“Thanks, Jon,” Leslie replied, hugging his arm before grinning. “I guess I did good to pack my stuff and bring it along.”
Chapter 8 – Monday, May 28, 2012
It was barely past six in the morning when Chris and Jonathan exited the Metro station and crossed Place Pigalle towards Duperré Street.
Over dinner the previous evening, Henri Petit had told them the police had informed him of their failed attempt to get their hands on Rashid Hassan for questioning earlier in the day. The club, they had discovered, was closed on Sundays and there had been no response at Hassan’s apartment on the floor above. Their intention was to return the next day, confident the man would be present to manage his lucrative business.
Newly arrived on the scene and unknown to its participants, Jonathan and Chris had quickly decided a visit with Hassan could prove worthwhile and might glean valuable information as to the whereabouts of Dominique and Corinne Petit. Every minute counted and the sooner they could determine what had happened, the sooner the women would be back home and out of harm’s way. Based on what was known to date, once Hassan agreed to share what he knew, and agree he would, this ordeal could be quickly put to rest.
Upon reaching Duperré Street, they walked along the Femme Fatale terrace, casually peering through the closed sliding glass doors as they went, noting no apparent activity within the darkened club. A few feet past the end of the terrace was another door behind which were stairs leading to their destination, the apartment located above the club.
While Jonathan acted as a shield and kept an eye on the deserted street, Chris got busy with a small battery-powered pick gun.
“Damned thing is noisy when it’s so quiet,” he murmured a few seconds later as he twisted the tension wrench then turned the knob and pushed the door open.
“It was barely a buzz,” said Jonathan. “You must be getting jumpy with age.”
“Whatever you say, gramps,” Chris replied. “Let’s go.”
They slowly climbed the carpeted stairs, keeping their steps close to the wall to lessen any possible creaking, as yet unaware if the apartment was currently occupied. At the top, the door to the apartment awaited them to their right. Testing the knob, Chris confirmed it was in fact locked and once again got to work, using manual picks this time to keep noise to a minimum. A minute later, he rose from his crouch as he nodded to Jonathan. They each pulled a Smith & Wesson M&P22 from their shoulder holsters before Chris turned the knob and slowly edged the door open.
The space inside was mostly open-air with a dining room set straight ahead and the kitchen beyond. To the right, towards the front of the building, was a living area and diagonally from where they stood, was the only closed room, a bedroom, based on the furnishings visible through the open door. A bathroom was sandwiched between the bedroom and kitchen area.
They entered, Chris closing and locking the door behind him as Jonathan quickly confirmed the bedroom and bathroom to be unoccupied. As he returned to the entrance, Chris gestured to another, heavier door to his left along the back wall which was set with a deadbolt. He turned the twist knob then pulled the door open an inch or so, revealing inky blackness beyond. Jonathan peered through the narrow opening and saw nothing but then noticed a light switch on the wall by the door where he stood. Glancing at Chris, he shrugged and flipped the switch. Immediately, the space beyond was bathed in light but remained completely silent.
He nudged the door open a few more inches, allowing him to see a couple of iron cots covered with thin mattresses to the left of the entrance within. On the left side of the door, Chris brought an eye to the narrow space by the jamb, scanning the opposite side of the room as best he could.
“Several cots along the back wall,” he whispered. “I think the room’s empty but I can’t see anything on this side.”
Jonathan nodded and held up one finger in the universal ‘wait a minute’ sign then hurried to the living area and returned with a couch cushion.
Ensuring he had a good grasp, he whispered, “Now.”
Chris yanked the door completely open and Jonathan threw the large, dark cushion into the room then crouched and entered with his gun pointing at the unseen corner.
“There’s nothing but cots in here,” he said as he rose to his feet, “And a storage chest in the corner. I wouldn’t be surprised if Hassan skipped out.”
