“Go on,” said Nikita.
Boudon stepped into the hallway with its impeccably polished floor. The smell of wax hung in the air, evoking the sinister scent of votive candles. Nikita locked the door.
“What are you doing?” Martin Boudon said with a yelp, turning around, white with fear.
The blond killer blocked the way, a cold smile on his lips.
“Go on into the living room, you piece of shit,” said Nikita. “Sit your ass down.”
“What do you want with me? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Try a little harder to remember, Fred Astaire. Didn’t you receive an unexpected visit recently?”
“No, no.”
The slap hit him like the crack of a whip.
“You’re crazy,” Boudon cried, raising his forearm to protect his face.
“Think hard, bitch! You haven’t seen anyone? Answer me, or I’ll really hit you.”
“No, I beg you! A man and a woman came, two days ago. For a shoot.”
“You see, it’s easy when you cooperate. Tell me, Baryshnikov, how did they find you, this pair?”
“They said Robert Malet had put them in touch with me.”
“What did they look like?”
“The guy was tall, well-built, around thirty.”
Nikita pulled out the page from France-Soir, unfolded it, and shoved the picture of Le Goënec in Boudon’s face. Panic and terror convulsed him.
“Yes, it’s him. That’s him, all right.”
“What did you tell him, asshole?”
“Nothing special. He wanted some children. I let him choose from the photographs, like usual. He was meant to call me back with the precise address for delivery.”
“That’s all?”
“No. When I left, the woman who was with him followed me. Luckily, I realized, and I was able to throw her off and then tail her myself, without her noticing.” Boudon rummaged in his pocket, his eyes filled with a desperate plea for an improbable clemency, and took out a piece of paper, which he handed to Nikita. “See for yourself; I wrote down her license plate number.”
Nikita’s fist smashed Boudon’s jaw with lightning speed. The teacher screamed, holding his chin.
“What did you intend to do with this number, you little shit?”
The killer walked behind the sofa and, in a flash, slipped a length of piano wire around Boudon’s neck. He had no time to get free. It was too late. Nikita had a perfect grip on the piano wire, and did not let go until it had cut deeply into Boudon’s fleshy neck.
Boudon’s legs shook for a few seconds before going still with a last flop, and his head, half severed, hung grotesquely from his body, fixed in a death mask of pure terror.
Nikita calmly retrieved his garrote and picked up the telephone with his bloody hand.
“Please leave a message,” said the answering machine’s impersonal voice.
“021 reporting. Call me back.”
The chief of police panted with pleasure over the seventeen-year-old boy moaning luxuriantly beneath him on the rumpled sheets of the double bed.
Not for anything in the world would Hervet deprive himself of his twice-weekly assignations with Stéphan, a boy from a good family, who prostituted himself for easy money.
Hervet loved returning to this supple body. Despite his youth, Stéphan already had much experience with vice. The chief of police grunted heavily, and the thrusting of his pelvis accelerated. A light trembling shook his body, and he rolled over on his side, fully satisfied.
“Right. Time to go, Stéphan. I’ve got a private view of a new exhibition in two hours.”
Hervet took a few notes from his wallet and laid them on the young man’s leather pants. After a quick trip to the bathroom, he dressed, then perused his agenda for the day. There was enough time to go check out the villa he intended to hire for the shoot, a few miles from the suburb of Rambouillet, before going to a private viewing at the Musée du Luxembourg of “mystic” paintings by one of Charlotte’s friends. He would give Nikita a ring back after the party.
The Mercedes 500 drove along a small country lane. The villa, which was situated on the edge of the forest, would be perfect both for keeping the children and as a location for the film. The interior was all luxury and refinement. Venetian-glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling, while the eighteenth-century cabinets and tables were covered in precious objects. It was exactly what Hervet wanted for his client. The car’s speakers were playing Wagner’s Das Rheingold. Yet this music that he loved so much couldn’t make him forget his cares. François, his chauffeur, watched him in the rearview mirror.
“You look as if something’s bothering you, sir.”
“I don’t know what to do about the kids. Le Goënec and Tavernier have taken three of them. It’s getting risky. I don’t want to take any chances. We must find some other children—orphans. If only Malet were still alive!”
“If you ask me, sir,” said François after a moment of thought, “the answer would be to bring in some kids from abroad.”
“I do have a few friends in Holland.”
“Nikita has a good contact in Romania, a very successful pimp. This guy could do the rounds of the orphanages, if you’re prepared to pay enough. The whole country is full of abandoned children.”
“Excellent idea. I will talk to him about it tonight.”
The sedan turned onto the freeway, which was already choked with traffic. Hervet closed his eyes. Bit by bit, he let himself be soothed by Wagner’s music. The idea of bringing over some Romanian orphans was simply perfect. François never ceased to amaze him; a man like that was a rare luxury these days. With a brain like his, he never saw problems, only solutions, and juicy ones at that. Hervet fell asleep, lulled by the purring of the engine and the delights of Wagner. The next few days were looking most auspicious.
