Dance of the Angels (17 page)

“Yes, yes!” cried Bensoussan. “The merchandise will be filmed during rape, torture, and death. A cassette like that sells for a very high price. Between twenty and fifty thousand francs apiece.”

Sickened, Le Goënec had to restrain a furious desire to kill this cockroach right then and there.

“Who is Van Doersen?”

“The ex—the executioner,” stammered Bensoussan. “Do something, for fuck’s sake, I can’t take it anymore! I’m going to die!”

A black veil descended, and he slipped briefly into unconsciousness. Le Goënec, who had no intention of giving him mouth-to-mouth, slapped him hard and shouted, “Where’s the phone?”

“My office.”

Abandoning the victim to his groans, Le Goënec hurried into a small room, the walls of which were covered with lewd posters. He picked up the handset and dialed Tavernier’s number.

“I know who Van Doersen is, Commissioner!”

C
HAPTER
XIX

The Thalys high-speed train from Brussels screeched to a halt at platform 2 of Gare du Nord. The station PA system welcomed the passengers in several languages as they swiftly alighted in small groups. René Van Doersen, better known as the Antwerp Torturer, stepped from his first-class car with a confident air. Long, graying hair hung down over his shoulders, his leather jacket and trousers gleamed black with polish, and his bracelets and dangling jewelry gave him the appearance of an old pop star. But that was as far as the similarity went. The Ray-Bans hid the eyes of a true monster, a genuine descendant of Jack the Ripper.

“That’s him. He fits the description exactly,” said Le Goënec, pressing the shutter button on his Nikon autofocus.

Beside him, Florence, who never took her eyes off the Belgian, spoke into a little Sony tape recorder. “Thursday, December tenth, Gare du Nord. René Van Doersen has just arrived, platform 2. Age sixty-four, he is well known in the international hard-core world as the undisputed master of torture. Trained by Dieter Eugen, a former doctor at Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, the Antwerp Torturer freelances and always insists on being paid in dollars. He has notched up a fine string of murders as a specialist in snuff movies. His main contracts have been carried out in Asia and the Netherlands, as well as for the Las Vegas mafia.”

Florence pressed “Stop” and put the tape recorder in her bag. The station was packed at this time of day as the first waves of travelers left for Christmas vacation. Students heading for the Eurostar train to London to brush up their accents and screw some English girls mixed with two-bit Sid Viciouses drunk on French lager.

“Let’s move, or we’ll lose him,” said Le Goënec, barely containing his excitement. The last stage of his mission had just begun.

The station clock read one p.m. Van Doersen weaved in and out of the travelers who were hanging around the newsstand, discreetly checking out the tits on the porn mags. He bumped into an old lady, who yelped like a poodle.

“Sorry, madam,” he said in a smooth voice.

Van Doersen quickened his step and made his way up the drab street outside Gare du Nord, pulling his suitcase of gear behind him. The white-toothed crooks who hovered around the station offered him a ride in a stretch limousine, like those used by stars or incumbent dictators.

But his ride was waiting. Hervet’s metallic-gray Mercedes 500 was parked a little way off.

Le Goënec, who was trailing Van Doersen at a distance, was jubilant. The information Bensoussan had given him was perfectly accurate. A burst of photographs immortalized the handshake between the Antwerp Torturer and the chief of police.

“This time, we’ve got a real scoop,” said Florence, smiling at her man.

The room filled with light, like a hospital. Madam Charlet, the Baron’s personal nurse, gave Bensoussan a morphine injection and discreetly padded away.

The Sex-Center boss had been operated on in a private clinic, before being driven to this closely guarded house a few miles outside the pleasant country town of Senlis. By some miracle, the surgeon had succeeded in saving Bensoussan’s arm. It would always be a little stiff, but amputation had been narrowly avoided. Two hefty fellows watched him at all times. It was already like being in jail. True, the place was more comfortable than a prison hospital, but he had no illusions about his future. Fifteen years for sure, if the court was lenient.

The Tunisian cast an unfavorable look at Le Goënec, who approached his bedside, followed by Tavernier.

“When I think that this scumbag is lying here like a pig in clover . . . All that’s missing is a swimming pool and a Tahitian beauty,” said the commissioner, livid.

“What more do you want from me? I’ve told you everything.”

Bensoussan looked at the two men, his face expressionless, feeling nothing but a deep disgust with himself. If the Magnum’s bullet had just finished him off, he would now be on vacation for all eternity.

“You’re going to do me another favor,” said Le Goënec. “It’s vital I get inside the villa during the shoot. You could, for example, call your buddy Hervet and tell him you’re sending a photographer, something like that.”

“Hervet must be searching the whole of Paris for me. You don’t know him.”

“Call him now. And be inventive,” added Tavernier. “You’ve got enough imagination when it comes to your filthy film scripts!”

“Do whatever it takes to get me inside that house before this evening. Top priority.”

Le Goënec picked up the phone and handed it to him. Bensoussan dialed the number in resignation, his throat dry with mounting anxiety. He would give anything never to have gotten involved in this deadly business.

