Dance of the Angels (15 page)

“Get in, and no funny business,” spat Malric, eyes crazed.

Le Goënec saw the Smith & Wesson that François was pointing at him. Useless to attempt a diversion; it would cause a bloodbath in the city center. This was quite a surreal kidnapping. What was Malric doing alongside Hervet’s chauffeur? For now, all Le Goënec knew for certain was that he’d told nobody other than the pimp about this meeting.

“Sorry, Le Goënec, but I had no choice,” said Aristotle, quite ill at ease.

“Let’s go—quick,” ordered Malric. “I’m eager to hear what you got to tell me, fucking pig asshole!”

Le Goënec and Aristotle got in next to Florence without protest. The Browning stayed trained on them. Impossible to make a move. A heavy silence hung inside the car as it headed toward the Porte d’Orléans ring road junction. They were being driven to their last resting place.

On stage at the Opéra Garnier, the young students of famous ballet dancer Patrick Dupond were performing Tchaikovsky’s
Swan Lake
, a prestigious show for the cream of Paris high society. With an airy grace they swooped and spun in the golden light. In the best seats in the house, surrounded by public officials invited to this gala organized by UNICEF, Paul Hervet, accompanied by his wife in a Givenchy dress, fidgeted with impatience. He looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. Malric and his hostages should have arrived at their final destination by now. If the abduction had gone as planned, his worries would soon be nothing more than a bad memory. The interrogation must have started, judging by the time. Unable to take it anymore, Hervet casually forced an entire row of VIPs to stand up, including the secretary of culture himself, so that he could make a phone call. He scurried down the grand staircase and found a quiet corner in the sumptuous opera house lobby. He pulled his phone from his Saint-Laurent jacket as if it were a gun.

“Everything went OK, sir. We have Le Goënec.”

Hervet breathed easily again and smiled for the first time in days.

“Carry on with the operation. I want Tavernier’s hide in the next few hours. Understand?”

“What do we do with the pimp?” asked François.

“He’s of no more use to us. You can liquidate him now.”

Night fell slowly over the banks of the Marne River. They were in a house on the edge of a forest, deep in the countryside. Le Goënec had an approximate sense of their location, but time was of the essence. If he didn’t find a way to get out of here, and soon, they’d find his bones six feet under, over in the corner of the garden where the weeds thrived like a jungle. Beside him, Florence tried to keep her cool, despite the ball of fire gnawing away inside of her. How much longer did they have left to live? The journalist couldn’t help but scream when Malric coldly dispatched poor Aristotle with a bullet to the head, right in front of them. She would never be able to forget the awful sight of blood and brains and bone fragments spraying across the wall. Now they waited their turn.

In the garden, preparations were being made for the final journey. Alex, a young roughneck hired to stand guard over the captives, was digging two more graves. The pimp would very soon be getting some new neighbors. The sound of the shovel was not at all pleasant to hear. The same shovel would soon be used to cover their still-warm bodies.

Malric approached Le Goënec, telephone in hand.

“I’d shoot you down right now if I could, with a bullet to the back of your head,” Le Goënec growled, still shocked by the sickening murder of his snitch.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you and your friend Tavernier again for ages. Just for the pleasure of seeing you both die before my eyes.”

Florence heard the dull thud of her heartbeats echo inside her head. She knew that a bullet would blast her at any moment.

“Now you’re going to call Tavernier,” Malric instructed, with an excited smile. “The old boy will be delighted to have some news from his protégé.”

Tavernier peered into the night beyond the headlights’ yellow beams. The road zipped past as the speedometer’s needle touched 110 mph. Another ten miles, and the signpost that Malric had mentioned on the phone appeared. Who could ever have predicted that Tavernier would someday find himself under the orders of that crazy killer he’d once spent months hunting down? The commissioner was under no illusions: this was a solo suicide mission.

The Baron’s voice echoed in his mind:
You are aware that with this kind of mission, your chances of success are minimal.

Just a few more miles to go. Tavernier glanced at the map he’d drawn in a hurry and the route he would take: turn onto a byroad, drive for around five hundred yards, then take the first right, then the dirt track on the left. The commissioner killed the lights, just to be on the safe side. He needed a few minutes to make out his surroundings. The Xantia bumped and skidded along the track that ran between two hedges covered with white frost. Here was the lake surrounded by high frozen grasses, a fairy-tale landscape of ice and water shining in the darkness. Tavernier got out of the car. The cold air made him shiver.

Alex sat alone at the table and lit a smoke, looking very comfortable and warm in his parka. He glanced over at the two captives sitting on the ground in the room next door.

“You OK, darling?” whispered Le Goënec.

Florence was leaning against his back and tried to move a little. She would have liked to get rid of the pins and needles that numbed her right hand.

“I get the impression they’ve given us a little respite,” she answered almost inaudibly.

Florence was trembling with cold. The temperature had dropped well below freezing. By shifting first one buttock, then the other, she managed to ease herself away from Le Goënec and lean against the wall. In this position, the two prisoners could at least look at each other.

“Sorry, baby. I didn’t want to drag you into this shit.”

“It’s not your fault, Loïc. But I would have liked to at least write one good article about it.”

This woman is a keeper!
he thought.
Guts and unfailing physical stamina.
How could they get out of this before it was too late? Le Goënec’s hands, tied behind his back, groped around blindly on the dirty cement floor to find something sharp. They came upon what felt like a nail stuck in the wall. With craftily calculated slowness, so as not to be seen by the young thug watching over them, Le Goënec sat upright so that his back was flat against the wall. Florence felt him twisting about, not understanding what he was trying to do. Finally, he could feel the nail between his wrists. He hoped that the steel would be strong enough to stand the back-and-forth motion he was slowly making to sever the ties holding him.

Malric and François were waiting by the lake, ready to shoot down Tavernier like it was the first day of hunting season. The commissioner could be a kamikaze if he wanted—they wouldn’t give him time to do anything. Before setting out, Malric had even promised to bring back Tavernier’s head. Coming from him, that was not an empty threat.

Tavernier was able to make out a path winding around the lake and up to the dark mass of the wooden house, a hundred yards away. To his left, the mirror of the sleeping water; to his right, dense thickets swarming with unexpected nocturnal life.

A branch cracked. He knew it wasn’t an animal. Sensing danger, the commissioner froze, fully alert.

“Don’t move, Tavernier!”

Malric was behind him, perhaps fifty yards away. He must have been lying in wait, crouched in the undergrowth.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon, Tavernier. You can’t imagine how much I’ve thought about you these last two years,” Malric said in a menacing voice. “Put your hands up, right above your head. This is no time to be a hero. Just do exactly what I tell you.”

Turning slowly, the commissioner saw Malric, accompanied by a man he recognized as Hervet’s chauffeur. Tavernier raged inside. This was really the stupidest death that could befall him. Dying in these marshes, having nearly succeeded in his mission. A final stroke of bad luck that seemed like a poor joke.

“Who would have thought you’d end up working for the chief of police?” Tavernier asked, trying to buy himself one final chance. “We live in strange times, I must say.”

The surprise on Malric’s face was real. He turned to François.

“You would have found out sooner or later,” said the chauffeur.

“No matter! If your chief decides he wants my hide one day, I’ll shoot him down first.”

François approached the commissioner with a piece of cord to bind his wrists. Tavernier grasped the little .25 pistol he’d found during a raid on a brothel, and which he had taped inside the sleeve of his overcoat. Malric was just as quick. Two gunshots rang out at the same moment.