Dead Line

by Chris Ewan

  Alain didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

  Instinctively, Trent rested his hand on the grip of his Beretta. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t stuffed it down his trousers. He supposed he could take it out now. Make a show of checking it over. Drop the magazine. Palm it back in. But if he was right about Alain, it could be interpreted as a provocative gesture. It would raise the stakes. And Trent had no use for an early confrontation. He needed to question Jérôme. That couldn’t happen until after they’d secured the ransom cash.

  ‘You want to listen to the radio?’ Trent reached for the dial.

  Alain grabbed his wrist. Squeezed it hard. ‘No radio.’

  ‘Then what? Should we take it in turns to sing?’

  Alain’s head swivelled on his thick neck. His stubble was densely shaded, the plaster by his eye crinkled and dirtied. He stared meaningfully at Trent. Kept staring, even as the BMW ate up the unlit blacktop ahead of them, plunging on into the shimmering darkness.

  ‘No singing.’

  ‘Fine.’ Trent jerked his hand free. He rubbed the skin of his wrist through the material of his shirt. ‘We’ll just stick with the uncomfortable silence then.’

  * * *

  The young man stirred and knuckled his eyes. He peered round the grey-lit room, the air mattress bouncing beneath him. He squinted at his watch. Early. But there was a faint vibration outside. A disturbance of the air. The putter and burble of an engine.

  He rolled out of bed and stumbled across to the window in his T-shirt and boxer shorts. He pulled back his chair and sat at his desk. There was a green Citroën delivery van parked opposite, rocking gently with the movement of the engine. Fumes pooled out of the exhaust. The driver’s door was open into the street. The cab was empty. The van was parked directly in front of Trent’s apartment, obscuring the young man’s view of the blue front door.

  He reached for his pad and pencil. He yawned as he scribbled a note. 5.07 a.m. There was no sign of Trent but the young man was awake now. He gripped his head in his hands and braced his elbows on the table, and then he settled in to watch and to wait.

  * * *

  The awkward silence between Trent and Alain persisted for close to fifty minutes. The autoroute to Marseilles was as quiet and undisturbed as the atmosphere inside the car. The BMW hummed along in the fast lane, rocking and swaying beneath a steadily lightening sky. By the time Alain pulled off the raised flyover that wove between the high-rise office buildings and hotels to the west of the city, and turned towards the dark waters and industrial docks of Joliette, the eastern sky had splintered into pale pinks and misty yellows and warm copper tones. It was just bright enough for him to kill his headlamps.

  Alain clearly knew where he was going. The cracked and potholed roads were unsigned and largely unfamiliar to Trent, but Alain negotiated each junction and turn with calm assurance.

  They passed metal-sided warehouses and enormous haulage depots and oversized petrol stations with raised, brightly lit canopies fitted out with specialist pumps designed for lorries and trucks. They drove by a fish market teeming with men and women in white jumpsuits and blue plastic boots, carrying trays of fish and ice. They zipped by endless cargo trains and loading cranes, beneath the towering, rust-streaked hulls of dated passenger ferries bound for Sardinia, Corsica and Tunisia. They kept moving, kept weaving, the BMW bumping and thumping over potholes and troughs, until Alain finally pulled off into a gravel parking lot running alongside a derelict storage facility.

  He eased the BMW slowly across the yard. Crushed aggregate snapped and popped beneath the tyres. They crawled on and then emerged next to a small harbour inlet. The sluggish water was stained with rainbow streaks of boat diesel. It smelled of fish and salt.

  A magnificent yacht was moored right in front of them. It looked to be at least fifty feet in length. It was sleek and white, fitted out with three tiered decks, multiple sun loungers and ample white leather seats, plus a generous amount of smoked glass. Two jet skis were secured to the lowest deck at the rear, close to where a sloping walkway extended from the yacht onto the quay.

  The moment Alain brought the BMW to a halt, a thin guy with dusty skin and curly black hair appeared on the middle deck, high above them. He didn’t wave. Didn’t make any kind of gesture. He just watched.

