Dance of the Angels (9 page)

C
HAPTER
IX

Tavernier’s gray-blue eyes were fixed determinedly on the monotonous ribbon of asphalt. He had left the beltway a good half hour ago. The traffic was flowing very smoothly. A few more miles, and he would reach the freeway exit ramp.

Tavernier liked going to visit the Baron. The mystery with which this character surrounded himself made Tavernier feel like he was experiencing a privileged moment. It was impossible to know the Baron’s true identity. Even back during the Algerian War, all the soldiers had known the young captain only as the Baron. The anti-crime boss, still a cadet at the time, had been impressed by the charisma of this man for whom there was no compromise and nothing capable of steering him away from his decided course of action.

The Xantia drove through the little village situated just a few miles from the Baron’s estate. The Romanesque church opposite the bakery was the last landmark. There were just another five or so miles to go.

Tavernier never would have seen the captain again if he hadn’t been contacted by him after his appointment as head of the Anti-Crime Brigade. The Baron had returned to live in France after many years crisscrossing the globe fighting for causes he considered just. He’d put some money aside with the aim of setting up an underground organization. Even back when he was in the army, the future head of the Phoenix organization railed against the impunity enjoyed by those pulling the strings. When this singular individual had asked Tavernier to work at his side, Tavernier had immediately accepted the proposition, even though at the time it seemed completely absurd.

Ever since the start of their collaboration, the commissioner had systematically given the Baron a copy of files regarding top-secret cases that had not yet been solved. All of them involved highly placed public officials who were likely to escape justice.

The Xantia crossed the gardens—which were lovingly maintained by an expert gardener—and stopped in front of the nineteenth-century mansion. Tavernier walked up the front steps.

“Hi, Georges. Are you well?”

“My rheumatism’s playing up again, sir,” answered the old butler, who had been in the Baron’s service since the early days of Phoenix.

Tavernier entered the wide, black-tiled entrance hall. There were several doors with gilded moldings leading off it, one of which opened into the living room. The Baron was waiting for him in front of a roaring fire.

“Come in, Commissioner. The tea is ready.”

The voice was low, steady, almost reassuring. The man was flawlessly elegant: silk pocket-handkerchief, silk tie, tweed jacket. A bottle of Johnnie Walker sat on a smoked-glass coffee table next to the teapot. The Baron was quite familiar with Tavernier’s little weaknesses. The master of the house served the drinks himself.

“Trouble?”

“Yesterday two men turned up at my place unannounced. Top-notch hit men. If it wasn’t for the intervention of my friend Le Goënec, I think you’d now be without my services.”

“We have really set the cat among the pigeons, and the response has not been long in coming.”

Tavernier knocked back a slug of whisky and said, “Now that the chief knows I’m involved, the real trouble’s going to start.”

“‘If you want peace, prepare for war.’ A Latin proverb,” said the Baron, serving himself another cup of Earl Grey. “We’re going on the offensive. I suggest you don’t go back to headquarters. You must take some leave.”

“I’ve got several weeks of vacation coming to me. I think I’ll get away for a little while.”

“You know that Hervet won’t leave you alone now. Avoid returning here until further notice. We’ll stay in touch by telephone, at the usual number.”

Tavernier nodded, lifting his heavy frame from the armchair.

“Good luck,” said the Baron, firmly shaking his hand. “You are aware that with this kind of mission, your chances of success are minimal.”

“I know, Baron. Nothing would give Paul Hervet a greater treat than delivering the eulogy at my funeral. And he is not the kind of man to refuse himself a little treat.”

C
HAPTER
X

Nikita woke with aching limbs. His body was covered in bruises, and his nose was so swollen it looked like it would burst. The wounded beast got up and walked, like an old man, to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror and saw his own bruised face staring back at him.

After returning to their little house in Saint-Brice-Sous-Forêt in an awful state, an unbridled hate was eating away at him. The death of his twin was the very worst thing that could happen. Nikita felt he was now only half the man he’d been.