“It might have been the smart thing to do. Looks like this was his warehouse,” said Chris. “Doped up the ladies and locked them up in here until it was time for shipment.”
“That’s what I’m thinking too,” Jonathan replied. “The good news with that is they should still be alive. Now we just have to figure out where they were taken.”
“We’ll search this place and maybe we’ll get lucky,” said Chris, heading to a further door set in the back wall of the dorm-like room. “Let’s see what’s back here.”
The door, heavy and solid as the one by which they had entered the room, was also dead-bolted but a key was required to unlock it… or lock picks. Following a couple of minutes, Chris turned the tension bar and felt the bolt sliding back. Cautiously opening the door, they moved ahead and found themselves in a stockroom, obviously relating to the night club below. Tables and chairs were stacked along one wall and several shelving units were filled with cases of spirits, wines, beer and so on. A staircase headed downstairs along the back wall.
“Nothing much to see here,” said Jonathan. “Let’s go see what we can find in the apartment.”
They went back from where they had come with Chris closing and relocking the door to the stockroom.
“You can start up front,” he suggested. “I’ll have a look back here. Might find something useful if Hassan was storing his kidnap victims in here.”
“Good,” Jonathan agreed. “I’ll go check out the bedroom.”
Chris started searching around and under the first of eight cots while Jon continued back to the apartment. In the bedroom, he noticed a closet door, closed, which he had failed to see on his first go-around. Withdrawing his pistol, he crept to the closet, grasped the knob and yanked the door open. He jumped back as a large, heavy suitcase fell from a shelf above and crashed to the floor with a resounding thud. Seconds later, Chris came rushing in with gun in hand.
“You okay?” he asked, scanning the room for any signs of danger.
“Yeah, no problem,” Jonathan replied, looking up into the closet to assure nothing else might fall. “The suitcase fell out when I opened the door. Scared the crap out of me.”
Chris smiled. “You must be getting jumpy with age.”
Jonathan smiled back. “Bite me.”
Chris headed back to continue his searching, chuckling as he went.
* * * *
It had been almost noon on Sunday by the time Armand Souligny had returned to Paris after having disposed of the bodies of his friend, Maurice, and his despicable ex-boss, Rashid Hassan. Though he had lost count of the number of hours since he had last slept, the adrenalin coursing through him had made even the thought of sleeping impossible.
Following a hearty late breakfast at a favoured café, he had spent the better part of the afternoon strolling along Canal St-Martin, enjoying the mild temperature and sunshine amidst thousands of locals and tourists. By late afternoon, he had headed to the Pigalle district, his plan being to grab a bite somewhere, perhaps have a drink or two and then catch up on some well deserved slumber.
His initial intention had been to stay in the apartment formerly occupied by Hassan but upon his arrival, the thought of sleeping in the bed of a man he had killed that same morning had left him uncomfortable. Though, as the new manager of Femme Fatale, he fully intended to take advantage of the lodgings which came with the job, he had decided he would wait at least until he had changed the bed linens and rid the apartment of Hassan’s belongings. He had therefore chosen the big leather couch in what was now his office at the club as his bed for the night and had slept like a baby. That is, until a hea
vy thud overhead jolted him awake just before six-thirty in the morning.
Sitting up, he quickly pulled on his jeans and stepped into his shoes, hurriedly tying the laces as he listened for more signs of movement upstairs. Standing, he grabbed his jacket from a chair, pausing only to make sure his Ruger and the building keys were in the pockets before slipping it on as he headed for the stairwell in the rear.
Someone had made a grave mistake, breaking in on his watch, and whoever that someone was would pay dearly.
* * * *
Chris had just started working on breaking into the storage chest in the dorm-like room when he heard a key sliding into the lock of the door leading from the stockroom.
‘Oh fuck,’ he thought as he scrambled into the tight space under the nearest cot all while grappling for the gun in its holster under his right arm.
