Dance of the Angels

by Robert Morcet

  Hervet had ordered the twins to give the place a serious cleanup. The police would search Malet’s apartment in just a few hours. All traces of Hervet’s complicity with the vice cop had to be destroyed. With the twins, he could be sure that the job would be done perfectly. Nicolas had gone over the bedroom and kitchen with a fine-tooth comb and found nothing. Same for Nikita: the human scanner minutely analyzed every square inch. As he searched, the beefcake liberated several bottles of men’s perfume. He appreciated this aspect of the job. Now the twins got to work on the living room. The whole apartment had clearly been decorated by an interior designer—not something a vice cop’s salary would typically cover. Each knickknack, each piece of furniture cost a small fortune. Malet’s lifestyle had clearly improved considerably since he began working for the chief of police.

  As he inspected a stack of cardboard folders stuffed at the back of a Louis XV chest of drawers, Nicolas came upon some memos with names, addresses, and meeting places—enough to send the wealthy consumers of fresh meat to jail.

  “We could create real havoc with these lists. Get us some extra dough without lifting a finger,” he said to his clone, making a neat pile of the multicolored folders on the corner of the table.

  “No, forget it!” snapped the other, giving his brother a harsh look.

  Something caught Nikita’s eye: an appointment book next to the telephone. The twins examined the page the book had been open to: December 3, ten p.m., Commissioner Tavernier.

  December 3 had been two days ago. No doubt the day Malet took his last bath, in the waters of the Seine.

  “Our work here is done,” said Nikita decisively.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Commissioner Tavernier was writing, page after page, coffee pot close at hand. He really wasn’t the literary type, yet his colleagues sometimes called him Balzac because, like the great writer, he had a severe coffee addiction. Edwige was out at the market this morning, which gave the boss some peace and quiet for a while, although that was all relative. Tavernier sometimes had the impression that his house was a branch of the Society for the Protection of Animals. The stray cats that prowled around the garden liked to mix it up with their large, castrated tomcat, Fonzie. Then there was Jack the hamster, not to mention the caged parakeets in the living room, who chirruped all day long.

  Tavernier was writing up a detailed report on the operation while waiting for Le Goënec to arrive. In a case as complex as this, nothing could be left to chance. Having all the elements clear in one’s mind was a matter of survival.

  At fifty years of age, Tavernier was in no rush to meet the Man Upstairs. It was only now that he realized how life shoots by. In his rare moments of reflection, the commissioner wondered what the point of it all was, the cops, the hassles, and the daily grind, putting his life on the line all these years like it was nothing more than a spin of the roulette wheel. Yet the idea of retiring and spending his remaining days with a fishing rod gave him chronic eczema. When it came down to it, nothing else interested him except for his shitty job.

  Again, he went over each aspect of the case, although he’d been pondering it for ages. One: the bodies of three children are found. Two: strong presumptions that Chief of Police Hervet is mixed up in it. Three: the transvestites put them on the trail leading to the villa in Marne-la-Vallée. Four: before dying, the old madam gives up Robert Malet, who is not long in joining her. Five: the network uses a community center in Le Vésinet as cover. That’s as far as he and Le Goënec had gotten. That is to say, they were practically still at square one. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. Tavernier went and let in Le Goënec, who was always astonished by this kitschy house, decorated like an old English manor and always spick-and-span. Le Goënec cast an amused eye over the brightly colored rug, the Philippe Starck–style dining room, and the almost fluorescent orange armchairs. Poor Tavernier; he had never been able to impose his own, more rustic tastes on Edwige.

  “Coffee?”

  “I won’t say no. I’m freezing.”

  The commissioner returned from the kitchen carrying two cups giving off a strong smell of arabica. Tavernier sat in front of his right-hand man and drank a gulp of the unsweetened coffee.

  “We need to move very fast now, Loïc. Bypass the chief. The bastard won’t stand idly by, what with that business at the villa and now Malet’s death.”

  Just then, Le Goënec signaled to him to be quiet. His ears had picked up a strange noise in the garden.

