The bars and brothels that Boutin was thought to own or control were listed on Jens’ computer, as was the address of his villa on the coast and his luxury apartment in the city itself. He was married with two children: a fourteen-year-old boy and an eleven-year-old girl. He had two younger brothers, both in the business. Georges, the elder, ran the drugs side, and Claude, the prostitution side. Yves himself was the nominal head of a seemingly legitimate construction company which somehow got a lot of municipal contracts. Jens explained that Marseille was one of the most corrupt cities in France, if not the whole of Europe. At police headquarters they had studied many photographs of Boutin, both official police mug-shots and others taken unawares. He was a squat man in his late fifties, completely bald, but with a dark-brown moustache. They had also studied similar photographs of his brothers, his lieutenants and a score of lesser gang members. There was one item of particular interest on the files. He was particularly devoted to his young mistress, a striking blonde called Denise Defors. For five years he had kept her in a city apartment and spent most nights with her during the week. She worked as nominal manageress in his flagship nightclub, The Pink Panther, which had about forty top-class hostesses and strippers and a plush brothel upstairs.
Jens and Michael discussed the cast of characters during their lunch and then, while Jens was tucking into a huge portion of pavlova, he discovered just how ruthless Michael could be.
‘I will take one of the children or the mistress.’
Jens looked up from his pavlova and through a mouthful mumbled, ‘What?’
‘It’s obvious,’ Michael answered. ‘We need to have a serious discussion with Monsieur Boutin. There’s been a lot of inter-gang killings in the past months and years, and for sure Boutin will be heavily guarded. I’m not just going to be able to walk up to him and ask to have a chat about his business. But if I’m holding someone dear to him then for sure he’ll talk. The question is, a child or the mistress?’
‘You mean, kidnap them?’
‘Of course.’
‘But that’s a crime!’
Michael smiled. ‘You’re kidding! I never realised that.’
Jens put down his spoon, looked at the young man and said, ‘Listen, Michael, I’m a policeman, for Christ’s sake. I can’t go around kidnapping people, even if they are the children or the mistress of a gangster.’
‘You’re not going to,’ Michael answered. ‘You’re going to stay in the apartment, sitting on the balcony, drinking good wine and watching the view.’
A long silence. The conversation had definitely unsettled the Dane. He even pushed away the small unfinished portion of his pavlova.
‘Do you have a better idea?’ Michael asked.
‘No. But I thought we’d sort of scout around and get familiar with this operation.’
Michael nodded. ‘We will, of course. In fact, we’ll start tonight. We’ll check out The Pink Panther first. Meanwhile, it would help if we had details of where Boutin’s children go to school and anything else we can find out. Maybe your friend Corelli would know. Also tonight we’ll find out what time the mistress leaves the club and how she gets home. Jens, it has to be done that way. If I take one of his brothers or a top lieutenant it may not be so effective. Boutin is nothing if not ruthless.’
‘He’s not the only one,’ Jens murmured.
The words washed over Michael unheard. His mind was back in Brussels in that small hospital. His mind was confused. He felt like a fledgling bird who had tumbled out of the nest and was flapping its wings but still descending rapidly. Sure he was tough. Hard as a nail. Trained to perfection. He looked at the Dane, who looked back at him with an expression of respect. Tomorrow, Michael thought, tomorrow I phone Blondie and pass on all the information so she will tell Creasy. When he gets out of hospital he will come down here and let me do what I have to do, but be there in the shadows, just in case . . . tomorrow.
Inspector Corelli took the call just after three o’clock. He listened to Jens and said, ‘Wait just a minute.’ He tapped the keys on his PC, looked at the screen and said, ‘They both go to a private school, called École St Jean, It’s a boarding school in Switzerland just outside Geneva, Naturally very exclusive and expensive. Anything else you need?’
Jens said, ‘No, thanks very much. I’ll call you in a few days.’ He put down the phone and turned to Michael. They were back in the apartment. ‘The kids are both in an exclusive boarding school in Switzerland. They probably come home for weekends. I can check that out if necessary.’
