He looked all around him. The crowd was thicker on the city side of the barriers. Not much room to move. Peering through the filigreed canopy of the palms, he checked out the hotels above. As far as he could see, their balconies were scantily occupied: most of those wanting to watch the race had ventured down to the street. He turned his attention to the broad, promenade side of the boulevard. A group dispersing towards the barriers caught his eye. It looked as if some sort of meeting had just broken up. And then he saw it. For a moment, he didn’t understand what he was looking at. The sight made him shiver. Snakes. Writhing all around the girl’s head.
‘This is 36. Breakaway cleared. Peloton twenty-five seconds behind. Over.’
The riders were two minutes away. Jarret jetted a glance down the road and then back towards Medusa. He couldn’t see her. She must have taken off the headdress. He scanned the crowd for a matte-white face.
At Station 37, Lascaux had a good sight of the breakaway as they flew towards him.
A full sixty metres away, he could make out the team colours of the four leaders: the orange and white of Rabobank; the turquoise and white of Ag2r La Mondiale; Cofidis’s deep red; the blue flower petals of Française des Jeux. Lascaux had eyes like a hawk. His brain was not so acute. He knew what businesses Rabobank and the lottery-sponsored Française teams were involved in. But Cofidis? Ag2r? He had no idea. It didn’t matter to him. His contact in the crowd gave him a smile. He smiled back as he turned to face the breakaway. As always, he’d left the holster of his SIG semi-automatic unbuttoned. The safety catch was off. He’d always wondered what it would feel like. One squeeze and it was carnage. One squeeze and he would make history. One squeeze…
At Station 38, Yves Dauresse was sweating so profusely, his flag slipped from his grasp. All those eyes watching around the world. Plus the live spectators. His radio spat out Lascaux’s voice.
‘37. Breakaway cleared. Peloton at thirty. Over.’
Dauresse’s eyes were locked on the Ponchette roof as the lead riders swept around the quai towards him. He could almost hear the safety catches of the SWAT team’s weapons flicking off. A madman with a machine-gun battery at his disposal. One false move and there would be shredded flesh everywhere. The breakaway was almost on him as he put the whistle to his mouth and tried to blow.
Further along the boulevard, David Jarret’s eyes were still on the crowd. He’d lost Medusa. Where the hell was she? Concluding she might just have moved on, he relaxed a little. But then he saw white-painted hands reaching above the heads of the barrier hangers. The fingers interlocked and slowly lowered out of sight. After an age, they reached up again.
‘38. Breakaway cleared,’ Dauresse reported. ‘Peloton at twenty-five. Over.’
His mind racing, Jarret reached into his pannier and unrolled his flag, a triangle of yellow material bonded to a handle. He peered down the road. Four shapes began to emerge, indistinct at first, as if they were floating above the griddle-hot tarmac.
Thunder sticks began to bang. Foam fingers began to point. Jarret put the whistle to his mouth. Holding the flag in both hands above his head, he began to wave it to and fro.
The breakaway whooshed safely past him. The lead helicopter scudded overhead.
‘39. Breakaway cleared. Peloton following. Over,’ he said into his radio.
The top of Medusa’s head was visible now. She must have put on shoes? She began to glide towards the barriers. Skates. She was wearing skates. She was going to watch the peloton arrive. Jarret turned away.
A dab of grey smudged the vanishing point at the end of the road. And grew wider. It became a flash flood of colour. The crowd began to applaud, bang, wave. Jarret faced the flood as it broke inexorably towards him. A look to the side. Medusa had found a space at the barrier. The second helicopter roared overhead. Jarret began to whistle and wave. The peloton was almost on him. A glance to the side. Medusa was staring at him. The peloton was flying past. Their eyes met. Medusa’s jaw dropped. The whistle fell from his lips; the flag to the tarmac. He looked to the barriers. There was a space where Medusa had been standing. He needed to think. He flicked on his radio.
‘39. Commandant Mohr – do you copy? Over.’
He scanned the promenade as more spaces began to appear.
‘Mohr. Affirmative. Over.’