  “It’s an alley cat,” Tavernier said. “They’re in heat.”

  Le Goënec cautiously got up and went over to the window that opened onto a small balcony overlooking the garden.

  “Come see. There’s a guy climbing over the garden wall.”

  Tavernier quietly joined him. He too saw the man at the end of the lawn, hiding in the laurel hedge. A single look between them was all they needed. The commissioner and his partner drew away from the window.

  Flexible and agile, Nikita had no problem dropping onto the lawn. It was then child’s play to reach the house in a few strides and pull himself up to the balcony. Nicolas joined his brother by the same route. The window was no match for the glass cutter. Nicolas slipped his gloved hand through and reached for the door handle. It opened without a sound. The pair entered quickly. The plan was simple: ambush Tavernier and make him talk before liquidating him. Their orders had been strict about that.

  Hiding behind the bookcase, Le Goënec and the commissioner held their breath. The intruders advanced without making the slightest noise. They’re not amateurs, Tavernier thought. Hit men who knew their job down to the smallest detail.

  With a nod of his head, Nikita ordered his twin to make a rapid search of the study. It was at this moment that Tavernier decided a preemptive strike was called for. Leaping out from behind the bookcase, he aimed an uppercut at Nikita with all his strength, sending him reeling. The more agile Nicolas avoided Le Goënec’s kick and struck him terrifyingly hard in the solar plexus. So violent was the blow, Le Goënec lost his balance, and his forehead connected with the lampshade, like in some crazy waltz. Le Goënec crumpled onto the sofa, stunned. There was a taste of bile in his mouth. Nicolas immobilized his victim on the floor, straddling him with a knife pointed at his throat.

  Tavernier screamed. His adversary had just jabbed him in the eyes with two fingers. The commissioner punched blindly, mad with pain, feeling tears stream down his cheeks. Amid the panic, he managed to seize Nikita by the collar and give him a cracking head butt. Specialty of the house. The attacker collapsed onto the carpet, his nose broken. A proper knockout.

  Le Goënec fought like a madman to deflect the sharp point descending toward his face. Except for their breathing, neither man made any sound as they struggled. Each knew he was fighting to save his skin. With a final jerk, Le Goënec managed to roll on his side, bringing Nicolas with him. Now he had the upper hand. Taking advantage of the muscleman’s surprise, Le Goënec landed a forearm blow on his throat. The knife changed hands. This guy is really strong, thought Le Goënec, who couldn’t believe the pounding this beefcake was taking in his stride. With a thrust of his pelvis, Nicolas managed to sit up. His bloodshot eyes seemed ready to burst from their sockets. A real war machine. The two adversaries struggled ferociously, animal instinct having taken over. Nicolas tried to rip open Le Goënec’s throat with his teeth. Suddenly, the mass of muscle sagged, a look of surprise in his eyes. His face was fixed in a sneer of pain, now as pale as a piece of chalk. In the tussle, the blade had been driven into his chest, puncturing his heart. An extreme death, clean and silent. Le Goënec’s opponent toppled like some obscene puppet, the knife stuck in his side like a final decoration.

  “What a slog,” Le Goënec said, in lieu of a eulogy.

  “You OK, kid?” asked Tavernier, rubbing his eyes.

  “Look out, boss!”

  Nikita had come to, groggy but still dange
rous. A lounge chair shattered the window. The twin jumped out into the garden, followed closely by Le Goënec. The man ran quickly to the garden fence, leapt over, and sprinted down the street.

  Nikita was athletic, but Le Goënec had the pedigree of a distance runner. Luckily, Nikita noticed a young man gunning the engine of his Yamaha 500 Ténéré. Without wasting a second, Nikita rushed the stranger as he was pulling on his helmet and sent him flying onto the sidewalk with a violent kick. Nikita mounted the bike and roared off so fast he popped a wheelie. Le Goënec was helpless to stop him. Aggrieved, he helped the motorcyclist up.

  “Did you see that? You . . . you were a witness,” stammered the unfortunate victim. “He was crazy, that guy! I’ve just had it serviced!”

