by Geoff Wolak
Another petrol station threw up some recognition of the men, but no useful intel, so we pressed on to the coast, a nice promenade seen. Driving along, I noticed a club with tacky neon signs, so we went around in a circle and parked opposite. The club was small, on a second floor, and looked like the kind of expensive flea trap a Russian gangster might like.
I grabbed Sasha, Henri and our DGSE man, the others following but holding back. Up the steps we ran, soon looking through the glass to find the cleaners preparing the club, waiters setting up tables, someone looking like a Russian sat down and on the phone.
Door pushed open, we brazenly walked in. A waiter said something in French, but I ignored him and closed in on the man on the phone. I rudely sat opposite that man as the cleaners focused on us. Not looking happy, the man ended his call.
‘Ruski, da?’ I nudged.
‘Da.’ He looked past me and to Henri and Sasha.
‘I have some questions, and if I don’t like the answers I leave some Semtex behind to level the building and to bury the bodies.’
He stared back defiantly.
‘Russian gangsters, they live around here someplace, drive black BMW cars, four or five men. Leader sometimes uses the name Rasputin.’
‘They visit sometimes, but are not welcome here any longer. What did they do?’
‘They kidnapped a man, but they don’t know who he is. If they did ... they would drop dead from fright. So ... how do I find them?’
‘They have a villa they rent, in the hills, six kilometre north somewhere, girls and drugs.’
‘I am led to believe they drive down here often...’
He glanced at Sasha as Sasha stared back down at the man. ‘Down the coast is the casino. They were allowed back in after they paid a fine for some damages. Further down are two more casinos, and the brothel area, two Russian restaurants. Who are you working for?’
‘His name is Tomsk, from Panama.’
‘I know of him. And what will happen to these men?’
‘What do you think ... will happen to them,’ I said before I stood up. ‘If you call them and warn them ... you know what to expect.’
‘I will be glad to see the back of them. They behave badly, and all Russians here get that label, bad newspaper headlines, bad for business.’
I nodded. ‘I understand this. Thank you for your time.’
Outside, I called Tinker. ‘You working late?’
‘Yeah, got a team on this. Where are you?’
‘Track back this location, it’s a tacky Russian club that the kidnappers use now and then. Six kilometres north is where they live, so factor that into your search, and east down the coast are casinos that they use, as well as Russian restaurants.’
‘That call this morning was from a pre-pay mobile, now switched off.’
‘Any hits on the Rasputin name?’
‘Yes, but from Moldova and Ukraine.’
‘Could be them, they just wanted a better climate. Keep at it, and at the known gangs around here.’
‘We have the Interpol data, looking at it now, I’ll call you later.’
Back at the cars, I said to the DGSE man, ‘We have a good small area to look through, but not much time. They want the money tomorrow, after which they might just kill him. Will your ID get us into a casino?’
He pulled a face. ‘Maybe better to get the local police as well, but we need a court order, and that is many hours.’
‘Then maybe I take some shortcuts, as with the poison.’
‘Please, it is my neck here as well as yours, eh.’
‘I will show the authorities my medal if they complain,’ I quipped.
We mounted up and drove on, stopping at the first casino. Henri and our DGSE man followed as I walked in, straight into two large doormen asking for membership details.
I turned to Henri. ‘These idiots have not been called by the local police about the bomb yet.’
‘Bomb?’ a bouncer asked in English.
The DGSE man showed his ID.
I said to Henri, ‘Maybe the head of security..?’
He asked the question, a wall-phone being used, and we were led in by a worried doorman.
The tables were empty, waiting a few stupid punters keen on losing their money. Two men walked out to us, both in tuxedos.
‘You speak English?’ I asked.
‘You are English?’ the first man puzzled.
‘I am the man your president decorated for stopping the poison.’
‘Then you are most welcome. But what is the threat to our casino?’
‘You know a group of Russians, four or five men; they were stopped from coming and paid a fine.’
‘Those idiots, yes.’
‘They have stolen some Semtex.’