‘39. Migraine attack, sir. Visual disturbances…’ He continued searching. ‘Request stand down. Over.’
‘Mohr. Do you require assistance? Over.’
He saw her. Less than thirty metres away. Talking to a man with red pigtails. She seemed anxious to move on.
‘39. Negative. Can ride with care. Intend returning to barracks. Will transfer to tonight’s billet when recovered in few hours. Over.’
‘Mohr. Stand down. And this will go on your record, Jarret. Over.’
‘39. Thank you, sir. I’ll see it doesn’t happen again. Over.’
He switched his radio on to an open frequency and turned over the engine. As Mohr radioed out the reassigned points to the squadron, Lascaux and Dauresse washed up in the wake of back-up vehicles.
‘Migraine?’ Dauresse said, pulling alongside Jarret. ‘Good skive.’
‘Haven’t had it in years.’ Jarret’s eyes were locked on Medusa and her outsized companion. ‘Off back to the barracks. I’ll be alright.’
Lascaux looked up and down the race route.
‘Where are you going to get out of the rat run?’
Jarret indicated an opposed pair of slant-boarded barriers. A uniform stood in front of each.
‘One of those gentlemen will do the business.’ Medusa still hadn’t moved. Jarret told himself to keep acting naturally. ‘Well, no explosions or machine-gun bursts to report.’
‘I gave the peloton a good strafing.’ Lascaux grinned. ‘Just to keep them on their toes.’
‘Maybe the Sons and Daughters will strike further along.’ Dauresse was his easy, swaggering self once more. ‘Custard pies or stink bombs is my guess.’
‘Could be.’
Medusa appeared to be drawing things to a close.
‘Listen, my head’s really thumping now, guys. See you down at Brignoles, later.’
Dauresse and Lascaux took their leave, filtering into the convoy before accelerating away towards the peloton. On the promenade, Medusa high-fived her companion, picked up her backpack and began to skate away. She hadn’t yet raised her mobile to her ear. That made Jarret’s decision for him.
1.36 PM
Darac ran his head under a cold tap before making for the squad room. He found Granot on the phone.
‘You’re not serious?’ He mouthed ‘Paris’ to Darac. ‘You are serious. When then?’ Granot listened for a second. ‘Thank you.’ He slammed down the phone.
‘That was the Clinique Rendflore near Porte de Montreuil. It’s where Jean Florian has been residing for the past three months. In Intensive Care.’
‘So he’s out of the picture on the ground. Could have planned it, though. Or at least known all about it. Can he talk on the phone?’
‘He can blink yes or no.’
Exhaling deeply, Darac ran a hand through his hair.
‘Jesus Christ… We could send in a local, I guess. Feed them questions and get them to relay his answer. Frankie – you up for that?’
She interrupted her Evian mid-sip.
‘Certainly.’
‘I think we’d better do it,’ Granot said. ‘It’ll be at least a couple of hours before he’ll be able to speak without impediment, they reckon.’
‘Agreed. We can’t wait that long.’
Darac’s mobile rang.
‘Captain Darac? It’s Astrid – the mime—’
‘Yes, Astrid, if you’ll forgive me, we’re really—’
‘I’ve seen him. The bearded man…’
Darac smothered the mouthpiece. ‘Hey, hey,’ he shouted, holding up his free hand. As the squad room fell silent, he put the phone on speaker.
‘You’ve seen the bearded
man?’
The room held its breath.
‘Yes I have.’
‘Can you talk any louder? I can hardly hear you for the… traffic noise?’
‘I’m on Boulevard des Anglais – the Tour riders have just gone by and now it’s all the team cars and shit. Yes I’ve seen him but he doesn’t have a beard any more.’
‘You sure it was him?’
‘Absolutely certain.’
‘Fantastic – where did you see him?’
‘Here. Seconds ago – at the traffic island near the Negresco…’
‘Astrid? Astrid, come in.’ The phone went dead. ‘Shit!’ He called her back immediately. No reply. He needed help fast. He checked his address book and dialled another number. ‘Santoor? Darac. You know all those DCRI resources you offered to hurl at us?’
‘Uh… within reason, Captain, yes.’