Michael shook his head.
‘No, it’s only Tuesday now. We can’t wait that long. It has to be the mistress. We’ll check her out tonight . . . or maybe it’s better if I go alone?’
‘No,’ Jens said emphatically. ‘I’ve been thinking about it, I’ll go with you. Nothing’s going to happen tonight.’ He gestured at the dining-table. ‘Do we take the guns?’ They were lying side by side. Two black nine millimetre Berettas.
‘No,’ Michael answered. ‘The club will have bouncers and doormen and with that kind of club they often frisk the customers.’
‘They don’t in Copenhagen.’
Michael smiled. ‘This is not Copenhagen.’
In his office Inspector Corelli had also hung up. For several minutes he sat looking thoughtfully at the phone. Then he picked it up, punched the number and held a three minute conversation, at the end of which he gave a detailed, policeman-like description of Jens and Michael.
Chapter 14
The suite of offices was typical of a small, individual, highly successful business. A severely attractive, middle-aged secretary sat in the outer office, working at a computer console. Opposite her were a coffee-table and three comfortable leather chairs. There were original oil paintings on the walls depicting seascapes. It had been six years since Creasy had been in that office in Marseille. As he walked in through the door the secretary glanced up and then back at her console. She then did a complete double take, jerking upright in her seat, a look of astonishment on her face.
‘I thought you were dead,’ she stammered.
‘Yes. I sort of came back to life.’ He gestured at the door to the inner office. ‘Is he in?’
She had recovered her composure, ‘Yes. But he has someone with him.’ She reached for the phone. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I’ll wait. Any chance of a coffee?’
She stood up and bustled over to a percolator in the corner. When he tasted the coffee he looked up and said approvingly, ‘What a memory you have. It’s been about six years since I was in this office and you remembered that I don’t take milk or sugar.’
She smiled at the compliment, at the same time thinking that this was a man nobody would forget. She wondered what her boss’ reaction would be when he set eyes on him.
It happened about two minutes later. A very dark negro wearing a well-cut suit came through followed by Leclerc, who was saying, ‘You’ll have my fax on Thursday but, believe me, the prices will be final and the letter of credit is essential.’
At that moment Leclerc’s eyes found Creasy. He paused briefly in his stride but his face showed nothing. Leclerc had always been a good poker player.
The negro was ushered out and Creasy stood up. Leclerc turned and the two men studied each other in silence. Leclerc was about Creasy’s age, tall, florid, running slightly to fat. Dressed in a dark blue suit with a faint pinstripe, he looked like a banker. In fact he was an ex-mercenary who one day had discovered it was more profitable selling weapons than using them himself. And much safer. He had become one of the most successful arms dealers in Europe. Six years earlier, when Creasy was about to take on a whole Mafia family in Italy, he had turned to Leclerc for his weapons. They were not friends; they never would be, but they respected each other.
Leclerc gestured at the open door to his office and Creasy went through, carrying his cup of coffee. The office was luxurious, but these walls were adorned wit
h large photographs of weapons ranging from tanks and armoured personnel carriers to submachine-guns. Leclerc sat down behind the wide mahogany desk and Creasy sat in front of it.
‘I had heard rumours,’ the Frenchman said. ‘Rumours that you were alive, that you had not died in that Naples hospital. Rumours that it had been fixed. I did not believe the rumours, but then I heard more rumours a couple of years ago. They were rumours that you had been seen in America and the Middle East. There was another rumour that Maxie MacDonald and Frank Miller did a job for you.’ He smiled slightly. ‘Old friends of yours. I began to believe the rumours.’
‘Yeah, I did fake that death. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Half the damned Mafia in Italy was looking for me,’
Leclerc’s smile grew wider. ‘Hardly surprising. You wiped out their top family. That arsenal I supplied you with was apparently effective.’
‘It was,’ Creasy conceded. ‘And I remain grateful.’
Leclerc inclined his head in acknowledgement and asked, ‘What can I do for you now?’
