Dance of the Angels

by Robert Morcet

  Alex sat alone at the table and lit a smoke, looking very comfortable and warm in his parka. He glanced over at the two captives sitting on the ground in the room next door.

  “You OK, darling?” whispered Le Goënec.

  Florence was leaning against his back and tried to move a little. She would have liked to get rid of the pins and needles that numbed her right hand.

  “I get the impression they’ve given us a little respite,” she answered almost inaudibly.

  Florence was trembling with cold. The temperature had dropped well below freezing. By shifting first one buttock, then the other, she managed to ease herself away from Le Goënec and lean against the wall. In this position, the two prisoners could at least look at each other.

  “Sorry, baby. I didn’t want to drag you into this shit.”

  “It’s not your fault, Loïc. But I would have liked to at least write one good article about it.”

  This woman is a keeper! he thought. Guts and unfailing physical stamina. How could they get out of this before it was too late? Le Goënec’s hands, tied behind his back, groped around blindly on the dirty cement floor to find something sharp. They came upon what felt like a nail stuck in the wall. With craftily calculated slowness, so as not to be seen by the young thug watching over them, Le Goënec sat upright so that his back was flat against the wall. Florence felt him twisting about, not understanding what he was trying to do. Finally, he could feel the nail between his wrists. He hoped that the steel would be strong enough to stand the back-and-forth motion he was slowly making to sever the ties holding him.

  Malric and François were waiting by the lake, ready to shoot down Tavernier like it was the first day of hunting season. The commissioner could be a kamikaze if he wanted—they wouldn’t give him time to do anything. Before setting out, Malric had even promised to bring back Tavernier’s head. Coming from him, that was not an empty threat.

  Tavernier was able to make out a path winding around the lake and up to the dark mass of the wooden house, a hundred yards away. To his left, the mirror of the sleeping water; to his right, dense thickets swarming with unexpected nocturnal life.

  A branch cracked. He knew it wasn’t an animal. Sensing danger, the commissioner froze, fully alert.

  “Don’t move, Tavernier!”

  Malric was behind him, perhaps fifty yards away. He must have been lying in wait, crouched in the undergrowth.

  “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon, Tavernier. You can’t imagine how much I’ve thought about you these last two years,” Malric said in a menacing voice. “Put your hands up, right above your head. This is no time to be a hero. Just do exactly what I tell you.”

  Turning slowly, the commissioner saw Malric, accompanied by a man he recognized as Hervet’s chauffeur. Tavernier raged inside. This was really the stupidest death that could befall him. Dying in these marshes, having nearly succeeded in his mission. A final stroke of bad luck that seemed like a poor joke.

  “Who would have thought you’d end up working for the chief of police?” Tavernier asked, trying to buy himself one final chance. “We live in strange times, I must say.”

  The surprise on Malric’s face was real. He turned to François.

  “You would have found out sooner or later,” said the chauffeur.

  “No matter! If your chief decides he wants my hide one day, I’ll shoot him down first.”

  François approached the commissioner with a piece of cord to bind his wrists. Tavernier grasped the little .25 pistol he’d found during a raid on a brothel, and which he had taped inside the sleeve of his overcoat. Malric was just as quick. Two gunshots rang out at the same moment.

  Le Goënec and Florence heard the gunshots and looked at each other with the same thought: Tavernier must have tried something. But who had survived the duel? Le Goënec gave Florence a fleeting smile to reassure her. It wasn’t yet the moment to tell her he’d managed to free himself. He slowly drew his legs beneath him until he was crouching on his heels, hands still hidden behind his back.

  Alex lifted his heavy frame from the chair to see what was going on. One way or another it sounded like they needed him, and since he wasn’t the kind of guy to go around unarmed, he took out his Browning and hurried toward the door. This was Le Goënec’s chance. Gathering all his strength, he pushed himself up with considerable force and launched himself at Alex, his unbound hands in front of him, ready to grasp Alex’s neck in a close-combat hold.