‘Have you got a chopper over Boulevard des Anglais right now?’ Santoor made no reply. ‘Don’t fuck around. Have you?’
‘I’m flying in it as we speak.’
‘Good. This is what you do.’
* * *
The needle had pierced the soft flesh of Astrid’s arm in full view of a hundred people. The drug was the paralytic lancuronium. This time, it contained no delaying agent. Playing his part as theatrically as he could, Jarret took off Astrid’s skates, set up her plinth and stood her upon it. A non-living statue. The punters clucked their appreciation at the novel twist in the routine. Jarret unpacked her headdress and put it in place. Astrid stared blindly ahead. He made a show of whispering something in her ear.
‘I am truly sorry to have made you a victim, also. But I have something to accomplish that must not be stopped. You died for a just cause, Mademoiselle. The most just cause in history.’
He pulled the bike off its stand and began threading his way between the crowds streaming along the promenade. After a few moments, intermittent snorts from the throttle gave way to a more sustained burst.
Sure that he had gone, Medusa staggered from the plinth. Her slender arms felt as heavy as stone as she raised them to her headdress and pulled it off. Snakes hit the pavement in an explosion of electronic innards.
‘Is there a doctor here?’ she said, barely able to speak. ‘I need help. I’ve been poisoned.’
Laughter. The spectators were enjoying the whole fake injection shtick. There was even a fake bead of blood on her arm.
Astrid opened the plinth and with a colossal effort, took out her mobile. The keypad looked kilometres away. Somehow, she managed to enter the number.
* * *
Darac’s mobile rang.
‘Good, I thought we’d lost you. Go ahead, Astrid.’
‘He… injected me. Just now.’
‘What?’
‘He injected… In the arm, I…’
‘I’ve got you. Listen, you’re going to be alright, okay?
Help will be there any second. A helicopter.’
‘I pretended to be… paralysed. But…’
‘Don’t speak any more. They’ll fly you to Hôpital St Roch.’
Quizzical looks were shared around the room. The hospital had no helipad of its own and the standard protocol – landing the helicopter at the old port and then completing the journey by ambulance – would surely take too long.
Darac smothered the mouthpiece.
‘Granot – Foch is practically next door. Get them to clear a space on Rue des Postes so they can land on the street. Four good uniforms is all it should take.’
‘Yes.’ Granot picked up his phone. ‘Two, even.’
‘It will be there any second, Astrid. So hang on, hear me?’
The sound of blades. Amplified words ricocheted through the roar.
‘Landing. Clear a space but do not disperse. Clear a space. Do not disperse.’
‘There it is now. You’ll be in hospital in two minutes.’
‘Don’t go. Please…’
‘I have to make some quick calls. You’ll be okay, Astrid. Believe that.’
Back on the promenade, the helicopter landed, scattering the crowd like blown leaves. Two crew members ran towards the fallen statue. Santoor made straight for the spectators.
* * *
Darac called Deanna first. His team gathered around like an audience at a gig, he was trading fours with her before the helicopter had even touched down on the promenade. He ended the call by patching her through to the flight crew. Next was A and E at the hospital.
A huge break. It was his neighbour Suzanne who picked up. No need for ID questions or other time-wasting rigmarole. She remained silent as he reeled off everything she needed to know.
‘Deanna said to administer the neostigmine immediately. She’ll be with you as soon as she can.’
‘We’re on it, Paul. Out.’
The calls ended, Darac sank down on to the edge of his desk.
‘Now we wait. Again.’
Every face was tense. It was Frankie who spoke first.
‘What did Deanna say about Astrid’s chances?’
‘Too many unknown factors. But if she’s still conscious on arrival, there’s a chance.’
‘The poor girl.’
‘She helps us – helps us brilliantly – and this is her reward.’ Darac stared off, shaking his head. But then something hit him. ‘Astrid said she saw the guy “at the traffic island near the Negresco”, didn’t she? Not “just opposite the Negresco”, “just past the Negresco” or whatever. But the boulevard is completely closed for the Tour, isn’t it?’
Bonbon nodded.
‘It was probably just a manner of speaking.’