CHAPTER XI
Nine p.m., according to the kitchen clock. Nikita was grilling himself a fat steak. Exercise always gave him an appetite. The hit man laid the table for two, out of habit, and sat down to eat opposite his brother’s empty place. A dull rage throbbed in his head. Tavernier and Le Goënec were going to pay a high price. The two men needed to be liquidated as soon as possible.
The living room now lay in almost complete darkness. Nikita finished oiling his automatic pistol, having disassembled it piece by piece. The first objective had been reached. Much too easy prey, that teacher. The former dancer had let his throat be slit like a sheep on Eid al-Adha. Nikita knew the rest of his mission would be a much trickier affair. He experienced a certain joy as he thought about the moment when he finally had the two pigs at his mercy and could do them in to honor the memory of Nicolas.
The ringing telephone snatched him from the grip of his dark plans.
“Yes.”
“021, I’m listening.”
“The work is done. Boudon squawked. It was Le Goënec who went to see him, along with a woman. Her license plate number is 563 FGH 75.”
“Good. Call me tomorrow at one p.m.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One last thing. I would like to use the services of your Romanian friend. What was his name, again?”
“Popescu. Nicu Popescu.”
“Call him as soon as you can. It’s urgent. I need half a dozen children. Orphans.”
“No problem.”
“We’ll speak tomorrow.”
Nikita hung up. His gaze fell upon Boudon’s stiffened body, still on the sofa. He had his own little idea about how to get rid of it. Nikita took hold of the corpse under its arms and dragged the cadaver to the 4x4 and lifted it into the trunk. Then he got behind the wheel. A while ago, Nikita had spotted a garbage dump a little way out of the village. It was an ideal spot to get rid of his grisly package. A dog barked in the distance. The hit man cut the lights. The Toyota drove on for severa
l miles and came to a halt in front of a mountain of refuse. It was no mean feat to haul Boudon’s body to the ridge of the crater, and the stench of rot was unbearable. Rats the size of cats ran among the trash. It wouldn’t take long for the critters to start feasting on a prime cadaver. The wind lifted, and stray bits of paper and plastic bags branded with the Carrefour supermarket slogan Be positive! began a ghostly dance.
Nikita returned to the car to get a jerry can of gas and then dumped it over Boudon’s body. The dead features looked truly terrifying in this place. Nikita lit a match and dropped it on the corpse. Fire very quickly engulfed the body. In just a few seconds, it was nothing less than a huge blaze. Upon seeing the flames, the wary rats retreated and, from their hidey-holes, watched the slow cooking of a human steak, bang in the middle of their territory. With a stick, the blond killer pushed the stiff over the edge of the crater, and it rolled to the bottom, igniting refuse on its way.
CHAPTER XII
Paul Hervet diplomatically tried to appease the angry Swiss businessman on the other end of the line. Pierre Scheller was a meticulous man who liked dates and times to be respected with absolute precision.
“It’s amateur hour,” he screamed, with zero regard for the police chief’s difficulties.
“Don’t worry, my dear Pierre. We’re going to be done with those two cops in a matter of hours. As for the children, I’ve decided to bring them in from Romania. It will be much safer. The problem is that it will take us a few more days.”
“You have until the twenty-fifth—no later, Hervet. Otherwise I’ll cancel the contract. I do have other people for this job, just so you know.”
Scheller’s voice resonated painfully in Hervet’s ears. He had to gain more time. Things were not working as smoothly and speedily as before, now that he was without Malet’s efficient involvement. He was going to have to hire fresh personnel who knew how to be discreet.
“Mid-December will be perfect. Let’s say December twelfth.”
“Have you found a master of ceremonies?” asked the businessman curtly.
“Don’t you worry; we’ll get the best.”
Omar Bensoussan, the Tunisian owner of Sex-Center and the exclusive distributor of Hervet’s video productions, parked his Porsche at the entrance to the Bois de Vincennes. His gleaming Rolex said it was noon. Nearly a quarter of an hour late. All because of that bitch of a dancer! he thought. She’s such a pain in the ass now that she’s gotten back on the smack. Fucking junkie! Hopefully Hervet was still there. It would be so stupid to miss such an important meeting.
The porn dealer was more than a little proud of his intimate knowledge of all the networks of sexual perversion in Europe. His address book was unique. If you wanted to restage Salò, the 120 Days of Sodom or Caligula at home, he was your man—if the price was right.
Quickening his step, the specialist in dodgy dealings took the first path on his right, adhering precisely to the instructions he’d been given. He walked fast, looking for the metallic-finish Mercedes. A hundred yards on, Bensoussan finally saw it, parked a little way off, beside a kiosk that sold ice cream and soda during the warmer months. The sound of classical music was audible through the slightly opened passenger window. Mozart, no doubt, thought the Sex-Center owner, who knew nothing about that kind of thing.
“Get in, Mr. Bensoussan. We’re not staying here.”
The car started as Bensoussan sat down next to the chief of police, who said, “I hope you like Vivaldi.”
The Mercedes pulled away smoothly and drove into the woods. Hervet often arranged his confidential meetings around here. François drove a route he knew by heart. It generally took around twenty minutes. The chief of police was never one to mince words. His sharp mind enabled him to cut to the chase.
