Panic seized the villa. The discovery of the pseudo-photographer in the children’s room gave Hervet cold sweats.
There’d been a hell of a punch-up in the bedroom. Le Goënec, who had lost his gun in the brawl, defended himself like a madman. But at four against one, it was not a fair fight. He was seriously banged up, and he didn’t last long against René Van Doersen in unarmed combat. Le Goënec collapsed on the floor, his energy spent, his forehead split open. The torturer soon realized the deception when he threw some water in his face. The fake beard immediately peeled away.
“Gentlemen, we have an additional guest, and quite a guest at that,” said the police chief.
Hervet found it hard to disguise his satisfaction, despite being behind schedule. With the assistance of the Belgian, it would be child’s play to obtain all the useful information they needed and finally lay their hands on Tavernier. In return for an increased fee, the evil executioner was more than willing to conduct the interrogation. The Belgian knew the limits of human resistance, and nothing excited him more than taking a victim to the threshold of the unbearable. After that, it was up to Death to choose whether or not to accept the package.
“Tie him to this chair. He needs to be comfortably seated for what I intend to do to him,” said Van Doersen.
Popescu and the two video technicians lifted Le Goënec and dropped him into the rattan chair.
“Take off his shoes and his pants.”
The two men chucked his sneakers onto the floor. His jeans went flying across the room. The Antwerp Torturer approached Le Goënec slowly and calmly. To commence the foreplay, he would bind the cop’s ankles together, but in his own particular way. For it was no piece of rope that Van Doersen held in his hand, but a length of barbed wire.
Le Goënec’s scream echoed throughout every room in the villa. He had nearly tipped over the chair with his writhing when the sharp points pierced the flesh of his calves. The master of pain, as placid as Lake Geneva, completed his task by wrapping the barbed wire around Le Goënec’s legs up to his knees. The blood dripped onto the carpet in fine droplets. For Le Goënec, with dozens of metal points sticking into his legs, the pain was atrocious. The sadist had taken care to press each one in with extreme diligence. This was highly skilled craftsmanship.
“Bunch of degenerates! Fucking freaks!” said Le Goënec between gasps. “You all deserve a bullet in the head . . . Oh, God! Oh, fuck!”
Van Doersen opened his brown leather briefcase. It contained an extensive collection of razors, knives, syringes, and all sorts of surgical instruments sufficient to transform a human being into steak tartare.
“Let us see if you are capable of withstanding the first circle of pain,” said the monster gravely.
These words did not bode well for Le Goënec. He was in perfect physical condition, but getting sliced up was something else again. He had no idea how long his heart would hold out against the insane hell Van Doersen had in store for him.
“Hold him tight!”
The torturer gently held Le Goënec’s hand. It seemed to radiate a kind of heat, like that of a hypnotist. His skin was very soft, and the feel was almost pleasant. Le Goënec gritted his teeth, thinking they would shatter. Suddenly a searing pain ripped through his whole body. Van Doersen had just pushed a slim needle under his nail. It was so unbearable that Le Goënec screamed with all his might. Next, the torturer took out a cigarette lighter, flicked the flame into life, and held it under the protruding metal shaft until it glowed orange. The now-burning-hot needle produced another scream. Somehow, despite being ravaged by pain, Le Goënec managed to remain conscious.
“If I were you, Le Goënec, I would talk,” said Hervet. “This is nothing next to what our friend has planned for you. Just tell me where Tavernier is.”
Le Goënec tried to breathe between unbearable waves of agony.
“If you cooperate, I’ll stop all this immediately. You have my word.”
Under different circumstances, Le Goënec would have burst out laughing. But nothing came from the cop’s mouth except a thin stream of saliva. In the face of the fear that paralyzed him, he was unable to utter a word.
“He’s a hardy guy,” commented Van Doersen, “but now I am going to go much further, trust me.”
