Rocco and the Nightingale

by Adrian Magson

  He turned off the ignition, jumped out, and jogged across to join Desmoulins.

  ‘If they didn’t hear that,’ the young detective murmured, ‘they must be deaf or dead.’ He pointed ahead to the first large building, which appeared to have been some kind of warehouse with a delivery bay and an old elevator track coming out through a hole in the wall. ‘We could get in through there, I reckon. It might give us better cover than going along on the outside.’

  ‘Good idea. Let’s go.’ Rocco led the way, his gun in his hand, and keeping a careful eye open for any sign of movement. If one of the men was guarding this end of the site, they might have only a split second to take evasive action.

  They reached the delivery bay and Rocco jumped up onto the concrete platform and headed for the elevator track. He stopped by the wall and listened, but all he could hear was the flapping of birds’ wings inside, no doubt nesting close to the roof. It was a good sign; if there were birds, there was a good chance there wouldn’t be men with guns.

  He crept through the gap alongside the track, and found himself looking at a vast empty space with a large pool of scummy water in the centre of the floor. The ceiling was crisscrossed with gantries and hung with lights, all the colour of rust and spotted with white bird droppings. Directly across from where they were standing were two doors which looked like access to offices, and in the centre of the back wall a set of wooden sliding doors on runners.

  Rocco signalled Desmoulins to take the door to the right, and headed forward across the floor to the one on the left. He was halfway there when he saw something on the edge of the water. A footprint. And it looked recent.

  He dropped to the ground just as a shot rang out, echoing around the warehouse and sending up a volley of wild flapping from among the rafters and gentries overhead. A thin puff of smoke drifted from an open spyhole in the sliding door, and he felt the snap of the shot going by and heard it impact somewhere behind him. At almost the same moment he heard numerous shots coming from deeper in the complex, then footsteps running away.

  Things were hotting up.

  He ran forward to make it harder for the gunman to sight on him, slamming up against the sliding door, and turned to see Desmoulins doing the same. It was pointless shooting when they couldn’t see a target, especially with the other officers now in the factory.

  Rocco tested the office door nearest to him. It opened only a short way before coming up against something solid. He pushed through and saw a large filing cabinet, mangled and lying on its side, blocking the way. He guessed that the room he was in was an old production or shipping office, about ten metres by five. Whatever furniture had been here was long gone, save for the filing cabinet.

  He scooted over the cabinet, feeling the grit of dirt and flaking paint on his hands, and dropped to the other side in a crouch. Another door was in the wall across the room, which he guessed must lead to the rest of the complex.

  He nodded to Desmoulins, who had taken up a similar position and was facing a door of his own. He mimed pushing forward, then held up his hand and counted down from three. Desmoulins got the message and watched him. The moment he hit the one, they charged forward simultaneously until they reached the doors at the same time, kicking them open and running forward into the room beyond.

  Empty. It was a carbon copy of the room they’d just left. But a door on the far side was just bouncing back, having slammed behind whoever had just opened fire on them.

  Rocco didn’t care to be so close to the gunman in the confined space. Once through the next door there might be nowhere to hide. He gave a soft whistle to attract Desmoulins’ attention, and nodded towards a gaping window opening on to the yard outside. Desmoulins got the message and scooted across to join him.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ said Rocco. He bent and picked up a lump of featureless metal and handed it to Desmoulins. ‘He might be waiting for us to move beyond the door. Give me a count of ten and throw that, and I’ll see if he shows himself. If there’s no reaction you should be all right to go through, and I’ll cover you.’

  Desmoulins nodded. ‘Got it.’

  Rocco dropped through the window space to the ground and crept along the wall to the next window. As he reached it, he heard a bang from inside as the lump of metal hit the door.

  Nothing.

  He stood up and whistled, and Desmoulins appeared inside the next large room, which looked like some sort of assembly area.

  The man had gone, presumably to join his colleagues holding Bouanga.

