Another Day, Another Jackal

by Lex Lander

  He didn’t care for the insinuation but let it go. ‘Okay, okay. I give you one week. Fuck him sideways and upside down if you have to, but get him to talk. You did well to get him to incriminate himself in the first place. The rest should be a walkover. The door’s ajar, all you have to do is kick it in. You’re a policewoman, aren’t you? You should know how to kick doors in.’

  He dropped her at the corner of Avenue Kléber where she had a modest studio above a café as part of her ‘cover’. She stood at the kerbside and watched the taxi’s tail lights dwindle into the distance. It was all very well for Mazé to put pressure on her. If Barail suspected for a minute that she was trying to probe him, she would finish up at the bottom of the Seine with twenty kilos of chain around her ankles. Eight years before, as a police trainee, she had watched as they dragged a real-life poule out of the river, minus her head and hands, weighted down by just such a tangle of chain. The impression it made on her was profound and it had stuck.

  * * *

  The curtains were not designed to create blackout conditions and the definition of the slides was therefore not as sharp as it might have been. The room they used was on the second floor, much smaller than the one they recently occupied, and smelled musty. Dust sheets shrouded some bulky pieces of furniture. The chairs were straight backed and made the underside of Lux’s thighs ache; Simonelli had hijacked the only armchair. Now wanted by the police judiciare for questioning in connection with the photographs, he had been a guest of the comte for the past three weeks. He had also grown a beard and sported a pair of heavy-rimmed spectacles whenever he ventured out.

  Barail, operating the projector, ran through the slides rapidly and without commentary. There were over two hundred of them, including a number of aerial views. Most featured a large house shaped like an E with the middle stroke missing, set in a walled estate. From some angles a large tract of water was visible in a defile between two ridges of land. Impossible to say from the shots whether it was open sea or a large lake. The countryside was generally rugged, the higher ground rising in steps rather than sloping smoothly. Vegetation tended to be scrub-like with few trees of any size other than those on the estate. The only road in evidence appeared to be that serving the house and two others nearby, and even that was no more than a dirt road, albeit well-maintained as far as one could judge from the slides.

  Several shots showed signs of humanity, notably a man and a woman walking along a terrace that ran the length of the house. The other side of the terrace overlooked an elongated pond, studded with water lilies. Eventually the couple walked out of the frame. There was a swimming pool shaped like a guitar: it was empty so presumably the time of year was winter or autumn, although the foliage of the shrubs was green. Somewhere in the Midi of France, was Lux’s guess.

  The last slide clunked through the projector and now the screen depicted only a white rectangle. Lux crossed his legs to relieve his cramped muscles and waited for someone to speak.

  ‘What you have just seen is an estate in the Var belonging to a man called Maurice Crillon,’ Barail expounded.

  Lux silently congratulated himself on correctly identifying the region.

  ‘Chirac will come to this place on Sunday 2nd June for a few days of relaxation. This, in my opinion, is where you should … er …’

  ‘Kill him?’ Simonelli suggested, his teeth bared in a vulpine grin.

  Barail gave a small but noticeable shudder. Such bald expressions of their intent were distasteful to him. Most would employ euphemism for the word ‘kill’ - dispose, silence, eliminate. Not Simonelli.

  ‘I prefer to choose my own killing ground,’ Lux said mildly, though he privately conceded that the site had much to commend it.

  Barail was unperturbed. ‘Naturally. But you will not find a better one, and within the time that remains you would be well-advised not to waste it in investigating others.’

  A scrap of breeze stirred the curtains, momentarily letting in daylight. In the garden a dog started barking; a harsh command stilled it. Lux was tempted to look, to be reassured that life existed outside this unreal world in which the life of a President was reduced to banalities; to the question of location, and timing, and reporting procedures. The temptation did not translate into movement.

  ‘I will now run through the slides again,’ Barail said, reloading the projector. ‘More slowly this time ... We can examine each one individually. Later I will show you some film, also a plan of the house and a large scale map of the district.’

