Another Day, Another Jackal

by Lex Lander

  ‘Really,’ Le Renard said coldly. ‘Do not forget Barail is not exactly wet behind the ears. He was once an ace in the art of machination and intrigue, before he rose to his present rank. His instincts for sniffing out a phoney are legendary.’

  ‘If they are so legendary, why have I not heard of them?’

  The white telephone on the Le Renard’s desk rang. He glared at it and it rang no more. A clear case of mute intimidation.

  ‘In any case,’ Mazé said, when he was sure the phone really had fallen silent, ‘you are perhaps forgetting the Commissaire’s weakness.’

  ‘Am I? And which weakness is that?’

  Mazé locked his hands behind his neck and tried not to look smug.

  ‘Women.’

  ‘Go on,’ Le Renard said, his voice deceptively soft.

  ‘Since his separation from his wife he has developed a taste for slender, dark haired, brown eyed women, with small tits.’ Mazé hesitated, as if reluctant to break a confidence. ‘Actually, he had these tastes before his divorce.’ Further hesitation, more prolonged. ‘To tell the truth, Monsieur le Contrôleur, that’s why he is divorced.’

  Le Renard did not indulge in rumour-mongering, it smacked of throwing stones inside glasshouses, a reminder of his own occasional trafficking with a poule who possessed precisely the physical attributes Mazé described.

  ‘That is his affair.’ He reached for his coffee cup, then drew back as he remembered he had emptied it before Mazé arrived. ‘A slender, brown-eyed brunette, you say. In other words, a typical Frenchwoman.’

  ‘Precisely. Ten a penny.’

  ‘You have a particular woman in mind for this project, I presume.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘She works in a government department?’

  ‘She is with the RG.’

  ‘Commissaire Barail may know her,’ Le Renard cautioned.

  ‘I doubt it. But I will check with her. In any case, we will make a few cosmetic changes.’

  Le Renard smoothed down his non-existent hair again, studied Mazé over his spectacles. He didn’t much care for Barail’s number two; too self-opinionated, too bumptious. Dangerously ambitious. But he had a good brain and it would be a shame not to exploit it to full advantage.

  He gave a nod of assent.

  ‘Proceed, then. With discretion. And report back to me daily in person.’

  Out in the corridor Mazé rubbed his hands together, well pleased with the results of the session. With any luck he would be able to prove Barail was deep in skulduggery, oust him, and step into his shoes.

  Not that he would let personal ambition influence his judgement in such a matter.

  * * *

  Barail always indulged in a cigarette after sex. The more satisfying the sex, the more satisfying the smoke. Now, as he watched the poule hook up her red half-cup bra and expelled copious amounts of smoke into the already dense atmosphere of the room at the Hotel Angleterre, he was a very satisfied, not to mention satiated, man.

  It had been a fuck to remember, no doubt about that. If points were awarded for enthusiasm she would score dix sur dix. As for technique, hers was worthy of an Oscar. His prick although now deflated felt swollen. He was sure it must be patterned with her teeth marks but he was too squeamish about his private parts to examine it.

  ‘Was it good for you?’ she asked him as she zipped up her very short leather skirt.

  ‘You need to ask?’

  He slid sideways out of the bed and retrieved his crumpled trousers from the floor. His wallet contained a wad of 500 and 100 franc notes. He selected two of the larger denomination and held them out to her.

  ‘What is your name, ma petite?’ he asked as she slunk across to relieve him of her wages.

  ‘Lucille. And yours?’

  ‘Raoul,’ he said, the pseudonym one of a number he employed so as not to sully his reputation. He proffered his pack of Disque Bleus but she declined with a headshake.

  ‘I don’t smoke.’

  That was a first. He had never met a professional who didn’t use the weed. She went up a couple of notches in his estimation.

  She tied her straight brown hair back in a ponytail, shrugged into her black blouse. He was fascinated by her. She wasn’t a teenager, his usual preference, far from it. In fact he guessed she was well into her twenties. Yet she had a gamine air about her, and her body, super-slender with perky little tits and the ripest, roundest ass he had ever squeezed, was enough to drive any red-blooded Frenchman crazy. And Barail’s blood was of the reddest.

