The Frozen Dead

by Bernard Minier

  Everyone was staring at the gendarme now.

  ‘And that’s not all,’ she said. ‘The airport at Biarritz kept a record of the American jet. Vincent Espérandieu then called his contact at Interpol, who contacted the FBI. They went to see the pilot today. He has formally identified Éric Lombard, and is prepared to testify.’

  Ziegler turned to look at Servaz.

  ‘Lombard may already know what we are up to,’ she said. ‘He probably has his own people at the FBI or the Ministry of the Interior.’

  Servaz raised his hand.

  ‘I’ve had two of my men posted outside the chateau since early evening,’ he said. ‘Ever since I began to suspect what was going on. If His Honour’s information is correct, Lombard is still there. Where is Vincent, by the way?’

  ‘He’s coming. He’ll be here in a few minutes,’ replied Ziegler.

  Servaz was trying to stand up, but his legs could barely support him.

  ‘You should get to hospital,’ said Ziegler. ‘You’re in no shape to take part in a raid. You need to have your stomach pumped. We don’t even know what kind of drugs Saint-Cyr forced down you.’

  ‘I’ll do that when it’s all over. This is my investigation, too. I’ll stay in the background,’ he added. ‘Unless Lombard lets us come in without a fuss – which would surprise me.’

  ‘Assuming he’s still there,’ said d’Humières.

  ‘Something tells me he is.’

  * * *

  Hirtmann listened to the wind. A real blizzard, he thought with a smile. This evening, sitting on his bed, he wondered what he would do first if he regained his freedom – a fantasy he envisaged often, and each time it led to long, delightful daydreams.

  In one of his favourite scenarios, he recovered the money and documents he had hidden in a cemetery in Savoie, near the Swiss border. One amusing detail: the money – 100,000 Swiss francs – and the fake ID were in a waterproof, insulated box, hidden in the coffin belonging to the mother of one of his victims – the very place his victim had told him about just before he killed her. With that money he would hire the cosmetic surgeon in the Var who used to join in the ‘Geneva soirées’; in another hiding place Hirtmann had stored a few videos that would be disastrous for the man’s reputation, whom he had had the presence of mind to spare during his trial. While he had his head wrapped in dressings, he would stay at the good doctor’s clinic in a room with a view onto the Mediterranean, and he would arrange for both a top-of-the-range sound system to listen to his beloved Mahler, and visits from a high-class call girl.

  His dreamy smile vanished abruptly. He placed his hand on his brow and made a face. This fucking treatment was giving him terrible headaches. That imbecile Xavier, and all those fucking moron psychologists … All the same, with their quack religion!

  He could feel the anger welling up. The fury found its way into his brain, gradually disconnecting all rationality until there was nothing left but a cloud of black ink spreading across the ocean of his thoughts, an eel slithering out of its hole to devour all lucidity. He felt like hurting someone, or pounding the wall with his fist. He clenched his teeth and rolled his head, moaning and whining like a cat being boiled alive, until at last he grew calm. Sometimes he found it incredibly difficult to control himself, but self-discipline helped. In the course of his various internments in psychiatric hospitals, he had devoted months to reading books by moronic psychiatrists; he had learned those mental prestidigitators’ little tricks, their illusionists’ schemes; again and again and again in the depths of his cell he had rehearsed, the way only an obsessive can. He knew their primary weakness: there was not a single psychiatrist on earth who didn’t think very highly of himself. Only one had guessed what he was up to and taken his books away. One in all the dozens he had met.

  Suddenly a harsh sound pierced his ears. He sat up straight, on edge. The siren out in the corridor: a deafening, searing sound.

  He scarcely had time to wonder what was going on before the lights went out. He found himself sitting in semi-darkness. The fire alarm!

  His heart began to pound. A fire at the Institute! This might be his chance …

  The door to his cell opened and Lisa Ferney strode in, her silhouette etched against the lurid orange light flickering through the door.

  In one hand she was holding a fleece windbreaker, a white hospital coat and trousers, and boots. She tossed them over to him.

