Another Day, Another Jackal

by Lex Lander

  When Simonelli took his leave, the engines were ticking over and Le Boeuf was down among them, poking around knowledgeably.

  ‘Three days, mon pote,’ Simonelli reminded him. ‘Come back early and you can whistle for your other ten.’

  Le Boeuf’s grin displayed more gap than tooth.

  ‘Don’t worry about us, chief. I always fancied a cruise. We might even take a week.’

  From the quayside Simonelli hung about to watch his hirelings cast off and nose out of the berth to chug towards the port entrance, the first shafts of sunlight silvering the bridge windows.

  ‘Bon voyage,’ he chuckled and walked away, hands in pockets, well-pleased with his night’s work.

  * * *

  ‘The helicopter was not destroyed by a bomb,’ Le Renard announced to the room.

  ‘Not destroyed by a bomb?’ the Minister of the Interior echoed, his brow crinkling. His puzzlement was reflected in the scrubbed, rubicund features of Roger Billaud-Varennes, his Chef de Cabinet, seated to Debre’s right.

  ‘Are you serious?’ Billaud-Varennes said, feeling he ought to say something.

  ‘Why was I not told this sooner?’ the Minister cut in. Anger simmering.

  ‘Because I received the report only minutes ago, on my way here, Monsieur le Ministre,’ Le Renard said smoothly.

  ‘So did I,’ Bernard Provost, Director General of the Gendarmerie, murmured, in a show of solidarity, to lessen the heat on his colleague.

  Debre’s scowl retreated. ‘If it was not a bomb, what was it? How do you create an explosion without a bomb, pray?’

  ‘It would appear that our Jackal used an explosive bullet. Fired into the rear fuel tank which on the Ecureuil is essentially unprotected. Very effective and very very clever on his part.’

  ‘Clever?’ Debre snapped. ‘How so?’

  Le Renard yielded the floor to Mazé.

  ‘Precisely because he intended us to think it was a bomb,’ the newly-elevated Commissaire de Police explained. ‘It was a perfectly natural assumption.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the Minister said irritably. ‘But why is that so clever?’

  ‘Because, Monsieur le Ministre, we were lulled into the supposition that the assassin had not after all entered the grounds. That the bomb had been planted in the helicopter, in which case there would be no need for him to be at the scene.’

  Provost elaborated. ‘Which meant that instead of immediately sealing off the estate most of my men rushed to the scene of the crash.’

  ‘Does this mean that the assassin was there all along?’ Billaud-Varennes framed the question that Debre had been about to ask.

  ‘Regrettably, yes,’ Le Renard said. ‘He was dressed as a gendarme. He left by car within minutes of the shooting, under the pretext of guiding the fire appliances. We also discovered the weapon he used and some of his belongings in a copse, presumably where he was hiding.’

  The Minister rolled his eyes. ‘Now we have a killer on the loose and you don’t know where. Your agent - 441 or whatever she is called … ‘

  ‘411, monsieur.’

  ‘Whatever, she does not appear to have been very effective in extracting information from her lover.’ His lip curled as he spoke the last word.

  ‘She is missing,’ Mazé announced, looking uncomfortable. ‘She cannot be contacted by her cellphone.’

  ‘A litany of incompetence and ineptitude!’ the Minister fumed. ‘Whoever was in charge should be disciplined.’

  ‘Commissaire Barail was in charge, Monsieur le Ministre,’ Le Renard pointed out, ‘and as you know he is already under arrest.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Stupid of me.’

  At least, Mazé thought, the man had the grace to admit when he was behaving like a typical politician. A moment later he had cause to revise his opinion when the Minister glared at him.

  ‘But you were there, were you not, Commandant? Excuse me … I mean Commissaire.’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur le Ministre.’

  ‘Bon. Consider yourself reprimanded. Off the record, naturally, as it is only down to you that we were alerted to Barail’s treason in the first place.’

  ‘Has the press got wind of it yet?’ Mazé asked. A strict clampdown on reporting had been promulgated within an hour of the incident. To keep all two hundred policemen not to mention twenty-plus pompiers and the ambulance crews from loose talk would be an on-going challenge, but all had been individually and collectively warned that their livelihoods were at stake.