‘Perhaps but this girl’s very precise. And she said it before the bastard injected her, remember.’
‘But the only guy at the traffic island just now would have been a Garde Républicaine officer.’
‘What would he have been doing there?’
‘Warning the approaching peloton of the obstacle. That’s what they do all day when the Tour is on.’
Granot went over to the espresso machine.
‘Unless their orders were changed, I can even tell you which officer it was. A lad called David Jarret got that station. We talked about it in Monaco. He was really pleased about it. Prime spot.’
‘Jarret.’ Darac rolled the name around his mouth. ‘Jarret could be Djourescu given a Francophone makeover, couldn’t it?’
‘It could. So could Dauresse, his section leader, come to that. But this isn’t a fruitful avenue. These boys are clean cut. La crème de la crème.’
‘So was Vincent fucking Dantier.’
Exhaling deeply, Granot shovelled coffee into the holder.
‘Anyone join me?’
For once, there were no takers.
‘Let’s say the perpetrator is this Jarret.’ As if propelled by the gathering momentum of his thoughts, Darac shifted his weight forward. ‘As a police officer, he could have had access to the files we have. And he could have put the story together – as we have.’ He clicked his fingers as an obvious thought struck him. ‘He would have had to sign to see them. Archive will have the record.’
‘Having to sign for everything.’ Bonbon gave a little snort. ‘At last it might pay off.’
Darac picked up his desk phone but then put it straight back on to the cradle.
‘A problem. If it is this Jarret…’
‘It won’t be.’ Granot shook his head. ‘Alright, Vincent turns out to have been a human rat but he’s from a totally different world from the GR guys.’
‘If it’s Jarret – how did he tie Vincent Dantier’s name to the number 287 on the report? We only got to it via a personal photo.’
Granot held up his hands palms upwards.
‘Exactly. And as no visitor to Archive is going to be admitted to Agnès’s office…’
Darac was excited again.
‘No, it still holds. There’s a companion photo in Agnès’s apartment. And it’s stupidly easy to get into. It took us all of
five seconds.’
Frankie nodded, warming to the direction things were taking.
‘And we know the kidnapper cased the building at some point, don’t we? That’s how he knew where the security cameras were in the corridors and so on.’
Darac picked up the phone.
‘Just wait.’ Granot held up a ham of a hand. ‘How did he know to go looking there in the first place? You’re putting the cart before the horse.’
Darac smothered the mouthpiece.
‘We don’t know exactly what he knew to start with, do we? Maybe he knew quite a lot.’ He uncovered the mouthpiece. ‘Yes, Adèle? I need something else.’ He told her what he wanted. ‘I’ll hold the line.’
Looking tensely at his watch, Darac tapped the desk with a loose fist as he waited. What was happening at St Roch? Did they get Astrid there in time? And if they did, was she hanging on in there now? At least there was a chance. Had he done the right thing? Could he have got her there any quicker? How would Agnès have handled it? Agnès… When this thing was all over, Darac was going to insist she augmented proper security arrangements at her apartment. A ten-year-old child could break into the place.
He glanced at his watch once more. It felt like ten minutes had gone by but it was only two. He scanned the room. Having gone as far as they could for the moment, everyone seemed to be on downtime. Everyone except for Granot, to whom a terrible thought had just occurred. Moving with untypical anxiety, he began scrabbling through the papers on his desk.
‘I’m back.’
As Adèle began reeling off a list of names, Darac kept his eyes on Granot. The big man found what he was looking for almost immediately – Astrid’s flyer. Setting it down, he arranged his hands around it to mask the beard. Granot’s face emptied as if a tap had been turned. Scrunching up the sheet, he tossed it on to the desk like a card player throwing in a losing hand. At that same moment, Adèle read out the name of one David Henri Jarret.
‘Thanks, Adèle.’ Darac got to his feet. ‘Granot?’
‘Jarret met both the boss and Vincent at the briefing,’ he said, his eyes boring a hole through space. ‘Even shook their hands…’ He came to, suddenly. ‘That drawing’s been sitting on this desk for hours. Hours! It just never occurred to me…’
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