  ‘Will I see you again?’ she asked, following the question with the tiniest of pouts, as if in anticipation of a rebuff.

  ‘You have the body, I have the money, so why not? Tomorrow night, same time, suit you?’

  PART SIX

  APRIL

  No Place for Fools

  Sixteen

  * * *

  When the maroon BMW came to a lurching stop at the kerb where he was standing, waiting to cross bustling Nevskij Prospekt, Anatoly Ilyushenko was not immediately alarmed. Perhaps the high-cholesterol lunch in the company of members of his team from the Institute, supplemented by copious amounts of vodka, had lulled him into calm acceptance of the abnormal.

  Even when the car disgorged two stocking-masked individuals to seize one of his arms apiece he was more startled than frightened. Not until they bundled him head first into the rear of the BMW and piled in on top of him, did panic hit him.

  ‘Help!’ he bawled at the top of his voice, though by then the car doors were closed, muffling his shouts, and the car was on the move. In any case no one was within earshot except for two of his colleagues emerging from the wood-panelled interior of the Nevskij 40 Bar, laughing fit to rupture themselves over a particularly obscene joke.

  Anatoly Ilyushenko was not permitted a second call for help. A home-made sandbag descended on the back of his head and his private world turned instant black. He subsided into the footwell behind the driver’s seat without even a groan.

  The BMW proceeded to Dvorcovaja Place, the golden spire of the Admiralty ahead dramatically outlined against the pale blue of the winter sky. It then doubled back along the Nevskij, ultimately heading south out of town by the Moskovskij Prospekt route. The driver, a squat, incredibly ugly man with a shaven head and multiple rings in both ears, observed all speed limits and drove with scrupulous consideration for other road users. An accident would have been catastrophic. Within fifteen minutes the party was passing the airport at Pulkovo. Beyond lay countryside, lush with forest, and the M20 Gatcina highway.

  As it left the last of St Petersburg to the rear the BMW accelerated to over 120kph and was still far from being the fastest on the road. No one paid it heed, which was exactly what the driver wanted. It stuck with the highway until within sight of the steeples and domes of Gatcina, when it turned off on a little-used spur road that ran alongside the forest, signposted to the small town of Kommunar. It had the road to itself apart from an empty lumber truck that roared past them in the opposite direction with a thud of air.

  Two miles on the BMW, without noticeably slowing, veered right onto a track that carved a canyon through the forest. It drove deep into the forest, a gradual descent over five miles into the valley of the Jzora River, where silence ruled absolute. At a seemingly random spot it slowed to a standstill. The two men in the rear seat spilled out, hauling the semi-conscious Ilyushenko from the car by his feet. One of his shoes came off in the process. .

  The driver of the car came around to stand over Ilyushenko, now spread-eagled among the thawing snow and slowly coming round. The driver produced a pistol, a German Heckler & Koch P9 with a concealed hammer. He pulled back the slide, cocking the weapon. Ilyushenko, barely conscious, gazed dopily into the muzzle. Suddenly his head cleared and his eyes opened wide.

  ‘What is going on?’ he stuttered. ‘Is this some kind of practical joke?’

  In his heart he knew that couldn’t possibly be the explanation.

&
nbsp; ‘No joke, Anatoly.’

  ‘I don’t know you,’ Ilyushenko blustered. He tried to rise but the driver’s booted foot on his chest dissuaded him.

  ‘My name is Falenki. Feel better now?’

  The man’s readiness to give his name chilled Ilyushenko for some nameless reason. His bladder voided but in his rising terror he didn’t even care.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ he quavered, close to tears.

  Falenki stooped to push his face close to Ilyushenko’s. ‘Why? To stop you creating more weapons of mass destruction, Anatoly.’

  This was the explanation he had been given by the people who had hired him. Not that he could have cared less about the nuclear research that went on at the Kerensky Facility, in the little square behind Dom Puskina, but it made a fitting epitaph for Ilyushenko, and it amused him to deliver it.