A silver razor gleamed in the sadist’s right hand, as Van Doersen held Le Goënec’s head tight with his left arm. The Antwerp Torturer was poised to slice off one of his ears. With a strength born of desperation, Le Goënec twisted his head this way and that, dreading the moment when he could no longer avoid the blade.
“Hold him tight,” intoned Van Doersen, as he pressed the sharp steel against the skin.
Le Goënec’s screams made Tavernier’s blood run cold. Thank God he was still alive, but in what state? The three Manotti brothers ran up the stairs and smashed in the door of the torture chamber. It was like a scene from a nightmarish movie. A blaze of gunfire from Bruno and Manu ripped to pieces the man who was clutching Le Goënec. Van Doersen’s corpse crumpled at their feet, unrecognizable.
“Sons of bitches,” shouted Tavernier, bursting into the room.
Popescu had no time to seize his gun. Beside him, Hervet and the video technicians just stood there, petrified.
“It’s over, son,” said Tavernier, kneeling at Le Goënec’s side. “We’ll get you out of here.”
With the help of Bruno, the commissioner slowly and carefully pulled out the barbed wire ensnaring Le Goënec’s legs. The pain was again unbearable. Le Goënec gripped the sides of the chair with all his strength, yelling a string of curses obscene enough to make the Manottis blush.
“I’ll be OK, boss,” panted the bleeding cop, shaking from head to toe. “It’s no worse than that damn dentist I went to on Rue d’Alésia.”
Tavernier grabbed the chief of police by the collar, repressing a burning desire to give him a bullet between the eyes, and banged his head against the wall with all his might.
“Fucking scumbag! I guarantee you that all of France will know what you’ve done!”
Hervet made no sound. Two submachine guns were trained on him. The cold stares that bored into him through the eyeholes of the tactical face masks sent shivers up and down his spine. The trap had snapped shut on him.
“Take them next door,” Tavernier ordered the Manotti brothers, “and watch them closely.”
The commissioner returned to Le Goënec and opened a first aid kit. The wounds were not a pretty sight. A delicate task awaited the white coats at Val-de-Grâce hospital, but in the meantime, the most urgent was to disinfect. When he heard this word, Le Goënec suggested that amputation might be the most expedient option.
A thin smile played across Tavernier’s face. What a guy, this Breton!
There was a clatter of heels across the parquet floor, and Florence entered. The smell of ether and death made her retch. The bloodstains on the wall reminded her of the numerous images of military assaults she’d seen in the newsroom. But this time, it wasn’t Afghanistan, but a leafy outer Paris suburb.
“Loïc! What have those bastards done to you?”
In spite of the burning pain from the alcohol, which made him scream again, Le Goënec took her hand, clutching it with all his strength.
The journalist knelt down and kissed him.
“I think this treatment will make things a lot better,” said Le Goënec with a smile, and he began to haul himself out of the chair.
“Be reasonable,” said Florence. “You need urgent hospital treatment.”
“Vacation can wait. I don’t want to miss the end of the film. I’ve been dreaming for weeks of seeing Mr. Hervet in a pair of handcuffs provided by the taxpayer.”
In the large living room downstairs, the ballet of arrests continued under the stunned gaze of the children, who felt like they were in a Western. Florence had given them back their clothes. She couldn’t sta
nd to see them disguised as sexual playthings in those expensive costumes. After a series of photographs to be used as evidence, Florence helped them change, one by one. It made all the difference. Bruno took them into the kitchen, and the kids set to happily devouring the VIP buffet. Bruno spooned some caviar onto a canapé, then turned up his nose. It couldn’t compete with the quality of La Fourchette d’Or. Stingy old Hervet must have laid on the cheap stuff instead of beluga.
When Scheller rang the doorbell a few minutes later, he found himself staring down the business end of a submachine gun.
“Pity we didn’t manage to keep Van Doersen alive,” said the Celt with some regret as he lay stretched out on a white velvet banquette. “He was a mine of information.”
