by Blake Banner
We left him sitting in his office and stepped out into the late September sunshine and climbed back into the car. I fired up the engine and moved away, down the sad, soulless street. It was a short drive, left onto Rue Marcadet and then the second right onto Rue Simart. Njal pointed to a space about two thirds of the way up and I pulled in, parked and killed the engine. I sat staring at the street for a while, turning over in my mind the implications of what had happened.
Njal spoke in his blunt, unemotional voice. “Are we fucked?”
I shook my head. “No. Not yet.”
“He is a problem. He is a liability, and a danger.”
“I know.” I looked him in the eye and nodded. I said again, “I know.”
We climbed out and let ourselves in through the large, double street doors. Inside, it was cool and shaded. There was a broad hall and a wide stairwell with an old elevator running up the center of a 19th century staircase, with decorated, tiled steps and dark, iron and mahogany banisters. We ascended the stairs to the fourth floor and let ourselves into what had once been a spacious, elegant apartment, with high ceilings and large, bright rooms where tall, shuttered windows with small, wrought iron balconies overlooked the street.
But the paint on the walls and the ceilings was peeling, the stucco was chipped, the light fitments were cheap, ugly plastic, the furniture was from junk shops and there was a dead, depressing echo to the rooms. Like so much else in Paris, it was a sad echo of a more sophisticated, elegant time.
We dumped our stuff in the bedrooms and Njal leaned on the doorjamb while I hung up my shirts in an old, ’30s walnut wardrobe.
“OK, so we must wait till tonight for the equipment. That is not a problem. We have some coffee and we make our first visit to the Gare du Nord. There we can get something to eat.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
We spent the day casing the Gare du Nord, deciding where we would stand, pacing out the distances and calculating how long each phase would take. It wasn’t easy. We had to be aware of the security cameras and not being too conspicuous. That meant not making our actions too repetitive, returning to the same places too often and standing too many times in the same place. But with a combination of careful observation and allowing other people to do the pacing for us, and a few judicious trips of our own, we were able to establish exactly where Njal was to stand and wait for Timmerman and his boys, exactly where I was to intercept them to avoid being filmed on the security cameras, and how long it would take to get from there to the public toilets.
At seven that evening, we packed up and went home. We spent some time talking through details, then prepared an envelope for Emile. At nine, we went out to have something to eat, and drove to the meeting to collect the package.
EIGHT
Rue de L’Evangile is a grim, unhappy street that runs beside the old, disused railway lines that Parisians call ‘the belt’. At night, by the light of the tall, orange street lamps, it’s even more grim and unhappy than it is by day. All along the right side of the road, bordering the tracks, there are rundown, dilapidated buildings set behind a high, gray, stone wall covered in peeling posters, faded graffiti and filth. The wall goes on for maybe a quarter of a mile, and at the end there is a large, green, iron gate which, when open, gives access to an asphalt road which leads down to the abandoned tracks and buildings. It’s a no-go area for the cops, and anyone who likes to keep their vital organs on the inside of their bodies.
As Emile had said, when we got there, the gate was open. We turned in off the road and moved slowly down the track. In the mirror, by the faint light from the road, I saw the gate being pushed closed by a guy in a hoodie.
The path descended rapidly into darkness. It led through a large, abandoned parking lot outside a boarded up warehouse, across a broad stretch of wasteland to a second parking lot outside another, larger abandoned warehouse. Through the twin cones of yellow light from the headlamps, we could see where the boards had been ripped from the gaping, black windows and the doors had been forced open. Outside the hollow, dark door, there was an SUV. It looked like a Toyota. There were two guys leaning against it. One had short, tightly curled hair, the other had long dreadlocks that hung down to his elbows. They were both big.
Beside the SUV, there was a Mercedes. Emile was sitting on the hood of the Merc watching us. We stopped the car, facing them, and climbed out. I could see now that the two guys leaning against the SUV had assault rifles discreetly held by their sides. Emile was grinning.