He heard the door open then close followed by a slight jingle of keys and the sound of the deadbolt sliding back into place. From where he lay, he could see the new arrival’s feet and bottom legs. Black leather sport shoes, blue jeans, most likely male. The feet moved a couple of steps, stopped, turned towards him, then away. Their guest was scanning the room. If he crouched to look under the cots, he would see Chris, and most likely die as a result.
Chris doubted the visitor was with the police. A solitary plainclothes cop would not be coming to pick up Hassan at half past six in the morning, nor would he be accessing the apartment from the rear door with keys in hand. No, the visitor was probably Hassan, or an associate, which meant trouble, particularly for Jonathan out front.
Apparently satisfied that the room was unoccupied, the man moved forward, his steps cautious. He knew someone was in the apartment. No doubt, he had been in the club below and had heard the falling suitcase.
Chris waited a few long seconds then slid out from under the cot and crept towards the door in pursuit of their unexpected guest. If someone was due to get hurt here, he would do his damnedest to make sure it wasn’t Jonathan.
* * * *
Jonathan was riffling through a stack of papers he had found in a small desk in the bedroom when an unfamiliar voice addressed him in French.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?”
He looked up to find himself staring into the barrel of a small calibre handgun held by a fit looking, unsmiling man.
“Très bonne question,” Jonathan replied, starting to stand.
“Stay where you are and put your hands on your head,” the man ordered. “I will give you ten seconds to convince me that you a have a good reason to be here. If you don’t, you’re dead.”
“Ten seconds isn’t a very long time,” said Jonathan. “I’m sure we could work something out amicably if you gave me a couple of minutes.”
The man pointed his gun between Jonathan’s eyes and started counting down from five. “Cinq, quatre…”
* * * *
“… Trois, deux… “
Chris rounded the doorjamb, raising his gun as he went, going directly to the back of the stranger’s head with the barrel.
“Un,” said the man, hesitating slightly as if sensing something was suddenly wrong.
Chris pulled the trigger as the gun barrel touched the man’s head just below the skull. Jonathan rolled off the chair, taking no chances with either a possible reflex shot from his assailant or the remote possibility of Chris’ bullet making it through and hitting him. For his part, their visitor simply crumpled to the floor.
Chris crouched down and pulled the gun from the man’s hand then checked him for a pulse.
“So?” asked Jon as he got back on his feet.
“Dead,” said Chris, going through the man’s pockets. “Are you okay?”
“I’m a hell of a lot better than I would have been if you hadn’t shown up when you did.” Jonathan replied. “Thanks.”
“Part of the job, my friend.” said Chris, pulling a thin leather wallet out of the dead man’s jeans’ pocket with a latex-gloved hand. “Driver’s permit says Armand Souligny and the photo matches. That’s all he had in here except for some cash.”
“I didn’t think he was Hassan,” said Jonathan. “Take a photo of the license. We’ll see what we can find out about him. The way things are turning out here, I don’t think we should stick around too much longer. I have a feeling we won’t find much anyhow.”
“Give me a couple of minutes to pop that trunk open,” Chris replied, “And then, I agree. We’re out of here.”
* * * *
True to his word, Chris had unlocked the trunk with relative ease which they had found to contain a variety of women’s purses and wallets, stripped bare of all contents, identification, credit cards and cash. Also found within the trunk had been a large cache of pills, vials of unidentified liquid and syringes. Both Chris and Jonathan suspected the pills would turn out be some type of benzodiazepine, such as Rohypnol, while the liquid was likely a sedative. Samples of each had been taken for subsequent testing.
They had left the apartment shortly after, their departure uneventful, and returned to the hotel with little to show for their morning’s efforts barring the drug samples, a dead man and a firm conviction that Femme Fatale was at the centre of the Petit sisters’ disappearance.
Following breakfast, Sandy and Josée had headed to Avenue des Champs-Elysées for a first day of sightseeing while Chris, Jonathan and Leslie had strolled off in the opposite direction, on their way to the Petit residence where Henri anxiously waited for them to further their search plans for his daughters.
