THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

by Mario Reading

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Ta­ke any of the de­tec­ti­ves that you can find with you. If you can’t find any, go alo­ne. I will send them on be­hind you.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And Mac­ron?

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘No un­ne­ces­sary he­ro­ics. The­re are li­ves at sta­ke he­re.’

  56

  The li­fe-trans­for­ming idea ca­me to Mac­ron abo­ut six mi­nu­tes in­to his jo­ur­ney. It se­emed so simp­le - and so lo­gi­cal - that he was so­rely temp­ted to pull the car over on to the hard sho­ul­der to af­ford him­self a lit­tle ext­ra el­bow ro­om to con­si­der it.

  Why not think out­si­de the lo­op for a chan­ge? Use his ini­ti­ati­ve? Why not ta­ke ad­van­ta­ge of the eye-man’s ig­no­ran­ce abo­ut the sec­ret con­nec­ti­on bet­we­en Sa­bir and the po­li­ce? It was the sing­le ed­ge they had on him. He wo­uld be ex­pec­ting only Sa­bir and the gypsy to co­me ri­ding to the girl’s res­cue. Why not ma­ke use of that very fact to pull off an am­bush?

  Mac­ron had be­en pre­sent at only one sing­le po­li­ce si­ege du­ring the co­ur­se of his ca­re­er. He had just tur­ned twenty and had pas­sed his po­li­ce pri­ma­ri­es six days be­fo­re. Ne­igh­bo­urs had re­por­ted se­e­ing a man thre­ate­ning his wi­fe with a gun. A bu­il­ding in the 13th ar­ron­dis­se­ment had be­en se­aled off. Mac­ron had be­en all but for­got­ten abo­ut. His po­li­ce men­tor at the ti­me had be­en a tra­ined ne­go­ti­ator and had be­en cal­led in at the very last mo­ment to de­fu­se the si­tu­ati­on. Mac­ron had as­ked if he might co­me along as an ob­ser­ver. The man had sa­id yes. Just so long as he kept out of the way. Far out of the way.

  Fi­ve mi­nu­tes in­to the si­ege the ne­go­ti­ati­ons had bro­ken down. The wi­fe had ma­de a com­ment to her hus­band which had dri­ven him over the brink. He had kil­led her, kil­led the ne­go­ti­ator and then kil­led him­self.

  It was the very first ti­me that Mac­ron had se­en and un­ders­to­od the in­na­te fal­li­bi­lity of the po­li­ce mac­hi­ne. Which was only as go­od as the cogs that ma­de it up. If one of the cogs skip­ped a ratc­het, the who­le mac­hi­ne co­uld go ka­put. Fas­ter than the Ti­ta­nic.

  He had li­ked that men­tor. Mac­ron had co­un­ted on the man to mo­ni­tor and en­co­ura­ge his ca­re­er. Shep­herd him thro­ugh his ro­okie-ship.

  After the si­ege he had be­en for­got­ten abo­ut a se­cond ti­me. As go­od as aban­do­ned. No mo­re men­tors. No mo­re hel­ping hands up the gre­asy po­le. And now it was all hap­pe­ning aga­in. The Mar­se­il­la­is de­tec­ti­ves wo­uld co­me in and ta­ke over his ca­se. Cosy up to Cal­que. Shunt Mac­ron to the si­de­li­nes. Ta­ke all the cre­dit that was his by right.

  The eye-man had hurt him. On­ce, per­so­nal­ly, out in the fi­eld and on­ce, pro­fes­si­onal­ly, on the ro­ad to Mil­lau. And now the man was sit­ting, li­ke a sta­ked-out pi­ge­on, in a par­ti­al­ly lit ro­om, ex­pec­ting to do­mi­na­te pro­ce­edings for the third ti­me.

  But Mac­ron wo­uld be the spo­ke in his mac­hi­ne. He had a gun. He had the cru­ci­al ele­ment of surp­ri­se. The eye-man had ma­de him­self a sit­ting duck. Who wo­uld know, in the cha­os of a sho­oto­ut, what had re­al­ly go­ne down?