  Le Goënec’s anger exploded as he punched again and again. Alex reeled, and the Browning clattered to the floor. He didn’t stand a chance in a bout of unarmed combat against a former boxer. He made a clumsy lunge and managed to pick up an axe leaning against a workbench. The blade whistled past, perilously close to Le Goënec’s ear. Alex was still stunned by the blows he’d just taken, which made his crazy swinging of the axe even more dangerous. He whirled about in a frenzy. Le Goënec just managed to avoid a vicious slice that would have proven fatal. It was given with such force that the blade sank into a wooden armoire. With Alex momentarily weaponless, Le Goënec delivered a hefty punch that landed squarely on the young thug’s chin, flooring him. It was all over. Alex’s head had slammed into the cement floor, which killed him instantly.

  Without wasting a second, Le Goënec freed Florence and picked up Alex’s Browning. As he slipped it into his belt, the cold touch of the metal gave him fresh energy. All he could think of was Tavernier. Was there still time to help him?

  The door opened suddenly and François pushed the commissioner inside. Seeing Alex’s lifeless body, François fired twice at Le Goënec, who shot back, but missed.

  Le Goënec threw himself at the light switch, shouting to Tavernier, “Get down!”

  Le Goënec caught a glimpse of Malric, who was hanging back. Total blackout. Bullets zinged about, smashing through glasses and other objects. A hail of gunfire turned the living room into a scene from the Alamo. Florence, controlling her terror as best she could, crawled under a table. With each second, she knew that a bullet could strike her dead.

  “Fucking cops, you’ve fucked me again,” hollered Malric, realizing he was out of ammo.

  Crazy with hate, the gangster threw his gun across the room and ran.

  “I’m gonna get him myself,” said Tavernier. “Give me your gun.”

  “I’ll come with you. That guy’s a complete lunatic!”

  “No, Loïc, you deal with the chauffeur,” said Tavernier, taking the revolver Le Goënec handed him, then disappearing into the night.

  “I fear we can’t do much more for him.”

  François’ body was curled up into a ball on the floor in a pool of blood, eyes open wide and staring blankly into space.

  “Flo, stay here. I’m worried about the boss. Malric is capable of anything, with or without a weapon.”

  Le Goënec reached the edge of the lake in a few strides. Tavernier’s body lay among the reeds, face in the mud, eyes closed.

  “Hang on in there, boss, I’m going to get help.”

  “It’s OK, Loïc,” the commissioner said with a grimace, pained by the fact that his adversary had gotten the better of him. “I had the upper hand, Loïc,” said Tavernier, water dribbling down his square chin. “I had him. We both ended up in the river. I must have hit something when I fell, and that bastard tried to drown me. So I played dead, and he took off in a little motorboat.”

  He coughed up more water. The commissioner would have liked to get up, but he didn’t have the strength.

  “I must have broken a rib, son; I’m breathing like an old punctured bicycle tire.”

  “Don’t you worry, boss. We’ll get you back to the house and sort you out.”

  “When I think how I nearly had him,” the commissioner said and sighed, casting a sorrowful look in the direction of the Marne.

  CHAPTER XVIII

 
There had been no word from François for twenty-four hours. Something serious had happened—Hervet was certain of it. His chauffeur had never gone for more than half a day without checking in. What had become of him and Malric?

  The chief of police preferred to believe them dead than in the hands of Le Goënec and Tavernier. The very thought sent a shiver down his spine. The weather had been a little milder this morning, and yet it had sleeted all the same, covering the sidewalk in a silvery film. The whole city was already getting ready to celebrate Christmas. Hervet hated the sight of colored lights hung above the streets, the pathetic people dressed up as Santa Claus wandering up and down the main boulevards, and that angelic singing that squawked from loudspeakers rigged every hundred yards or so. Everything about it made him think of death.