  Le Goënec headed straight back to his boss’s place. The living room was an awful mess, but Tavernier was tidying up as fast as he could, his nerves completely frazzled.

  “My carpet,” lamented the commissioner, his eyes still hurting. “And Edwige is due back from the market in half an hour. You can’t imagine the fuss she’ll kick up!”

  “It was him or me,” sighed Le Goënec, pointing at the body sprawled out on the floor. “What are we going to do with it?”

  “The forest. I can’t see any other solution for now.”

  “We need to check his pockets. Sometimes it’s more enlightening than going through the trash cans.”

  CHAPTER IX

  Tavernier’s gray-blue eyes were fixed determinedly on the monotonous ribbon of asphalt. He had left the beltway a good half hour ago. The traffic was flowing very smoothly. A few more miles, and he would reach the freeway exit ramp.

  Tavernier liked going to visit the Baron. The mystery with which this character surrounded himself made Tavernier feel like he was experiencing a privileged moment. It was impossible to know the Baron’s true identity. Even back during the Algerian War, all the soldiers had known the young captain only as the Baron. The anti-crime boss, still a cadet at the time, had been impressed by the charisma of this man for whom there was no compromise and nothing capable of steering him away from his decided course of action.

  The Xantia drove through the little village situated just a few miles from the Baron’s estate. The Romanesque church opposite the bakery was the last landmark. There were just another five or so miles to go.

  Tavernier never would have seen the captain again if he hadn’t been contacted by him after his appointment as head of the Anti-Crime Brigade. The Baron had returned to live in France after many years crisscrossing the globe fighting for causes he considered just. He’d put some money aside with the aim of setting up an underground organization. Even back when he was in the army, the future head of the Phoenix organization railed against the impunity enjoyed by those pulling the strings. When this singular individual had asked Tavernier to work at his side, Tavernier had immediately accepted the proposition, even though at the time it seemed completely absurd.

  Ever since the start of their collaboration, the commissioner had systematically given the Baron a copy of files regarding top-secret cases that had not yet been solved. All of them involved highly placed public officials who were likely to escape justice.

  The Xantia crossed the gardens—which were lovingly maintained by an expert gardener—and stopped in front of the nineteenth-century mansion. Tavernier walked up the front steps.

  “Hi, Georges. Are you well?”

  “My rheumatism’s playing up again, sir,” answered the old butler, who had been in the Baron’s service since the early days of Phoenix.

  Tavernier entered the wide, black-tiled entrance hall. There were several doors with gilded moldings leading off it, one of which opened into the living room. The Baron was waiting for him in front of a roaring fire.

  “Come in, Commissioner. The tea is ready.”

  The voice was low, steady, almost reassuring. The man was flawlessly elegant: silk pocket-handkerchief, silk tie, tweed jacket. A bottle of Johnnie Walker sat on a smoked-glass coffee table next to the teapot. The Baron was quite familiar with Tavernier’s little weaknesses. The master of the house served the drinks himself.

  “Trouble?”

  “Yesterday two men turned up at my place unannounced. Top-notch hit men. If it wasn’t for the intervention of my friend Le Goënec, I think you’d now be without my services.”

  “We have really set the cat among the pigeons, and the response has not been long in coming.”

  Tavernier knocked back a slug of whisky and said, “Now that the chief knows I’m involved, the real trouble’s going to start.”

  “‘If you want peace, prepare for war.’ A Latin proverb,” said the Baron, serving himself another cup of Earl Grey. “We’re going on the offensive. I suggest you don’t go back to headquarters. You must take some leave.”

  “I’ve got several weeks of vacation coming to me. I think I’ll get away for a little while.”

  “You know that Hervet won’t leave you alone now. Avoid returning here until further notice. We’ll stay in touch by telephone, at the usual number.”

  Tavernier nodded, lifting his heavy frame from the armchair.

  “Good luck,” said the Baron, firmly shaking his hand. “You are aware that with this kind of mission, your chances of success are minimal.”