  ‘Get dressed. Quickly!’

  On the table she put a pair of goggles and an anti-smoke mask.

  ‘Put those on, too. Hurry up!’

  ‘What’s going on out there?’ he asked as he hurried to put the clothes on. ‘Things not going so well? You need someone to create a diversion, is that it?’

  ‘You never believed in it, did you?’ she said, turning to him with a smile. ‘You only did it because you found it amusing. You never believed I would keep my part of the bargain.’ She stared at him without flinching; Lisa was one of the few people who could. ‘What did you have planned for me, Julian? Were you going to punish me?’

  She glanced out of the window.

  ‘Get a move on!’ she said. ‘We haven’t got all night.’

  ‘Where are the guards?’

  ‘I’ve overpowered Mr Atlas. The others are running about trying to prevent the inmates from escaping. The fire has deactivated the security alarms. Open house tonight. Hurry up! There is a team of gendarmes downstairs; the fire and the other inmates will keep them busy for a while.’

  He put the mask over his face. Lisa was satisfied with the result. With his white coat and mask and the dim lighting, he was almost unrecognisable – except for his height.

  ‘Go downstairs to the basement.’ She handed him a key. ‘Once you’re down there, all you have to do is follow the arrows painted on the walls; they’ll take you straight to a hidden exit. I’ve kept my part of the bargain. Now you have to keep yours.’

  ‘My part of the bargain?’ His voice sounded strange behind the mask.

  She took a gun out of her pocket and handed it to him.

  ‘You’ll find Diane Berg in the basement. Take her with you. And kill her. Leave her somewhere out there, then vanish.’

  * * *

  He could smell the smoke the moment he was out in the corridor. The blinding flashes of the fire alarm jarred his eyes, and the nearby wailing of the siren hurt his eardrums. The corridor was deserted, and all the doors were open. As he went by, Hirtmann could see that the cells were empty.

  Mr Atlas was lying on the floor of the security cabin with a nasty wound at the back of his head. There was blood on the floor. A great deal of blood. They went through the open security door and this time they saw the smoke coming up the stairs.

  ‘Hurry!’ said Lisa Ferney, the first note of panic in her voice.

  The glow from the alarm set her long chestnut hair ablaze and painted her face a grotesque orange colour, deepening the shadows around her eyes and along her nose.

  They hurtled down the stairs. The smoke was thicker than ever. Lisa coughed. Once they had reached the ground floor, she pointed to the last flight of stairs to the basement.

  ‘Hit me,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hit me! On the nose. Quickly!’

  He hesitated for only a moment. She fell backwards when his fist struck her. She let out a cry and held her hands to her face. He gave a brief look of satisfaction at the spurt of blood, then disappeared.

  * * *

  She watched him dissolve into the smoke. The pain was strong but, more than anything, she was worried. Even before she started the fire she had seen that the gendarmes hidden on the mountain were heading for the Institute. What were they doing here if that cop was dead, and Diane was still tied up, lifeless, downstairs?

  Something hadn’t gone as planned.

  She got back up. She had blood on her chin and her hospital coat. She walked unsteadily towards the exit.

  * * *

  Servaz was s
tanding outside the chateau. With him were Maillard, Ziegler, Confiant, Cathy d’Humières, Espérandieu, Samira, Pujol and Simeoni. Behind them were three vans from the gendarmerie, with armed men inside. Servaz had rung twice at the gate.

  ‘Well?’ said Cathy d’Humières, banging her gloved hands together to keep warm.

  ‘No answer.’

  They had trampled the snow outside the gate, their footprints crossing and overlapping.

  ‘There can’t be no one there,’ said Ziegler. ‘Even if Lombard is away, there are always guards and staff. They’re refusing to answer.’

  Their breath turned to white vapour, borne away on the wind.

  The prosecutor looked at her gold watch. Thirty-six minutes past midnight.

  ‘Is everyone in position?’ she asked.

  In less than five minutes the search would begin in an apartment in Paris in the eighth arrondissement, not far from the Étoile. Two frozen civilians were pacing back and forth off to one side: Dr Castaing and Maître Gamelin, the solicitor, required as neutral witnesses in the event of the proprietor’s absence.