  Pushing open the gate of his townhouse, Hervet felt a searing pain in his stomach. His fiery ulcer was back with a vengeance. For months now, his private physician, Dr. Brindilles, had been begging him to take it easy and avoid stress. If someone—anyone—could tell him the two cops were dead, he would grant himself an afternoon of total pampering. But relaxation was not in the cards for the chief of police. He’d been prey to a gnawing anxiety these last few hours. If François didn’t make himself known by tomorrow, he’d be forced to signal his disappearance to the authorities. The chauffeur was well known at the department. Only yesterday, the guard on duty had been surprised not to see him behind the wheel. Without François, Hervet was incapable of laying the right bets on the horses.

  Even the CD of Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 that Hervet slipped into the car stereo wasn’t able to soothe him.

  “Fucking hell,” he cried, slamming on the brakes.

  He hadn’t seen the Renault Espace coming from the right at full speed. Fortunately, the Lord of Reckless Drivers had intervened. He’d been an inch away from a full-on collision.

  His nerves as taut as a violin string, he’d need a ten-year vacation to properly relax.

  Hervet turned his Mercedes onto Avenue Foch. December 12 was the day after tomorrow. If everything didn’t go as planned, Scheller would join the band of deadly enemies. Hervet fought the panic that threatened to overwhelm him and got his thoughts in order. Popescu was arriving from Bucharest with the children today. Hervet would pick them up at the airport and drive them to the villa. The film-shoot logistics were a precise, delicate affair. Van Doersen would arrive at the Gare du Nord tomorrow, and once at the villa, he would give the final details to the invited participants. The dozen bigwigs all had bloodthirsty libidos and were mad with excitement at the thought of shooting alongside the Master.

  Hervet felt as if he had the Himalayas on his shoulders. The slightest hiccup would derail the shoot definitively and spell certain death, since Scheller would never forgive Hervet for not keeping his promise. Nobody was ever given a second chance in the snuff business. Eliminating those responsible for failure was a condition of survival in this nefarious network. As far as Scheller was concerned, Hervet was nothing more than an easily replaceable link in the chain. He switched off the car stereo with a nervous flick of his finger. He couldn’t bear Mozart today. For the first time in his life, Hervet felt truly alone against the world.

  Tavernier’s private room at the Val-de-Grâce military hospital looked like a flower shop. He wouldn’t have received more flowers if he had died. Some colleagues from the Criminal Investigations Department, a few true friends with whom he had stayed in contact, had each turned up with a bouquet and a card suitably inscribed with saucy messages. Policemen could be quite the jokers. To think that the doctor had forbidden him to laugh! Two cracked ribs require absolute rest. Le Goënec held the x-rays of his boss’s ribcage up to the light streaming in from the window, examining them closely. At first, he couldn’t make out the two fractures. They were almost imperceptible to the layman. After being brought in by the ambulance, Tavernier had remained under observation for two days, fussed over by an army of female nurses. He almost could have thanked Malric.

  “My first real vacation in two years,” he said to Le Goënec.

  “No need to travel far. Here you have homely French food and Thai massages provided by the taxpayer.”

  “Yeah, but I’m done with all this lying around,” Tavernier said, accepting the box of Léonidas chocolates Le Goënec had brought. “It’s giving me pins and needles in my legs, not to mention fists.”

  “We’ve got all we need to bring down Hervet,” said Le Goënec excitedly, taking out a little pocket diary he had retrieved from François’s jacket. “Look, it’s all here: names, addresses, dates. But no information about the kids. One thing is clear: this scumbag has planned a film shoot for December twelfth. It’s here in black and white.”

  “It doesn’t give us much time to launch an operation, but I don’t think we’ll get another opportunity.”

  “We’ll need a squad of elite men to raid the villa. I can’t think of anyone except the SWAT team.”

  “I already have something in mind,” said the commissioner, selecting a white chocolate with a hazelnut center.

  Omar Bensoussan rolled down the metal shutter of the Sex-Center, just as he did every night at one thirty. The porn dealer was in a hurry to get to his Porsche and go home to bed. Business hadn’t been very good that evening. Katia, who had the annoying habit of pausing in the middle of her act to go shoot up in the bathroom, must have seriously pissed off his clientele. Just when Bensoussan was about to turn the key in the lock, a voice right behind him made him jump.