  “I know, Baron. Nothing would give Paul Hervet a greater treat than delivering the eulogy at my funeral. And he is not the kind of man to refuse himself a little treat.”

  CHAPTER X

  Nikita woke with aching limbs. His body was covered in bruises, and his nose was so swollen it looked like it would burst. The wounded beast got up and walked, like an old man, to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror and saw his own bruised face staring back at him.

  After returning to their little house in Saint-Brice-Sous-Forêt in an awful state, an unbridled hate was eating away at him. The death of his twin was the very worst thing that could happen. Nikita felt he was now only half the man he’d been.

  He had left Paul Hervet a terse message on his answering machine, using his code name 021, then tended to his wounds before collapsing onto his bed, thinking of Nicolas lying there in that cop’s shabby house. Never would he be able to forget such a horrific sight. Nikita cursed himself for not having been able to do anything to save his brother. Like some bad dream, he could still see the knife stuck up to the hilt in Nicolas’s side.

  “What have those bastards done with his body?”

  His head was clear: revenge was inevitable. Those two motherfuckers would pay the price.

  The ringing of the phone jerked Nikita out of his murderous thoughts.

  “I’m listening,” Hervet said.

  “It went badly. There were two of them waiting for us.”

  “Two? Can you describe the other one?”

  “Tall, dark hair, brown eyes, tough-looking. I recognized him from the front page of France-Soir.”

  “That’s Tavernier’s deputy. I want you to get rid of those two, as quickly as possible. No mistakes this time.”

  “OK.”

  “But first, there’s a more urgent matter. Martin Boudon, the ballet teacher. Top priority.”

  If Robert Malet had talked before dying, there was only one name he could have coughed up: Martin Boudon. The chief of police knew that the two cops were capable of getting him to talk. It would be disastrous if Boudon squealed. That documentary producer, Herman, was none other than Loïc Le Goënec. No doubt about it.

  “Speed is of the essence, so you might as well split the work with your brother,” said the chief sharply.

  “Your cop buddies bumped off Nicolas. Now I have no choice but to operate alone.”

  “I am sorry about him. I hope you will exact an exemplary vengeance.”

  “Don’t you worry. Those two are as good as dead.”

  The young dancers graciously extended their l
egs and lifted their curving arms over their heads. The teacher struck the floor with his stick to mark the beat.

  “Seven . . . eight . . . Right, that’s not bad.”

  The kids looked curiously at Nikita. Hervet’s henchman was not the prettiest sight, with his nose all bandaged up. A nightmarish vision, really, like a Halloween mask, only uglier.

  “Révérence,” said Martin Boudon.

  The music began to blare from the cassette player. Facing the mirror, all the students executed the same movement. Then came the applause and the défilé, with a little bow to the teacher. Always the same rigmarole. The pupils left the studio quietly, one by one. Boudon now found himself alone with Nikita. The two men knew each other from having met at several “special” parties.

  The blond man was dangerous. The teacher knew enough about him to be worried. If he had come to class, it was to resolve some serious problem.

  “You’re not with your brother today?” said Boudon, attempting to be friendly. “You’re usually inseparable.”

  “Nicolas is currently indisposed.”

  “You wanted to speak to me?” Boudon said casually, trying to hide his fear, which was clearly visible.

  “Robert Malet’s death has caused no end of trouble. We have to make new arrangements.”

  “Of course. Come into my office. It’s more discreet.”

  “Let’s go back to my place. We’ll have lunch and discuss how we’re going to organize things.”

  “There’s a little restaurant I go to nearby,” said Boudon, trying to gain time. “They do an excellent veal stew, and we can chat there. It’s very private.”

  “You’re to come with me. Orders from above.”

  Nikita did not clarify whether he was referring to Paul Hervet, God the Father, or his cousin Lucifer. He made no attempt at conversation during the journey, which suited him, not being the chatty type. Between the two men, there was a silence you could cut with a knife. When the 4x4 stopped in front of the twins’ lonely house, Boudon felt his heart beating like it would burst. If he didn’t find a way out of this very quickly, his goose would be cooked.