Femme Fatale

by Claude Bouchard

  “This man got into the apartment earlier,” Henri insisted. “Someone else could do so again.”

  “I’m guessing he picked the lock,” Leslie replied. “I have the deadbolt in now and that’s not accessible from the outside. I’m safer in here than I would be going back out.”

  Henri surrendered. “Okay, but I’m calling a couple of my men from the museum. A number of them do security work on the side and I’ll be more comfortable knowing someone is keeping an eye on your building.”

  “Fair enough,” Leslie agreed. “You might want to have somebody watching your place as well. This must tie in with Hassan which means you’re in danger too.”

  “Good point,” said Henri. “I’ll call you back once I’ve made some arrangements.”

  “Okay,” Leslie replied. “I’ll keep my eyes open in the meantime. I’m suddenly not very sleepy and I want to call my contacts back in Montreal. I think it’s time we got some help.”

  * * * *

  “Things are getting complicated,” Armand said when his call was answered. “Maurice is dead… Yes, I’m sure. I picked up his body on the street after this lady threw him out the window… Yes, I can do that. I already have one body to dispose of so why not make it two.”

  Chapter 7 – Sunday, May 27, 2012

  It was a little after five in the morning when an exhausted Rashid Hassan locked the doors to the club behind the last of his departing employees. It had been a long, stressful day with the visit from the police and Petit, not to mention that troublesome and still nameless woman who had accompanied them.

  Killing Louie had been an added though necessary complication once the young artist had come clean about what he had told Petit and the redhead. At least Hassan had learned of Henri Petit’s identity and position at the Louvre from Louie so he now had a better idea who he was dealing with. However, because of the information Louie had shared with his previous visitors, Hassan had little doubt he would soon be questioned by the police again and, in all probability, more thoroughly and intently.

  He had little concern about dealing with such interrogations. He was certain no evidence existed to tie the disappearance of the women to the club. He would simply deny any knowledge or involvement and the police would eventually leave him be. Of course, any further activities would have to cease for a while as it was preferable to be a little more prudent and a little less wealthy than to spend countless years in prison.

  Regardless, he thought, he would deal with those issues as they arose. For the moment, he looked forward to a few hours of sleep in his apartment upstairs and a possible stroll along the Seine as the forecast called for a warm and sunny day. Since Femme Fatale was closed on Sundays, he might indulge in some female companionship for dinner and into the evening as an additional distraction.

  He turned off the lights in the front bar and moved on into the rear dance area, hooking the velvet barrier in place as he passed. A nightcap was in order and he stepped behind one of several bars to pour himself a cognac. As he selected a bottle from the array on the glass shelves along the wall, he heard a door opening at the back of the room.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said. “Did everything go as planned?”

  “We’re not finished yet,” Armand replied, “But things are moving along.”

  Hassan looked at Armand expectantly. “What exactly does that mean?”

  In response, Armand pulled out a Ruger SR22 and calmly shot a surprised Hassan twice in the forehead. He had little concern of anyone hearing the small calibre shots at this time of the morning. After confirming his target was quite dead, he slipped a plastic bag over Hassan’s head, knotting it under the chin to keep it in place. It wouldn’t do to have blood staining anything.

  He retrieved his mobile phone from a pocket of his windbreaker and placed a call.

  “It’s done,” he said. “Have a nice day.”

  He cut the connection then hoisted the corpse over his shoulder and headed back the way he had come. A new day was beginning but he still had two bodies to dispose of before calling it a night.

  * * * *

  As Head of Sub-Directorates of the Directorate-General of Customs and Indirect Taxes, Normand Lefebvre was a man of considerable clout within the borders of France. Often deemed the second in command of La Douane, or Customs, Lefebvre possessed a forceful personality which he had displayed continuously throughout his rise in the ranks. A ruthless politician at heart, peers and subordinates alike had come to learn over the years it was generally much more favourable to one’s career to be on Lefebvre’s good side, whether or not he was in a position of direct authority.

  Where his superior, the Director General, despised being in the limelight, Lefebvre craved for attention and, consequently often sat in for the DG at social and other functions where the presence of a representative of their agency was expected. It was at one such event that Lefebvre had met Mustapha Kaddur five years earlier, a meeting which would forever change his life.

  Kaddur, a highly successful Moroccan real estate development mogul, had been a major player in an upcoming real estate show touring Europe, its target audience, potential customers interested in time share or permanent occupancy condominiums and villas in the Agadir, Casablanca and Marrakech regions. He and Lefebvre had hit it off and were soon getting together on a regular basis during Kaddur’s frequent visits to Paris.

  A year after initially meeting, Kaddur had suggested that a man of Lefebvre’s status deserved a comfortable home away from home and, should his friend be interested, they could reach a highly beneficial mutual agreement. Open to such a proposition, Lefebvre had urged Kaddur to elaborate, agreeing to honour the Moroccan’s request that their discussions were to remain confidential, regardless of subsequent outcomes.

  Kaddur had gone on to candidly recount how, though his real estate development enterprise was highly successful, the bulk of his growing personal wealth was gleaned from the export of cannabis and its derivatives as well as a bit of cocaine. For a fee, of course, might someone like Lefebvre be interested in assisting to ensure merchandise made it into France without troublesome and costly occasional seizures?

