by James Easton
“So you could have sex?”
“No. Not for that.”
“You did not have sex?”
“Yes. We did, but it wasn’t what it was all about.”
“Did you do it before or after you fixed her boobs?”
Henri rolled his eyes. “Not this again. After. Her treatment was all out of the way.”
“So when she comes to you, how does that go?”
“You discuss what they want, what they think their needs are. For the boobs, before you ask, it’s a lift or enhancement.”
“Enhancement?” he tilted his head. “That’s making them bigger?”
“Reshaping too. Yet, it’s... there’s a range of techniques.”
“So, what did she have?”
“That’s confidential.” He smiled.
“Maybe if I knew who she was, I could guess.”
Henri shook his head in disapproval. But he was enjoying having this tiny element of control over Eric. As he recognised that, he started to wonder if he could profit from it. He couldn’t be too fussy with his principles.
Eric nodded, sincere. “I understand. But one question, if I may, about when you do the inspection. “
“Inspection? You mean examination?”
“Yes, that. What position are they in?” He looked like a teenage boy, with his hands cupped again under his own diminutive chest again.
Henri fake laughed, like it was a joke between men. Women’s bodies had long ceased to be a source of much to him other than money, at least when it came to his job. He looked around the restaurant. It was humming. Some guys at the back, in a conservatory extension, were making a lot of noise already with boisterous toasts.
“You want me to tell you,” he said, “I need you to take some more off my loan.” Eric seemed to take it seriously. “What will I get for two grand?”
“I deal in fives.”
Carolina did a selfie with Miguel. He composed a message to his parents about his exploits on the board and something about beer and a well-earned dinner. She took a picture of his coke and sent it. She received a smile and gracias from Eva in return.
She saw the man then. He was eating on his own, at the small table near the door. It was where a protection person might sit if they wanted to observe the room away from their principal client, rather than at the same table like she was sitting with Miguel. He was old school. Middle-aged, everything about him grey. Eyes, hair, even his clothes. He wore old-fashioned photochromic specs. And she had the second flutter of recognition today.
Two guys collected platters from the bar, took them to the back of the place where all the noise was coming from. A slim sandy-haired English type went to the bar, came away with red wine.
Miguel was talking about his snowboarding experience to Anders.
“How long was the slope?”
“Six.”
“Six hundred? That’s over half a kilometre, man! Where were you?”
“No. Erm...six. Six metres.”
“Ah, OK, well the principle is the same.”
Carolina pretended to fiddle with her phone and caught the grey man in a picture. She asked for a cigarette from a guy ordering beers and headed out of the restaurant to smoke it. On her way, she saw the man with long hair, from the slope earlier today, looking at her from the back of the conservatory. The tuna farmer. She went outside, moved down the building, and checked she was out of sight. Then she sent a text and made a call.
“Pablo, I’ve seen something.”
“Twice in one day.”
“Yeah. That terror cell in Madrid last year. We got a state of alert about it. Nothing happened.”
“I remember.”
“There was a guy in the armoury chain.”
“That phantom guy? That was odd,” said Pablo, remembering. “He cut the weapons supply when he found out it was a terror plot, they said, so it came to nothing.”
“Him, yes. He had a bodyguard, right? That’s how they knew he could be around.”
“Yeah. I’m just referencing it now. The bodyguard is Michel Sylvestre. French merc. Dangerous. But nobody knows exactly who he protects. It’s weird.”
“Don’t you have it there?”
“Just says underworld figures.”
Carolina checked the car park was clear and swept her eyes over the houses beyond the road. She was almost shivering in the cold. The cigarette gave her the idea of warmth, even if she didn’t like smoking it.
“Anything on the guy I asked you about earlier. The tuna guy?”
“Yeah, he’s Rafael Nieto. He has distant family connections with links to Georgian, Romanian and Croatian organised crime groups. But he’s also a suspect in a few armed robberies. Heavy stuff, in France and Italy.”
“How heavy?”
“Assault rifle and body armour heavy.”
“Ok,” she said. “I’ve got Michel Slyvestre and Rafa Nieto, sitting separately, in a little Alpine restaurant. But the link is the weaponry.”
“Yeah. And you are unarmed.” Pablo’s tone had become serious.
“I’ll go and sit with the kid I’m looking after. Can you tell the French authorities?”
“Yes.”
“And if you find out who Sylvestre protects, you’ll let me know?”
“Alright. Go.”
Carolina noticed a guy get out of a car and walk toward the restaurant. He was well built, watchful. A good looking, clean-cut guy with glasses held the door open for her, then stepped out and met the big guy before she could take a closer look at his face.
“Do something for me?” asked Jean.
“Sure,” said Max.
“Robin is in the booth nearest the conservatory. That guy with her is probably her backup. Tall, slim English type. Can you get a picture of him and find out where he’s staying in town, maybe follow him?”
Max nodded. “Consider it done.”
Then Jean said, “You see the guy by the door? Grey jacket, glasses.”
“I will when I go in.” Max smiled.
“I think it’s Rédoine’s bodyguard. Sylvestre.”
“Rédoine is in there? Shit. Who is he?”
