by Lex Lander
Timothy used his hands for this part of the process, smearing the stuff that smelled like splatch over every exposed piece of skin from hairline to Adam’s apple.
‘Whatever you do now, you must not so much as twitch a facial muscle, dear. Don’t talk, don’t lick your lips - it tastes positively awful, I can tell you. Grunt if you understand.’
Lux grunted.
Timothy puckered his lips into a blown kiss and minced out, leaving Lux to his own devices. He sighed through his nose and resigned himself to ‘ninety-minutes minimum’ immobility. Only a CD player, from which a soothing sonata trickled forth, remained to keep him in touch with reality.
When Timothy returned, one hour and forty minutes later, Lux was ready to start smashing things. The eye pads and tubes were discarded. Then began the unpeeling process. This was slow and tedious. ‘It tears easily,’ Timothy explained. In the event it came off in one-piece, like the shed skin of a lizard.
‘Voila!’ Timothy rejoiced, dangling the mask before him for inspection. ‘Aren’t I a clever boy, then?’
‘And aren’t I an ugly one?’ Lux said. The only likeness he saw in the facsimile was to a chamois leather, and a well-used one at that.
He mopped his face with the damp towel Timothy handed him.
‘Now what?’
Timothy simpered. ‘Now, you lovely man, we put your spare face on a dummy’s head to preserve its shape and put it in a padded box to keep it intact.’
‘Sounds very organised.’
Timothy made humming birds wings of his eyelashes. ‘Are you staying overnight in Fontainebleau?’
Lux shook his head without regret. ‘I have business down south.’
‘Oh, well,’ Timothy pouted, and flounced off, dangling the mask from finger and thumb.
Lux was done here. The finished article was delivered to him at the front desk by Moira in person. The carton that contained it was a solid affair. ‘Uncrushable,’ Moira assured him. ‘You can sit on it if you like.’
The wad of banknotes Lux passed over raised her eyebrows but she made no demur.
‘I’ll get your invoice made up,’ she said.
‘No invoice necessary. Put the dough in your Thanksgiving Party fund and have a real good time.’
It was a little after 2.00pm when he walked out into the stark sunshine and collected his car from the visitor’s bay in the car park. He hadn’t lied to Timothy about heading south. By midnight he was in Menton. He had meant to stay in Ste Maxime but his desire to see Ghislaine got the better of him.
To his chagrin the house was in darkness and not because she was asleep in bed. He found a note pinned to the bedroom door.
Darling.
Missed you like mad. It’s Thursday and I’m going to Paris for a few days. Sorry but it’s business and cannot wait. Call me on 47 71 11 91 which is the number at my new apartment. I will phone you here anyway every day. I’m going to buy you a present, a cellphone!
My love forever
Ghislaine
Pity. But maybe it was all for the better. She was a distraction he didn’t need.
* * *
For his second meeting with Tomas Leandri, Lux again went to the man’s rural retreat. It was hot and Leandri was dressed like a tourist, in a multi-striped shirt outside a pair of khaki shorts.
After a perfunctory handshake the Corsican beckoned Lux over to a two-car garage some twenty metres from the log cabin house. In the left hand section stood a black Citroën XM with special registration plates. The car was not new but it was immaculate.
‘Open the trunk,’ Lux said.
Leandri obliged. Lux bent forward and tapped on the panel behind the rear seat.
‘It is empty,’ Leandri pointed out.
‘It needs modifying. Nothing major … just a false panel inserting about here …’ Lux stabbed a finger at a point slightly over a foot short of the rear bulkhead. ‘It must blend perfectly with the existing trim and be undetectable. It must also be easy to remove.’
Leandri stroked his chin. ‘It is not a problem. I will of course do it myself, therefore it will not be cheap. And I must know the purpose. What do you wish to conceal behind it?’
‘A body.’
‘Are you joking?’ Leandri said, then saw that he was not.