He had left Paul Hervet a terse message on his answering machine, using his code name 021, then tended to his wounds before collapsing onto his bed, thinking of Nicolas lying there in that cop’s shabby house. Never would he be able to forget such a horrific sight. Nikita cursed himself for not having been able to do anything to save his brother. Like some bad dream, he could still see the knife stuck up to the hilt in Nicolas’s side.

“What have those bastards done with his body?”

His head was clear: revenge was inevitable. Those two motherfuckers would pay the price.

The ringing of the phone jerked Nikita out of his murderous thoughts.

“I’m listening,” Hervet said.

“It went badly. There were two of them waiting for us.”

“Two? Can you describe the other one?”

“Tall, dark hair, brown eyes, tough-looking. I recognized him from the front page of
France-Soir
.”

“That’s Tavernier’s deputy. I want you to get rid of those two, as quickly as possible. No mistakes this time.”

“OK.”

“But first, there’s a more urgent matter. Martin Boudon, the ballet teacher. Top priority.”

If Robert Malet had talked before dying, there was only one name he could have coughed up: Martin Boudon. The chief of police knew that the two cops were capable of getting him to talk. It would be disastrous if Boudon squealed. That documentary producer, Herman, was none other than Loïc Le Goënec. No doubt about it.

“Speed is of the essence, so you might as well split the work with your brother,” said the chief sharply.

“Your cop buddies bumped off Nicolas. Now I have no choice but to operate alone.”

“I am sorry about him. I hope you will exact an exemplary vengeance.”

“Don’t you worry. Those two are as good as dead.”

The young dancers graciously extended their legs and lifted their curving arms over their heads. The teacher struck the floor with his stick to mark the beat.

“Seven . . . eight . . . Right, that’s not bad.”

The kids looked curiously at Nikita. Hervet’s henchman was not the prettiest sight, with his nose all bandaged up. A nightmarish vision, really, like a Halloween mask, only uglier.

“
Révérence
,” said Martin Boudon.

The music began to blare from the cassette player. Facing the mirror, all the students executed the same movement. Then came the applause and the
défilé
, with a little bow to the teacher. Always the same rigmarole. The pupils left the studio quietly, one by one. Boudon now found himself alone with Nikita. The two men knew each other from having met at several “special” parties.

The blond man was dangerous. The teacher knew enough about him to be worried. If he had come to class, it was to resolve some serious problem.

“You’re not with your brother today?” said Boudon, attempting to be friendly. “You’re usually inseparable.”

“Nicolas is currently indisposed.”

“You wanted to speak to me?” Boudon said casually, trying to hide his fear, which was clearly visible.

“Robert Malet’s death has caused no end of trouble. We have to make new arrangements.”

“Of course. Come into my office. It’s more discreet.”

“Let’s go back to my place. We’ll have lunch and discuss how we’re going to organize things.”

“There’s a little restaurant I go to nearby,” said Boudon, trying to gain time. “They do an excellent veal stew, and we can chat there. It’s very private.”

“You’re to come with me. Orders from above.”

Nikita did not clarify whether he was referring to Paul Hervet, God the Father, or his cousin Lucifer. He made no attempt at conversation during the journey, which suited him, not being the chatty type. Between the two men, there was a silence you could cut with a knife. When the 4x4 stopped in front of the twins’ lonely house, Boudon felt his heart beating like it would burst. If he didn’t find a way out of this very quickly, his goose would be cooked.

“Go on,” said Nikita.

Boudon stepped into the hallway with its impeccably polished floor. The smell of wax hung in the air, evoking the sinister scent of votive candles. Nikita locked the door.

“What are you doing?” Martin Boudon said with a yelp, turning around, white with fear.

The blond killer blocked the way, a cold smile on his lips.

“Go on into the living room, you piece of shit,” said Nikita. “Sit your ass down.”

“What do you want with me? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Try a little harder to remember, Fred Astaire. Didn’t you receive an unexpected visit recently?”

“No, no.”

The slap hit him like the crack of a whip.

“You’re crazy,” Boudon cried, raising his forearm to protect his face.

“Think hard, bitch! You haven’t seen anyone? Answer me, or I’ll really hit you.”

“No, I beg you! A man and a woman came, two days ago. For a shoot.”

“You see, it’s easy when you cooperate. Tell me, Baryshnikov, how did they find you, this pair?”