  Rocco looked around, feeling the familiar itch of being watched by unseen eyes. It was probably meaningless. Had it been one of the gunmen, he would have opened fire by now. A building across the way was joined to the others by a suspended walkway some ten metres up, its windows all gone along with most of the floor. Anyone trying to cross that gap would be insane. The rest of the structure was like a ghost building and looked ready to fall down.

  Rocco beckoned to Desmoulins to follow but to stay low. So far they’d heard nothing from the other men, and figured that they were taking each building with care and searching for Bouanga and Excelsiore. He was concerned that they were now getting too close to the other group for comfort. The worst thing to do would be to come upon each other by accident and for one group to open fire on the other.

  Then he saw one of the Arras officers jog out of one building and duck behind a large pile of bricks and rotting wood. He was holding a rifle. Seconds later a voice called out and a dark figure appeared from a small doorway in the next building along. He stood there for a moment, looking around, and called again, the words unintelligible.

  It was one of the kidnappers, armed with a handgun. He walked out into the open and stood there as if he were taking the sun, except that his movements were oddly uncoordinated and he was swaying as if drunk. He was also shaking his head and seemed unable to stand still. Without warning he bent and vomited noisily, but held onto the gun.

  The Arras officer stood up, his rifle held into his shoulder. ‘Police! Throw down your weapon!’

  The other man’s response was immediate. He turned and opened fire immediately, pulling the trigger again and again and screaming in defiance. Wherever the shots went, they didn’t touch the officer, who calmly stood his ground and pulled the trigger. The kidnapper staggered and spun round, then lurched back inside the building clutching his shoulder.

  Rocco gave a warning whistle, and the officer turned, ready to open fire, until he saw who it was.

  Rocco and Desmoulins moved forward to join him, and Rocco said, ‘Where’s Godard?’

  ‘Inside,’ said the man. ‘He’s trying to get to the hostages but these idiots are shooting at anything that moves. Did you see what just happened?’

  ‘I did. They’re definitely high on something.’

  As if confirming the officer’s words a sustained volley of gunfire came from inside the buildings, the flashes lighting up the window spaces like a ghostly pyrotechnic display. The noise was intense and Rocco could only guess what it was like for anybody inside. More gunfire and someone shouted orders to pull back. Rocco recognised Godard’s voice.

  ‘Can you get Godard out here?’ said Rocco, ‘or do we have to go in?’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ the man said. ‘It’s easier for him to come out. Hang on.’ He made a double whistle, which Rocco recognised as a signal. Moments later the tall figure of Godard appeared in another doorway and jogged across to join them.

  ‘That’s not us firing,’ he reported. ‘Those people are nuts. They must have enough ammunition for an army. All they’re doing is running around making holes in the night.’

  ‘How many men have you counted?’

  ‘Three. But they’re not staying still for long and keep changing positions. It’s a bloody strange kidnapping, if you ask me. They haven’t even tried to negotiate or make demands.’

  Rocco had to agree with him. In fact, the more he thought about it, the less he thought it was about kidnapping at all
. ‘Have you seen Bouanga and the woman?’

  ‘They’re held in a large room in the main building, with a man who’s doing a lot of the shooting. I think he’s trying to bolster himself because he’s firing at shadows. I keep hoping his gun will overheat and jam but it hasn’t done it yet. We can’t shoot back because of the hostages.’

  Rocco was getting worried. The longer the man stayed in there with Bouanga, the more danger they were in. If he was drunk or on drugs, he might eventually start to come down off his high and decide to finish them off and get out of there.

  ‘We need a diversion to end this,’ he suggested. ‘Can you show me any of the windows to the room?’

  Godard nodded, and led them round to the rear of the building, tramping through a tangle of weeds, long grass and nettles. He pointed out a large window set in the wall, with one of the giant bobbins lying on its side just beneath it. He said softly, ‘I took a quick look through there earlier, but I couldn’t see enough to risk going in. The entrance is on the opposite wall. There’s another door set in the far end, but that’s being guarded by another man.’