Lux allowed a small smile to creep onto his face. ‘Let me explain …’
After they had finished discussing the car they went to sit in the same comfy chairs under the eucalyptus tree in the garden, to be served cold beers by Leandri’s ‘femme’. She was wearing denim shorts a size too small for her plump backside but Lux had no objection. Leandri certainly didn’t; he patted her rump without fail whenever she came within range. Her squeak of protest was for Lux’s benefit only.
The view over Toulon was still superb, superficially altered by the presence in the naval dockyard of an aircraft carrier and some shuffling about of the smaller warships; one was in dry dock.
Leandri examined the ID card bearing his photograph and the name Laurent Castel, making a clicking sound with the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he did so.
‘Bien,’ he said at length, sliding the card into his breast pocket.
The two men, by coincidence, produced packs of cigarettes from their pockets at the same time. Same brand too, Gitanes. Leandri laughed. ‘I insist you have one of mine.’
Lux accepted, grinning back, and lit both cigarettes.
Leandri said, ‘And now, my friend with no name, I presume you are going to explain to me why I need this card, how I will earn the considerable sum you are paying for my services, and what part my assistant will play in this venture.’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ Lux said and hoped the man’s nerves were all Simonelli had claimed them to be. ‘Let’s deal with your assistant, first of all. The rest will become clear as I explain.’
‘Bien. I am listening intently.’
‘Your assistant will ride in the hidden compartment,’ Lux said, watching the man’s reaction.
Outwardly, there was none.
‘Go on,’ Leandri said, tapping invisible ash from his cigarette.
Here was the point of no return. The point when Leandri would have to know all, and therefore put Lux at risk of exposure. The point when he must place his trust in a blackguard whose only credentials came from another, probably greater blackguard.
He drew in a deep breath.
‘Afterwards he will impersonate me.’
* * *
‘Hey!’ cried the young male clerk in the passport control centre at Charles de Gaulle Terminal 2, to whoever happened to be within earshot.
‘What?’ a fellow-clerk said sleepily. He’d had a busy night with his girlfriend and was suffering for it.
‘One of the foreign arrivals this morning is on the DST notification list,’ said the first clerk. He pointed to the display on his monitor with its flashing notice ‘to report the entry into France of the above-named to the DST immediately’.
The second clerk’s drowsiness was dissipated somewhat.
‘You lucky bastard! I’ve been here twice as long as you and I’ve never had one of those. Who is it?’
‘A woman. Name of Sheryl Glister.’ He pronounced it Glee-stair. ‘Américaine.’
The second clerk propelled his castored chair across to his colleague’s desk.
‘What else does it say?’
‘See for yourself. Passport number, date of birth, place of birth, description, distinguishing marks, the usual garbage. There’s a telephone number to ring. Should I ring it?’
‘Should I ring it, he says. Of course you fucking ring it, crétin. Do you want to find yourself in an interrogation cell with your testicles wired to a generator? Not a nice way to end the day!’
The first clerk took his point. He reached for his telephone and composed the central Paris number on the ordonnance.
* * *
It was eleven o’clock at night and warm for the end of May. Lux lay on
his back covered only by a white satin sheet, smoking, satiated and exhausted after a reunion that had been worth the wait. Beside him Ghislaine was sprawled untidily on her front, her face turned towards him. The sheet clung salaciously to the double bulge of her bottom, even the cleft, leaving Lux in a state of constant desire the likes of which he had never known before.
Her face in the pillow was turned towards him, appraising the profile of her lover.
‘So?’ she said, breaking the silence of the aftermath. ‘What do you think of my son, my parents, my new apartment?’
Lux, who had never been into kids, had been genuinely touched by her son, Marc. A ringer for his mother and well-behaved without relinquishing the essential impishness of small boys, he had unfailingly addressed Lux as ‘monsieur’, resisting blandishments to use his first name. The three of them lunched al fresco in the Champs Elysees, rode to the top of the Eiffel Tower and strolled through the Pompidou Centre. Marc had advanced a case for a jaunt to Disneyland but time was too short. In the end he had settled for a visit to the cinema where “Back to the Future II” was showing.