“How’s our latest cassette doing?” asked Hervet, looking intently at Bensoussan.
“The sales are rather good. Orders have come in from all over France and a huge number from abroad. It’s a smash hit in Russia. The new mobsters love our little perversities.”
Paul Hervet offered his distributor a Romeo y Julieta cigar, saying, “My dear fellow, I am presently preparing a new product that will exceed everything that has been done to date. This film will also be sold throughout the world. My backer is very demanding with regard to the content. I would like to find a master sadist who is not scared of going all the way, if you see what I mean.”
“You mean submission . . . of a definite nature?” Bensoussan said, visibly shaken. “A snuff movie?”
“That is precisely what I mean.”
“I can only think of one person among my contacts. A Belgian by the name of Van Doersen.”
The chief of police wrote down the name in his notebook before asking, “Do you think your man is up to the job?”
“There is no more expert torturer in Europe. He can, if instructed, inflict abuse of a highly specific nature. His fees are high, but believe me, it’s not by chance that they call him the Antwerp Torturer.”
Le Goënec had taken the Métro. The most important thing was to throw off anyone who might be tailing him. He had no illusions about the danger he was in. For two days now, Le Goënec had sensed death snapping at his heels as he traveled around. It was not a pleasant feeling.
He redoubled his vigilance now as he walked home through his neighborhood. With all his senses on alert, Le Goënec entered the lobby of his building, hugging the walls. Madam Marthe was cooking daube à la provençale today. The mouthwatering aroma of this beef stew permeated every floor.
The concierge had seen her favorite tenant arrive and immediately opened the door of her apartment.
“Inspector . . .”
Le Goënec put a finger to his lips as a means of telling her kindly to shut it. Queenie bounded out in turn, wagging her tail. Her joyful yapping could be heard up on the sixth floor. Le Goënec gently ushered Madam Marthe back into her place, closing the door softly behind them.
“Well, you have made a pretty mess,” the feisty woman said, scolding him. “I spent my morning tidying up your clutter. It was like your apartment had been hit by a hurricane.”
The bastards didn’t lose any time, Le Goënec thought bitterly while forcing himself not to show what he was really feeling.
“Madam Marthe, I will be away for a little while.”
“Ah!” she said, smiling. “Have you finally decided to take a vacation? After I’ve told you so many times. Where are you going?”
“Normandy.”
“Are you going away for long? Shall I have your mail sent on?”
“No, no, Madam Marthe, it’s not necessary.”
The queen of dusting wiped her detergent-worn hands on her apron, went straight to her gas cooker, and lifted the lid on her cast-iron stewpot, saying, “Tell me what you think. I made it especially for you.”
“No, thank you. I really can’t stay for dinner tonight. I just came to get a few clothes.”
“You’re not leaving here empty-handed, Inspector,” said Madame Marthe, taking a Tupperware container from a cupboard. “I’ll put together some chow for you. You’ll say good-bye to me on the way out? I’m counting on you!”
“Of course, Madam Marthe. I adore you.”
Le Goënec started up the stairs to his apartment, his senses on high alert. The key turned in the lock with ease. The .357 Magnum was out of its holster, just in case. Everything was quiet. Madam Marthe had done her job well. The apartment was clean from floor to ceiling. Even the plants had each received a slug of water. That woman! More attentive than a Jewish mother. But Le Goënec remained on guard. He knew that someone had visited his place. Probably when the concierge had gone out to do her shopping. Le Goënec sensed mortal danger in his apartment, no doubt about it. A visitor of that kind rarely left without leaving a good-bye gift—a one-way ticket to heaven, or hell.
He began a meticulous exam
ination of the apartment, but found nothing. Everything was kosher, even the flush of the toilet. Le Goënec checked his little hallway with the same care. Zip. Then his gaze came to rest on the bed. He got down on the floor and inspected the underside. Bingo! A small, black box was taped to the wooden slats.
A miniature bomb—the same kind of nasty device as those anti-personnel mines. If he had lain down on his mattress, he would have found his guts splattered across the ceiling. A simple but devastating mechanism. He quickly disconnected the bomb, with a watchmaker’s precision. This was one piece of evidence that would really give Tavernier nightmares.
Le Goënec picked up the phone and hastily dialed the commissioner’s number.
“I have just dodged my funeral again. A miniature bomb was placed beneath my bed.”
“Watch your back, son. I’ll come pick you up immediately.”
Le Goënec threw some clothes into a little tartan suitcase. Time to hoist the sails.
Tavernier was fuming. The failed attempt on his inspector’s life made him fly off the handle. The commissioner drove very fast, his lips pressed tightly together as Le Goënec sat in the passenger seat. The moment of counterattack was here.
“How do you know this guy?” asked Le Goënec.
“Manotti? It’s a long story.”
The light turned green, and the anti-crime boss shifted into gear and pulled away sharply toward the Bois de Boulogne.
“So, Manotti, better known as Little Gold Hands . . .”
“Safes?” asked Le Goënec.
“He was one of the best in the business. He’d learned his trade in Italy. I owe him my life, would you believe? That old crook saved my bacon.”
Dance of the Angels Page 9