‘Semtex! Those fucking idiots!’
‘Do you know where we can find them?’
‘We had an address on file, but found it to be false. But -’ He shrugged. ‘- they waste good money here. They rent a villa, north a few kilometre, but now talk of an illegal club, north of here. If I find it I close it down with the police, but we don’t know yet.’
‘You have CCTV, faces shown.’
‘We made good copies after the trouble. Come.’
They led us to a back room, a bank of CCTV cameras awaiting some punters to be observed, some card counters to catch. Filing cabinet open, they found the images and handed them over, allowing us to keep them.
‘Thank you for your time,’ I offered them.
‘A great honour, Captain, indeed.’
‘If you see them, call the local or national police.’
The DGSE man showed his ID and name, a few sentences exchanged.
I pointed at the second man. ‘You know the other casinos?’
‘Oui.’
‘You have been deputised. Come.’
A look exchanged with his boss, he grabbed his coat and followed us, chatting to Henri. Outside, we crossed the road and joined the vehicles, driving east just a mile to the next casino. They had a nice car park, so we pulled in.
I led our new helper in with Henri and the DGSE. He had the A4 black and white images, and flashed them at the girl behind a desk. She made a call, and we were escorted in, the first early punters now hitting the slot machines or downing a beer. I could also smell food.
A long walk past empty tables brought us to an office, a sour-faced man in his fifties stepping out, and recognising our helper. Our helper explained the situation, and showed the images, the manager here shocked. That manager called for a waiter.
The waiter turned up looking nervous, angry questions asked by his boss and timidly answered.
Henri turned to me. ‘This waiter, he helped out at illegal parties, got cheap booze. He knows them.’
‘Get their phone number,’ I told Henri.
The waiter took out his mobile, and displayed a number. Our DGSE man took the phone, to some complaining. I drew my pistol and pointed it at the waiter’s head, his hands going up.
Number noted, we kept the phone.
‘I want him held so that he can’t talk to them.’
Henri grabbed the waiter and led him out with us, the police called. We waited in the car park, and when a police car came in, lights flashing, the DGSE handed over the young man with instructions. Cuffed, the protesting waiter was bundled into the car and driven off.
I turned to our conscripted helper. ‘Russian restaurants next.’ He nodded as I took out my phone. The DGSE man displayed the number of the Russian gang, which I passed to Tinker. The DGSE also called it in.
Cars mounted, we were directed northeast just six hundred yards, and to a posh detached two-storey period house that was actually an up-market restaurant. No early guests could be seen as we approached. I had Sasha watch the street as we entered.
Bored looking waiters and cleaners ignored us as we walked to the bar, the manager called for. He turned out to be thin and effeminate, and no use whatsoever.
Outside, my
phone trilled. ‘It’s Tomsk. That man is called Yuri Paschenta. He was born in Byelorussia. His right hand man is Steppo Lavrov, but no one knows where they live, just some casinos they go, near Marseille.’
‘I’ve just been to the casinos, and we have a lead on them. But keep asking around.’
‘You will find him?’ came a worried voice.
‘Maybe.’
Call cut, our helper noted, ‘You speak Russian.’
‘And Arabic.’ I turned to the DGSE. ‘The man is Yuri Paschenta. Check all local and national records, fast.’
‘I heard him once, the name used, Yuri Porchova.’
‘That second name would be for a woman. Someone’s idea of a joke maybe, “A” on the end.’
‘Ah.’
‘Who around here might know of this illegal club? They must need supplies, drink and food, furniture.’
‘Furniture!’ His face lit up. Phone out, he made a call, followed by a second call as we waited. He finally said, ‘A man I know supplies tables and chairs for clubs, our second hand things sold on. He sold some and delivered to a place that is not close to houses.’
‘How far?’
‘Maybe ... three kilometre north.’
‘What is the nearest landmark?’
‘Er ... the Lidl store car park.’
I faced the DGSE man. ‘Have armed police to the Lidl store, quiet approach, ambulance as well.’
He lifted his phone.