“You were lucky that the Manotti brothers didn’t arrive ten seconds later.”
The children’s laughter echoed strangely in this house of vileness. Le Goënec turned to Florence, who had been playing with them for a little while. She spoke softly to them, and the language barrier wasn’t an obstacle. One of the youngest scampered into the living room, a book in his hand. He stared at Le Goënec with curiosity. This was no longer the bearded monster who had terrified them earlier. This man seemed kind, with a reassuring smile.
“Hey, little guy,” said Le Goënec, “you want to show me your book?”
The child came up to him with barely any hesitation. The book was an encyclopedia of the animal kingdom. Le Goënec began to imitate a few of the animals to amuse the kid. At first, the child simply looked at him incredulously, but then began to laugh heartily when his new playmate started scratching under his arms like a chimpanzee.
A sudden gunshot broke the calm that had returned to the villa.
“Jesus Christ,” said Tavernier.
“He told me he was feeling unwell,” said Vincent, rushing toward them. “The bastard threw himself at me to grab the gun I’d stuffed in my belt. I couldn’t do anything to prevent him putting the barrel in his mouth and pulling the trigger.”
Hervet’s body was on the floor of the room next door. Blood and brains had sprayed across the silk fabric covering the wall. His face was frozen in an agonizing death mask.
CHAPTER XX
Charlotte put down her copy of France-Soir. The widow Hervet had just read the three pages devoted to her husband for the fiftieth time. What pained her most was the front page with a photo of Paul smiling and over it the massive headline: “Pedophile Police Chief Dead.” For the past forty-eight hours, Charlotte had been experiencing the ordeal suffered by all wives of high officials whose lives suddenly become a news item. The media vultures had been harassing her day and night for a statement. But Charlotte would rather die than grant them a single syllable.
She had been in a deep sleep when they informed her of the dramatic events. The word suicide had floored her. It seemed so astounding. Unthinkable!
Hervet had always despised those who lacked the strength to face their destiny right to the end. But this brutal death was nothing next to what they had told her of his activities. This suicide had almost come as a relief when she learned the truth. A confusion of images swirled through her head. Her husband’s behavior had been strange recently. He had been unbelievably edgy. But she never would have imagined orgies with children, videocassettes, rapes, murders. As she thought about the reality of these tragic events, Charlotte felt overwhelmed by a kind of madness, her memories ripped to shreds. Nothing made sense anymore. All that remained was a door wide open to emptiness. In a fit of blind rage, Charlotte Hervet ripped their wedding photograph out of its frame on the bedside table and set fire to it with her Cartier lighter.
The widow picked up the article and read it through from start to finish again. The byline at the foot of the page caught her eye. By Florence Meyer. Tomorrow, the paper would print half a page about this business, then the next day a column, and in a week, another scandal would take over. And so this damn world turns. At the end of her tether, Charlotte buried her head in a pillow yet again and stayed like that, listening to her own breathing.
The countryside was covered in a thin layer of snow. The roads all around the greater Paris area were icy.
On the radio, the weatherman cautioned drivers to take care. Black ice could be very unforgiving. Despite this good advice, the road safety statistics would include those reckless individuals who ended up celebrating Christmas with God the Father after having confused the highway with a bobsled track.
Le Goënec contemplated this winter landscape from the comfort of the Xantia’s leather seat. Skeletal trees were covered in a white shroud, while on the frozen ponds crows skated about in search of a meager pittance. The car’s heating was on full blast. The mercury had dropped another few degrees. The cold was certainly as biting as in Bucharest. The six children would not be feeling homesick.
This time, Tavernier had not blindfolded him. Le Goënec was delighted to watch the meandering road as he recalled his efforts to guess the route.
“I wasn’t that far off. I knew we were somewhere around here.”
“Happy to be back at the department?” said the commissioner, smiling as he sucked on a peppermint candy.