“No. He wouldn’t be. I think Sylvestre’s there to check you out,” said Jean.
“So, I better not be out here too long.”
“Are you cold, Max?”
“Hungry.” He went inside.
Jean lit a cigarette. He didn’t usually smoke, but he didn’t want anyone to associate him with Max and needed a reason to be outside. He looked up at the sky.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Robin said, “Julian, for Christ’s sake, I’m bloody doing it. The choice you have is support me or not.”
Julian looked at her frankly. “That’s the choice?”
“Yes.”
“Alright. I won’t leave you alone, so let’s get on with it.”
“Thank you. Can we run through the safety stuff, please?”
Julian said, “If when you make your regular call to me, and you are under pressure to say it is OK when it isn’t, what are you going to say?”
Robin thought about it. “Needs to sound normal. You say ‘Everything ok?’ If it isn’t, I’ll clear my throat before saying I’m fine.”
“On the first call, I’ll ask about spare batteries. You tell me you have them if, on your estimate, you are in Morzine or the immediately surrounding area. If you travel for longer than twenty minutes after you leave this evening, you tell me you need to check.”
Robin nodded. She felt keyed up: about to see Jean, about to embed with a criminal in his own environment. There was a flutter of not wanting to leave Julian. But it was familiarity only pulling her to him.
“We didn’t do this security on the Morocco trips,” she said.
“Because there were twenty of us, and we weren’t a risk to them as long as we stuck to the guidelines. Out here, Haim is vulnerable. Both of you are taking risk. Which I am sure is very exciting. But...”
“But what
, Julian?”
A roar of laughter from the conservatory. That dark-haired girl she’d passed on the road yesterday coming back around the bar. She looked down to earth and exotic at the same time. Flushed, tanned faces of people on holiday, like a rolling last supper but happy, in the main area.
“But you’re on your own there,” said Julian.
Robin’s phone was ringing.
Max flicked his phone camera off. He’d captured a few shots of the guy with Jean’s woman. He seemed a bit of a plonker to Max, but anyway, job done for now, and he’d follow him later. The guys Jean was sitting with were making a lot of noise. He hoped it didn’t draw attention.
He dipped some potato in the Vacherin d’Or he was sharing with Eric and Henri, ate some slow-roasted pork on choucroute, poured more red wine. Shit, he should enjoy himself a little while he was here. The grub was good. Henri was paying.
Eric started shaking his fingers like they’d been burned, laughing, maybe a little drunk.
“This guy has seen all of the most beautiful gazongas in Europe. I’m not going to say what he said, but…”
Henri tried to laugh, though to Max it seemed clear that his heart wasn’t in it.
“That’s what you do, huh?” he asked.
Henri nodded. “Cosmetic surgery. Eric wants to be my assistant, probably before we make the first incision.”
That was funny. Henri was OK. Max laughed. He didn’t like this attitude of Eric’s much, though. The way he saw it, the actresses Henri served had to get naked in the films. There was no point in them being there otherwise. So for them, getting their tits fixed was like maintenance, not something you should perv over. Then again, Eric wasn’t hurting anyone with his interest, and Henri probably enjoyed having something to share with the two of them. A guy like him couldn’t be that comfortable with Eric and Max. Max imagined how he’d feel if he were at a polite dinner party with people like Henri. But they were getting along alright here which was what mattered.
“Did you ever screw one?” he asked.
Henri looked sad. Really sad. Max realised he’d said the wrong thing. Eric poured and Max clapped Henri on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, man. We all make mistakes. Our piece of business, it will help a little, no? Have a drink.“
Henri wiped at a tear and raised his glass.
The female bathroom was empty. Carolina called from inside a stall.
“Pablo, what do you have?”
“OK, so this has escalated. The guy that Sylvestre is thought to protect is called Rédoine Luce. He’s either an ex-circus kid who served in the French Foreign Legion as a sniper or a Chechen-Afghan refugee who was a shooter for an Algerian mob.”
“Nobody knows who the hell he is, you’re saying?”
“Yeah. Now, he’s an arms dealer, an intermediary between the source and bigger dealers. The French only have a few cops in Morzine so a dedicated team is going there overnight for this. Thanks, Carolina.”
“OK, just one question.”
Robin put her phone away. “They’re ready.”
Julian was on his second bottle of Echezeaux. “Alright. Are we driving?”
“No. Outside. Just me. They’re going to pick me up on the road, around the corner so nobody here can see. Not much of a kidnap.” She smiled at him. “I’ll speak to you soon. Wish me luck.” Her chest felt tight with nerves.
Julian threw his wine back, poured again. “I’ll let your parents know he’s a nice guy if they ask.”
“Get lost, Julian.”
She stood up, took her bag, and stepped out of the booth. One of the men drinking by the bar expanded his arms, showing his friend something, and backhanded Robin in the right breast. She backed up, stooping, bringing her forearm up across her chest in case it happened again, gasping with the pain. The man turned, reached out to her, smiling. She swatted his hand away.
“Hey. It was a mistake.”
Julian was on his feet. “Leave her alone, you prick.” Julian shoved at the man, who barely moved before punching him on the nose.