  Though nothing close to destitute, Lefebvre dreamed of greater creature comforts and had long realized public service was not the ideal employment sector if one wished to amass riches. He had requested some time to determine the feasibility of Kaddur’s proposal all while assuring him of his interest and confidentiality.

  Over the next three months, Lefebvre had determined the most practical points of entry, established rotations, selected required internal participants and then summoned Kaddur to present his plan, including financial requirements. After listening attentively, Kaddur had smiled and extended his hand to cement their new business relationship which had since proved beneficial to both.

  A year earlier, Kaddur had brought up the subject of many friends and associates who yearned for occasional variety in companionship in Agadir, Casablanca and Marrakech. He had gone on to elaborate how such men were willing to pay handsomely for experiences with women of other nationalities and cultures and from this, the idea of Femme Fatale and two other similar clubs was born.

  Hoping for a local advisor in such a venture, he had once again inquired of Lefebvre’s interest. No direct involvement would be expected on the Frenchman’s part in terms of day to day operations. Rather, he would be called upon to offer assistance if possible only in the event of problems arising where his expertise or contacts could be helpful in attaining resolution.

  Payments proposed were generous and the clubs, to be owned by a complex maze of offshore shell corporations of which he would have twenty percent interest, would generate additional proceeds. Of course, he would be free to enjoy time with any of the escorts ‘recruited’ via the clubs, either before they shipped from France or whenever he vacationed at his penthouse condominium in Marrakech or his beach villa near Casablanca.

  Though Lefebvre had been uncomfortable with the recruitment
methods, Kaddur had assured him the women would be living in luxury. In addition, based on those already working in several similar brothels he was familiar with, they soon accepted, even appreciated, their new lifestyle, enjoying the lavish gifts many rich customers bestowed upon them. This and the additional money had quickly led Lefebvre to agree to participate.

  * * * *

  Dominique sensed movement and heard sounds she had not noticed earlier. Forcing her eyes open, she was blinded by light which also had not been present before. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment but then open them slightly. She soon realized the light was not as bright as it had first seemed. A small, low-wattage bulb was set in the far wall of the narrow room, encased in a wire cage.

  She raised her head off the platform on which she lay and was immediately overtaken by a wave of dizziness. Laying her head back, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to understand the image she had glimpsed for a second. Turning her head slowly to one side, she cracked her eyes open once again. A short distance across from her, Corinne lay sleeping on her back on a thin foam mattress atop a built-in plywood platform, some two feet high. A steel pipe ran the six foot length of the makeshift cot to which Corinne’s left wrist and ankle were strapped. Attempting to move her limbs, Dominique realized she was similarly bound.

  Fighting to remain conscious, she raised her eyes slightly, looking past her sister’s head and could see someone’s feet at the end of yet another plywood structure. Peering in the other direction revealed a shapely blonde woman beyond Corinne and a mass of curly, dark hair past Dominique’s own feet.

  The buzzing, humming sound continued as did the sensation of movement. A sudden, booming jolt sent a vibration through the structure they were in and, as Dominique surrendered to sleep once more, she dreamed she was driving a car and hitting potholes.

  * * * *

  Normand Lefebvre was enjoying a quiet breakfast with his wife, Jacqueline, when his mobile phone began vibrating on the credenza nearby.

  “Can’t they leave you alone on your days off?” said Jacqueline, frowning at the phone.

  “Chérie, in my position, I must assume my responsibilities,” Lefebvre replied as he picked up the phone and headed out the dining room. “Allô?”

  “Bonjour, Normand,” said Kaddur in his refined but accented French.

  “Bonjour, Mustapha,” Lefebvre replied. “What a pleasant surprise. Are you in Paris?”

  “Not yet. I’ll be flying in from Casablanca on Wednesday for the show starting Thursday,” said Kaddur, “But we have a problem in Paris now which I hope you can help resolve.”

  “C’est vrai?” asked Lefebvre. “What is the problem? I will do what I can to help.”

  “Rashid Hassan was careless and made several mistakes,” Kaddur explained. “He hired a scout to bring in potential candidates to Femme Fatale and then shared information which he should not have with this person. On Friday, Hassan selected two women, sisters, whom the scout had brought in. Somehow, thanks to Hassan’s stupidity, the sisters’ father figured some things out and spoke to the scout who told him everything he knew.”

  “But, what do you want me to do?” asked Lefebvre, feeling a little warm. “I don’t even know Hassan except by name.”

  “Don’t worry about Hassan,” Kaddur replied. “He has been taken care of. One of my men, Armand Souligny, will take over managing the club for now. The scout is no longer a problem either. To his credit, Hassan had the good sense to shut him up for good.”

  Lefebvre lowered himself into a nearby easy chair, feeling light-headed. Hassan was taken care of? The scout was shut up for good?

  He took a deep breath to compose himself then spoke. “This is not good news, Mustapha. Perhaps we should close down the club until further notice. The police may become involved.”