  ‘But I …’ was as far as Ilyushenko got before a 9mm bullet drilled a hole in the centre of his baby-smooth forehead and terminated forever his dubious contribution to science. Before the echoes of the gunshot had ceased clamouring over the treetops and away down the valley the three men were heading back the way they had come.

  * * *

  Later in the day a forestry ranger accidentally drove over Ilyushenko’s body in his utility vehicle. When he realised what he had done, he sped off to his cottage on the outskirts of Kommunar to raise the alarm.

  The following day the killing was reported on page 2 of Pravda and most other journals. It was picked up by Reuters but of the English language newspapers of international standing, only the Tribune ran the item.

  * * *

  In his bed at Miami’s VA Hospital, surrounded by the impedimenta of his treatment for cancer of the liver, Eddie Nixon was a shrunken travesty of the man Sheryl first met seven months ago. His eyes were closed and his breathing regular but his skin was as grey as a winter sky and the massive weight loss had transformed him from a burly rock of a man to a phantom.

  Sheryl stood over him, her face crumpled in her shock and distress, feeling like a voyeur. Somehow, the colourful fountain of protea on his bedside table depleted him still further by comparison.

  As she pulled up a tubular chair to sit by the bed he stirred, startling her.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ he said, his voice faint and scratchy, like a very old recording. ‘Good of you to come.’

  ‘Good of me to come, he says.’ Sheryl forced a grin and bent to kiss his cheek. His skin felt like dead leaves to her lips, dry and brittle, as if it would crack and flake away at the slightest touch. ‘I was summoned to the imperial presence.’ The grin faded. ‘But I’d have come anyway and a bloody sight sooner if I’d known.’

  ‘Don’t fret, girlie. It was inevitable and we’ve both known it since we started down this road together.’

  Sheryl dumped her shoulder bag and the newspaper she was carrying at her feet. She crossed her long legs and the straight knee-length skirt she wore rode up to mid-thigh. Nixon chuckled appreciatively.

  ‘Good to see a bit of flesh for a change. You and your bloody trousers.’ He tutted feebly. ‘It’s not natural. Women should flash what they’ve got.’

  Such remarks from any other man would have got up her nose, brought out the women’s libber in her. From Nixon though, especially now as he neared death, they were a huge compliment and raised her spirits a little.

  ‘Has Soon-Li been in today?’ she asked.

  ‘She was here this morning. She went shopping - to buy me a farewell gift, I expect. Is Gary with you?’

  ‘Outside, in the car. He sends his best, naturally.’

  Not for the first time Sheryl found herself wondering about Soon-Li and her motives. Not that it was her business, or even that it mattered any more. She had brought Nixon pleasure during his last year alive. Now that his remaining lifespan could be measured in days, Sheryl didn’t begrudge her a healthy slice of her husband’s fortune.

  ‘Any news to send me on my way?’ he said, reaching for Sheryl’s hand.

  ‘Ooh, yes, I almost forgot.’ She reached down for the newspaper, in the process treating Nixon to more upskirt view than was good for him in his present state.

  ‘Chicago Tribune.’ She held up the front page. ‘Do you want to read it yourself or shall I?’

  ‘You read it. I’ve misplaced my glasses and in any case it’s too much effort.’

  Biting her lip, Sheryl unfolded the paper and turned several pages. ‘Here it is. It’s a Reuter’s report: “The body of Russian nuclear physicist, Anatoly Ilyushenko was found in the Forest of Gatcina near St Petersburg. He had been shot through the head at close range. An anonymous call to Pravda later claimed credit for the killing on behalf of an international green movement whose identity remains anonymous. Police investigations have so far drawn a blank as to the identity of the killers and the caller. Mr Ilyushenko was one of the leading Russian experts on gamma radiation.” ’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Isn’t it enough? Our first blow for the future of the human race. The first of many, I expect, unless governments see sense.’

  ‘Good on you, sweetheart.’ His eyes were closed again, as if hearing the news had sapped what little strength remained in the much wasted frame. ‘Will you tell the world why?’

  ‘Yes. Without saying who we are, of course. I’ve drafted a press release stating our cause.’

  ‘Who’s next on the list?’