I stepped to our Legion driver. ‘Can you get some sniper rifles?’
‘This DGSE fuck might arrest us!’
‘Leave him to me.’ I waited.
‘Yes, we have rifles.’
‘Call the other men, bring them to the Lidl store a few kilometre north of here, and with rifles. There will be police, so rifles hidden.’
He made a call.
Henri asked, ‘Will they be there?’
‘What day is it?’ I countered with.
‘Friday,’ Henri realised.
We set off in the cars, dropping our helper back - and thanking him, turning north and finding the Lidl car park as police units arrived, followed by an ambulance. With Henri I walked into a field, and after four hundred yards we could see the brightly lit establishment.
‘I’ll go in the front and bluff them, you have armed men around the back, some at the front. Police need to wait storming in till we know the hostage is free.’
We jogged back, Henri briefing the DGSE. Ten minutes later cars pulled in, Sambo stepping out with the rest of our small team, aging ex-Legionnaires clambering out. I briefed Sambo on what I wanted, he briefed the men – and double checked the signals to use, and the Legionnaires ran off across the field with long bags.
I briefed Sasha on my planned silly stunt, and he would come with me to the club with one of his men, all of us being driven by Henri.
A final word with the DGSE, and we were set. Car eased into, Henri drove us out the car park and onto the main road, down that road four hundred yards, a right turn into a lane, six hundred yards and another right turn, a modest two-lane road but barely big enough for two cars side-by-side, and we drove down to the club.
It was discrete at the front, a taxi seen pulling away, Henri halting beyond the gates. I eased out, jacket off, holster off and left behind, Sasha and his man following me inside.
Through high gates we walked, two bouncers on duty at the door. We walked across gravel around a fountain and to the bouncers.
‘Who are you?’ the first bouncer asked.
‘My name is Petrov.’
His eyes widened, suddenly pistols in their bellies, the men led off into the dark as I climbed the steps. Finding thick wooden doors, I closed them as a girl behind a desk puzzled what I was doing. I bolted the doors, she stood, and I knocked her cold as I passed her.
I peeked through a set of curtains, seeing a main room that was not very big, a raised second level with blackjack and roulette tables. And there, halfway up on the left of the lower level stood Rasputin himself, though I doubted he was a fearsome as his namesake.
Shirt off, naked on the top now, I placed it on the counter, took a breath – getting into character, and stepped through into the main room. Those closest noticed me straight away, wide stares adopted, puzzled questions asked.
Glancing right, I could see the DJ, and he could see me. I motioned for him to lower the music, and he did. I walked on as heads turned to me.
A man stood, a face from La Palma. ‘Petrov?’
‘Petrov,’ was whispered twenty times in quick succession.
Halting, and twisting left, I motioned towards a group near the window. ‘Move away from the window, snipers outside.’
‘Snipers?’ a few asked, worried looks exchanged.
A fat old man was sat down, but now slowly stood, and the look on his face betrayed the fact that he knew this was not a social call.
I halted ten steps from Paschenta. Staring right at him, I loudly began, ‘I am looking for a cock-sucking little man ... called Yuri Paschenta.’
A hand went into a jacket, the man next to Paschenta. That elicited a look from the fat old guy, the hand lowered.
I continued, ‘Mister Tomsk, of Panama, sent me to find a cockroach called Yuri Paschenta and his cockroach gang. Has anyone ... seen them?’
Faces turned to Paschenta as he stared back; insulted, under threat, and on the spot. But he did have his gang with him, all armed no doubt.
‘You got some nerve walking into my place,’ he told me. ‘And unarmed.’
‘Unarmed?’ I held my arms wide. ‘I ... am unarmed. But the thirty-five men I brought are not unarmed, and are outside. The large bomb I placed is also not unarmed.’
Terrified looks shot around the room, the fat old man about to have a heart attack.
‘So ... is there a cock-sucker in this room called Yuri Paschenta, born in Byelorussia?’
‘You know who I am.’