“Lacklan, so nice of you to come, and your friend. It is always such a pleasah to see you. How was your day?”
I snarled at him, “Cut the crap, Emile. I told you I’m on the clock. Where is the package?”
He wasn’t phased. He retained his smile. “It is here. Don’t you worry about that. But my associates would like to know for sure that you have the money with you.”
I could feel the hot anger beginning to stir in my gut. I said: “You associates can go and fuck themselves, Emile. How fucking stupid do you think I am? You have exactly ten seconds to show me the damned package. If I don’t see it by then, I am going to tie your colon around your neck and hang you from it. Am I being too subtle for you?”
He made a placating gesture with his hands that managed to make me more mad. “OK, OK, let’s not get ovah excited. Everything can be sorted out with dialogue…”
“You don’t see a damned thing till I see the package. Five seconds, Emile, and counting. …”
He stood. “Very well, I think I can agree to your seeing the package. But once you have seen it, I must insist, on behalf of my associates, that we see the money.”
“You have two seconds.”
He jerked his head at the two guys by the SUV. They climbed into the vehicle, the lights and the engine came on, and it drove in a wide arc around the Mercedes and into the dark warehouse. Emile said, “Please, come with me.”
We left the car where it was and followed him in. The only light was a dim luminescence that filtered through the high, broken windows, and the glow from the SUV’s headlamps. The car stood facing us, about fifty yards inside the vast, hangar-like structure. The place seemed to be empty but for scattered, random clusters of rubble and collapsed cardboard boxes. Our footsteps echoed as though we were in a cathedral, and Emile’s voice seemed to rebound from the walls and the great cavity under the ceiling.
“We do not want this to become an antipathetic event. It is important for everybody that we remain good friends for the future. So I am doing everything in my power to meet your demands.” He gestured at where one of his guys pulled a box from the back of the car. He put it on the floor and we all stood looking at it in the glow of the lamps.
I looked at Emile. “Are you kidding me?”
“No, Lacklan, I am very serious.”
“It’s a box. Open it.”
“I really need to see the money. I cannot…”
“You think I am going to show you the money, when you have two guys with assault rifles in an abandoned warehouse, on the strength of showing me a cardboard box? You really think I am that stupid, Emile?” I pointed at him. “Let me tell you something. You are building up a heap of trouble for yourself. Show me what’s in the box or we walk out of here and report back that the delivery was not made and that you appropriated it.”
“Please.” Again the smile and the placating hands. “Let us not escalate into an unfortunate situation.”
“Open the box, Emile.”
He sighed. His smile was becoming strained. He pulled a switch blade from his jacket and squatted down behind the carton. He slit the packing tape, then folded the leaves back and began to extract items, naming them and glancing at them as he set them on the bare, concrete floor.
“One cake of C4, one Sig Sauer p226, brand new, very nice. One extended magazine, one box of 9mm ammunition. Two doses Carfentanil…” He squeezed his eyes tight and wheezed. “I think, maybe, we are going elephant hunting!” He placed the
two applicators on the floor next to the Sig, then pulled out a small box. “And six wireless detonators.” He looked up at me. “You see, your lack of trust was completely misplaced. Everything is correct, and our interaction is still based on a deep and old friendship. I am not tricking you. You can see.” He gestured at the items on the floor. “All present and correct.”
I hunkered down and gave the stuff a cursory examination. It was all there, like he said. I checked the Sig and the ammunition. It was all good. He said:
“So, now it is my turn to be a little bit insistent. Please, where is the cash?”
I started putting the items back in the box. “I’ll take you to it.”
I picked up the box and stood. Emile simpered. “Pahaps,” he said, “It would be better if one of my associates took the box, until our negotiations are concluded.”
I stared at him with dead eyes.