  ‘And the hostages?’

  ‘Just the other side of this wall, I think, down on the right. What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Do you have any flash-bangs?’

  Godard smiled. ‘We certainly do.’

  ‘Good. Let off a couple outside to draw his attention, then give it a count of three and lob a couple just inside the door. We’ll use the flashes to spot our way in and confirm where Bouanga and the woman are, then we’ll go inside. Give us three whistles when you’re ready to begin and we’ll do the same once we’ve got the hostages.’

  ‘You’ve got it.’ Godard disappeared back the way they’d come, while Rocco and Desmoulins climbed up onto the bobbin and waited. Desmoulins had put his rifle down and pulled his sidearm instead. There was no glass in any of the windows, and the openings were easily big enough to climb through. As soon as the flash-bangs – which were like large fireworks, only much louder – went off, they could make their move.

  Thirty-five

  Two minutes passed agonisingly slowly, with only intermittent shots coming from the gunmen. Rocco was just beginning to think something was wrong when three whistles sounded, followed by two flash-bangs going off in quick succession on the far side of the building. The explosions and flashes of bright light raised a lot of shouting and more shooting from the men inside. Three seconds later, two more explosions followed, this time within the room itself and rattling the fabric of the building.

  Rocco and Desmoulins were already on their feet, ready to go, and in the light spotted a gunman by the door, firing wildly into the darkness. It was now or never. Rocco went first, slipping over the windowsill and dropping to the concrete floor of the room. Even as he dropped he knew that Bouanga and Excelsiore wouldn’t be able to make an exit this way; it was too high up to climb and there was nothing to stand on. They would have to leave through the main door, which meant getting past their guard.

  He turned to check them out and saw them sitting close to one corner, but in the poor light and the drifting smoke from the flash-bangs he had no idea if they were still alive. He focussed instead on the gunman, who was reloading his gun and shooting out into the night. Then the man seemed to sense the threat and spun round, bringing up his gun and shouting a warning.

  Desmoulins opened fire first, knocking him off his feet, and Rocco ran to see to the hostages. He was relieved to see they were alive and moving, if terrified, with only their hands tied. He lifted them to their feet.

  ‘We’re going out that door,’ he said clearly, pointing to the entrance where the gunman had fallen. ‘As soon as we get the all-clear, follow me and keep going. Don’t stop unless I tell you and don’t look around. Understood? You’re going to be all right.’

  They both nodded, eyes wide, and clung to each other.

  Desmoulins had run over to check the body of the gunman and kick his gun away. He signalled to Rocco to bring the hostages to the door, where they huddled against the wall.

  By now the shooting had died down, with only intermittent shots from either side. Rocco waited for a beat of more than two seconds’ silence, then gave three long, loud whistles.

  ‘All opposition down!’ It was Godard’s voice. ‘It’s safe to go.’

  Rocco slapped Bouanga on the shoulder as his signal to move and led them out of the door to join two of the Arras officers waiting outside to usher them up the yard towards the main gate and safety.

  Rocco saw Godard and Classens outside the next building, and went over to join them. Two officers were standing inside the building, weapons drawn and standing over two men on the floor. One was dead, the other had a wound to his shoulder and was moaning softly, his arms outstretched and his face to the floor as if he was trying to blend into the concrete.

  ‘The dead one ran out and opened fire,’ reported Godard. ‘Classens put him down. The other one was already down without a weapon. Good luck for us but not for him.’

  ‘Well done. There’s another one inside, also dead.’ He looked at Classens. ‘You’d better get an ambulance on the way here and tell your boss it’s all over.’

  The officer seemed to have trouble tearing his eyes away from the wounded man on the floor, but he finally nodded. ‘What about this maggot?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He gets a cushy bed in hospital, does he? It won’t bring our mates back, though, will it?’

  ‘No, it won’t. But he’s going to be the one who provides information on the others, and on the man who paid them. You’ve done your bit by your mates, so let it go.’

