Dance of the Angels

by Robert Morcet

  “I am merely an intermediary,” said François coldly. “You will soon find out what is expected of you. But have no illusions, Malric. We haven’t sprung you from jail just to send you on a Club Med vacation.”

  “I want to know who’s pulling the strings.”

  “Your sponsor is someone extremely important. Never attempt to find out his identity, or you’ll find yourself six feet under before you know what’s hit you.”

  “Fine,” hissed Malric, furious at the feel of the cold gun on his skin.

  “Take the northern ring road.”

  Traffic was light on the ring road at this time of night. The BMW stayed in the left-hand lane. The con was thinking as fast as he could. His brain sifted through old memories in search of a name, a face, the identity of someone who would have a valid reason to help him escape.

  “Your mission is to kill two policemen whom you know well: Jean Tavernier and his deputy, Loïc Le Goënec. Once you complete the job, you’ll receive a one-way ticket to the States and a $100,000 bonus.”

  Malric was flabbergasted. He’d sworn he’d have their hides some day. He remembered his arrest, two years earlier, at the Porte d’Orléans exit ramp, after a chase worthy of a John Woo film. Le Goënec and Tavernier had done a good job. Result: a life sentence plus eighteen years. At night, Malric would dream of seeing Tavernier and his sidekick at the end of his gun barrel. His brain shifted into light speed. The idea of liquidating those two fucking cops and then leaving to join his buddy Peter in Miami gave him a new zest for life. His stomachache was no longer an issue.

  “OK,” Malric said. “Where are we going?”

  “To Saint-Denis, Rue de la Rosace. We’ve rented you a studio apartment under a false name. Here are your documents.”

  “But,” said Malric, examining the ID card and driving license, “I have a beard and glasses in these photos!”

  “Quite so. You’ll find everything you need to disguise yourself when you get there.”

  The BMW stopped in front of the 1960s apartment block that looked like a stack of rabbit hutches.

  “Fifth floor, number 22. The entry code is A206. I’ll come get you tomorrow morning. And no funny business, Malric. All the police in France are looking for you.”

  François handed him a set of keys, Malric quickly got out of the car, and the BMW drove off. This mysterious sponsor intrigued him. The escapee promised himself he’d get free of the big boss pronto, upon his happy return to civilian life.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Manotti was in heaven as he closed his eyes and surrendered to the caresses of Pauline, the restaurant’s prettiest waitress. The young woman’s expert tongue flicked and darted at her boss’s manhood, still standing proudly despite many years of vigorous use. The owner of La Fourchette d’Or always took advantage of a day off to treat himself to a little nookie. His sons had gone off to work in town. Today, a consignment of Ghanaians.

  “You like that, huh? You like me to be the dirtiest little whore?”

  The former safecracker let slip a grunt of satisfaction. Pauline certainly was sexy, with her black garter belt and her high heels. What’s more, she was a true nymphomaniac. Lustfully, she impaled herself on her lover’s cock with a hoarse little cry. Manotti bit his lip with pleasure. This chick drove him completely wild. Here’s hoping my ticker holds out a few more years, he thought.

  “Nobody move!”

  The order was delivered with authority. Petrified, the two lovers ceased all movement. Manotti, his Mediterranean modesty jeopardized, eventually said, “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Manotti.”

  Unrecognizable under his beard and glasses, Malric stood opposite the bed. In his hand, a fearsome Browning 9mm with a short barrel and a silencer.

  “You’re going to get up now, slowly, and come with me.”

  “Nobody attacks Manotti and gets away with it,” the old robber protested. “My sons will hunt you down, wherever you are. That I promise!”

  “No threats, old man! Death is on my side, so far.”

  Terror-stricken, Pauline covered her magnificent breasts with her hands. A thin smile played across Malric’s lips. It wasn’t every day he caught sight of a former gangland boss in such circumstances.

  “Who sent you?” asked Manotti, moving his hand toward the old Mauser hidden under the pillow.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” said Malric. “Tell me about your cop friends.”

  “Who? Which cops?”