  While Simonelli sighed ostentatiously and lit the latest in a succession of cigarettes, Barail tinkered at length with the focus and managed to eventually produce a sharper image. It became apparent that the photographs had been taken on different days, by the changes in position of items of garden furniture, also the weather alternated between pale sunshine and an all-grey sky that washed so much colour from the scene that many of the slides could have been taken for monochrome.

  Lux now perceived that the eastern wall of the estate was built along the top of a sheer drop forming one side of a valley that, according to the lie of the lengthening shadows in one frame, ran from north-east to south west. A slender river wound through the valley, plunging underground beyond the northern end of the garden. The wall seemed in good repair.

  The main building, although around two centuries old, was also well-maintained and alterations and extensions carried out over the years had been done sympathetically. Patio doors, obviously not part of the original structure, opened onto the terrace, which was screened from the driveway.

  In most of the pictures smoke coiled straight up from the single stubby chimney at the northern end of the building, further supporting Lux’s belief that the ground level photographs were taken in winter.

  ‘Who authorised these shots?’ Simonelli said, as the screen filled with an aerial study of the rear of the house, partially obscured by some spindly cypress trees.

  ‘The aerial shots were organised by the DCPJ,’ Barail replied. ‘It was all done quite openly, with the knowledge and co-operation of the owner. Standard practice when the President is to visit a location for the first time. The other photos were supplied by the owner.’

  Something clicked inside Lux’s head, like a light switching on.

  ‘Why didn’t I see it before? You’re not just any old security official, are you, Barail? You’re responsible for presidential security!’

  Barail’s face revealed nothing, neither did he deny it.

  ‘You’re one of his goddam bodyguards, I’ll bet,’ Lux said, and followed up with a harsh laugh. ‘You might even be the chief bodyguard. My God! Betrayed by the man who’s supposed to protect him.’ He sat forward on the edge of his seat, stabbed a finger at him. ‘Don’t bother to confirm it. It’s written on your face.’

  It would also make Lux’s job a sight easier. What bigger, plumper stool pigeon could an assassin hope for than the head bodyguard of the intended victim? Even as he spoke, Lux’s mind was sorting through the implications of his discovery. Such an influential ally was an asset not to be wasted.

  ‘Really?’ Barail’s voice was frosty. ‘You must believe what you believe. Perhaps it will induce you to accept my recommendation as to the place and time.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Lux said. ‘I’ll accept your advice - provided it checks out.’

  ‘Can we get on now?’ Simonelli spoke through a haze of blue smoke. ‘We have a lot more material to see and discuss.’

  ‘Why not?’ Lux said, and Barail, breathing noisily through his nostrils, nodded.

  ‘So tell us, Julien,’ Simonelli said, his dark intense eyes impaling Barail. ‘What exactly will be the security dispositions.’

  ‘It has not yet been confirmed officially, it is not my department, you understand. Even so, yesterday I heard through unofficial channels that fifty CRS and two hundred gendarmes, will be deployed. A permanent patrol outside the wall from H-hour minus twenty-four.’

  Lux produced a small spi
ral pad and jotted in it, his face blank. ‘H-hour being?’

  ‘Probably mid-day on 2nd June. The President and Mme Chirac will leave Paris around nine-thirty in the morning and fly to Toulon, where they will transfer to a military helicopter.’

  ‘Presumably the grounds will be searched before his arrival.’

  Barail lowered himself into a chair that was the twin of Lux’s.

  ‘The grounds will be combed immediately prior to the patrol being put in place. In theory no unauthorised person can gain entry from that moment on. Two helicopters will also keep the perimeter under surveillance.’

  ‘The wall looks as if it completely encloses the estate,’ Lux observed, still writing.

  ‘It does. The length of the perimeter is estimated at …’ Barail reached across the table and riffled through the papers and photographs there until he found the sketch Mazé had done. ‘Five point two kilometres.’

  ‘If we assume that the fifty agents will remain within the grounds,’ Simonelli said thoughtfully, ‘and if we assume that only half the flics will be on duty at any time, that means one flic for every fifty metres of perimeter.’

  Lux scribbled calculations on his pad. ‘That means I can forget about gaining entry after the patrol is in place.’