“I ordered these goods, I have received them and I have paid for them according to the agreed method. I will carry them to my car. You have changed the rules unilaterally, Emile, and by rights I should shoot you and your damned associates where you stand. But for the sake of peace, and because I am in a hurry, I am going to pay you your extortion money, but don’t push it, Emile, or I might just change my mind.”
Njal said, “We don’t want to make the exchange outside. I bring the car.”
Emile and his associates exchanged nervous glances, but I tossed Njal the keys and he walked away, out into the night. I studied Emile’s face a moment and laughed. “Don’t look so worried, you changed the game, now you have to play it the new way.”
Two minutes later, the car rolled in and stopped in front of the SUV with its lights on full beam. Emile’s associates shielded their eyes and moved away, coming around the side of the car. Njal got out and I moved to the trunk, holding the box. I opened the hatch one-handed, and there was a big sports bag taking up all the space. Emile and his associates joined me, probably expecting to see the money there. I looked at Njal and said, “You got the envelope for Emile?”
He said, “Yuh,” and pulled a fat, manila envelope from the glove compartment. Emile grinned and moved toward him. Dreadlocks on my right made to follow. I shoved the box at the guy on my left and said, “Here, hold this while I make space.”
He looked surprised and clutched it instinctively. I leaned down, moved the sports bag out of the way and took hold of the kitchen knife that was lying underneath it. The movement that followed was fast and fluid. I laid my left elbow on the box and pushed down, and at the time moment I thrust the big kitchen knife into his throat, with the sharp edge of the blade facing out, so it sliced through his carotid artery. It was a silent death, because his windpipe was severed and he couldn’t scream. There were two ejaculated spurts of blood from his neck, but he bled out almost immediately. As he folded and fell, I took the box and put it in the trunk.
Three or four seconds had passed and Emile and his remaining associate, engrossed in the thick envelope Njal was handing over, had not noticed what had happened. They became aware when he hit the ground with a loud thud. Then they looked around, but then it was too late.
I frowned into Dreadlock’s frowning face, said, “What?” and drove the kitchen knife home into his fifth intercostals. He went into spasm. Emile screamed like a woman and ran. Njal took aim, but I ran after him. Shots could attract unwanted attention.
He was fast. As I skidded out of the warehouse door, he was arriving at his Mercedes. I sprinted and got to him as he was wrenching open the door. He whimpered as he clambered in. I hurled myself against the door, slamming it on one arm and a leg. He cried out. I wrenched open the door, took a fistful of his shirt and dragged him out. He flailed, swinging ineffectual punches at my face, clawing at me with his fingernails.
I snatched hold of his right wrist with my right hand and twisted inward, forcing him away from me. I palmed his elbow with my left hand, made him run and stagger a couple of paces and then he fell to his knees. I levered up slightly and dislocated his shoulder. He screamed again, saying over and over, “Oh, God, oh, God…”
I locked my right arm around his neck, took hold of my left elbow and squeezed hard with my left forearm. He went quiet, but his legs were kicking. I lifted and twisted savagely, felt his trachea crunch, then the vertebrae clunked. His arms and legs twitched, then after a moment, he went still.
When I went back inside, Njal had the knife and was squeezing it into the other associate’s hand. He glanced at me. “You leave any prints?”
“I wiped them off with my sleeve.”
We dumped Emile in the back of the Mercedes and drove him into the warehouse, then wiped the car clean of prints.
Njal climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. I got in and as we drove back toward the gate, he said, “I took their wallets and their IDs. We can use them for the bodyguards at the station.”
I nodded.
He went on. “What you wanna do about the fourth guy, the one who let us in?”
“I guess it’s his lucky day.”
He nodded that he agreed. He was still there, in his hoodie, guarding the gate when we arrived. He pulled it open for us and we drove out and left, back toward the Place Hébert.
Njal poked a cigarette in his mouth and lit up. “How long before somebody notice he has disappeared? How long before they look for him, or his associates, in the warehouse?”
“A day, at least.”