  “Hang on—don’t lock up.”

  He turned round and immediately recognized the man. It was that strange guy who’d seemed a bit too curious.

  “Sorry, we’re closed. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  “But I insist,” replied Le Goënec, brandishing his Magnum.

  The evening was turning from bad to worse for Bensoussan. A robbery! That was all he needed!

  “The money’s in my bag,” he said, keeping his cool. “Go ahead. But I’ll tell you, you’re risking jail for chicken feed.”

  “Let’s go inside.”

  Bensoussan had no choice but to roll up the shutter. The two men entered the unlit shop. The boutique of perverse paraphernalia was quite sinister in the darkness. The inflatable dolls looked like Bluebeard’s wives after he’d had his way with them—wide latex eyes frozen in a dead stare. It was like being in a ghost train.

  Bensoussan switched on the shop’s fluorescent lights, trying to stay calm. The man opposite him could only be one of those wackos who liked to act scary. It reminded him of De Niro with his gun in Taxi Driver.

  “What’s a weirdo like you looking for? You need some tasty addresses? You after some freaky orgies?”

  Le Goënec hit him right in the face with the barrel of the Magnum, ripping off a piece of cheek. Blood spurted down Bensoussan’s collar before he could even bring his hand up to the wound.

  “Stop fucking around, Bensoussan. Hervet’s chauffeur was killed twenty-four hours ago. I found a little notebook when I searched him. It’s got a ton of useful information in it.”

  The pornographer nearly choked upon hearing these words. He knew this guy was one of the two cops Hervet had told him about. The risk was too great now. If François was really dead, it was useless to proceed. The chief of police would never succeed on his own.

  With a sweep of his hand, Le Goënec sent magazines and gadgets flying all over the shop.

  “No! Stop!” cried Bensoussan, holding a blood-soaked paper tissue to his face.

  A shelf of videocassettes crashed to the floor, followed by a rack of dildos and S and M accessories. Le Goënec’s fury seemed far from appeased. A display case of lingerie shattered, scattering studded brassieres and sequined thongs across the floor.

  “Just doing a little spring cleaning. There’s a stink of something rotten in your shop.”

  Benso
ussan contemplated the extent of the damage in a miserable haze. His boutique was completely wrecked. But that was nothing compared to what was in store for him if he didn’t manage to neutralize this rabid cop as quick as he could. Otherwise, his skin would be worth no more than a used rubber. Bensoussan made a mad dash for the staircase, zigzagging to avoid being hit. There was a loaded P38 up in his desk drawer. It was his only chance of getting out of this.

  “Don’t fuck around, Bensoussan!”

  The two shots from the Magnum made the walls shake. The first shattered a neon sign in a spray of sparks. The second smashed into Bensoussan’s shoulder, and he collapsed onto the stairs with a hoarse cry. It was a deep wound, gushing blood. The pain was unbearable, and Bensoussan clenched his jaw. An awful cry welled up from his throat when he saw the bare bone. He was sure now that the cop had come to make him talk and then coldly slaughter him. He made a desperate effort and managed to get upstairs, where he staggered down the corridor. He must have been losing pint after pint of blood. His dizziness made the glass ceiling spin in a flash of reflected color from the neon lights down in the shop.

  It was impossible to reach his desk in this state. His body, wracked with pain, could support him no more. Bensoussan grabbed hold of the door leading to the little revolving stage used by girls who shook their moneymakers eight hours a day in front of two-way mirrors. If someone had told him that the final act of his life would play out on a peep-show stage, he would have pissed himself laughing. He collapsed with a gasp, nose buried in the filthy carpet. It was all over now. He could hear the steps getting closer. The cop would torture him to extract a few words, and then, adios! Bensoussan dreaded the next gunshot, the one that would snatch him from this crazy world.