Creasy gestured at the window. ‘You know this city better than anyone. I need a briefing on certain underworld elements. Depending on that briefing, I might need some light weapons. The problem is that if I need them, I need them today.’
‘If you need them you’ll get them today. What information do you want?’
‘I know the crime situation here is pretty well compartmentalised. The man or men I’m looking for will be paramount in the vice and drugs sector. If there’s any white slavery going on in the city they’d be involved or know all about it. I need to know his or their location and what forces they have available.’
Leclerc’s answer was immediate. ‘Your man is Yves Boutin. He more or less controls prostitution in the city and much of the Riviera. He’s one of several gang leaders in the drug business, but when it comes to vice he’s the king-pin.’ He went on to describe Boutin, his family, his brothers, his mistress, his chief lieutenants, his homes and his clubs. Finally he said, ‘He’s very well-connected politically and with the police.’
At this Creasy leaned forward and asked intently, ‘How good are your connections and knowledge concerning the police?’
Leclerc smiled and spread his hand in an eloquent gesture. ‘In my line of business they have to be perfect. The police force in this city is massively corrupt. It always has been and always will be.’
Creasy leaned further forward. ‘Do you know an Inspector Serge Corelli?’
‘Yes. Very well.’
‘Is he corrupt?’
Leclerc burst out laughing and then said, ‘That’s an understatement! He’s the leader of the pack. A very very rich man, and getting richer by the day. Thanks in part to large contributions from Yves Boutin . . . They’re practically partners.’ He noted the sombre expression on Creasy’s face and asked, ‘What’s it all about?’
Creasy was deep in thought and when he spoke it was not to answer the question. ‘If I or anyone else had gone to see Serge Corelli and asked detailed questions about Boutin, would Corelli inform Boutin?’
Leclerc smiled and said, ‘Immediately!’
‘Even if the person asking the questions was a police officer from another European force?’
Leclerc smiled again. ‘In that case, he’d inform Boutin even more immediately.’
Another silence and then Creasy said, ‘I’m going to need those weapons,’
‘What do you want?’
Suddenly Creasy’s voice became brisk and business-like. ‘Do you have a Colt 1911?’
Leclerc nodded. ‘Always.’
‘I need three extra mags.’
Leclerc nodded.
‘I also need an SMG, small and easily concealed. Like an Ingram 10 with a folding butt.’
‘I’ve got them,’ Leclerc said, ‘but I also have something better. Very new. Perhaps you haven’t seen it.’ He stood up and moved to one wall of the office. It was panelled in oak. He pressed a hand against a panel and slid it to the right. A huge wall-safe was revealed. He worked the combination lock, pulled open the heavy door and took out several metal boxes. Creasy also stood and watched as Leclerc opened them. One box contained a Colt 1911. Creasy picked it up and felt the familiar grip and then replaced it. He then looked into the other box and asked, ‘What the hell is that?’
With satisfaction Leclerc replied, That’s brand new. It’s a miniature SMG made by Fabrique Nationale, it’s called FN P90. It’s very different. The body and magazine are made of plastic and detachable from the other metal components.’ Quickly he disassembled the weapon. It took only seconds. Then he reassembled it and handed it to Creasy, saying, ‘It’s only as long as your forearm, but it will pierce body armour at one hundred and fifty metres. It’s superior to any NATO rifle or compact SMG.’
Creasy was impressed. The weapon was very easy to conceal, using a shoulder-strap under a jacket or coat.
It was as if Leclerc was reading his mind. ‘I can get you a shoulder-strap and a suppressor, which is a little bulky but fits under the other arm, also on a strap.’
Creasy nodded. ‘I also need a silencer for the Colt.’
‘No problem. What else do you need?’
‘Four frag, grenades, and four phosphorescents and the webbing to sling them. Also a pair of goggles against the phosphorescents, and, yes, three pairs of handcuffs.’
‘No problem,’ Leclerc said, making a note on his pad. ‘I can also arrange a practice session with the SMG down at my warehouse. Being light it’s got quite a kick.’
