by Michel Quint
Hugging Pierrot, she examined the dozen men surrounding the buzzing tractor.
“Dunno. I don’t really care about the jewels. I just want to kill those assholes. Then, I’ll kill Ettore. Everything that’s gone wrong has been because of him and his filthy drug business!”
“Is the guy in the room his boss?”
“He’s one of his suppliers or a wholesaler, or . . . I don’t know and I don’t care. But we know too much. He’ll kill us! Yesterday, it was all fun and games; we weren’t thinking about the future. Today, we can’t forget about the past. This is all happening too fast.”
Rita raised her eyes to Pierrot, a gust of wind sending shivers through her body. “Are you giving up? Hand me the revolver.”
Without thinking, Pierrot did as he was told. “Of course not. I said we would kill them. We’ll do it.”
“You go up there, knock on their door. I’ll climb the trellis—”
“You’ll fall,” Pierrot said.
“There’s latticework under the clematis. It will be strong enough to hold me. When they open the door, I’ll shoot through the shutters.”
“What if you fail?”
Rita shrugged. It was five in the morning, and the sky was lightening in the east. The men trying to clear the truck had finally understood: the cab fell into the water without making a sound. Bit by bit, the tractor pushed the trailer across the bridge.
“Whisper something. They’ll draw closer to the door so they can hear you, and then I’ll shoot. With four bullets, I can’t miss.” She paused for a moment before saying, “Kiss me!”
He obeyed. The revolver looked enormous in Rita’s small hand.
“You better hold that thing with both hands,” Pierrot said.
He followed Rita to the trellis. She climbed effortlessly toward the window. Once she was comfortably positioned, with each foot stably placed on a beam, she nodded at Pierrot. He entered the inn’s deserted restaurant, went through the lobby, and climbed a staircase marked “Private.” When he found himself in front of the door, he knocked.
Lydie was sleeping on her stomach, her lithe body pressed into P.J., her head resting on his right shoulder, one arm stretched across his chest. She didn’t hear anything, but she awoke when P.J. moved her arm. Raising a finger to his mouth, he signaled for her to slide off the bed and lie against the ground beside the wall. For a brief instant, he felt a familiar wave of vertigo and broke out into a cold sweat. Then he slowly stood. With a pistol in each hand, he mumbled like a man being torn from sleep.
“Huh . . . yeah? What is it? One second . . .”
He knew this was a trap, so he aimed at the window. He jumped between the window and door, firing two shots through the window, then turned and shot two more into the door.
Pierrot was lucky; he’d been pressed against the wall beside the door, ready to jump on anyone who came through it. The bullets chipped the plaster in the hallway. Hearing Rita scream, he raced down the staircase.
When Pierrot got outside, he found her on the ground beneath the trellis, a stream of blood trickling out of her gaping mouth.
Bull’s-eye. P.J. had hit her in the neck and the shoulder. In a few seconds, she’d be dead. As a few of those sleeping out on the terrace wandered toward the commotion, Pierrot held Rita against his chest. She’d already gone limp. Forgetting Rita’s gun, he ran toward the R18, where Ettore was just opening his eyes. Never in his life had Pierrot wanted to cry so much.
In the wan light of the room, P.J. dressed in three seconds flat. Lydie quickly understood the situation and did the same. They grabbed the bags of jewels. P.J. handed Lydie a revolver, and when they stepped out into the pale dawn, the crowd parted for them. The R30 TX sped over the bridge just as the men managed to push the trailer off the road.
Pierrot jumped inside the R18; Ettore started the car without even bothering to fasten his seatbelt.
A hundred yards from the scene, at the corner of a Thuja thicket, Mercurey woke Imbert.
“There they go, boss!”
The old tractor driver watched the three cars race by and shook his head.
CHAPTER XXIV
Highway 96, between Meyrargues and Mirabeau Bridge
Sunday, August 17, 5:30 a.m.