  ‘Maillard, ask Paris if they’re ready. Martin, how do you feel? You look exhausted. Perhaps it would be better if you waited out here and let Captain Ziegler take charge? She’ll manage very well.’

  Maillard hurried over to one of the vans. Servaz gazed at Cathy d’Humières with a smile. She had let her scarf and her dyed blonde hair flutter loose in the storm; apparently anger and indignation had prevailed over looks.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ he said.

  They could hear shouting from inside the van. Maillard was losing his temper: ‘Since I told you we can’t! What? Where?… Yes, I’ll tell them right away!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked d’Humières when he came rushing out.

  ‘Panic stations – there’s a fire over at the Institute! Our men are there, and it’s all they can do to keep the inmates from escaping. The security isn’t working. We have to get over there as quickly as possible.’

  Servaz stopped to think. This was no coincidence.

  ‘It’s a diversion,’ he said.

  Cathy d’Humières gave him a solemn look.

  ‘I know.’ She turned to Maillard. ‘What did they say, exactly?’

  ‘That the Institute is on fire. All the patients are outside, with only a handful of guards and the members of our team who were up there to watch over them. The situation could disintegrate at any moment. Apparently several inmates have already managed to get away. They’re trying to catch them.’

  Servaz went pale.

  ‘Residents of Unit A?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘They won’t get far in this snow and cold.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Martin, but this is an emergency,’ said d’Humières decisively. ‘I can leave you your team, but I have to send as many agents as possible over there. I’ll ask for reinforcements.’

  Servaz looked at Ziegler.

  ‘Leave me the captain, too,’ he said.

  ‘You want to go in there without support? They might be armed.’

  ‘Or there might be no one.’

  ‘I’ll go with Commandant Servaz,’ said Ziegler. ‘I don’t think there’s any particular danger. Lombard is a murderer, not a gangster.’

  D’Humières looked at them all.

  ‘Fine. Confiant, you stay with them. But don’t do anything rash. At the first hint of trouble, you wait for reinforcements, is that clear?’

  ‘You stay back,’ said Servaz to Confiant. ‘I’ll call you for the search as soon as the coast is clear. We won’t go in unless we’re sure there’s no danger.’

  Confiant nodded sombrely. Cathy d’Humières checked her watch again.

  ‘Right, let’s get over to the Institute,’ she said, heading towards her car.

  They looked at Maillard and the other gendarmes climbing back into their vans. A moment later they were gone.

  * * *

  The gendarme who was watching the basement emergency exit put his hand on his gun when the metal door swung open. He saw a tall man come climbing up the steps with a woman in his arms; he was wearing a white lab coat and a mask with an air filter.

  ‘She’s passed out,’ said the man through his mask. ‘The smoke … Do you have a car? An ambulance? She has to see a doctor. Quickly!’

  The gendarme hesitated. Most of the residents and guards had assembled on the other side of the building. He didn’t know whether there was a doctor among them. His orders were to keep an eye on this exit.

  ‘We must hurry,’ insisted the man. ‘I’ve already tried to bring her round. Every minute is vital! Have you got a car, yes or no?’

  The man’s voice was deep, cavernous and full of authority.

  ‘I’ll fetch someone,’ said the gendarme, leaving at a run.

  A minute later a car pulled up outside the door. The gendarme got out of the passenger seat, and the driver – another gendarme – motioned to Hirtmann to get in the back. The moment he had settled Diane on the seat, the car took off. They went round the building and Hirtmann saw familiar faces – residents and staff – clustered well away from the fire. A good part of the Institute was already engulfed by flames. Firefighters were unrolling a hose from their engine. Another hose was already spraying the building, but far too late – it wouldn’t be enough to save it. Outside the entrance, paramedics were unfolding a gurney they had taken from the back of an ambulance.

  As the burning buildings receded in the distance behind them, Hirtmann gazed at the back of the driver’s neck, and felt the cold metal of the gun in his pocket.