Upon their arrival, they settled in the living room where Jonathan and Chris began recounting their morning’s adventure at Rashid Hassan’s apartment. As they neared the end of their account, with Jonathan inquiring about local avenues to have the drug samples quickly and discreetly tested, Monique interrupted their discussion.
“Jacqueline just called,” she said with a puzzled expression then added for the benefit of their visitors. “She’s my sister.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Henri. “What did she want?”
“She wanted to make sure we were both here,” Monique replied. “She’s coming over with Normand. She said he has information about Dominique and Corinne.”
“Information?” Henri repeated. “What kind of information?”
“I don’t know. I asked but she told me Normand would tell us everything,” said Monique, “But she sounded very angry with him. When I told her you had colleagues here to help in the search, she said, ‘Good. That will teach him.’”
“I don’t understand,” Henri replied, looking as confused as his wife. “What could Normand know about our daughters’ disappearance?”
Monique shrugged. “They’ll be here soon and he will tell us.”
* * * *
Ten minutes later, Jacqueline and Normand Lefebvre arrived and were ushered into the living room. Hers was a look of fury whereas his was one of deathly despair. When Henri proceeded with introductions, Jacqueline stepped forward and shook hands with each. However, Normand stood in the background, staring at his feet, seeming like a scolded child banned to the corner for some wrongdoing.
“Have a seat,” Henri invited, “And we can get to the bottom of this.”
“He can remain standing,” Jacqueline snapped as she settled onto a loveseat next to Leslie. “An animal like him deserves no special treatment or comfort.”
“Uh, very well,” said Henri, uncomfortable but understandably curious. “Normand, what is this all about?”
“I, uh, I… This is, uh, very difficult,” Normand stammered. “I, uh, I’m not sure exactly where to start.”
“Tell them!” his wife screamed, pulling off her spike heeled shoe and flinging it at him, hitting him in the chest.
“Jacqueline!” Monique cried as the others looked on in surprise.
“Talk, you bastard,” Jacqueline ordered her husband, ignoring her sister. “Talk or I will beat you in front of these people.”
Normand took a
deep breath as tears started trickling down his cheeks. “Dominique and Corinne were kidnapped by, uh, an organization I’m uh, involved with.”
“What?” Henri exclaimed, rising to his feet. “Kidnapped for what? Ransom? Blackmail?”
“If it were that simple,” said Jacqueline as she glared at her husband.
“It’s nothing like that,” Normand replied. “They weren’t kidnapped because of me. It was simply a coincidence that they were chosen.”
“Your nieces, my daughters were kidnapped and you call it simply a coincidence?” Henri demanded stepping closer. “What the hell is going on? What is this damned organization you’re involved in?”
Chris stood and placed a hand on Henri’s shoulder. “I understand your anger but let’s get whatever information we can here. Let him continue.”
Henri stepped back and sat back down. “Go on. Continue.”
“I’m just not sure where to start,” Normand explained. “It’s rather complicated.”
“The immediate concern is your kidnapped nieces,” said Jonathan. “Stop wasting time and tell us what you know.”
Normand nodded. “This organization owns a few clubs here in Paris. I’m not involved in their operation whatsoever. My only implication is -“
“Get to the point,” Jonathan barked. “What the hell happened to the girls?”
“Yes, yes,” Normand replied. “One of these clubs is called Femme Fatale which I believe you’re aware of. The girls went there and were drugged and kidnapped.”
“Why?” asked Leslie. “Were they hurt? Where were they taken?”
“No, they weren’t hurt,” said Normand. “Only sedated.”
“I asked you why they were taken and where,” Leslie demanded.
“They, uh, they’re on their way to North Africa,” Normand replied then fell silent.
Leslie stood and left the room, returning seconds later with a chair which she placed by Lefebvre.
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