“We are one mile away, like the crow flies. Our car has been seen going in and coming out the warehouse.”
I nodded. “We need to dump the car. We can use public transport tomorrow. By the time somebody notices he’s missing and decides to look for him, we’ll be in Spain. We are still on plan.”
He nodded slowly. “Yuh…”
“We proceed exactly according to plan. Nothing has changed.”
“OK.”
We had pulled onto the Rue Ordener. I said, “Pull over here and let me out. I’ll go back to the apartment. You take the car and dump it, preferably somewhere where it’s likely to get stolen. Tomorrow we walk to the station. What is it, a mile?”
“About that, yuh. OK, I see you in half an hour.”
I got out and watched him drive away. Then I walked the three hundred yards to the apartment, keeping my head down and my hands in my pockets. Nobody spoke to me and nobody approached me. This was a place where people had learned to mind their own business.
Back at the apartment, I went to the kitchen, dumped the box on the blue, Formica table, and made a pot of coffee and laced it with a generous shot of whiskey. Then I sat, took the Sig from the box and dismantled it, cleaned and oiled it and put it together again, making sure it was in perfect working order. After that, I loaded the extended magazine, rammed it home into the butt and slipped it in my waistband.
Then I took the cake of C4, broke off a chunk two inches across and worked it into a ball which I flattened out, so it was half an inch deep and two inches in diameter.
In the cutlery drawer, I found a table spoon. I bent the handle back and forth a few times until it broke off, then I pressed the cake of C4 into the stainless steel cup. I set up the detonator with my cell, pressed it into the cake, and sealed the whole lot with a couple of strips of the high bonding tape. I dropped that into my pants pocket, then put the roll of tape in my jacket pocket.
Ten minutes later, Njal let himself in and closed the door. He leaned in the doorway, looking at the stuff on the table. “I left it like a mile away. Is pretty rough neighborhood. I left the doors unlocked. The keys I put on the sidewalk, six, seven feet away from the car, like I dropped them.”
“That should do it.” I leaned over, took the two applicators from the box and handed them to him. “Be real careful with these. Just touching this stuff can kill you.”
He took them and looked at them. “Elephant tranquilizer.” He put them in his pocket, then poured himself a coffee and laced it with Jameson’s.
“So, tomor
row,” he said, and held out his cup to toast.
“Tomorrow,” I said, and we drank.
NINE
By Saturday morning, we had the operation down as tight as we could get it. We had everything ready and in place, including three tickets on the 207 to Madrid from the Gare du Lyon. Njal had made the call to confirm that the car would be waiting for us on the Calle de Murcia, which was apparently four hundred yards walk from Madrid Atocha station.
“A blue Toyota Land Cruiser,” he told me. “It will be outside the fruit shop, by the bar El Paso.”
At one fifty that afternoon, we pushed through the plate glass doors that form the entrance in the huge, stone façade of the Gare du Nord. The concourse is always crammed with stalls and stands and banks of money changing machines. On that particular day, it was also swarming with people going away for the weekend, or coming to spend the weekend in Paris. We had expected that. I took up my position, leaning against the wall, and started staring at my cell phone like there was something really interesting going on on the screen.
Njal shouldered his way through the crowd on his long, lanky legs, with his hands thrust in his pockets, staring around him like he was looking for somebody. He found his position by the ticket barrier and after ten minutes, he took out his cell, too. I reflected for a moment on the sad truth that there is no better way to blend in today than by staring like a moron at your cell phone. But I didn’t reflect for long.
Five minutes later, the 207 from Brussels was pulling in, slow and smooth as a giant, steel worm, to the platform just behind Njal. It came to a stop and after a moment the doors opened with a loud hiss and it began to disgorge long streams of people.
I pressed the speed dial, heard it ring and put the phone to my ear. After a second, I watched Njal do the same. I said:
“Hello darling, have you missed me?”
“Yuh, no, this is kind of disturbing.”