The number of cars parked on the other side of the bridge made it almost impossible to drive. P.J. sped through the town of Meyrargues in fifth gear, without braking. He only lifted his foot from the accelerator twice: once to avoid a group of men and another time to navigate the twists and turns as he was leaving the town. The long, straight road to Peyrolles appeared before him, the right lane completely open. P.J. pushed the R30 TX to its limits.
“I still don’t see them,” Lydie whispered, as if talking to herself.
“They’re in a white 18 Turbo. I think I must have killed that girl back at the inn. The tall kid was alone with Ettore. If the road is clear, I can lose them, provided our engine holds up better than his.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s a new car, not yet broken in. There’s always a risk the engine might give out.”
Lydie was kneeling on her seat and looking through the back window. Suddenly, she saw a blue dot in the distance.
“That’s them!”
“Okay. We’re still on the open road. They won’t be able to see us when we get to the curves. Then, when we arrive at the bridge, instead of continuing on the highway toward Manosque, I’ll turn right toward Cadarache. There’s a cliff where the road forks and we can hide there. If for some reason they have the same idea, they’ll assume my main goal is to get back on the highway. Instead, I’ll turn right again and head toward Gréoux, where we’ll wait for an hour in a bend outside the city. Only then should we make our way to Manosque.”
“What if they think of all that?”
“Ettore knows the R30 TX is the faster car. He thinks I’m going to stay on the highway. He thinks we’re going straight for the Alps, but I’m taking a detour that will keep us on winding roads and out of sight. No one knows where I’m going, and I don’t want them to find out. He and I are burning our bridges.”
“What about me? Will you tell me where you’re going?”
P.J. didn’t reply; he simply smiled. The car entered the town of Peyrolles and almost got held up at a red light across from a Renault dealership. The screech of the tires was barely audible in the stifling atmosphere of the dawning day. Thick clouds the color of lead hung heavy. The R30 TX hungrily raced along the main road, burning through three lights and turning the wrong way onto a one-way street toward the bridge. When P.J. attacked the curves that wound in the direction of the hydroelectric station and the Mirabeau Bridge, the car’s suspension didn’t put up a fuss.
Since entering Peyrolles, they hadn’t seen Ettore’s car. Lydie turned to face the windshield and closed her eyes.
The view outside the car was looking increasingly normal. The quake clearly hadn’t touched this area. Perhaps the nearby canal had acted as a kind of expansion joint, with most of the damage occurring south of the river.
Ettore was able to appear as calm as P.J., but in reality he was at the point of exploding. He tried his best to make the most of the turbo compressor, his athletic build finding a new outlet for expression. Strangely, faced with the end of the world, he thought less of the jewels, the girls, and ruined dope business, and more of the bright moments in his past. Paradoxically, in order to become his old self again, he would have to kill P.J. of all people. After Ettore’s soccer career ended, P.J. had been the man to make his comeback possible, but deep down Ettore believed that he would have another hour of glory, that the good life would once again be his. It was all a question of timing; he was just waiting for everything to fall into place.
Ettore didn’t know that P.J. had attended the game in which he’d scored the winning goal—a fateful shot with just fifty-th
ree seconds left on the clock, the goal that gave the French national team its cup. Ettore had been P.J.’s idol. For the rest of that summer vacation back in the sixties, P.J. had mimicked Ettore’s famous fake to the left and sprint to the right.
But no one had seen what Ettore had done in his elation: he’d kicked one of the wings in the knee with the studded sole of his cleat. Despite this unsportsmanlike conduct, he had become the “Stadium Angel,” the “Flying Provençal,” the “Prince of Princes Stadium.”
The next season, after a double fracture to the tibia and a shattered kneecap, he became a fallen angel, a prince dethroned. A questionable penalty had led to a scuffle that had quickly gotten out of hand. A cleat’s hard aluminum, together with the sharp resentment of an adversary, ended Ettore’s fairy-tale run.
Now Ettore was recalling the half second when he’d flown over the opposing team’s players, the moment suspended in the fans’ collective gasp. In that thin moment, he had been a god.
“Once I’ve put a bullet between the evil mechanic’s eyes, that happy moment will return.”
