Detective Constable Paul Ravel hurried over to meet the Brittany police chief as he stepped down from the helicopter. “Good morning, sir,” he said. “I’m very glad you’re here, because I think this is looking a bit more sinister than we first thought.”
Pierre Savary, of course, knew precisely how sinister it was. He was also damn nearly certain the perpetrator of this crime was in France specifically for one objective—to assassinate Henri Foche. The coincidences were too compelling.
He offered his hand to Paul Ravel and said above the howl of the dying rotors that were still whipping up a sandstorm on the beach, “Let’s get behind those screens and talk to the staff.”
The two men walked to where the body of Raymond was being lifted into an ambulance. Marcel was still behind the screens, and Ravel and Savary walked over to talk to the police doctor who was still examining the body.
“Sir, this is a most unusual killing,” said the doctor. “Both men died from badly broken necks, instant and terrible damage to the spinal cords. And I’ve found abrasions on the back area of the ears. All four, both men.
“If you want to take a look under that white cloth, sir, you’ll also see that this man was more or less blinded. Basically, someone rammed something into his eyes and forced the eyeballs so far back almost every working part was ripped and destroyed.”
“And then he broke his neck?”
“That’s my reading of it, sir. Because it’s doubtful he broke his neck and then bothered to blind what he must have known by then was a mere corpse.”
“Agreed,” said Pierre. “How about the other man? Tell me about his injuries.”
“Sir, he had probably the worst broken arm I’ve ever seen, and I’ve done a lot of car wrecks. It was snapped in half, right at the elbow. It’s hard to imagine the force required to break a big man’s elbow that comprehensively. I doubt he would ever have had proper use of that arm again.”
“Was it the right elbow?”
The doctor hesitated, and thought carefully. He then said, “Sorry, sir, just trying to get my bearings. Yes, it was the right elbow.”
“I imagine he was carrying that gun in his right hand,” said Pierre. “Paul, how far was the gun from the body when it was found on the beach? I think you mentioned five meters?”
“Yes, sir. It was exactly five meters. I had the kids walk back to where they picked it up, and the mark where it fell was in the sand, clear as daylight.”
“I’d guess it came from up there by the seawall. Both the bodies and the gun made big indentations, correct?”
“Very much, sir. The bodies definitely fell off the top of the wall, and the gun flew down onto the beach from a similar height.”
Pierre turned to the doctor. “I suppose there’s no way of knowing which of the men died first?”
“Not really. But the bodies landed almost together, and I noticed the left leg of Raymond was under Marcel’s hand. Which suggested that the man who had held the gun was first over the wall.”
Pierre nodded and turned to Paul. “We should remember,” he said, “there were two Frenchmen here, and I know they were both trained bodyguards detailed to protect Monsieur Foche. We know why they were here, and what they may have been doing. Either helping the police, for which they would not be thanked, or perhaps to ensure the threat to the life of their boss was . . . er . . . well, eliminated.”
Paul looked extremely thoughtful. “Sir,” he said, “you know a great deal more about this than I do. And I accept what you say is the gospel truth. Don’t you think it’s looking like the two bodyguards found themselves in some kind of a confrontation and came off worse?”
“That is precisely how it’s looking,” replied the chief of Brittany’s police. “I already have a vision of a big black-bearded defendant standing in a French courtroom and explaining how these two men jumped him, and that he was in fear for his life, and was forced to fight them off.”
Detective Constable Ravel looked quizzical. “Black-bearded?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean black-bearded like a pantomime villain. But the man the coast guard was seeking, the guy who stole the fishing boat and threw the crew members overboard, was officially described as a man with a big black beard.”
“I just haven’t had time to get into the details about the killer,” replied Paul. “I think there’s a briefing on the computer, and I’ll get to it as soon as I can.”
“That’s probably a good plan,” said Pierre Savary. “Because if we don’t move fast, this character is going to be out of our area, and on the loose somewhere in France in search of the next president. Paul, we’ve got to find him. Soon as the second body is cleared out, put every available man into a search of Val André. Remember, we think the killer had no transportation, and he may still be here, hiding out, under someone’s protection.”
“Sir, I do not have the authority to instigate such a huge police action. I’m just a detective constable.”
“Not now you’re not. I’m making you up into a detective inspector right now. And I’m putting you in command of this case, with immediate effect. From this moment on, you answer only to me.”
“Well, thank you, sir. I’ll do the very best I can.”
“Leave the formalities to me. I’ll inform Saint-Malo personally.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pierre grinned at him. “Paul,” he said, “I may not be the greatest police chief who ever lived, but I know about people. And this morning I have developed some very definitive opinions about two of them. You and this bastard who’s after Henri Foche. We must find him, whatever the cost. Because if I’m any judge, this man is dangerous, skilled, smart, and determined.”