  If he kil­led the eye-man, his ca­re­er wo­uld be ma­de. He wo­uld fo­re­ver re­ma­in the man who had crac­ked the twin fa­ta­li­ti­es of the Pa­ris gypsy ca­se. The gypsy didn’t mat­ter, of co­ur­se. But se­cu­rity gu­ards we­re ho­no­rary po­li­ce - at le­ast when it ca­me to be­ing mur­de­red. Mac­ron co­uld al­re­ady ima­gi­ne the envy of his pe­ers; the ad­mi­ra­ti­on of his fi­anc­ée; the grud­ging res­pect from his nor­mal­ly de­tac­hed fat­her; the tri­ump­hant re­ven­ge of his downt­rod­den mot­her who had fo­ught long and hard for his right to le­ave the ba­kery and at­tend po­li­ce col­le­ge.

  Yes. This was it. This wo­uld be Pa­ul Eric Mac­ron’s mo­ment of truth.

  57

  Sa­bir was stan­ding by the si­de of the ro­ad, just as ar­ran­ged. Mac­ron re­cog­ni­sed him im­me­di­ately from the ima­ge he kept on his cel­lpho­ne. Sa­bir had lost we­ight in the in­ter­ve­ning pe­ri­od and his exp­res­si­on lac­ked so­me of the bump­ti­o­us self-con­fi­den­ce he exu­ded in the pub­li­city pho­tog­raph they had down­lo­aded from his agency web­si­te. Now his fa­ce lo­oked was­hed out in the ar­ti­fi­ci­al light from the sta­ti­onary Sim­ca’s he­ad­lights - an air­port fa­ce - the fa­ce of a man in end­less tran­sit.

  The idi­ot was even strip­ped to the wa­ist. Why had the ot­her mo­to­rist stop­ped? If Mac­ron, as a ci­vi­li­an, had hap­pe­ned upon a half na­ked-man, in the mid­dle of a lo­nely ro­ad, at dusk, he wo­uld ha­ve hur­ri­ed on past and left him to the next fo­ol down the li­ne. Or cal­led the po­li­ce. Not ris­ked a mug­ging or a car-nap­ping by stop­ping to pick him up. Pe­op­le we­re stran­ge, so­me­ti­mes.

  Mac­ron drew up be­si­de the Sim­ca, his eyes scan­ning the ro­ad for traps. At this sta­ge he wo­uldn’t put anyt­hing past the eye-man. Even set­ting up an am­bush, with Sa­bir as the ba­it, in or­der to pro­cu­re him­self a po­li­ce hos­ta­ge. ‘Are you alo­ne? Is it just you two he­re? Whe­re’s the ot­her gypsy?’

  ‘You me­an Ale­xi? Ale­xi Du­fon­ta­ine? He’s inj­ured. I’ve left him with the hor­se.’

  ‘The hor­se?’

  ‘We ro­de in. At le­ast Ale­xi did.’

  Mac­ron sif­ted a lit­tle air thro­ugh his front te­eth. ‘And you, Mon­si­e­ur. You de­ci­ded to lend this man yo­ur pho­ne?’

  The far­mer duc­ked his he­ad. ‘Yes. Yes. He was stan­ding in the ro­ad with his hands held up. I ne­arly struck him with my car. He sa­id he had to call the po­li­ce. Are you the po­li­ce? What is go­ing on he­re?’

  Mac­ron sho­wed the man his war­rant card. ‘I’m go­ing to re­cord yo­ur na­me and ad­dress on my cel­lpho­ne and ta­ke a pic­tu­re of you. With yo­ur per­mis­si­on, of co­ur­se. Then you may go. We will con­tact you la­ter if we ne­ed to.’

  ‘What’s hap­pe­ning he­re?’

  ‘Yo­ur na­me, Sir?’

  Once the for­ma­li­ti­es we­re over, Sa­bir and Mac­ron watc­hed the Sim­ca di­sap­pe­ar in­to the dark­ness.

  Sa­bir tur­ned to­wards the po­li­ce­man. ‘When is Cap­ta­in Cal­que co­ming?’

  ‘Cap­ta­in Cal­que is not co­ming. He is co­or­di­na­ting the ope­ra­ti­on from the gen­dar­me­rie in Les Sa­in­tes-Ma­ri­es. The pa­ra­mi­li­ta­ri­es will be he­re in two ho­urs.’

  ‘The Hell you say? You told me fi fty mi­nu­tes. You pe­op­le must be crazy. The eye-man has had Yo­la stan­ding on a sto­ol for God knows how long, with a no­ose aro­und her neck and a sack co­ve­ring her he­ad. She must be sca­red wit­less. She’ll fall. We ne­ed an am­bu­lan­ce on standby. Pa­ra­me­dics. A fuc­king he­li­cop­ter.’