Robin put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, no.”
Julian’s lanky frame was draped over the table, poleaxed. Cassoulet and about three hundred Euros worth of Échezeaux decorated the wall.
“Asshole.”
His friend turned on Robin. “You stupid bitch. See what you did?”
“Piss off or I’ll call the police.” She held her phone up.
The man snatched it. Robin went after it with both hands, swinging off his arm as he pulled it around. She couldn’t lose it. The phone was her contact with Jean’s people. The man shoved her against the end of the partition between two booths. A teenage boy in the booth next to Robin’s launched himself at the man’s arm.
“Let go. She’s a woman!”
An athletic, handsome guy stood up from next to the boy, pulled him away.
“Sit down, Miguel. Look, guys. My name’s Anders, OK, and my friend here was just saying you’ve got a lady there. Let’s forget the rough stuff.”
They glowered at him.
“And if not, we’ll call the police. I think that’s the message.”
The handsome guy put a little hardness into his eyes for the last line. And got a right hook in the jaw. The kid threw a T-bone steak at the attacker, who threw it back, ducked handsome’s return punch and threw him into the bar, then along with his friend laid into him on the floor. Their faces were contorted, ugly.
Robin moved back. Diners all round were falling over themselves to clear away from the bar area, a single waitress among them, staring. She saw Julian’s wine running down the wall and off the table. Julian was lying in a puddle of it with his hand over his nose. The handsome guy was on the floor, curled up as the men kicked at him.
“Call the police now, you bastard,” one of them shouted.
“He didn’t mean that!” said Robin, trying to help. Her voice was lost in the ruckus. More of the men pushed past her, and one joined the attack. A barman came around, and tried tentatively to push his way through the men to see what was happening. She thought about calling the people meeting her. If they saw there was trouble, they might leave without her. She couldn’t let that happen. If she missed the chance now, he might be gone.
Carolina came out of the bathroom.
Everyone was looking at the bar in front of her booth. She saw three of the men from the back kicking and punching someone she could not see, but who was on the floor by the bar. She saw Miguel, working his way into open space, about to launch himself at one of the men, who was about twice his own size. No Berg. It had to be him on the floor. She saw a barman slip and fall over when he tried to push through the wall of men around the fight. The staff member still behind the bar was shouting in English that he couldn’t find his phone.
Carolina picked up a walnut steak serving platter by its handle from where it had been stacked on the bar and flicked her wrist to shake off the jus.
She walked over there fast and steered Miguel into the booth, saw Berg curled up on the floor covering his head and groin.
Carolina skipped in behind one of the guys kicking him. Her right foot landed outside the guy’s right foot, her left hip opening, left knee bending as she twisted left to right, bringing the steak board from over her shoulder, dropping all her weight into it as she scythed its edge into his Achilles tendon. He screamed and broke off, hopping away.
The second guy came at her. Snarling, drunk, pumped. He lunged. She hooked his instep with her own foot just above the ground, his hands went down to catch himself, and she whacked him across the ear with the board. More pain than damage, but a boatload of it. She slipped around him. A third guy, shorter, grabbed her shirt, lifting her off her feet, and rammed her into the bar. She kicked him in the balls, and shoved the front edge of the board into his teeth, then twisted away from the spray of enamel and wine breath as he pitched forward.
Anders pulled himself up on the bar. He seemed alright, if unsteady. Carolina grabbed Miguel’s a
rm and took Anders’s hand.
“Out. Now.”
A couple of metres away from the carnage, Robin was transfixed. It had taken an instant for three men to be floored, the woman so sure of herself and the roaring, kicking men suddenly a downed mass of groaning knitwear. Julian was dabbing at his nose with a napkin, oblivious to her. She backed toward the conservatory.
A hand closed over her mouth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Shit. You see this crap? Putain! putain! So fast, so fast.” said Eric, under his breath. Henri looked at him and was surprised. Eric seemed to be studying it. “You see that?” he said, turning back square to the table. “She protected the kid, dropped those guys. But she’s calm, calm. Ha! The men have retreated. She’s hot, too. Not so big boobs, but she’s hot despite this.”
“How can she beat them?” asked Henri. “They are so much bigger than her.”
Max laughed into the confit duck leg he was holding under his lips. He’d hardly watched at all. “She knows what she’s doing, that’s how.”
Eric shrugged. “I don’t know about these things. But yes, I’d say so. To move like that.”
Jean helped Robin off the wall of the restaurant garden. It was freezing, despite the layers she was wearing. He carried her bag over his shoulder, held her hand, and led her through stacks of firewood under tarpaulins at the back onto the road. His car was parked on the other side between two houses.
For a second, she thought he had a driver when he slipped into the back with her. The car was already warm. But the front seats were empty. They looked at each other in the dark and laughed. His hair was different. She had an urge to kiss him but didn’t. It was stupid. It was too early, and the situation was delicate, with the police surely on their way after that fight.
Then Jean Haim took her phone from her pocket, switched it off, put it into his pocket. Why wasn’t she objecting to that? He talked gently to her as he placed plastic cable ties on her wrists and pulled them tight, then pushed her shoulders square against the seat.