“Sir,” said Paul Ravel, “just one thing before you go. It looks to me as if this guy is a professional trained killer, very possibly military, maybe even Special Forces. I’d like to get a couple of experts to take a look at the bodies, check out the killing method, see if it rings any bells.”
“Good idea. You have my permission. Go right ahead. Anything for a lead. Just don’t take your eye off the ball. We have to find him.”
“Okay, sir. And what do you want to do about Monsieur Foche’s car?”
“Have someone drive it back to police HQ in Rennes. I’m sure I can count on you.”
Pierre Savary was, of course, confirming that the Toulouse rugby scouts were not the only people who recognized a safe pair of hands when they saw them.
Upon the departure of the police chief, Detective Inspector Paul Ravel, suddenly commissioned in the field, as it were, headed immediately to one of the cruisers. He picked up the open line to Saint-Malo and asked for two numbers to be located and then connected.
The first was to Direction Generale de la Securité Exterieure (DGSE), France’s successor to the former internationally feared SDECE, the counterespionage service. DGSE was located in a bleak ten-story building over in the twentieth arrondissement, which is about as far west as you can go and still be in Paris. The second call was to one of the most secret compounds in the whole of Europe, the Commandement des Opérations Speciales (COS), the joint service establishment that controlled special ops conducted by all three of France’s armed forces. COS was located in the outer suburb of Taverny, and is generally regarded as the home of the French equivalent to Great Britain’s SAS, or the United States’ Navy SEALs.
Ravel spoke to DGSE first, and immediately the duty officer went on high alert. This was clearly important. “We’ll have someone come over to Saint-Malo right away. Are you also contacting COS?”
“My next call.”
“Well, speak to the First Marine Parachute Infantry. And then tell them to get back to us. The guys can share a helicopter. What is it? ’Bout 220 miles to Saint-Malo?”
“Yeah. ’Bout that. One and a half hours’ flying time.”
“Tell Saint-Malo we’ll be there by one thirty.”
Paul Ravel called COS and explained the circumstances. They said they’d send over a mi
litary doctor who could provide an expert opinion on the method of killing. Yes, they’d pick up the DGSE guy en route. They’d land on the Saint-Malo police HQ roof.
“Good luck,” said Paul Ravel. “It’s sloping. Tell ’em to stick it on the beach.”
The duty officer at COS chuckled. And said, “Don’t worry, sir. We’ve landed in a lot tougher places than Saint-Malo plage! We’ll get there.”
Detective Inspector Ravel exited the cruiser and saw the final ambulance on its way out of Val André. Then he began to organize a house-to-house search for the missing killer, detailing as many as twenty police officers to operate road by road, but to start at the one where the Mercedes had been found.
He took two assistants with him and decided to concentrate on the question of transportation. There were few buses and no trains. No cars had been reported stolen, and that meant the suspect either had acquired one or was still in the vicinity. He could not possibly have tried to hire a taxi.
By this time there were several police cars parked near the beach, and the DI took one of them and drove through the village in search of a garage. He pulled up outside Laporte Auto, the only establishment of its kind for several miles, and asked to speak to the proprietor.
M. Laporte sensed trouble, and he was not about to delve deeper into it. Yes, very early this morning, around seven o’clock, there had been a customer in the garage, bought a dark blue Peugeot for cash. Yes, he seemed to be in a very great hurry, and wanted the car immediately. Yes, the registration documents were accurately completed, and yes, he, Monsieur Laporte, had seen the man’s passport and license.
And did he have copies of the documents? Absolutement. In fact, he still had the originals, personally signed by the purchaser. Right here, Gunther Marc Roche, 18 rue de Basle, Geneva, Switzerland. The registration number of the car was also written down, plain as day.
“And what kind of a man was he?” asked Paul Ravel.
“He was tall. A powerful-looking man with long curly hair and a big black beard. Spoke in a strange accent; wore gloves all the time.”
“Was the accent European?”
“It might have been. But it sounded more like a black man to me, and this person was white.”
“Not Swiss—I mean German Swiss?”
“Not really. But he didn’t say much. He just wanted to get the car paid for, and be on his way. He ripped me off sixty-two euros for petrol.”
“But he paid for the car in banknotes, right?”
“Yes, he did. And I think he had a lot of them.”
“Be careful with all that money lying around,” said Ravel. “And if he happens to come back, call me at once.”
“Okay, sir. But what has he done?”
“He’s wanted for murder.”
Monsieur Laporte stood wide-eyed as he watched the two policemen drive away, back to join their two dozen colleagues down at the beach. Once there, they switched on their onboard police computer and pulled up the background on the Swiss hijacker. Paul Ravel stared with some satisfaction at the screen. Big. Curly haired. Black beard. It tallied with M. Laporte’s description. That was good. So was the new address. No one had that.