  The gunshot made no more noise than a champagne cork popping. The bedside lamp shattered, further terrorizing the young woman. Manotti realized he had no choice but to go for broke. Taking advantage of his mistress’s frightened jolt, the old crook managed to reach his weapon. In a fraction of a second, the pillow was flying though the air toward Malric. The Mauser boomed twice. But the former mafioso had lost his touch. The first bullet lodged in the wall. The second merely whipped past the escaped con’s scalp. In a rage, Malric fired at Manotti’s shoulder as a warning.

  “Little shit,” grunted Manotti, his face ashen.

  A patch of blood spread across the bed. Pauline screamed at the feel of the warm, sticky liquid between her fingers. The young woman had felt the bullet zip past her. Manotti was gripped by a sudden spasm. It was only a flesh wound, but his heart had seized up. Manotti gasped desperately for air. It was all over in a few seconds. The hands that had finessed so many safes made wild, disordered gestures in the air. One final spasm, and Little Gold Hands moved no more.

  “Son of a bitch!” said Malric, seething.

  The young woman’s screams intensified but the Browning coughed again, and Pauline’s head exploded. It always felt like such a waste to dispatch a beautiful girl, but Malric didn’t leave witnesses.

  The BMW was parked outside the restaurant. François, back to being a chauffeur, was calmly listening to a Schubert Lied, having acquired a taste for fine music from his boss. But under the circumstances, he should have slipped another of his favorite cassettes into the tape player: Death and the Maiden.

  Paul Hervet tried to maintain his self-control as he listened to the unknown voice. How could this guy have obtained his direct line? Would the nightmare ever end?

  “That letter is deadly serious, Mr. Hervet. How much do you think my silence is worth? One million francs, I would say.”

  The chief of police remained silent for a moment before saying, “I’ll make you a deal.”

  “One million in cash. Take it or leave it, asshole,” said Aristotle, laughing heartily.

  “Your letter is extremely revealing. Our computers are able to analyze handwriting, even fake handwriting. I know much more about you than you think. You’ve already had some run-ins with my officers, haven’t you?”

  The blackmailer’s silence was just a tad too long.

  “You are neither very prudent, nor very professional,” continued Hervet, taking advantage of the blackmailer’s hesitation. “This could get very risky for you.”

  “Shut your trap, asshole! I demand one million before seven o’clock this evening. Otherwise, you can expect to find yourself splashed across every TV channel, newspaper, and magazine.”

  “Look, be intelligent about this. I will give you twice that if you agree to work for me. I can even pay you an advance today, on the condition that you take me to whoever hired you.”

  In turning the tables, Hervet reckoned there was a chance, however tiny, of being led to Le Goënec. It was worth a try. Nobody apart from Le Goënec and Tavernier would attempt to snare him like this.

  Aristotle kept his composure. The pimp was thinking as fast as a microprocessor. There was no question of betraying Le Goënec, and anyway, the chief of police clearly would never pay him such a colossal sum. So his plan was a simple: increase the loot by pretending to collaborate. After that, the laws
of blackmail would win out.

  “What do you say?” asked Hervet, doing a bad job of hiding his impatience.

  “Come to 115 Boulevard Lefèbvre, near the Porte Brancion ring road junction at five p.m. Bring five hundred thousand francs with you in a manila envelope, and throw it into the Dumpster on the sidewalk opposite, where they’re doing some construction at the moment. No tricks, Hervet, or you’ll be the star of the news tomorrow. As for the second payment, you’ll bring me an identical sum to where I tell you. If you don’t try to fuck me over, you’ll get the information you’re after.”

  “You can trust me.”

  Aristotle hung up. He could have pissed himself laughing at that phone call. What wasn’t so funny was that his skin wouldn’t be worth a rat’s ass if he got himself screwed over. He knew it and promised himself to stay vigilant.

  Barely a second later, Hervet was calling François. His instructions were clear: nab the blackmailer, take him to a safe place, and make him talk.