  ‘Is he Moroccan?’ Trent asked.

  ‘Algerian.’

  Trent glanced sideways at Alain, who was busy checking his Ruger under cover of his jacket.

  ‘He looks sort of mean,’ Trent said.

  No response.

  ‘Should I join you?’

  ‘Better you stay here. He knows me.’

  Trent wasn’t about to argue. He knows me. There’d been no suggestion that the man liked or trusted Alain.

  Up on the yacht, the Algerian had raised a large black holdall into the air. The holdall was weighted with something. The guy was having trouble lifting it.

  Alain unclipped his seat belt and reached towards the ignition. Trent rested a hand on his arm.

  ‘Why don’t we leave the engine running?’

  Alain looked between him and the Algerian up on the yacht. He held Trent’s eye, then nodded and stepped out of the car, head down, holding his jacket closed in front of his chest with one hand, as if to contend with the limp coastal breeze. His gun hand. Smart guy. He’d be able to reach for his Ruger in a hurry.

  The Algerian lowered the holdall and watched Alain mount the ramp at the base of the yacht. The ramp bounced and flexed with his weight. Then the Algerian backed up out of view as Alain climbed the curving staircase to join him on the lofty middle deck.

  Trent could no longer see either of them. He was left with just the hum and vibration of the BMW’s engine for company. He shuffled down in his seat and gazed up through the top of the windscreen at the towering white yacht. He cracked his window. Loosened his seat belt. Freed his Beretta from his waistband and looped his finger through the trigger guard.

  Time passed.

  A minute, then two.

  Trent tapped his feet in a nervous quick time.

  Three minutes.

  Four.

  He was just turning in his seat to check the yard and the warehouse through the rear window, concerned all of a sudden by his vulnerability to an attack from behind, when Alain came hurrying down the steps towards the bottom deck. He had the holdall in his arms. He was cradling it to his chest, grimacing and leaning back a little to compensate for its mass. He was moving very fast. The ramp compressed and sprang up like a driving board as he bounded across it.

  He fumbled open the door behind Trent. Tossed the bag inside with a grunt. Then he circled back round the boot and got in behind the wheel, threw the BMW into reverse and swept backwards in a fast loop.

  Trent jerked his thumb towards the bag. ‘Is it all there?’

  ‘Three million,’ Alain said, breathless. ‘Notes are non-sequential.’

  Trent whistled again. ‘Maybe the Algerian’s not such a mean guy. He must really like Jérôme.’

  ‘No, they hate each other.’

  Trent stared at Alain. ‘Then why’d he give you the money?’

  Alain braked hard. He slammed the gearbox into first. Nodded towards where the Algerian was watching them from. ‘See the yacht?’ he said. ‘It belonged to Jérôme. I just handed him the keys.’

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Trent was aware that something seemed different on the drive to his apartment. It took him a moment to work out what it was. Then he realised: he was optimistic. Feeling positive, for once.

  They had the ransom money. It was a significant sum, but not too large. It felt like it was pitched just right. Enough to tempt Xavier into a genuine exchange. Enough, hopefully, for him to stick to their deal.

  And Alain was a strong partner. He’d been proactive. He’d been smart. He’d secured the cash they needed. Sure, there was going to come a time when they’d be on opposite sides again. There was going to be a clash. But rig
ht now, the way things stood, Trent was glad to be working alongside him.

  ‘You’ve done well,’ Trent told Alain.

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘Just relieved.’

  ‘It’s not over yet.’

  ‘But we’re close. We’re nearing the end.’

  The end of a lot of things, Trent realised. Some good. Some bad. Most unknown.

  ‘But listen,’ Trent told him, ‘I don’t think it would be wise to turn up to my apartment with the money. It could be a trap.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking the same thing.’

  ‘Then perhaps you could let me out somewhere close? Take a drive with the money until I call you and let you know that it’s safe.’

  ‘No.’ Alain stared ahead through the windscreen. ‘I want to see what they’ve left for us.’

  ‘I’ll bring it to you.’

  ‘No. We go together.’