Now he was in his bed in the next room, hopefully asleep and undisturbed by the boisterous activity in his mother’s room.
‘I think they’re all great, especially your son. He’s a terrific kid.’ It sounded flat, but on the spur of the moment he couldn’t think up any better way of expressing his feelings.
‘You could be his father, do you think? Could you love my son?’
Lux hesitated, not wishing to merely placate her. Honesty was her credo. He owed it to her to be honest when he had no need to deceive.
‘I could try,’ he said eventually, amending this, when he realised the tense was wrong, to, ‘I will try. For you.’
She turned on her side, propped her head on her clenched fist.
‘No, not for me, darling. You must try for him. Do you understand the difference?’
‘Oh, sure,’ he said confidently, though he wasn’t as sure as all that. ‘Say, how have you explained it to him, what I’m doing here in place of his pa? Or haven’t you explained it.’
‘I have told him as much as he will understand. He’s too young for the unvarnished truth, and too innocent. So I told him papa has gone away for a few weeks and that you’re a special friend who is staying here to take care of us.’
Lux’s inhalation of smoke turned into a splutter. ‘You mean he thinks I’m standing in for his pa? Keeping the bed warm till he gets back?’
She glared at him. ‘Not in exactly those terms, no. It’s too complicated and if I had to relay it to you in French you wouldn’t understand.’
Touché crossed Lux’s mind but he didn’t say it aloud. What he did say was, ‘Does Michel have your new address?’
‘No. Maybe I will tell him when I am sure he has accepted our separation. It depends.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Lux wasn’t worried about the prospect of an enraged spouse on the doorstep, he just preferred to be ready to receive him. ‘Look, sweetheart, things are moving. On Sunday we have to go away.’
‘We? You mean us?’
Lux nodded. Her hand crept under the sheet like a burrowing animal to make contact with his aroused member.
‘Where? Why?’
‘Business. Urgent and necessary, and we’ll be away a long time. Months, anyhow.’
Now she released him and sat up. He was watching her, his eyes lightly slitted. Her own gaze was quizzing, as if seeking a clue as to his real motives, his intentions. During this lull in their conversation the sound of cheering from the TV in the sitting room intervened and a commentator could be heard yammering about a truly magnificent goal.
‘All right,’ she said finally. ‘But where will we go?’
‘Switzerland. To begin with.’
‘Must I come?’
‘If you want to go on. With me, that is.’
She reached for his face, explored it with her fingertips. ‘You doubt it?’
His shrug was slight. ‘I guess not.’
‘You do, a little, I think. But you shouldn’t. I may have to return from time to time for my work … I will not abandon my career. But Switzerland is not so far. So dispel your doubts, my darling. Let me demonstrate to you again how much you mean to me.’
Lux wasn’t sure he could respond to yet another such demonstration, which would be the third in as many hours. Still, he stubbed out his cigarette and prepared to give it his best shot. In the event she made it easy for him simply by being irresistible.
* * *
The digital alarm clock read 3:50 and still they weren’t tired. They lay in the dark, hands clasped, talking.
‘I must leave for the south after breakfast,’ he told her.
She tightened her grip on his hand to show she had heard, understood, and hated the idea of another separation.
‘You must go to Menton,’ he pressed on. A pause then, ‘You and Marc.’
‘No, not Marc. Not right away. He will stay with his grandparents. You must not expect me to turn his life upside down so readily.’ She sensed he was hurt by her defensive tone and gave his hand another squeeze, of appeasement now. ‘Which airport will we fly from, for Switzerland? Nice, I suppose.’
‘We won’t be flying. We go by boat, a private yacht.’
‘Is that a joke? Switzerland is landlocked. How will you achieve this impossible feat?’
‘We sail to a place where there is an airport,’ he said patiently.
‘Oh.’ She was puzzled but didn’t pursue the point. ‘From where do we sail?’
‘Does it matter?’ His tone was curt and she recoiled a little. ‘All I want from you is to be at the house from tomorrow evening and to stay within earshot of the phone. I will call you there sometime on Sunday, probably early afternoon, with instructions where to meet me.’