“They said Robert Malet had put them in touch with me.”

“What did they look like?”

“The guy was tall, well-built, around thirty.”

Nikita pulled out the page from
France-Soir
, unfolded it, and shoved the picture of Le Goënec in Boudon’s face. Panic and terror convulsed him.

“Yes, it’s him. That’s him, all right.”

“What did you tell him, asshole?”

“Nothing special. He wanted some children. I let him choose from the photographs, like usual. He was meant to call me back with the precise address for delivery.”

“That’s all?”

“No. When I left, the woman who was with him followed me. Luckily, I realized, and I was able to throw her off and then tail her myself, without her noticing.” Boudon rummaged in his pocket, his eyes filled with a desperate plea for an improbable clemency, and took out a piece of paper, which he handed to Nikita. “See for yourself; I wrote down her license plate number.”

Nikita’s fist smashed Boudon’s jaw with lightning speed. The teacher screamed, holding his chin.

“What did you intend to do with this number, you little shit?”

The killer walked behind the sofa and, in a flash, slipped a length of piano wire around Boudon’s neck. He had no time to get free. It was too late. Nikita had a perfect grip on the piano wire, and did not let go until it had cut deeply into Boudon’s fleshy neck.

Boudon’s legs shook for a few seconds before going still with a last flop, and his head, half severed, hung grotesquely from his body, fixed in a death mask of pure terror.

Nikita calmly retrieved his garrote and picked up the telephone with his bloody hand.

“Please leave a message,” said the answering machine’s impersonal voice.

“021 reporting. Call me back.”

The chief of police panted with pleasure over the seventeen-year-old boy moaning luxuriantly beneath him on the rumpled sheets of the double bed.

Not for anything in the world would Hervet deprive himself of his twice-weekly assignations with Stéphan, a boy from a good family, who prostituted himself for easy money.

Hervet loved returning to this supple body. Despite his youth, Stéphan already had much experience with vice. The chief of police grunted heavily, and the thrusting of his pelvis accelerated. A light trembling shook his body, and he rolled over on his side, fully satisfied.

“Right. Time to go, Stéphan. I’ve got a private view of a new exhibition in two hours.”

Hervet took a few notes from his wallet and laid them on the young man’s leather pants. After a quick trip to the bathroom, he dressed, then perused his agenda for the day. There was enough time to go check out the villa he intended to hire for the shoot, a few miles from the suburb of Rambouillet, before going to a private viewing at the Musée du Luxembourg of “mystic” paintings by one of Charlotte’s friends. He would give Nikita a ring back after the party.

The Mercedes 500 drove along a small country lane. The villa, which was situated on the edge of the forest, would be perfect both for keeping the children and as a location for the film. The interior was all luxury and refinement. Venetian-glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling, while the eighteenth-century cabinets and tables were covered in precious objects. It was exactly what Hervet wanted for his client. The car’s speakers were playing Wagner’s
Das Rheingold
. Yet this music that he loved so much couldn’t make him forget his cares. François, his chauffeur, watched him in the rearview mirror.

“You look as if something’s bothering you, sir.”

“I don’t know what to do about the kids. Le Goënec and Tavernier have taken three of them. It’s getting risky. I don’t want to take any chances. We must find some other children—orphans. If only Malet were still alive!”

“If you ask me, sir,” said François after a moment of thought, “the answer would be to bring in some kids from abroad.”

“I do have a few friends in Holland.”

“Nikita has a good contact in Romania, a very successful pimp. This guy could do the rounds of the orphanages, if you’re prepared to pay enough. The whole country is full of abandoned children.”

“Excellent idea. I will talk to him about it tonight.”

The sedan turned onto the freeway, which was already choked with traffic. Hervet closed his eyes. Bit by bit, he let himself be soothed by Wagner’s music. The idea of bringing over some Romanian orphans was simply perfect. François never ceased to amaze him; a man like that was a rare luxury these days. With a brain like his, he never saw problems, only solutions, and juicy ones at that. Hervet fell asleep, lulled by the purring of the engine and the delights of Wagner. The next few days were looking most auspicious.