  ‘Amazingly, no,’ the Chef de Cabinet said. ‘Not so much as a single request for confirmation.’

  ‘There was an enquiry from Nice-Matin,’ Provost volunteered as he slopped water from the communal jug into a glass. ‘An eyewitness reported a helicopter crash to the Nice Matin office and they checked it out with the local Gendarmerie. Our people professed ignorance but took it seriously enough to pass it down the line. Since nobody knew anything, it seems to have died a death. I only learned of it myself in passing.’

  ‘Woe betide anyone who goes sniffing around the Crillon place,’ Le Renard said. ‘My men will stay in place at least until the wreckage has been moved and all traces cleaned up.’

  ‘Very good.’ The Minister stood, buttoned his jacket; Billaud-Varennes did likewise. ‘Everything seems to be in hand, apart from allowing the assassin to slip away. I have every confidence that that slip will be rectified inside twenty-four hours, messieurs. Keep Billaud-Varennes fully informed.’

  Le Renard, also standing and stuffing papers into his attaché case, asked, ‘Has the President communicated with you since the incident?’

  The Interior Minister, also shuffling papers, permitted himself a shadow of a smile. ‘Naturally. He is keenly interested in the case. He said - absolutely straight-faced, I promise you - he did not think that the dummy we used as his stand-in was very flattering. Now, gentlemen … I bid you good day.’

  * * *

  The interrogation of Commissaire Divisionnaire Julien Barail took place in a first floor DCPJ office near the Porte de Versailles. It did not involve electricity or water or extreme heat, or even injections of thiopental sodium. By police standards it was a remarkably civilised session.

  The team of interviewers was four strong: Commissaire Divisionnaire de la DCPJ Frédéric Le Page led the interrogation; his helpers ironically included Enrique Dubois who was also a witness against Barail. They played him extracts from some eighty hours of cassettes, mostly consisting of conversation between him and Lucille alias Ghislaine Fougère alias Agent 411. These pieces of dialogue demonstrated more effectively than any rough stuff the futility of denial. When Barail learned that his poule and Lux’s lover were the same girl he even laughed at this further irony.

  One of the few secrets he had withheld from the bogus courtesan was Lux’s real name. He assumed Lucille/Ghislaine must by now have exposed it and passed it on to her superiors, so he referred to him as Lux from the start. He even confessed to fixing Lux up with a Canadian passport. The particulars were immediately transmitted to the DST for circulation to all international airports and frontiers. Barail also confirmed Simonelli’s complicity, but since the man was already on the wanted list this did not affect his status. He even implicated the old Comte, who had done no more than provide a meeting place and haven for the conspirators. The only area where uncertainty still remained was the identity of his employers. In this respect his inquisitors used the oldest ploy known to police all over the world: they pretended they had already arrested their chief suspect, Sheryl Glister.

  ‘Your lady boss is singing like a lark, Julien,’ Le Page said with a smirk.

  Barail was well acquainted with police chicanery and not so readily duped.

  ‘Which lady boss would that be?’

  ‘L’Américaine,’ Le Page said, poker-faced. ‘Mademoiselle Glister. We picked her up in London this morning.’

  ‘Ah, bon? My congratulations, Commissaire.’

  ‘We had to get heavy with her. She is not so pre
tty as she was.’

  Barail could imagine how heavy they would have had to get to make the Glister woman ‘sing like a lark’. He was a little surprised that his opposite number in the DCPJ was prepared to put a foreign national through the mill. If their methods became public the hierarchy could be hauled before the Court of Human Rights, a humiliating experience for a democracy and member of the EU.

  ‘If she is being so obliging you will need nothing from me,’ he said, still wary.

  ‘Just a few lines on your statement, Julien,’ Le Page crooned. ‘To tidy the loose ends. For example, she told us it was you who contacted her with an offer to kill the President, not the other way around. What is your version?

  Was there any point in stalling? Barail thought not. He was going down for ever, come what may, but life inside might be a little sweeter if he worked with them instead of against.