Ettore had forgotten about Pierrot, who was sitting beside him in the passenger seat, his face pale, his nerves rattled. All he’d said since the incident back at the inn was “Drive!” an imperative he’d uttered twice, once when they’d lost sight of the R30 TX and once when the space between the two cars had widened.
Pierrot was keenly aware of the fact that he was screwed, that pursuing this drug kingpin was madness. This was a job for the police. He also knew that he had gotten himself into this situation. It had started as a game, a way to have fun, to tempt fate, to live on the wild side. Like a shot from midfield that makes it into the top corner of the net, it had been divine. Like the storm clouds rolling toward the Durance River.
He shook his head, amazed at his own madness. If he wanted to get back on the right path, he’d have to see this thing through. Pierrot checked the barrel of Ettore’s revolver: three bullets. No more, no less. Inside Pierrot: nothing, emptiness.
As they followed Ettore, Imbert and Mercurey recapped the day’s events. Imbert grumbled because he wasn’t happy about having to drive so fast, and he really wasn’t happy about having to smoke Mercurey’s Craven cigarettes.
“Girl cigarettes,” he said. “My wife used to smoke one every Sunday after a glass of her dad’s apple brandy. You see, Mercurey, you’re smoking cigs that lead to conjugal disaster.”
In the wee hours of the morning, before Imbert had drifted to sleep, he had updated his subordinate on his theories.
“Did you notice anything special inside the van lab?”
“It was meticulously laid out.”
“I’m not asking if the drug manufacturers are good housekeepers. Take off your apron and think!”
“The CB radio?”
“Bingo! The CB radio. What about it?” Imbert asked.
“It would be useful in a rally support van. Sinibaldi installed it for decoration, for authenticity. No doubt he brings the van to races so as not to draw any suspicion. The CB radio helps him keep up appearances. He drops off some tires, leaves a few parts, and another van takes care of the real support. He puts on an act so any onlookers will think he’s legitimate, but then he’ll take off before any real work has to be done.”
“Exactly! Pass me a beer and get out your cookbook.”
“The beer’s warm by now, boss.”
“No big deal.”
Imbert downed the can of beer in one gulp. Then, impatient to see the cookbook, he barked, “Today, please!”
“I thought that was a joke—like the apron!”
“Well, it wasn’t.”
Imbert reached into the backseat and retrieved the recipe book they’d taken from Ettore’s place. He threw it on Mercurey’s lap.
“A CB radio has numbers, right?”
“A frequency number?”
“That’s right, genius. Look more closely!”
Mercurey turned the pages and shrugged. “I don’t see anything.”
“How is the book organized?”
“By the days of the week; you already determined that . . . Oh, shit. I understand! They have a different frequency for each day of the week—that’s how they communicate the delivery times and places. The penciled numbers represent the next channel. For example, the next communication was to take place on a Sunday on channel twenty-seven. Clever!”
“Great Scott, I think you’ve got it! The van communicates via anonymous channels. Sinibaldi doesn’t necessarily set foot in the van. Mélissa, who was in charge of distribution, used a different phone booth each time. The next frequency was to be 62.15.01!”
Before dawn, while Imbert slept, Mercurey had drawn a table containing all the information from the cookbook. During the pursuit, he quickly read it aloud. Imbert whistled admiringly.
“Assholes! Two perfect covers—whores and cars. It must be fun to make so much money!”
“Boss?”
“What is it?”
“There’s one thing I don’t understand. If they’re working together, why are they trying to kill each other?”
“You should never argue with a miracle, my friend. Thank the good lord and cross yourself!”
Suddenly, Imbert swore. Ahead, just paces from the old, decommissioned Mirabeau Bridge, Ettore and the kid were walking through a gravel berm on the bank of the canal.
P.J.’s R30 TX was there, too, stuck in the gravel.
CHAPTER XXV
Mirabeau Bridge
Sunday, August 17, 5:45 a.m.