  “The police are already involved,” Kaddur replied. “They were at the club yesterday morning where they found one of the women’s mobile phone. Since, they have also found the scout’s body after Hassan dealt with him. However, they have no proof of any wrongdoing at Femme Fatale. The club will keep on going with its usual business, minus the escort recruiting, of course. Closing up would be admitting involvement in the sisters’ disappearance.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Lefebvre admitted. “What did you want me to do?”

  “I’d like you to find out anything you can about the progress of the police investigation through your contacts in the force,” Kaddur replied, “And I want any information you can get about the sisters’ father and a young woman who has been helping him try to locate his girls. We haven’t been able to identify her but she might be one of the sisters’ girlfriend. As for monsieur, his name is Henri Petit and he apparently works at the Louvre as head of security.”

  “Uh, you said Henri Petit, works at the Louvre?” Lefebvre repeated, breaking into a cold sweat.

  “That’s right,” said Kaddur. “Why? Do you know him?”

  “I, uh, I’ve heard of him,” Lefebvre replied, trying desperately to sound calm. “Let me dig around to see what I can find. This may take a couple of days.”

  “Get me anything you can as quickly as possible,” said Kaddur. “I want to know who I’m dealing with. I already know these two are trouble and they are proving to be dangerous.”

  “What about the women?” asked Lefebvre. “Maybe they should simply be released somewhere. Once they’ve shown up, the police might cease their investigation.”

  “Any one of those women might remember too much even if they were drugged,” Kaddur replied. “Regardless, they were transported to Marseilles by container truck overnight and are on a boat heading to Morocco as we speak. Just get me the information I asked for and don’t worry about anything else.”

  The call disconnected and Lefebvre leaned back in the chair, breathing heavily and fearing he might faint, or throw up. That the police were looking into Femme Fatale was bad enough, where sufficient digging would likely uncover the shell corporation of which he was recorded as an officer and shareholder. However, this was nothing compared to the news of Henri Petit’s involvement in the whole ordeal. His wife Jacqueline’s sister was Monique Petit, Henri’s spouse. Dominique and Corinne, two of the kidnapped women heading to Morocco, were his nieces.

  * * * *

  The chartered Gulfstream G280 taxied to its assigned gate at Roissy-Charles de Gaulle Airport’s Terminal 3 at 8:14 p.m., coincidentally sixty hours to the minute following Leslie’s arrival the previous Friday. Moments later, the pilot, co-pilot and the couple accompanying them were deplaning and proceeding to deal with immigration formalities as a hired ground crew got busy, preparing to move the jet for servicing and storage.

  Inside the terminal in the arrivals area, Leslie waited expectantly with Henri by her side following a long, frustrating day of dragging minutes with little to do and no developments. Henri had urged Monique to accompany them, suggesting it would keep her occupied but she had declined, not up to being out and about in public, never knowing when she might burst into tears. Instead, she had opted to call her sister to inform her of her daughters’ disappearance and Jacqueline had hurried over to console her and keep her company.

  “There they are,” said Leslie then added, “Sweet! Sandy and Josée came along too.”

  They moved forward to greet the foursome where Leslie got busy making introductions.

  “A pleasant surprise to see you both here,” she said, addressing Sandy and Josée.

  “When Jonathan told me he had leased a plane to fly to Paris,” Josée replied, “I insisted he should have a co-pilot, in case of emergency.”

  Like her husband, Josée was an experienced pilot.

  “And when Chris told me he and Jon were heading here to see you,” said Sandy, “I asked if it was okay if I tagged along.”

  “Uh, what she actually said was,” Chris interjected, “‘Not without me, you’re not.’”

  “Well, I’m happy to see you all,” said Leslie as her eye
s grew teary. “I just wish it was under better circumstances.”

  “Everything’s going to be okay, Les,” Chris replied, giving her a hug. “We’re here now and we’re going to get to the bottom of this, one way or another.”

  “That is exactly what Leslie has been telling me,” said Henri. “I thank you for coming all this way to help find my daughters and I am at your disposal for whatever you may need.”

  “We’ll do whatever it takes,” said Jonathan. “To start, we need to go over everything you both know so far. Les gave us some details over the phone but I want to hear the whole story. I hope you’re both free for dinner because we’re starving.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Henri replied as Leslie nodded. “I wish I had known there were four of you. I would have brought a larger vehicle.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Jon. “I’ve already arranged for transportation. I wasn’t expected you two to come to the airport. Had I known, I would have told you not to bother.”

  “I’d have come anyway,” said Leslie. “I was anxious to see you guys.”

  “Well, we’re here,” Jon replied with a smile. “We’re heading to the Champs Elysées Plaza and they’re expecting us for dinner at Le Keller restaurant.”

  “I don’t believe Le Keller is open on weekends,” said Henri.

  “I convinced them it would be worth their while to host our private party,” Chris replied.

  Henri nodded in approval as he looked at Leslie. “I like your friends already. Let’s go get that dinner.”

  “By the way,” Jonathan addressed Leslie as they headed for the exit. “We booked you a junior suite at the hotel. These bastards tried to get at you once and I have no intention of making a second attempt easier for them than it has to be.”