  ‘Calm yo­ur­self, Sa­bir. The­re’s an on­go­ing cri­sis in Mar­se­il­le. The de­tach­ment of CRS we wo­uld nor­mal­ly be co­un­ting on for ope­ra­ti­ons of this na­tu­re are fully oc­cu­pi­ed with ot­her mat­ters. We ha­ve had to ad­dress our­sel­ves to Mont­pel­li­er ins­te­ad. Per­mis­si­ons ha­ve had to be gi­ven. Iden­ti­ti­es chec­ked. That all adds to the ti­me fra­me.’ Mac­ron was as­to­nis­hed at how easily the li­es trip­ped off his ton­gue.

  ‘What are we go­ing to do then? Just wa­it? She’ll ne­ver hold out that long. And ne­it­her will Ale­xi. He’ll crack and go po­we­ring in. And so will I. If he go­es, I go.’

  ‘No you won’t.’ Mac­ron tap­ped the wa­ist of his blo­uson, just abo­ve the hip. ‘I ha­ve a pis­tol. If ne­ces­sary, I will hand­cuff both of you to my car and le­ave you for my col­le­agu­es to find. You, Sa­bir, are still wan­ted for mur­der. And I ha­ve re­ason to sus­pe
ct that yo­ur com­pa­ni­ons - Du­fon­ta­ine and the girl - ha­ve be­en using this ho­use il­le­gal­ly. Ha­ve you any idea who it ac­tu­al­ly be­longs to? Or ha­ve you just be­en ho­use-sit­ting on spec?’

  Sa­bir ig­no­red him. He po­in­ted up the track le­ading to­wards the ho­use. ‘When’s yo­ur lo­cal back-up co­ming? You ne­ed to cut thro­ugh all this bul­lshit, sur­ro­und the pla­ce and ma­ke im­me­di­ate con­tact with the eye-man. The so­oner you start put­ting pres­su­re on him, the bet­ter. Ma­ke it cle­ar that he will ga­in not­hing by har­ming Yo­la. That was the de­al we had. The de­al I ma­de with yo­ur boss.’

  ‘My lo­cal back-up will be he­re in fif­te­en mi­nu­tes. Twenty at the out­si­de. They know exactly whe­re to go and what to do. Show me the si­tu­ati­on, Sa­bir. Exp­la­in to me exactly what tro­ub­le you ha­ve all ma­na­ged to get yo­ur­sel­ves in­to. And then we will see what we can do to get you out of it.’

  58

  Mac­ron had set­tled on his plan. It was ab­surdly simp­le. He had re­con­no­it­red the ho­use and un­ders­to­od the la­yo­ut per­fectly. A wi­de-open win­dow led to the back of the Ma­set. He wo­uld wa­it for Sa­bir and Ale­xi to show them­sel­ves and then he wo­uld pass thro­ugh it, co­un­ting on the­ir vo­ices - and the eye-man’s con­cent­ra­ti­on on them - to mask the so­und of his mo­ve­ments. The mi­nu­te he had a cle­ar sight of the eye-man he wo­uld ta­ke him out - a shot to the right sho­ul­der ought to do it.

  For Mac­ron wan­ted his day in co­urt. It wo­uldn’t be eno­ugh just to kill the eye-man - he wan­ted the bas­tard to suf­fer. Just as he had suf­fe­red with his fe­et. And his back. And his neck. And the musc­le at the top of his but­tock that had be­en crus­hed by the car se­at and which tic­ked in­ces­santly sin­ce the ac­ci­dent - par­ti­cu­larly when he was at­temp­ting to drift off to sle­ep.

  He wan­ted the eye-man to suf­fer all the tiny hu­mi­li­ati­ons of bu­re­a­uc­ra­tic pro­ce­du­re that he, Mac­ron, had to suf­fer in his po­si­ti­on as a juni­or po­li­ce of­fi­cer. All the sto­ne walls and the Chi­ne­se whis­pers and the unin­ten­ti­onal­ly in­ten­ti­onal mor­ti­fi­ca­ti­ons. He wan­ted the eye-man to rot for thirty ye­ars in a ten fo­ot by six fo­ot ja­il cell and to co­me out an old man, with no fri­ends, no fu­tu­re and with his he­alth in tat­ters.