  So, with a certain amount of resignation, he talked. Over the space of eight hours they milked him as dry as an Egyptian mummy.

  * * *

  At least a dozen taxis were lined up in the rank off Genova’s hectic, indescribably noisy Corso Quadrio. The driver of the first in line was sitting at the wheel of his car, head lolling out of the window.

  ‘Do you still think you are being followed?’ Ghislaine asked Lux as they approached it, hand in hand.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Not now, sweetheart, please.’

  To the best of his knowledge the police had no one to look for. No name, no photograph, not even a description unless someone tied the assassin in with the CRS officer who had called to see Barail, or the gendarme who was allowed through the barrier to ‘meet the fire appliance’. By the time a photofit was circulated, even if it resembled him, he would be safe in Switzerland under the protection of his British passport. And even Switzerland was but a seven-day stopover, an interlude.

  Lux opened the door of the leading taxi and almost deposited the catnapping driver on the pavement.

  ‘Airport,’ he ordered, as the latter sprawled at his feet. ‘Aeroporto. Pronto.’

  The man grinned ingratiatingly. He had a gold tooth and several black ones.

  ‘Si, signor.’

  They flew out of sunny Genova and set down in chilly, cloudy, gusty Geneva less than an hour later. Their passports, genuine and forged, earned no more than the most perfunctory of inspections. They were reunited with their luggage at the carousel, passed through the green Customs lane unchallenged. It was as Lux had expected yet in an important respect he was treading virgin ground: after a job he invariably travelled solo. Much as he loved the woman by his side the professional that was ever alive in him resented the increased responsibility with its attendant increased dangers.

  From Geneva they travelled by Swiss Railways to Lausanne. Not long into the journey Ghislaine suggested a joint visit to the toilet and not for the purpose of bladder or bowel relief.

  ‘I can’t wait,’ she had pouted, when he rebuffed her suggestion.

  ‘We’re almost there,’ he grumbled. He was not in the mood.

  Not to be denied, she embarked on a campaign to change his mood.

  When the train trudged into Lausanne’s grey but excruciatingly clean station, it was - unusually for Swiss Railways - twenty minutes late. Two of its passengers at least hadn’t even noticed.

  Twenty-Eight

  * * *

  It was a little after six when Sheryl Glister woke up in the luxury apartment in the west of London. It was daylight and the street below was already winding up to the rush hour. A compulsive early riser, she went to the kitchen and brewed coffee while she worked on the speech she planned to offer BBC News later today, as soon as the story broke.

  When a pyjama-clad Gary Rosenbrand wandered in, yawning and scratching under his armpit, she was already on her third draft.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, wondering what his wife would say if she knew he and Sheryl were sharing an apartment. She would automatically assume they were shacked up together. Back in 1992, when first he signed on for Greenpeace, Sheryl had indeed essayed a fairly blatant come-on but when he made it clear how things stood with him and Jenny, she had retreated in good grace. She had been man-hungry in those days all right, still was a bit, though her technique had mellowed, was less aggressive.

  She waved a sheet of paper at him. ‘Grab yourself some coffee, Gary, and tune in to this.’

  ‘Sure.’

  He poured it black, added a hefty dollop of sugar and sat opposite her at the round table.

  ‘On Sunday 2nd June 1997,’ she read from her notes, ‘Jacques Chirac, President of France, was executed by an organisation committed to saving our planet for future generations. According to the laws of man we committed murder in the first degree and will therefore be liable to pay for our crime.

  ‘Under those same man-made laws Jacques Chirac and the leaders of other like-minded nations are permitted to murder our planet and need fear no retribution. They may poison and pollute, blight and despoil this wonderful, extraordinary, unique planet of ours and be allowed to sleep easy in their beds, untroubled by laws or conscience. They may ultimately destroy the home of the human race, which destruction will result in the murder of six billion human beings, and no hand will be raised against them. Only nature will punish them - the tiny, tiny minority of guilty - as it punishes us, the multitude of innocents. Unlike man, Nature does not discriminate and she does not forgive. There is no appeal against Nature’s judgement.