  François was certain the blackmailer was Aristotle, a notorious pimp from the Eighteenth Arrondissement, and a known snitch for Le Goënec.

  Around ten p.m., Aristotle’s brother, Momo—a young guy wearing a tracksuit and Reeboks—came to pick up the money. He’d been sent by Aristotle and couldn’t have known that the package contained a microtransmitter capable of indicating its location wherever it might go. The kid swiftly jumped on his motorbike and roared off along a carefully planned route to avoid being tailed. His precautions were useless. It was child’s play for François to track him to the pimp’s hideout at 177 Rue Saint-Denis, a room that one of his hookers was letting him use to hole up in for a few hours.

  Hervet gave a cry of joy when he heard the news. The chauffeur’s razor had surely had no trouble in making Momo talk before slitting his throat from ear to ear. The chief of police had always had a keen instinct when it came to dealing with hustlers. Aristotle would soon be intercepted and neutralized.

  As for the remainder of the operation, the countdown had begun. It was only a matter of time before Tavernier and Le Goënec would find themselves having a very private conversation with their old pal Malric.

  Aristotle looked at the five-hundred franc notes again with satisfaction. His plan had gone exactly as expected. It would have been too dangerous for him to go fetch the money himself, but Momo had done his job well. Now he just had to get out of this place as soon as possible. His bag was ready. Nina would come get him in a few minutes. Once at his whore’s, he’d be safe for a good long while.

  Then it all happened too fast for him to realize what was going on. First he thought he’d heard a suspicious noise out in the hallway. But it was too late. The silenced Browning blasted the door lock discreetly and effectively. In a fraction of a second, Aristotle found himself facedown on the floor, the barrel of the revolver against the back of his neck.

  “Hello, my name is Alain Malric,” the man in glasses announced calmly as François entered behind him. “We are in need of your services.”

  Simply hearing the killer’s name petrified Aristotle. Nothing could be worse. His chances of survival were next to zero.

  “We know you got loads of friends in the fuzz. So you’re coming with us. We’d like to pay a visit to Commissioner Tavernier and Inspector Le Goënec. If you refuse to cooperate, you’ll die a slow death. Trust me, you’ll beg me to finish you off.”

  Aristotle had no choice and no desire to martyr himself to protect a cop, even a cop as nice as Le Goënec. His was a very simple strategy: bide his time and try to save his skin, if that was still possible.

  “I’m meeting him in two days,” Aristotle said grimly.

  “Here they are. They’re coming into the bistro. Eight p.m. on the dot.”

  Through the window of the Renault R 25, Malric recognized Le Goënec’s leather jacket and PE teacher gait. A curvaceous brunette, dressed in a suede miniskirt and thigh-high boots, accompanied him. She was a beautiful specimen—Malric would have to take a closer look, but all in good time. Poised to spring into action at any moment, he didn’t take his eyes off the door of the Brasserie du Maine. François, sitting behind the wheel, immersed himself in the emotion of Albinoni’s Adagio.

  “Turn that off,” ordered Malric, his nerves stretched to their very limits. “I feel like I’m attending my own funeral.”

  Silence now reigned in the BMW, but only for a short while. The door of the bistro opened a few minutes later, and out walked Le Goënec, followed by Florence and Aristotle.

  “Go,” said Malric, feeling like a leopard ready to pounce on a herd of antelopes. “For once, I’m going to get me a cop, and I’m going to enjoy it, too.”

  The BMW drove in the bus lane, next to the sidewalk. Then everything happened at lightning speed. François screeched to a halt and Malric jumped from the car, Browning in hand. The icy touch of the muzzle against her forehead paralyzed Florence. Le Goënec had no time to do anything.

  “Get in, and no funny business,” spat Malric, eyes crazed.

  Le Goënec saw the Smith & Wesson that François was pointing at him. Useless to attempt a diversion; it would cause a bloodbath in the city center. This was quite a surreal kidnapping. What was Malric doing alongside Hervet’s chauffeur? For now, all Le Goënec knew for certain was that he’d told nobody other than the pimp about this meeting.