  Sa­bir had be­en tel­ling the truth af­ter all. This was a cri­sis. The girl was ob­vi­o­usly on her last legs. She was swin­ging aro­und li­ke a rag doll on a light brac­ket. She co­uldn’t pos­sibly hold out for the twenty-fi­ve mi­nu­tes ne­ces­sary for the CRS to land a he­li­cop­ter the full ki­lo­met­re and a half away from the Ma­set ne­eded for ef­fec­ti­ve so­und con­ta­in­ment - and then to hurry in­to po­si­ti­on.

  This had be­co­me his call. He was the man the ser­vi­ce had in pla­ce. Any he­si­ta­ti­on wo­uld only le­ad to tra­gedy.

  Mac­ron squ­at­ted down be­si­de Sa­bir and Ale­xi. He chec­ked the lo­ads in his pis­tol, enj­oying the fe­eling of po­wer it ga­ve him over the ot­her two men. ‘Gi­ve me three mi­nu­tes to get ro­und to the back of the ho­use and then show yo­ur­sel­ves. But don’t co­me wit­hin the eye-man’s ran­ge. Stay ne­ar the tre­es and tan­ta­li­se him. Draw him out. I want him fra­med aga­inst the front do­or.’

  ‘If you see him, will you ta­ke him out? Not he­si­ta­te? The man’s a psycho­path. He’ll kill Yo­la wit­ho­ut a se­cond tho­ught. God alo­ne knows what he’s put her thro­ugh al­re­ady.’

  ‘I’ll sho­ot. I’ve do­ne it be­fo­re. It wo­uldn’t be the first ti­me. Our part of Pa­ris is no nur­sery. The­re are sho­otings ne­arly every day.’

  Mac­ron’s words didn’t ring true so­me­how - Sa­bir co­uldn’t qu­ite get him­self to be­li­eve in them. The­re was so­met­hing fer­vid abo­ut the man - so­met­hing just a lit­tle fa­ke. As tho­ugh he we­re a ci­vi­li­an who had wan­de­red in­to a po­li­ce ope­ra­ti­on and had de­ci­ded, off the cuff, to act the part of a par­ti­ci­pa­ting of­fi­cer simply for the Hell of it. ‘Are you su­re Cap­ta­in Cal­que’s oka­yed this?’

  ‘I’ve just this mo­ment cal­led him. I’ve exp­la­ined that a furt­her wa­it might be fa­tal. My back-up are still a go­od fif­te­en mi­nu­tes away. Anyt­hing co­uld hap­pen in that ti­me. Are you with me on this?’

  ‘I say go in now.’ Ale­xi pus­hed him­self up on his kne­es. ‘Lo­ok at her. I can’t be­ar watc­hing this any­mo­re.’

  Gi­ven the te­nor of Ale­xi’s words and the ur­gency of the si­tu­ati­on conf­ron­ting them, Sa­bir de­ci­ded to ditch his re­ser­va­ti­ons too. ‘All right, then. We’ll do as you say.’

  ‘Three mi­nu­tes. Gi­ve me three mi­nu­tes.’ Mac­ron slit­he­red thro­ugh the un­derg­rowth to­wards the back of the Ma­set.

  59

  The se­cond he he­ard Sa­bir’s vo­ice, Ba­le pla­yed the fi re ex­tin­gu­is­her over the cand­les and oil lamps sur­ro­un­ding Yo­la. He had ca­ught sight of the ex­tin­gu­is­her as he was fetc­hing so­up from the kitc­hen and had im­me­di­ately de­ci­ded how best to use it. Now he scre­wed his eyes shut and wa­ited for them to re­adj­ust to the dark­ness.

  Yo­la cal­led out in her ter­ror, ‘What was that? What did you just do? Why did the lights go out?’

  ‘I’m ple­ased you’ve fi­nal­ly tur­ned up, Sa­bir. The girl’s be­en comp­la­ining that her legs are ti­red. Ha­ve you got the prop­he­ci­es with you? If not, she swings.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. We’ve got the prop­he­ci­es. I ha­ve them on me.’

  ‘Bring them over he­re.’

  ‘No. Let the girl go first. Then you get them.’

  Ba­le knoc­ked the sto­ol away with a back­ward flick of his leg. ‘She’s swin­ging. I war­ned you of this. You’ve got abo­ut thirty se­conds be­fo­re her wind­pi­pe crus­hes. Af­ter that you co­uld try an emer­gency trac­he­otomy. I’ll even lend you a pen­cil to stick her with.’