Creasy shook his head. ‘I don’t have time. This afternoon I have to do a recce, then I have to make my move tonight. There is one other thing which you may or may not have. Do you remember, last time you supplied me with the components to make a very small, but very powerful bomb using plastic explosive with a tiny detonator and small remote control? Good for up to a couple of hundred metres?’
‘I remember,’ Leclerc answered. ‘And I remember reading in the newspaper what you used it for in Italy. Not a nice way to send a man to hell.’
Creasy shrugged. ‘He was not a nice man. Can you get it for me?’
Leclerc picked up one of the three phones on his desk, punched a number, listened for a moment and then spoke rapidly in French, listened again, then asked Creasy, ‘Do you want it assembled or in components?’
‘In components,’ Creasy answered, ‘I’ll assemble it myself.’
Leclerc spoke again into the phone, rapidly and persuasively. Then he hung up and said, ‘The components will be delivered here at six p.m. together with the other stuff. What else do you need?’
Creasy pondered for a moment. ‘I need a safe hole and a good fast car, which is clean and has a green card and all other documentation for crossing borders within Europe. It should be fully fuelled with a few hundred extra litres in cans in the trunk. The car may not be returned, so cost it in. Both the hole and the car should be stocked with easy rations for three people, for three days. You know the drill.’
Leclerc made notes on his pad and said, ‘No problem. Your safe hole will be an apartment in the same block where I have my penthouse. I own the whole block, but no one knows that. The local BMW dealer’s a friend of mine. I’ll get a good second-hand car from him and make sure it’s serviced this afternoon.’
He sat back and looked at Creasy steadily, and then said quietly, ‘I’m going to repeat what I said when you were last here. We’ve never been friends. Apart from Guido in Naples I doubt that you’ve ever had a really close friend. You’re not that kind of man. But like I said then, I owe you. You saved my life in Katanga. That alone would be enough, but I also owe you for Rhodesia. You helped me land a very profitable order.’ He spread his arms and said, ‘Now you’re in my city and apparently going up against Boutin, who has a lot of “soldiers”. Do you need any back-up? I know some good people that can be trusted.’
‘I appreciate it. But no thanks . . . you know me,’
Leclerc nodded sl
owly. They both stood up and the Frenchman said, ‘Everything will be here at six o’clock, including the info on Corelli. Then we can check out your hole and the car. If you need anything else at all just call me. You have my home number.’
‘Thanks, I will. Now, what do I owe you for the stuff?’
Leclerc’s face looked pained. ‘Please, Creasy . . . Don’t insult me.’
They shook hands and Creasy left. Leclerc moved to the window and stood looking down at the street four floors below. He saw the American come out from the front door, cross the road and walk briskly away. There were plenty of taxis around but Creasy was not the sort of man who would come out of such a meeting and jump into a taxi at the front door. First he would make sure he had no tail.
Leclerc turned and went to the door of his office and opened it. He asked his secretary, ‘How many shares do I have in Boutin’s construction company?’
She fingered the keys of her console, looked at the screen and answered, ‘Seventeen thousand. They went up four points last week and look good. They’re sure to get that new bridge and flyover contract next month. It’s a huge project.’
Tersely he said, ‘Sell those shares before close of business today.’
Chapter 15
She stood leaning back against the desk, gazing through the long one-way mirror. She had the sort of beauty that would stop traffic in any of the world’s capitals: long-limbed with high breasts and a tiny waist flared into a high bottom and long flanks. Her ash-blonde hair fell to her shoulders, a contrast with the full-length, midnight blue satin dress.
She was looking through the one-way mirror which ran the length of the bar, and from her position she could survey the entire basement club. There was a small stage to her right and next to it, raised a little higher, was a dais with a four-piece band. There were intimate, velvet-covered banquettes around the walls, surrounding a polished wooden dance-floor. Customers were mostly middle-aged businessmen. The girls were almost uniformly beautiful and were also dressed in long gowns. The waitresses on the other hand wore cream silk blouses, slashed to the waist, and very short black, lycra mini-skirts above dark, fishnet stockings and black patent leather knee-high boots.
The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3) Page 6