  “Sorry, Le Goënec, but I had no choice,” said Aristotle, quite ill at ease.

  “Let’s go—quick,” ordered Malric. “I’m eager to hear what you got to tell me, fucking pig asshole!”

  Le Goënec and Aristotle got in next to Florence without protest. The Browning stayed trained on them. Impossible to make a move. A heavy silence hung inside the car as it headed toward the Porte d’Orléans ring road junction. They were being driven to their last resting place.

  On stage at the Opéra Garnier, the young students of famous ballet dancer Patrick Dupond were performing Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, a prestigious show for the cream of Paris high society. With an airy grace they swooped and spun in the golden light. In the best seats in the house, surrounded by public officials invited to this gala organized by UNICEF, Paul Hervet, accompanied by his wife in a Givenchy dress, fidgeted with impatience. He looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. Malric and his hostages should have arrived at their final destination by now. If the abduction had gone as planned, his worries would soon be nothing more than a bad memory. The interrogation must have started, judging by the time. Unable to take it anymore, Hervet casually forced an entire row of VIPs to stand up, including the secretary of culture himself, so that he could make a phone call. He scurried down the grand staircase and found a quiet corner in the sumptuous opera house lobby. He pulled his phone from his Saint-Laurent jacket as if it were a gun.

  “Everything went OK, sir. We have Le Goënec.”

  Hervet breathed easily again and smiled for the first time in days.

  “Carry on with the operation. I want Tavernier’s hide in the next few hours. Understand?”

  “What do we do with the pimp?” asked François.

  “He’s of no more use to us. You can liquidate him now.”

  Night fell slowly over the banks of the Marne River. They were in a house on the edge of a forest, deep in the countryside. Le Goënec had an approximate sense of their location, but time was of the essence. If he didn’t find a way to get out of here, and soon, they’d find his bones six feet under, over in the corner of the garden where the weeds thrived like a jungle. Beside him, Florence tried to keep her cool, despite the ball of fire gnawing away inside of her. How much longer did they have left to live? The journalist couldn’t help but scream when Malric coldly dispatched poor Aristotle with a bullet to the head, right in front of them. She would never be able to forget the awful sight of blood and brains and bone fragments spraying across the wall. Now they waited their turn.

  In
the garden, preparations were being made for the final journey. Alex, a young roughneck hired to stand guard over the captives, was digging two more graves. The pimp would very soon be getting some new neighbors. The sound of the shovel was not at all pleasant to hear. The same shovel would soon be used to cover their still-warm bodies.

  Malric approached Le Goënec, telephone in hand.

  “I’d shoot you down right now if I could, with a bullet to the back of your head,” Le Goënec growled, still shocked by the sickening murder of his snitch.

  “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you and your friend Tavernier again for ages. Just for the pleasure of seeing you both die before my eyes.”

  Florence heard the dull thud of her heartbeats echo inside her head. She knew that a bullet would blast her at any moment.

  “Now you’re going to call Tavernier,” Malric instructed, with an excited smile. “The old boy will be delighted to have some news from his protégé.”

  Tavernier peered into the night beyond the headlights’ yellow beams. The road zipped past as the speedometer’s needle touched 110 mph. Another ten miles, and the signpost that Malric had mentioned on the phone appeared. Who could ever have predicted that Tavernier would someday find himself under the orders of that crazy killer he’d once spent months hunting down? The commissioner was under no illusions: this was a solo suicide mission.

  The Baron’s voice echoed in his mind: You are aware that with this kind of mission, your chances of success are minimal.

  Just a few more miles to go. Tavernier glanced at the map he’d drawn in a hurry and the route he would take: turn onto a byroad, drive for around five hundred yards, then take the first right, then the dirt track on the left. The commissioner killed the lights, just to be on the safe side. He needed a few minutes to make out his surroundings. The Xantia bumped and skidded along the track that ran between two hedges covered with white frost. Here was the lake surrounded by high frozen grasses, a fairy-tale landscape of ice and water shining in the darkness. Tavernier got out of the car. The cold air made him shiver.