  ‘By this act of retribution against all criminals such as Chirac, we, the members of an international society dedicated to protecting planet Earth against the depredations of the human race, give notice to all heads of state and government who design, build, test, stockpile and deploy weapons of mass destruction of any kind, be they nuclear, chemical, or biological, that unless they desist from such activity and proceed to destroy all such weapons under their control, they too will die.

  ‘They will not - regrettably - die a lingering death from radiation burns or sickness, or an agonising one from the effects of a chemical or biological attack, deserving though such deaths may be. Nevertheless, they - will - die.’ Eyes shining, Sheryl looked across at Rosenbrand. ‘What do you think?’

  Rosenbrand mock-applauded. ‘Bloody fantastic. Don’t change a word. Only one problem …’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘They haven’t announced Chirac’s death yet.’

  Sheryl frowned. ‘Hey, that’s right. They should’ve by now. I was so wrapped up in my speech I forgot we’re still waiting for confirmation. Switch the radio on, G.’

  * * *

  Radio 4’s eight-thirty news was full of pleas for John Major to get on his bike, and continuing recriminations over BSE. Nothing remotely as earth-shattering as the assassination of the French President.

  ‘They’re suppressing it, the bastards!’ Sheryl said through her teeth.

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ Rosenbrand said, ripples of worry extending across his forehead. ‘Or maybe it didn’t happen.’

  ‘Lux phoned with the code word - JC crucified. Do you think I’m going deaf or something?’

  Rosenbrand lifted the last slice of toast from the rack and scraped the burnt patches from it. Wished he was home with Jen who made perfect toast.

  ‘Maybe he was lying.’

  Sheryl rounded on him, her expression savage. ‘Don’t be such a fucking defeatist! What would be the point? The deal is he gets paid on confirmation by newspaper, radio or TV. No confirmation, no pay. It’s not as though he could get away with it. What would be the point?’ she repeated.

  Rosenbrand outwardly agreed with her. In private his doubts were mounting. It was inconceivable that, a whole day having elapsed since the supposed assassination, news of it had not been released.

  ‘No,’ Sheryl said, clutching the neck of her silk robe together as if to prevent Rosenbrand from peeking down her cleavage. ‘They’re keeping it quiet to avoid internal unrest. Don’t
forget there are rumblings of rebellion in the wings. Ever since Chirac laid his rotten eggs at Mururoa dissent has been simmering below the surface. Somebody - Juppé or the Interior Minister, Debre - is keeping the lid on it.’

  Rosenbrand bit into the cold toast; a blob of marmalade stuck to his top lip.

  ‘You’re probably right. The next news is at nine-thirty. Keep your fingers crossed.’

  * * *

  No file existed on Dennis Lux, either in conventional written form, or on the computer files. The subject of a previous record was never raised so Barail, who answered all questions but volunteered nothing, omitted to mention that, true to his accord with Lux, he had removed all physical reference to the American assassin and obliterated all traces from the central computer. Not that it would have helped Acting Commissaire de Police Philippe Mazé, now leading the hunt. Lux had disappeared and so had Agent 411. It was fairly safe to assume that the double disappearance was not a coincidence. The report of the DCPJ officers assigned to watch Lux’s house pointed to her having gone of her own free will. It was perplexing. It was inexplicable. At some juncture in their manufactured romance had she ceased playing a part and really fallen for him? Yet she had been giving feedback on his movements right up until the day before the assassination attempt.

  If nothing else they had photographs of Lux, taken by the surveillance team when he stayed in Menton. They had blown up well and as Mazé eyed the head-and-shoulders snapshot selected for circulation to the press he could understand why a woman with normal appetites might fall for a man with the American’s looks, killer or not. Even a policewoman; which she wasn’t strictly anyway, more an administrator.

  To add to Mazé’s woes the Minister was blaming Le Renard for Lux’s getaway, and Le Renard in turn was blaming Mazé. Nothing new there, except that it used to be Barail who passed the bucks from above. Now even that cushion was gone. Mazé released a great sigh into the smoke-clouded air of his office. Sometimes it was hard being a cop.