“Sometimes justice is done!”
“It’s not unpleasant, is it, to return through the main entrance with champagne and petits fours and all that jazz?”
Now it was Le Goënec’s turn to smile. Ever since the whole business had been wrapped up, the congratulatory telegrams and phone calls had come in at an alarming rate. Among them were messages from a few true friends and the usual ass-lickers who feared his return to work. With Le Goënec back at headquarters, vacation was over for them.
The only phone call that really warmed his heart had been from the Baron. The head of the Phoenix organization had insisted on congratulating him and had invited him for lunch, along with Tavernier. Le Goënec was impatient to finally meet the man the commissioner held in such high esteem. “An extraordinary guy—the honor of this country.” It was thanks to this mysterious character that Le Goënec had been able to put an end to the most horrific racket he had known in his entire police career.
The commissioner was already licking his lips at the thought of the feast that awaited them, and he didn’t forget the fine wines that regularly graced the Baron’s table, either.
“You’ll see, son. When the Baron invites you to lunch, you can expect the very best.”
“Watch your cholesterol. We’ve got Christmas dinner in two days.”
Tavernier gave a vague wave of his hand, as if to say You only live once!
It was a pleasant surprise for Le Goënec to be welcomed by the Baron himself on the front steps of the country mansion. A meeting with a two-way, peep show–style mirror would never happen again. The Baron was distinguished, and his handshake was worth more than many government honors. The three men strolled into the richly furnished living room, where an iced bottle of champagne awaited them.
“Gentlemen,” the Baron said, “I really must congratulate you again for your bravery and excellent work. You have succeeded in bringing down one of the most dangerous networks we’ve seen these past few years. It was a difficult mission, and you both risked your necks on several occasions.”
“We count ourselves lucky to still be with you here today to taste this excellent champagne,” said Tavernier, casting his expert eye over the label. “1962—a very good year!”
The Baron turned to Le Goënec with a friendly smile and said, “I didn’t want to remain anonymous to you any longer, Loïc. I now consider you a proper member of the Phoenix organization. If it was not for your actions, Chief of Police Hervet would still be in office today.”
“You can always count on me to bring down a scumbag. Unfortunately, given the times we live in, we will probably see each other often.”
The Baron picked up a newspaper from an alabaster table and handed it to the two cops, sa
ying, “I just came across this. I don’t know if you are aware of it.”
Tavernier looked at the stark headline—“Death of a Public Enemy”—and began to read the article out loud.
“Alain Malric, who escaped from Santé Prison on December fifth, has been found dead in the outer suburb of Aulnay-sous-Bois. He had been shot several times. According to police sources, this was probably a settling of scores.”
“That’s housekeeping the Manotti way,” said Tavernier, nodding approvingly.
“Quite a collection of folks in the afterlife,” was all Le Goënec had to say.
Le Goënec would have had no objection if this treatment lasted forever. Florence’s hands caressed his back with such softness it was almost unbearable, as if the journalist were a Thai masseuse in her spare time. After his hellish experience at the hands of the Belgian sadist, Le Goënec now felt he had truly reached nirvana.
“Don’t stop. I’m on a little cloud. I’ll soon be seeing the Good Lord and all his angels.”
“I think you’re going to fall asleep,” said Florence mockingly, straddling his back completely naked.
Le Goënec threw her off and dove on top of her. Florence pretended to fight back, laughing all the while, then gave herself up to his caresses. The young woman gave him a saucy look, beautiful and full of longing. Mad with desire, the cop kissed her breasts, tenderly sucking at her nipples. Her back arched, as if shot through with electricity. With all the self-assurance of a geisha, Florence took hold of Le Goënec’s stiffened member and slipped it deep inside her. The two bodies undulated slowly. Le Goënec was so excited that he could barely contain himself. He came like a bolt of lightning, with a pleasure so intense it transported him to a breathless instant of eternity.
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