  ‘Therefore you must enter before,’ Simonelli put in. ‘You could get over the wall and hide up somewhere.’

  Barail cleared his throat theatrically. ‘You are forgetting that the grounds will be searched. Take it from me, the search will be very thorough. Normally they will proceed in a line abreast. The estate is roughly oval …’ More riffling of papers. ‘It is … approximately two kilometres from end to end lengthways, so to speak. So if all two hundred officers are used, this means one per ten metres. The security officers will check the house and the outbuildings.’

  Simonelli grimaced.

  ‘Ten metres per man. You couldn’t hide a dormouse under those conditions.’ Barail skidded an aerial photo, measuring about one foot by eight inches across the table to Lux. ‘Pick your hideout,’ he said with a mirthless laugh. ‘Only you’d better miniaturise yourself first.’

  ‘I’ll take a look at the real thing in a day or two,’ Lux said, less inclined to be negative than the other two. To them he appeared perfectly at ease. ‘Then I’ll figure out how to get in.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Barail said worriedly. ‘The Crillon family are away but a housekeeper goes there every day and two caretakers live there permanently in a mobile home.’

  ‘Perhaps we should take another look at the options we rejected,’ Simonelli said dubiously.

  ‘We already looked,’ Lux said, his tone abrupt. ‘As the Commissaire said, this is the best of the bunch. My concern isn’t so much how to get in as how to get out.’

  ‘Yes.’ Barail nodded earnestly. ‘Under no circumstances must you be caught …’

  ‘In case I squeal?’ Lux cut in, the words filtered through a sardonic grin. ‘But don’t worry, Commissaire, I have no intention of getting caught. I’m thinking maybe a chopper …’

  ‘To get you in?’ Simonelli said, staring.

  ‘To get me out, buddy. Like I said, I aim to solve that pretty problem first. If I can’t, this place is off the agenda.’ Lux raised a hand to still Barail’s protest. ‘Yeah, I know. We junked the idea of a chopper at the restaurant but here in the country, if it could land rather than hover, that would cut down the time of its exposure to small arms fire.’

  ‘It is your neck, I am thankful to say,’ Barail grunted. ‘Personally, I would find some other solution.’

  It was a matter of indifference to him whether Lux got clean away or was gunned down on the spot. The latter would be preferable. Cheaper, for one thing. But unless his escape was assured the job would not go ahead, therefore he was as keen as the American to come up with an answer.

  He stood, silhouetted before the sunlit French windows, and stretched ostentatiously.

  Simonelli, shielding his eyes to look at him, said, ‘What else can you tell us, mon ami?’

  Before Barail could answer, Lux, who had been studying the photo, glanced up and said, ‘What are these clumps of trees near to the west wall?’

  Barail and Simonelli came over together to look.

  The Corsican shrugged. ‘They are clumps of trees, copses. What of them?’

  ‘They look as if they might be on elevated ground.’ Lux turned the photo round so that the light fell on it. ‘See how the shadow falls on that patch of ground …’ He rested a fingertip on a spot near the centre of the picture.

  Barail checked through the little heap of slides, found the one he was searching for and loaded it in the projector. The scene filled the screen. All three men peered at it.

  ‘The ground is definitely higher along the west wall,’ Simonelli declared at last. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Nope. It’s just that I may be able to make the hit from there, from the nearest copse to the house. If these scale markings are accurate it’s the best part of a kilometre, maybe a tad more, from the front door. Far enough for me to be invisible, close enough for me to be sure of a killing shot - given a particular kind of hardware.’

  Barail rubbed at his chin, his fingers rasping on stubble.

  ‘D’accord. But that is still of no account unless you find a way in and out. You said so yourself. Without a guaranteed exit, you won’t do it, and I don’t blame you.’

  Lux eyed him thoughtfully. ‘Will you be there when Chirac shows?’

  ‘Yes. It is not unusual for me to inspect the troops, as it were, on such occasions. What do you have in mind?’

  ‘Nothing at the moment. Just establishing what’s possible and what isn’t.’