‘Why can’t you tell me now? This is all very mysterious. You are beginning to frighten me, Dennis. Have you done something - something bad, I mean?’
‘No, my love, but there is a lot at stake. Some people might try to prevent me leaving.’ That much was the truth at any rate. ‘Make sure your cellphone is on and charged up. I’ll call you on it sometime after one in the afternoon and say where you must go. I’ll be at the rendezvous about an hour after my call.’
‘But why can’t you tell me right now where I am to go?’ she persisted.
No reason, was his private answer. Only that he had always kept his plans to himself and on the subject of security he was a creature of unshakeable habit. The need to know was a personal commandment.
He refused to be drawn further and the subject atrophied. After a while he lapsed into a fitful sleep; Ghislaine stayed awake, listening to the hum of the city and watching the curtains gradually lighten with the coming of a new dawn.
* * *
This meeting was not instigated by me. The MoI in person summoned me to what he termed an informal exchange of ideas. I understood it to be off the record until the MoI informed the CG of it the following day. Consequently this aide-memoire serves to place on record my recollection of the dialogue while it is still fresh in my mind in case any questions should arise in future.
Translated extract of note dictated by Philippe Mazé, Commandant de Police, CRS,
31.05.1996. Filed 03.06.96.
‘It reads like Mazé covering his ass.’
Sheryl Glister to Thierry Garbe, freelance journalist, 24.03.1999.
(on hearing Garbe’s translation of the above note)
* * *
It was a grand day for a saunter in the Jardin des Tuileries. Sunny, pleasantly warm, the sort of day that Paris was made for but did not experience as often as Parisians like to broadcast.
Not that Philippe Mazé’s itinerary for this day had included the Tuileries, any more than his timetable included a saunter. But when the Minister of the Interior summoned Mazé in person to pass an hour of gentle exercise with him, how could he refuse? A vrai dire, he dare not.
It was a
surprising slap in the face for protocol and especially for Le Renard. To such an extent that Mazé even contemplated alerting his boss. After five minutes of mind wrestling he decided that the smaller of the two evils was to upset Le Renard rather than the Minister.
Debre was in good form. Cheery, full of aimless chitchat that Mazé suspected was designed only to put him off guard. This breezy monologue lasted for so long that Mazé began to wonder if the Minister merely sought a willing ear into which to feed his tendency to liberal notions about law and order and human rights.
Then, in mid-sentence, so it seemed to the bemused CRS officer, the Minister of the Interior stopped by a seat overlooking the Seine and, propping his posterior on the back of it, said to Mazé, ‘Tell me your proposals for assuring the President’s safety on Sunday. Not the official line, not Le Renard’s line, but Mazé’s line. Your line. Understand?’
Mazé, more than a shade bemused, indicated that he understood. ‘But you realise that the President’s security is not my speciality, Monsieur le Ministre. My brief gravitates more towards surveillance …’
‘No matter. They tell me you have an excellent brain. You must have given the question some thought.’ The Minister spoke abstractedly, his gaze tracking a pleasure boat packed with goggling tourists as it passed beneath the Pont Royal.
‘It’s true, I have, and I have some ideas that may or may not appeal to you and the President. But Monsieur Renard gave me to understand that he is handling this aspect. I am fully committed to tracing and ultimately apprehending the protagonists.’
‘Nevertheless,’ the Minister said with some asperity, and that one word left no more room for debate. ‘Air your ideas. Even if I discard them, what have you to lose?’
Initially hesitant, Mazé complied, even throwing in a suggestion by his wife that she introduced into the conversation over a meal at their local brasserie the previous evening.
He rounded off his verbal treatise with the comment, ‘I have concluded that the attempt will be made between the moment the President’s helicopter lands and his entry into the house - ’ He broke off to concede force majeure to the ululating siren of a police car as it ripped along the Quai des Tuileries, painting a pained expression on the Ministerial visage. ‘Or possibly,’ he resumed, as the whooping subsided, ‘the killer will try to hit him while he is still in the air.’