  ‘Another of the same ilk, name of Olga Gratcheva. Her farewell party is set for two weeks from now. Then the press will really start to wake up and take notice, you wait and see.’

  Nixon cackled. ‘I would if I could.’

  At this reminder of his shaky mortality Sheryl fell silent, her head drooping. She craved a cigarette but the red NO SMOKING notice above the headboard crimped even her rebellious nature. Her hand closed more tightly over Nixon’s. Sentimental she was not, but this man, who had made it possible for her to realise her ambitions, meant more to her than any number of Simonellis. His dying would leave a black hole in her life.

  ‘The bank account is operating the way it should, I reckon,’ he said. ‘It’s all set up to carry on after I’ve gone. You’ve got full power of attorney for as long as you live, you know that. But it’s non-transferable, so you’d better keep on living.’

  ‘I plan to. And I’m touched by your faith in me. Eddie … it’s none of my business, but have you provided for Soon-Li?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, his tone tinged with impatience. ‘She’ll be able to go shopping every day as long as she lives. But listen …’ He came alert again, like a gun dog getting the scent. ‘What about the big fish? These Russian scientists are all very well but they’re tiddlers compared to that bastard Chirac. Why is it taking so long?’

  Sheryl was wondering the same though she wasn’t about to let on to Nixon. Instead, she said confidently, ‘They’re just being thorough and you can’t blame them. Don’t fret, it won’t be much longer … two, three weeks at the outside.’

  Badgering Simonelli hadn’t worked, he just fed her platitudes. Now she was becoming suspicious of his perpetual reassurances. On her return to Europe she was resolved to pin the Corsican down to something firm, preferably a time and a place, something she could pass back to Eddie. If he was still around to hear it.

  A tap at the door; it opened and a nurse’s head and arm appeared around it.

  ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave now,’ she said, softening the injunction with a regretful smile. ‘Mr Nixon’s due his treatment.’

  Sheryl smiled back, a reflex, on-off.

  ‘Okay. I’m on my way.’

  She rose slowly, reluctantly, still clutching Nixon’s hand.

  ‘You’re on your own from here on, sweetheart,’ he said.

  She wished he hadn’t reminded her, wished that somehow he would be proved wrong. Her eyes moistened. She smeared the burgeoning tears away with the back of her free hand. She never blubbered.

  ‘Where to now?’ he asked
her.

  ‘London, maybe Paris afterwards. A board meeting.’

  ‘Fax me if there’s any news. And have a safe journey.’

  Sheryl knelt on the edge of the bed and kissed him square on his dry lips.

  ‘You too, Eddie. You too.’

  * * *

  ‘The President is going to take a holiday in the Var during the first week of June,’ Le Renard informed Commissaire Barail, as the latter drew up a chair before his grand desk.

  Barail’s surprise was unconcealed.

  ‘This is very short notice. His engagements don’t allow it.’

  ‘His diary has been rearranged. He badly needs a break, and will spend four days chez Crillon, in a house near Cavalière-sur-Mer. Crillon is the friend of a family friend. I gather he is currently in South America and has placed the property at the President’s disposal.’ Le Renard shoved a file towards his subordinate.

  For Barail, providing protection for the President was a daily routine. ‘I will make the usual dispositions,’ he said, letting the file lie. He would review it later.

  Le Renard almost warned him make unusual dispositions, in view of the discovery of the photographs. Then he remembered the object of the President’s unplanned holiday and kept his mouth shut.

  * * *

  At Barail’s behest all the lights were on in the fifth floor room at the Hotel Albe and a cheval mirror strategically placed at the foot of the bed. He was as much voyeur as participant.

  ‘Let’s do it again, my bold lover,’ Lucille said, fondling Barail’s limp but nevertheless impressive member.

  ‘Not yet, you little rodent.’ Barail’s voice was hoarse, his breath rasping. ‘A short interlude is necessary in which to recharge my ancient batteries.’

  Lucille pouted, and though Barail’s eyes were closed he sensed it.

  ‘Do not be so impatient,’ he said.

  ‘But I must go soon. I am a working woman. I have another appointment …’ She broke off with a squeak as Barail grabbed her arm. Spent or not, there was a frightening strength in his grip.