The portrait of the elder Manotti, in a frame draped with a strip of black velvet, hung in the restaurant dining room. The dark gaze of the deceased gangster perused the building plans laid out on the table. Manu, Vincent, and Bruno felt cramped in their mourning suits, but the thought of avenging their father filled them with euphoria.

“Everything is now in place,” explained Le Goënec. “I’ll enter the villa first, as a photographer. It’s risky, but we have no choice. The children are shut up in this room on the first floor.” He circled the room with a red felt-tip pen. “I’ll get there at seven p.m. on the dot to set up my equipment. I’ll buy a few minutes to go upstairs to the children and let them know.”

“How do you expect to do that, since they don’t speak French?” asked Manu.

“A translator will write me out Romanian on cards, which I will show them. They’ll know we’re there to rescue them. Then the participants will turn up at eight p.m. We’ll need to allow for another hour while those sickos do their makeup and put on their Mardi Gras costumes. Your job will be to intercept the five guards on patrol outside the house.”

“Let’s do that with knives,” suggested Bruno with a glint in his eye.

“You’ll wear SWAT team garb, with masks. We’ve yet to find anything more intimidating.”

“I’ll sort out the uniforms,” said Tavernier.

“Once inside, you’ll neutralize everyone as quickly as possible, while limiting collateral damage.”

The Manotti brothers looked doubtful.

“What if they shoot at us?” said Vincent.

“You’ll shoot back, but I remind you that the goal is to arrest as many people as possible—and bring back Paul Hervet alive.”

The large clock in the living room read 7:20 p.m. Hervet oversaw the final preparations with a keen eye, smoking cigarette after cigarette. He didn’t hide his anxiety very well. The cameraman and his sound engineer, both supplied by Bensoussan, had set up their equipment ten minutes ago. The camera was the very latest Sony Digital Betacam, boasting the best image resolution on the market. The cameraman finished setting up the lights and checking the lamps. A white wash flooded across the wall. Satisfied, the technician switched off the light and proceeded to the next one. In the kitchen, a waitress, dressed entirely in leather, was spreading caviar on canapé toasts. A real VIP buffet. The lucky participants liked to have a nibble and wet their whistle with Dom Pérignon before these shoots.

Tonight’s guests had been handpicked with the utmost care. Fifteen people in total, all of them veterans of such evenings, who had paid the modest sum of thirty thousand francs as the price of admission, with a signed photograph of Van Doersen as a bonus.

Lost in his thoughts, the chief of police hardly noticed the sporty-looking man setting up his photographic gear in the middle of the living room. Le Goënec was completely unrecognizable under his false beard, thin-framed glasses, and ponytail as he busied himself, every inch the pro photographer. Nobody paid him the slightest attention.

It was an excellent idea on Bensoussan’s part to take advantage of the Belgian master’s presence and photograph the event. It would result in an exclusive monograph, to be sold at five thousand francs apiece. Extra cash was always too good to pass up.

“Mr. Hervet, can I speak with you?”

It was a voice with a strong foreign accent that called him from upstairs. Popescu, no doubt. The chief of police headed straight for the stairs, all his senses on alert. Hervet was the perfect organizer, attentive to the tiniest detail. That was the price for his collaboration with Scheller either continuing or ending fatally. Le Goënec’s watch indicated seven thirty p.m. The first guests would be stepping through the door in half an hour.

A large bedroom with walls covered in blue velvet had been converted into a dormitory for the six Romanian children, who were now playing with Nintendo game consoles.

Popescu had followed his instructions to the letter. The children, extracted from an infamous orphanage in the Bucharest suburbs, were all in perfect health and had been treated like princes since arriving on French soil. The six kids, the oldest of whom had just turned eleven, still couldn’t believe their eyes. The vast array of goodies laid out for them would feed a Romanian family for a whole month. It was like living in a fairy tale. Popescu had told them that they would be going to a French school in a few days’ time.

The kids’ incomprehensible babbling made Hervet smile when he entered the bedroom. His gaze lingered on Mitchi, a little brown-haired boy with black eyes. A young savage with a perfect body, beautiful yet with a certain bestial air about him. He would undoubtedly be the star of the coming nightmare.

“Tell them to get ready and put on their costumes. Tell them it’s a party—a costume ball.”

Popescu, former officer of the Securitate turned child-trafficker after the fall of Ceauşescu, translated for the children. They enjoyed all this dressing up and were very eager to play. The little Romanians ran into the next room, where costumes were hanging up for them.

“Right everyone, there’s a car coming,” said Tavernier into his walkie-talkie as he watched two tiny yellow dots drawing closer. The first guests were arriving. Florence got out of the Renault Espace belonging to La Fourchette d’Or and closed the door, on which one could read in golden lettering: “Gourmet Dinners, Business Lunches, Seminars.”

She had been so insistent on accompanying her man on the operation that he had eventually given in. The beautiful journalist had left him no choice. She’d threatened to leave on a solo mission to investigate a massacre of refugees in the Congo. Florence would interview the devil himself if she could get a good article out of it. Her attitude left Le Goënec flabbergasted every time.