‘I do. And Mister Tomsk knows what your exam grades were in school, when you first had a wank, your living relatives, your address, you phone number, your car registration.’
‘What does he want with me?’ Paschenta demanded.
‘You ... cock-sucker, kidnapped a man yesterday, an investment banker. That man ... is Mister Tomk’s private ... investment banker.’
Paschenta turned white. He knew he was screwed.
‘You asked for five million Euro.’ I laughed. ‘He has laundered five billion Euro this year alone. You could have asked for a little more.’ I pointed directly at him. ‘Bomb is counting down. Telephone the villa, have the hostage brought here.’
When Paschenta failed to move, the fat old man spun around. ‘Do it. Now. Or I kill you myself!’
Paschenta reluctantly issued orders to the man on his left, that man making a frantic and hurried call. Facing me, Paschenta said, ‘I did not know who the man was, or we would have left him alone.’
‘That is good to know, but some things come at a price. Your men walk out the door after ... your men kill you. If they don’t kill you ... well, in a few minutes we all go boom.’
‘You crazy bastard,’ the fat old guy shouted. ‘I know Tomsk, we have business dealings, he will not want me harmed!’
I shrugged. ‘Call him.’
The man hesitated, but then made the call. ‘Tomsk, it’s Peta Krushnev, I’m in Marseille, and that crazy fucking Petrov is here, the building wired to blow-up ... what?’ He lowered the phone. ‘He asks how much Semtex?’
‘Eight pounds.’
‘Eight pounds,’ was spoken into the phone as those in the club stood terrified, women starting to sob. ‘Yes, that would kill us all! Well I guess it is the appropriate amount. Look, we’re friends and business associates, you can’t let him do this! What ... my god.’ Phone down, the fat guy stared at me, reached for a pistol and drew as Paschenta went for his.
Paschenta’s right hand man had other ideas, and grabbed his boss’s gun arm and raised it high, the fat guy firing th
ree times into Paschenta’s chest, women screaming, men ducking.
The fat guy lifted his phone. ‘I killed him! You can ask Petrov!’ He threw me the phone.
‘Hey boss.’
‘Did he kill that shit?’
‘Yes, made a mess on the carpet. Going to need a cleaner. You using that treadmill?’
‘Yes, in the mornings still, I got a health buzz now.’
‘It’s winter here in France, but nice during the day, not too hot.’
Fifty people stared at me like I was mad.
‘Sounds pleasant yes. You get The Banker?’
‘Soon. Say high to the Big Lump for me, I’ll call you soon.’
I tossed the phone back.
‘Well?’ the fat guy asked.
‘Well ... what?’
‘The bomb!’
‘Ah, yes. What’s the time, anybody?’
‘10.02.’
‘No, 10.03!’
‘A few minutes yet, relax.’ I pointed at Paschenta’s right hand man and waved him over. ‘Let’s go see if the hostage turns up. We wait.’
As we stepped towards the front door he made a frantic call, encouraging the driver to go faster, much faster – very fucking fast! Unconscious girl glanced at, I unbolted the door and put my shirt back on.
‘Get’s chilly here at night,’ I noted, but my companion was not in the mood for idle chat. He stood wide-eyed and terrified.
Door opened, I stepped out and down, around the fountain and to the gates and out. Henri was stood near the car, a nod signal given.
We waited, and a minute later a black BMW sped in. The driver jumped out, a grey-haired man allowed out, his lip cut, an eye bruised, but otherwise he looked OK.
I put my hand on top of my head. A second later and two men lay dead, large holes in heads, The Banker shocked by the man at his feet. I stepped to him. ‘Get in the car, drive that way, abandon the car a mile away, get a taxi.’
‘Petrov,’ he said with a smile. We shook. ‘I am in your debt.’
‘Wipe the prints, and ... drive carefully. Go quickly.’
He eased into the driver’s seat, the engine still running, and pulled off.
I wove a hand high around my head, a signal, Henri turning the car around, and we sped down the road, left and left and left again, and to the Lidl’s car park.