  Barail frowned at Lux’s reticence. He was used to keeping secrets, not having them kept from him.

  * * *

  The previous September a spat between two of her former colleagues at Greenpeace and the French Government had resulted in the formers’ deportation, and Sheryl feared she might have been blacklisted by association. When visiting Corsica in search of Simonelli two months later she had taken the precaution of flying into Rome and proceeding by ferry to the island; passenger transit within the European Union being more or less free of formality she had been able to enter France unmolested.

  Now she sought a new meeting with Simonelli and, owing to restrictions on the Corsican’s movements, she would have to enter mainland France. The stratagem as before, she flew to Brussels and from there travelled to Paris by TGV then onward to Auxerre by hire car. Again it worked. Not once was she asked to produce her passport.

  For Simonelli’s part, he was tired of being cooped up in the chateau, benign host though the widower comte was, and confident enough in his fully matured disguise to propose dining out. So, within an hour of Sheryl’s booking into her hotel, they were sharing a table at the renowned Barnabet Restaurant on the quay in Auxerre, enjoying the views over the River Yonne and the poitrine de canard à la rôtissoire, speciality of the house.

  Sheryl was not impressed by the Corsican’s new guise. ‘I must tell you, Napoleon, the beard is crap. It makes you look like the villain in one of those cheap French gangster films from the fifties.’

  ‘It is necessary,’ Simonelli muttered, slightly miffed.

  ‘That’s another thing. It’s only necessary because you left incriminating photographs lying about your house and let a tart have the run of the place.’

  Simonelli was not used to being bossed about by women. He lunged across the table with his right hand, his finger and thumb coming together pincer fashion on her left nipple. It was a trick of his, a little punishment he employed to keep his women in line.

  Sheryl was familiar with his sadistic peccadilloes. She didn’t flinch. Nor, as he pinched and twisted her nipple, did she make an effort to prevent him, merely stared into his eyes.

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’

  Something in the tone of her voice made him feel suddenly ashamed. He pulled his hand back on to
his own side of the table.

  ‘I am sorry. That was childish of me. Your criticism is justified.’

  ‘As your employer it certainly is.’ She gazed round, but no nearby diners spared them a glance. ‘As your lover … well, maybe I should have kept my lips zipped.’ Sheryl tried to disregard the throb from her maltreated nipple and picked among the bones of her breast of duckling, discovering a scrap of flesh that had escaped her earlier foraging. She popped it into her mouth and chewed slowly and thoroughly. Though her skills in the kitchen were dire, she appreciated well-prepared food. ‘Tell me about Lux.’

  Simonelli nodded, expunged his rage and guilt, and, in between mouthfuls, brought Sheryl up to date in five minutes. When he explained about the venue her breathing quickened.

  ‘Do you really think this is it?’ she said, clutching his arm across the table, her face flushed and animated. She hardly dared to believe that a date had actually been decided, that Chirac’s allotted span and with it his capacity for destruction could be calculated in weeks.

  ‘It is not yet certain, ma biche, but I am optimistic. Lux will - how do they say it in America? - case the area and make a decision.’

  ‘Tell him he’s got to go for it, even if it isn’t absolutely perfect. Stop humouring him. He’s only the hired hand, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Like me, eh?’

  Sheryl’s glare softened, became impish.

  ‘You’re not hired for your hands, Napoleon, darling. Your talents lie in another part of your anatomy.’

  He suddenly visualised her naked. She was a big woman; not big as in fat, but big boned, athletic. Firm. Though her breasts didn’t amount to much she knew how to employ them to excite him beyond his most erotic dreams.

  He took her hand in his, briefly pressed it to his red lips. ‘You have finished eating, my love. Shall we go?’

  Eighteen

  * * *

  When dawn came and with it an end to the run of warm, sun blessed days, Lux was already awake. He lay, hands locked behind his neck, listening to the rainwater as it gurgled down the drainpipe and the splash of the overspill from the blocked guttering onto the patio. The house was short on maintenance. It belonged to his ex-wife, and she had accorded him squatter’s rights whenever it was unoccupied, which was most of the year from October through mid-June.