  Sa­bir felt rat­her than saw Ale­xi gli­ding past him. Fi­ve se­conds ear­li­er the man had be­en on his kne­es. Now he was run­ning stra­ight for the ent­ran­ce to the Ma­set.

  ‘Ale­xi. No. He’ll kill you.’

  The­re was a flash of light from in­si­de the ho­use. Ale­xi’s run­ning fi­gu­re was bri­efly lit up. Then dark­ness fell aga­in.

  Sa­bir star­ted run­ning. It didn’t mat­ter that he wo­uld die. He had to sa­ve Yo­la. Ale­xi had sha­med him by run­ning in first. Now he was pro­bably de­ad.

  As he ran, he drag­ged the clasp kni­fe from his poc­ket and loc­ked open the bla­de. The­re we­re mo­re fl as­hes of light from in­si­de the Ma­set. Oh Christ.

  ***

  On the first no­te of Sa­bir’s vo­ice, Mac­ron duc­ked in thro­ugh the back win­dow of the Ma­set. He wo­uld gu­ide him­self by the lights in the front ro­om - that ought to do it. But as he ma­de his way up the hall, the lights we­re sud­denly ex­tin­gu­is­hed.

  Ba­le’s vo­ice was co­ming from the left of the open do­or. Now it was mo­ving ac­ross the ro­om. Mac­ron co­uld just ma­ke out a dar­ker sil­ho­u­et­te aga­inst the fa­int light co­ming in from out­si­de.

  He tri­ed for a snap shot. Ple­ase God he hadn’t shot the girl. The sud­den flash of light was just eno­ugh to warn him of the bar­ri­ca­de of cha­irs and tab­les Ba­le had set-up ac­ross the fa­ce of the cor­ri­dor. Mac­ron trip­ped over the first cha­ir and be­gan to fall. In des­pe­ra­te slow mo­ti­on he twis­ted over on to his back and en­de­avo­ured to kick his way out of the mess - but he only ma­na­ged to sink de­eper in­si­de the mo­rass of wo­oden slats.

  He still had his gun in his hand. But by this ti­me he was lying on his back li­ke a stran­ded cock­ro­ach. He shot wildly over his he­ad, ho­ping, in that way, to ke­ep Ba­le’s he­ad down un­til he was ab­le to di­sen­tang­le him­
self.

  It didn’t work.

  The last sen­sa­ti­on Mac­ron had on earth was of Ba­le kne­eling on his gun-hand, le­ve­ring his mo­uth open and for­cing a pis­tol bar­rel ac­ross the swol­len bar­ri­er of his ton­gue.

  ***

  Ba­le had ins­tantly mo­ved away from the girl af­ter kic­king out the sto­ol legs. The Le­gi­on had ta­ught him ne­ver to stand for too long in one pla­ce du­ring a fi­re­fight. His drill inst­ruc­tor had drum­med in­to him that you al­ways mo­ve abo­ut a bat­tle­fi­eld in a se­ri­es of fo­ur-se­cond bursts, to the tu­ne of an in­ter­nal rhythm that you ke­ep on re­pe­ating in yo­ur he­ad: You Run - They See You - They Lock and Lo­ad - You Drop. The old dis­cip­li­ne sa­ved his li­fe.

  Mac­ron’s snap shot pas­sed thro­ugh Ba­le’s neck, punc­tu­ring his tra­pe­zi­us musc­le, just mis­sing his subc­la­vi­an ar­tery and shat­te­ring his cla­vic­le. Ba­le im­me­di­ately felt his left hand and arm go numb.

  He twis­ted to­wards the dan­ger, his gun arm ri­sing.

  The­re was a crash, as who­ever had co­me in by the back way en­co­un­te­red his bar­ri­ca­de. Then a se­cond shot smas­hed in­to the ce­iling abo­ve Ba­le’s he­ad, sho­we­ring him with plas­ter.

  Still pul­sing with ad­re­na­lin, Ba­le dar­ted to­wards the sho­oter. He had se­en the man sil­ho­u­et­ted in the light of the gun flash. Knew whe­re his he­ad was. Knew what a mess he had got him­self in­to with the bar­ri­ca­de. Knew whe­re the man’s pis­tol was ins­tinc­ti­vely aiming.