All it took was one glance in the rearview mirror. By the time P.J. looked back to the road ahead of him, Lydie was already screaming and the motorcyclist was practically on the hood of the car. It was too late to swerve into the right lane. He turned the steering wheel left and led the car into a dry riverbed. They had just passed the hydroelectric station, which used the energy produced from the canal. The station relied on water that flowed down the mountain and over a 160-foot waterfall. From there, the canal continued calmly toward the towns of Peyrolles and Meyrargues. The canal had dried out the massive riverbed, which was now just an expanse of gravel.
P.J. was having trouble maintaining control of the car. Now was not the time to try to take a sharp turn, not over this gravel, which was as soft as sand. He thought he’d be able to meet up with the road on the other side of the riverbed, but the engine started to overheat. The car wasn’t finding traction and had lost speed. He was afraid that if he downshifted, he would get stuck.
“Jesus Christ! I feel like I’m driving in a bowl of mayonnaise!”
He gently shifted into fourth. The six cylinders hiccupped. Fifteen hundred RPM. Down to third. Just as he pushed the stick shift forward, the front wheels dipped into a rut and threw rocks against the base of the motor.
Lydie, who was watching the road, cried, “That’s them!”
Turning in his seat, P.J. saw Ettore stop on the road and crack open the door of the R18. P.J. put the car in reverse. The Michelin TRX tires sent spurts of gravel flying, then gripped the road. Lydie opened her door and saw that the body of the car was now flush with the ground, its wheels buried.
Meanwhile, Ettore and Pierrot had crossed the street and were running toward them as fast as they could. P.J. and Lydie got out of the car and grabbed the bags in the trunk. A few paces to the left, trees lined the almost empty riverbed. Hastily looking for a place to take cover, they noticed two old Roman towers flanking the ancient Mirabeau Bridge, which stood alongside a new metallic bridge.
“Quick!” P.J. cried. “We have to climb that and flag down a car!”
Pierrot was gaining on them, with Ettore trailing behind. P.J. ran alongside Lydie, the two bags of jewels hardly affecting his pace. They entered the line of trees, crossing a trickle of water and mossy pebbles. On the other side of the river, they were
exposed, the morning sun electric, as they walked along the edge of the steep cliff.
“There’s the R18!” Mercurey yelled.
Imbert slowed the car; they passed Ettore’s car and slowly followed the gentle curve of the road, careful to avoid emergency vehicles as he tried to observe the four criminals on the dried-up riverbed. An ambulance honked behind them. Imbert caught sight of P.J. and Lydie at the edge of the steep cliff. Pierrot was crossing through the line of trees, and Ettore was stumbling over the gravel.
“After this curve, we’ll stop at the bridge and wait,” he muttered, more to himself than to Mercurey.
In the middle of the riverbed, Pierrot slipped on a rock and fell onto his back. As he stood, he winced. The rock had bruised his leg. Ahead of him, Sinibaldi and the girl disappeared into a bouquet of pale-leafed bushes surrounding the pink tower. Gasping for air, Ettore called out to him.
“Don’t be stupid! He’s waiting for us!”
Pierrot ignored the warning and continued toward the tower, clasping his revolver in both hands. Ettore crossed the riverbed, breathless and pathetic. Careful to maintain his balance, he moved carefully ahead, like a tightrope walker. On Pierrot’s left, there was a crevice in the mountain. Was Sinibaldi hiding there, waiting for them?
Lydie and P.J. rested against the tower’s eroding stones and caught their breath. He put a hand on her cheek.
“Listen carefully: If you climb the slope on the right, it will lead you to the old highway. Once there, you’ll see that it’s basically a wide path. From there, run to the new bridge and wait for me. You’ll be exposed for about fifty yards. I’ll cover you from here. As soon as I can, I’ll join you.”
“As soon as you can?”
“It’s now or never. These people aren’t going to cut us any slack. I have to get to them first. Take the bags.”
They looked at each other for a moment. P.J. was keenly aware of the aquamarine of Lydie’s eyes, of her heavy breath, and of the crunch of footsteps on gravel. The kid wasn’t far. She kissed him, took the jewels, and started climbing. P.J. waited, crouching at the base of the old bridge, hidden by the bushes.