  * * *

  ‘How do we get through the gate?’

  Servaz examined it. The wrought iron looked strong, and only a battering ram would get the better of it. He turned to look at Ziegler. She pointed to the ivy winding its way round one of the pillars.

  ‘We’ll have to climb it.’

  In full view of the camera, he thought.

  ‘Any idea how many people are inside?’ asked Samira.

  She was checking the chamber of her gun.

  ‘Maybe there’s no one; maybe they all got away,’ said Ziegler.

  ‘Or maybe there are ten, twenty or thirty of them,’ Espérandieu remarked.

  He pulled out his Sig Sauer and a brand-new magazine.

  ‘In that case, we have to hope they respect the law,’ joked Samira. ‘This is a twist: murderers going over the wall at the same time in two different places.’

  ‘We have no proof that Lombard had time to go over the wall,’ answered Servaz. ‘I’m sure he’s in there. That’s why he’d like to see us all rush over to the Institute.’

  Confiant said nothing. He was glaring at Servaz. They saw Ziegler grab hold of the ivy and, with great ease, scramble up the pillar, grab the closed-circuit camera at the top, regain her balance and jump down on the other side. Servaz motioned to Pujol and Simeoni to keep watch with the young judge. Then he took a deep breath and followed Ziegler’s example, although he found it a lot harder, particularly with the flak jacket under his jumper. Espérandieu brought up the rear.

  Servaz felt a sharp pain on landing and cried out. When he took a step, he felt the pain again. He had twisted his ankle.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ he answered curtly.

  To prove his point, he set off with a limp, pain shooting through his leg with every step. He clenched his teeth. He made sure that, for once, he hadn’t forgotten his gun.

  ‘Is it loaded?’ asked Ziegler next to him. ‘Have a bullet ready in the chamber. Now. And keep it in your hand.’

  He swallowed. Her comment set his nerves on edge.

  It was five minutes past one.

  Servaz lit a cigarette and gazed at the chateau at the end of the long, paved avenue, lined with centuries-old oak trees. The façade and the white lawns were brightly lit, the topiary animals as well; small projectors were shining in the snow. A few windows glowed
at the centre of the building. As if they were expected.

  Other than that, nothing was moving. No sign of life in the windows. They had reached the end of the road, he thought. A chateau. Like in a fairy tale. A fairy tale for adults.

  He’s in there. He hasn’t left. Everything will be decided here.

  It’s been written. From the very start.

  There was something phantasmagorical about the chateau in that artificial light. Its white façade was truly resplendent. Once again, Servaz thought of what Propp had said: Look for white.

  Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier?

  * * *

  ‘Stop.’

  The driver turned his head slightly towards the rear without taking his eyes off the road.

  ‘Pardon?’

  Hirtmann put the cold metal of the silencer on the gendarme’s neck.

  ‘Stop,’ he said.

  The car slowed. Hirtmann waited until the driver had pulled over to the side, then pulled the trigger. The man’s skull exploded into a puree of blood, bones and brains, splattering the upper left-hand side of the windscreen. A bitter smell of powder filled the car. Long brown streaks trickled down the glass and Hirtmann told himself he would have to clean it before he could set off again.

  He turned and looked at Diane; she was still sleeping. He pulled off his mask, got out, then opened the door on the driver’s side and pulled him out. He left the body in the snow and searched for a rag. He wiped off the blood splatter as best he could, then went to the back of the car and grabbed Diane. She was still droopy, but he sensed it wouldn’t be long before she emerged from the mist of chloroform. He settled her on the passenger seat, fastened her belt tightly, then went to sit behind the wheel with the gun between his thighs. In the snow and the cold night, the gendarme’s still-warm body began steaming, as if it were being consumed.

  * * *

  Ziegler stopped at the end of the long, oak-lined approach, at the edge of the large esplanade outside the chateau. The wind was arctic. The large topiary animals, the garden borders dusted with snow, the white façade … everything seemed so unreal.

  And calm. Deceptively calm, thought Servaz, all his senses on alert.