  No sense arguing. Alain was a determined guy. He wouldn’t change his mind.

  ‘Well, we can’t just leave the cash outside in the car. Too risky.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Alain nodded. ‘We need somewhere to stash it.’

  ‘There’s a guy I trust.’

  Alain snatched a look at him. ‘A guy.’

  ‘He runs a bakery a few streets from my apartment.’

  ‘A bakery. Terrific.’

  Trent shrugged. ‘You know a better place you can access at six twenty in the morning?’

  Alain grunted. He lifted a hand from the steering wheel.

  ‘Didn’t think so.’

  Trent pointed ahead through the windscreen and directed Alain along the narrow, winding backstreets of the Panier district until they reached Rue Sainte-Françoise. He had him pull over in the gutter next to a row of low metal bollards. A network of laundry lines criss-crossed the sky above their heads, suspended from thin, shabby townhouses that seemed to be leaning towards one another across the street.

  The word BOULANGERIE was stencilled in a semicircle across the plate-glass window of the bakery. The interior was in darkness. Trent reached for the holdall. He started to get out of the car but Alain grabbed his arm.

  ‘This had better not be a mistake.’

  ‘Relax,’ Trent told him. ‘We’ll be back here before you know it.’

  ‘And the money?’

  ‘That’ll be here, too. Trust me.’

  He stepped out onto the cracked pavement, the holdall tugging down at his arm, the BMW’s engine idling and vibrating behind him. The crooked street was silent and deserted in both directions. There was nothing to suggest that they’d been followed.

  Trent tried the bakery door. It was locked. He beat his palm on the glass until a light came on in a corridor out back and an overweight guy in a stretched white T-shirt and faded Bermuda shorts appeared. The guy clapped flour from his hands and wiped them clean on his grubby apron, then unlocked the door and hauled it open, releasing the scent of freshly cooked bread.

  ‘Hey, you’re back!’ the man said, and smiled widely. Then he raised a thick finger. ‘One moment. I’ll fetch some fresh croissants for you.’

  ‘No, Bernard. Wait.’

  Until Aimée had disappeared, it had been Trent’s routine to head out for a run or a stroll first thing in the morning, then return home with bread or pastries for breakfast. Bernard was always prepared to open specially for his regular customers.

  ‘I need a favour.’ Trent held the holdall out to him. ‘Can you look after this for me? I’ll be back for it very soon.’

  Bernard frowned and leaned his bulk to one side. He peered past Trent at the sleek BMW. Saw Alain crouched forwards over the steering wheel, staring back at him.

  Bernard blew air through his lips and studied Trent for a moment. Then he reached out a hand coated in flour to accept the holdall. ‘What’s in here?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s no big deal,’ Trent told him. ‘Just three million euros in cash.’

  * * *

  Trent climbed out of the BMW a short distance along from his apartment, brushing flakes of croissant from his clothes. Bernard had insisted on the exchange, as if the baked goods were a fair trade for the cash. If anything went wrong inside his home, he thought, they’d be the most expensive pastries he’d ever bought.

  Alain joined him on the pavement and they scanned the street and the square, then the windows above. Two pairs of eyes. Double the protection. The benefits of a team approach.

  ‘I don’t see anyone,’ Trent said.

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘Probably they’re gone already. Probably they didn’t hang around.’

  Which was a good thing, Trent reasoned. He didn’t like the idea of being watched. He didn’t like the concept of the gang toying with him. But his mood cooled when he saw the front door of his home. It was hanging ajar. The lock had sustained some damage. The metal casing was scratched and mangled. Trent prodded the door with his finger and it swung right open, the lock jangling loosely in its casing, the bolt falling from its housing and bouncing on the floor.

  Alain moved alongside him without saying a word. The square around them was quiet. The hallway, too. Six thirty in the morning. Everything still.

  Trent drew his Beretta and Alain reached for his Ruger. They exchanged a brief look, then Trent exhaled in a rush and faced up to the empty hallway. He squared his shoulders and straightened his arms, elbows bent a fraction, the Beretta gripped tight in his right fist, his left hand supporting its weight.

  ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  He stepped across the threshold, legs heavy, as if there were shackles on his ankles. His own home felt alien to him now. It harboured an unknown threat. Violent men had been here. They’d trodden the same path. Eyed the same walls.

  They might have done anything at all.

  He edged forwards, sighting along the Beretta, his torso swinging in a small, tight arc from the hip. The hallway felt very long. It felt endless. He could hear Alain’s breathing behind him. It was nasal. It was laboured. Trent was very aware of the Ruger that was being pointed towards his back.

  He stepped cautiously into the living room. Scanned it fast. At first glance, it looked no different from how he’d left it. Nothing had been disturbed. Nothing appeared to have been taken.

  But something had been added.

  There was a brown business envelope resting on the breakfast bar. It had been set down exactly, squared off against the bottom of the counter.

  The envelope was very thin. No bulge in the middle. It was sealed by a thread of string that had been wound between two cardboard discs. Trent supposed that was very deliberate. A gummed flap might carry traces of DNA.

  He approached the envelope. Released a halting breath and relaxed his fierce grip on the Beretta. He set the pistol down on the counter. Pushed it aside and shook some of the tension out of his hands.

  Behind him, Alain holstered his Ruger and cleared his throat. Trent sensed him taking in the room. Studying it. Adjusting to it. Then he heard his footsteps as he moved closer to him.

  ‘Your place is a dump,’ he said.

  ‘So people keep telling me.’

  Trent didn’t think the envelope could be booby-trapped at all. It looked too slim to contain any kind of explosive charge and there was no sign of any wires or metal tabs or other indicators.

  ‘Why do you have this?’

  Trent glanced at Alain, distracted. He was pointing towards the recording equipment connected to the phone.

  ‘It’s a precaution,’ Trent said.

  ‘From what?’

  ‘From threats. I’m a potential target to these gangs. I have to live with that. Take Xavier. He left this parcel here for a reason. He could have dropped it anywhere for us to collect. But instead he had someone break into my home. It’s about intimidation.’

  Alain traced a finger through the dust that had collected on the equipment. ‘Has he called you here?’

  ‘No. And there’s no reason for me not to have
told you if he had.’

  Trent returned his attention to the envelope. It seemed to fill his vision. He wet his lip. Reached out a hand to the thread of twine. It had been bound in a figure of eight around the cardboard discs. He unwound it carefully. Lifted the flap. He eased up the top half of the envelope and began to slide out what was inside.

  He heard a noise from the far side of the room. Turned to see Alain standing half in and half out of the bathroom, his hands on his hips, pushing back the tails of his jacket.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Trent asked.

  Alain didn’t reply straight away. He yanked down the light cord and craned his neck and peered inside the bathroom. Then he hummed, as if unimpressed, switched off the light and pulled the door closed.

  Trent let go of the envelope and took a step away from the counter. His pulse had jacked up. It thumped in his temples.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘These people broke in here.’ Alain was facing the sealed door to the boxroom. He extended his arm towards the handle. ‘Don’t you think we should check the rest of your apartment?’

  ‘No,’ Trent blurted. ‘Wait.’

  Alain circled his fingers round the handle. He peered curiously at Trent. Tipped his head over to one side. He saw something in Trent’s reaction. Something he didn’t like.

  He rotated his wrist. Flung open the door.

  Trent advanced quickly. The room seemed to contract and rush towards him, like he was speeding through a collapsing tunnel.

  Half way across, he knew that he’d moved too fast. Been too hasty. His Beretta was back on the counter.

  Alain was already inside the room.

  Trent veered round the corner and stumbled in behind him.

  Alain was facing the end wall, his chin raised, his gaze moving from left to right. Across the photographs. Across the maps. Across all of Trent’s notes.

  His big hands were by his sides. Fingers loosely curled.

  They started to move. His right arm came up and crossed his body. His left hand lifted also and pinched the lapel of his jacket. He twisted at the hip, his arm still moving across his chest towards his armpit. Reaching for his holster. Reaching for the Ruger Trent had seen so many times.