  Classens sighed, then backed down, the sharp light of anger fading from his eyes. ‘Yes. Sorry. I’ll call it in. The brass will be on their way already, I expect, after all the gunfire.’

  The last thing Rocco needed right now was a collection of senior officers getting involved. He signalled to Desmoulins and took him to one side. ‘Take the wounded man to one of the smaller rooms. The grittier the better.’

  Desmoulins nodded. ‘Will do. There’s an old workshop next door. It’s empty but grim. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I want to talk to him. Once he’s in the system he’ll be untouchable. I want to get what I can out of him before the Ministry or the lawyers get involved. He might know something the man in custody doesn’t.’

  Desmoulins looked worried. ‘You’re not thinking of leaving him with the Arras guys, are you?’ He looked around and his voice dropped. ‘They’re pretty strung up about their mates being shot. I reckon give them half a chance and they’ll send him to join his friends.’

  ‘We can’t let that happen. He’s our only hope of finding out what’s behind this. I want him unsettled so he’ll talk. It’s ten to one he knows nothing about how we treat suspects in France, so he’ll be wondering what’s going to happen.’

  He went over to Godard, who was checking through the contents of the kidnappers’ pockets.

  ‘Have you found anything?’

  ‘Not much. A few sweets, some leaves which I’m guessing is the ncassa stuff they chew, some cigarettes, and three identity cards that look fake. There’s hardly any money, though, just a few francs. If they were paid to lift Bouanga, they wouldn’t have had time to spend any, so where is it?’ He handed an identity card to Rocco. ‘This is the one who survived.’

  Rocco looked at the card, which gave the man’s name as Patrick Pembele. The printing was sub-standard and the photo faded and grainy. It certainly looked fake, but it was all he had for the moment.

  ‘Perhaps there wasn’t going to be a final payment. I doubt they’re the brightest buttons. They probably took a token down-payment with the promise of a big pay-out on completion. Let’s see if we can find out. Do you have any camo paint among your equipment?’

  ‘Sure. Always do, although we haven’t had cause to use it recently. Why?’

  Rocco told him what he wanted, and Godard smiled. ‘
Don’t worry – I’ll get Lavalle togged up. Aside from me he’s the biggest and ugliest. Give me a few minutes and we’ll be with you.’

  Rocco walked towards the workshop Desmoulins had mentioned. Before entering he pulled his coat collar up around his chin and took out his gun. Then he stepped inside.

  Desmoulins was holding a flashlight and standing over the prisoner, a young man with a wasted frame and a bony face. He was in handcuffs and sitting on an old wooden storage box. He looked frightened, one leg bouncing uncontrollably. His eyes went wide and rolled away when Rocco appeared with his gun held down by his side.

  ‘What are you doing with me?’ the man asked, his voice a dry croak. He held up the handcuffs as if he expected Rocco to release him.

  Rocco waved a hand and made a shushing noise. The man’s shirt was wet, he noticed, and the air smelled strongly of vomit. His upper arm was covered in blood.

  Rocco stepped around the room, deliberately taking his time as if inspecting the structure for signs of wear and tear. It was filthy dirty after many years of being abandoned, with swathes of cobwebs hanging from the walls, a liberal scattering of rodent and bird droppings and a deep chill in the air in spite of the warmth of the dying day. A large iron pedestal which he guessed had once held a drill stood at one end, and scarring on the oil-stained concrete floor showed where a lathe or similar machine had stood, the retaining bolts still protruding like fingers pointing at the ceiling.

  ‘Why am I being kept here?’ the man asked. His French was heavily accented, but good. ‘This is not right.’

  ‘Why not?’ Rocco countered, still walking around.

  ‘Because this is not a police station. You have no right–’

  ‘Really?’ Rocco cut him off, this time turning to face him. ‘Do you think we should treat you to coffee and cake, perhaps? Offer you a hot shower and a nice big meal? Mr Patrick Pembele.’