But the innate detective in the heart of Paul Ravel knew it was all bad. Because by seven thirty this morning the Swiss suspect was out of here, in a nice, reliable French car. That was almost six hours ago, and there was still no national alert to apprehend him.
Paul hit the button to the Brittany Headquarters and relayed the car’s make and registration number. He understood that if the car had been making a steady 60 kilometers per hour, it could be darn nearly 300 kilometers away. That’s 200 miles. He could already be in Paris, probably without the car. This wasn’t just bad, it was actually diabolical.
Before he signed off, he added, “The suspicion that this man may be attempting to assassinate Henri Foche has become very real. Suggest extra vigilance in the Saint-Nazaire area where the Gaullist leader is due to speak tomorrow afternoon.”
Paul’s cell phone suddenly rang, and it was the station sergeant in Saint-Malo to say, “Sir, we have been informed by Rennes of your promotion. And everyone here congratulates you. This call is just to confirm that we will not be sending another detective inspector to join you in the investigation, because Monsieur Savary advised against it.”
“Thank you, Freddie,” said Paul. “See you later.”
By the time he replaced the cell phone in his pocket, every police department in France was on the lookout for the dark blue Peugeot, but they were too late. Much too late.
The only break came at around one o’clock that afternoon when a Citroën, displaying the Peugeot’s license plates, was pulled over on the N12, just north of Dinan. Since the numbers tallied precisely with the registration officially recorded in Monsieur Laporte’s garage, the police assumed the make of car they had been given was inaccurate. And more to the point, they assumed the two plumbers driving it were guilty of some heinous crime.
The airwaves rippled with confusion. The plumbers were not believed. In fact, they were arrested and taken into the police department in Dinan, where they were questioned until it became obvious to everyone that their plates had been stolen. And that the dark blue Peugeot was at this moment charging through France bearing the Citroën’s plates, with a possible assassin hunched over the wheel.
“Sacre bleu!” sighed Paul Ravel when the news was broken to him. “May I assume someone did update the nationwide search for the same car, just with different license plates?”
“Oh, sure,” said the station sergeant in the kind of world-weary tone that comes when you know there are about ten thousand dark blue Peugeots out there, and that license plates are not that easy to read accurately in the oncoming darkness.
“Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t,” muttered Paul Ravel. “I’d better call Pierre Savary.”
He punched in the same numbers that had located the Brittany police chief when they had first spoken. Pierre answered instantly. “Hello, Detective Inspector. What’s moving?”
“Too little, sir. We picked up the right license plates on a south-bound Citroën on the highway north of Dinan. Right plates, wrong car. Now we got two very angry plumbers in the Dinan station. Anyway, we now know the numbers on the Peugeot, so I hope we’ll get a breakthrough sometime this evening.”
“As the coast guard lost the fucking trawler, so my staff have lost the getaway car. Not a good day for us, eh, Paul?”
“Not really, sir. But we’ve still got chances. Every police officer in France is looking for that Peugeot.”
“Do you know the time, Paul?”
“Yessir. It’s one thirty.”
“That would be six hours since Monsieur Roche drove out of Val André. He could be a very long way away by now.”
“Yes, he could, sir. But I don’t think so. I think he’s somewhere along the road to Saint-Nazaire, biding his time, waiting for Monsieur Foche to arrive tomorrow afternoon.”
“I can’t disagree with that,” replied Savary. “Keep me posted.”
Paul switched off his cell phone and called for someone to drive him back the twenty miles to Saint-Malo. He arrived a little after two and asked to see the doctors from the French Special Forces as soon as they had completed their examination.
That had apparently not taken long. Both men, who had the military rank of colonel, were in agreement. The killer blow, which had killed both Marcel and Raymond, was a specialist neck break, as practiced, when absolutely necessary, by Britain’s SAS, the U.S. Navy SEALs, and the French First Marine Parachute Infantry.
“Does this mean the man we are seeking must have served in one of those military organizations?” asked Paul.
“About 80 percent certain, yes,” replied the doctor.
“How about the other 20?” said Paul.
“Well, I think the Israelis are capable of such extreme life-ending violence when necessary. But this stuff is really SAS, SEALs, and French First Marine. They train for
this, and they’re complete experts. I should also say the action requires enormous strength. Just imagine how hard you need to twist a man’s neck with your bare hands to break it almost in half.”
“Could he have whacked them with something—maybe a rifle butt or something?”
“Out of the question,” said the doctor. “The necks of these men were snapped, using a method that would require them to be twisted first one way and then the other. One single twist would not have done it. This killer was a specialist—you can count on that. The abrasions behind the ears of the dead men confirm it.”
“So he was probably British, American, or French?”
“Yes,” replied the doctor. “I only mentioned the Israelis because we know there is a suspicion that the same man may be here to attack Henri Foche, and he has Middle Eastern connections.”
Diamondhead Page 36
