercop had lost. He would not emerge from this affair unscathed.

  CHAPTER II

  The sweet scent of wax and country stew wafted from the entrance of 163 Avenue du Maine. It was the specialty of Madam Marthe, the concierge. The first step of the polished wooden staircase creaked ominously.

  “Still not repaired,” grouched Le Goënec.

  A happy yapping greeted the heavy tread of the cop who had aged twenty years in one day. The glass door of the concierge’s office opened immediately. A dachshund-griffon cross bounded out and affectionately nipped at the hem of his pants.

  “Sit, Queenie! You’re bothering the inspector.”

  “I’ve already told you, Madam Marthe. Call me Loïc.”

  “I don’t dare to, Inspector. You intimidate me.”

  He managed to crack a smile despite his gloom.

  “You arrived just in time,” the concierge said. “My stew is ready, and you owe me a chance to beat you at Scrabble.”

  “You are quite adorable, Madam Marthe, but I’ve had a tough day. I’m exhausted and I’m not hungry. Thanks anyway.”

  The concierge looked at him sadly. Clearly he needed to be alone. No point in insisting. Le Goënec had been like a son to her ever since the death of her husband. Beneath his holster, the cop was a kind and generous soul. Madam Marthe, stew expert, had never forgotten the day he’d left a four-legged gift outside her door, a little three-month-old puppy that yapped while wagging its tiny scrap of a tail. The concierge had smiled for the first time since she’d been widowed. She had immediately named the dog Queenie, in homage to one of her idols: Queen Elizabeth II. Madam Marthe considered the sovereign’s elegant outfits that she saw gracing the pages of Paris Match and Hello to be the height of British refinement.

  “Good night, Madam Marthe.”

  With a resigned smile, the old lady watched her favorite tenant climb the stairs.

  The two-room walk-up apartment on the sixth floor was tiny. No space to squeeze in the baby grand that his grandmother had willed him. The main room was just big enough to fit a coffee table, a couch that was falling to pieces, and a bookcase. As for the bedroom, it was barely bigger than an isolation cell. Decor-wise, Le Goënec wasn’t the kind of guy to make an effort: just a few knickknacks brought back from Morocco and, on the walls, photos from his youth and a huge poster of his favorite film, Midnight Express, which he had seen at least ten times. Usually, he left a vast mess behind him. Even with tons of goodwill and a swift bit of cursory cleaning on Saturday morning, the inspector would never be a homemaker. Fortunately, Madam Marthe had been in today, and she really liked things to be spick-and-span. The apartment smelled lovely and clean after each of her visits. Everything was polished, dusted, and tidied. She’s irreplaceable, thought Le Goënec. He would never find a woman to hold a candle to her, even if he searched for a thousand years.

  The little clock on the bedside table showed nine fifteen p.m. So exhausted was the cop, he tumbled onto the bed, fully clothed. For the longest time, his gaze remained fixed on the ceiling studded with traces of mold. Once again, he felt a wrench in his gut and wanted to scream. Only this very afternoon Gérard had still been alive. The trainee had seemed truly happy to be undertaking his first real police operation. Rage mixed with an awful feeling of impotence. A death like that is hard to accept.

  The window of Tavernier’s office at 36 Quai des Orfèvres, headquarters of the Criminal Investigations Department of the Paris Police, looked out over the dark water of the Seine and the assorted detritus it carried, from condoms to shoals of dead fish.

  It’s all filth down there, even the great river flowing beneath the Pont Mirabeau, said Tavernier to himself as he watched a sightseeing boat pass by with its cargo of tourists.

  The anti-crime boss turned to Le Goënec, who’d just entered, gaunt and unshaven. The commissioner studied him hard. He had never been good-looking like Le Goënec, even when he was thirty-five. Le Goënec’s tousled brown hair and hazel eyes would have assured him a string of girlfriends, if a certain innate shyness didn’t trip him up on occasion. But quite apart from this natural reserve, Le Goënec wasn’t one for amassing conquests. As for Tavernier, he would sow his wild oats if he could. For years now, the big boss had dreamed of being a sex machine. But Edwige, who was a wonderful woman—except for her fits of jealousy that sometimes verged on paranoia—didn’t give him the chance. Fifteen years he’d been married, rarely for the worse, often for the better.

  The two men now considered each other with a serious air. And when Tavernier asked Le Goënec to sit down, he instinctively sensed trouble. The commissioner preferred to remain standing, nervously strutting back and forth behind his desk, hands in his pockets.

  “Our little intervention didn’t go down very well.”

  “Fired?” asked Le Goënec.

  “Suspended. Sorry. I did what I could,” Tavernier said, before exploding. “The chief backed down in front of the prefect. I don’t know why everyone around here grovels in front of that nutcase. They’ve got no balls! If I wasn’t so close to retiring, I’d have left long ago!”

  Flushed with rage, Tavernier eventually sat down, forcefully stubbing out his cigarette butt, which caused the scallop-shell ashtray to turn over, sending a cloud of gray dust flying across the official documents that covered his desk higgledy-piggledy.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

  Le Goënec remained silent. A glint of fatalism tinged with resignation passed across his face. It’s always hard to take in, even when you’re expecting it.

  “They’re sidelining you,” Tavernier said with a wave of his hand that sent yet more ash flying. “You’ve been banished to the archives, up there in the attic with the spiders and spinsters. Or you can resign. Either way, you’re done here.”

  Le Goënec nodded before asking, “What did they say about Gérard’s death?”

  “That bastard Hervet is putting the blame on you.”

  “I had no choice. The kid came out with a shooter stuck in his face, and that fucker was going to kill him. Anyway, I didn’t make the decision alone. That kid did an amazing job. I knew he was going to try something else. You saw what happened. I was only giving him a hand,” he said disgustedly, wiping his hand across his face. “What about the hostages? They seem to have forgotten them pretty
quick. You know very well we avoided a disaster!”

  “That’s not what the prefect thinks,” said Tavernier, lighting a Gauloise.

  The two men remained quiet for a moment.

  “It’s clearly my fate to be fired everywhere I go,” said Le Goënec with a sigh.

  “I don’t follow you, son.”

  Le Goënec made a vague gesture as if to say, Never mind, it’s ancient history.

  The supercop felt like a stray dog. Even as a kid, he had been expelled from most schools for disciplinary reasons. At the religious boarding school, the mother superior had dubbed him “a subversive character with no sense of communal life or respect for rules and regulations.” Ditto for junior and senior high. Le Goënec picked up expulsions like other folks got speeding tickets. Now, after having risked his neck dozens of times on high-risk operations, the police department was dismissing him like some common hired gun.

  “OK, boss. I understand what I need to do,” said Le Goënec, holding out his hand to the commissioner.

  “You’re resigning?”

  “No, I’m going to become a filing clerk until I retire.”

  “Sit down,” ordered Tavernier, swatting away Le Goënec’s hand. “I’ve got something that might interest you. I need your ugly Breton mug. In fact, I would say it’s an essential asset for this particular job.”

  Le Goënec listened, full of curiosity. He had secretly hoped the commissioner wouldn’t abandon him. It would have been difficult to part like this, after knocking about together for ten years. Tavernier wasn’t the type to let a great cop molder away in the archives.

  “I received two important phone calls yesterday. The first was from the chief, and the other from, let us say, a close contact who proposed a job to me. I immediately thought of you.”

  “Something up my alley?”

  “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”

  “What about money?”

  “Don’t worry about that, either,” the boss reassured him.

  Le Goënec didn’t push for more information because Tavernier clearly didn’t wish to go into further detail. They trusted each other implicitly. The Celt would follow his Bulldozer to hell and back.