Death on the Rive Nord

by Adrian Magson

  The other two men were soldiers, styled after the American Mafia, and little more than hired muscle. Whatever they were told, they would do. Without question or feeling.

  ‘What do you want of me?’ Saoula asked, his voice breaking. ‘I have no money, no valuables …’ He wondered what was going on. The Fareks were not normally involved in this kind of rough stuff, not like their brother Samir, the gangster from over the water. They kept a low profile and stayed out of the limelight, Lakhdar being the prime mover, although he rarely moved outside of the office where he did his business.

  The response was another slap from Youcef. It felt like he’d been hit by a truck. His head rocked back, the bones in his neck cracking with the whiplash effect. He groaned and slumped forward, hoping to avoid a repetition. It didn’t work; a giant hand grasped him by the hair and jerked him upright.

  ‘What did the cop want?’ mouthed Youcef, swamping him with a rank smell of spicy food and filthy teeth. He shook his hand and twisted a large signet ring on his middle finger. ‘Why were you meeting with a cop, anyway?’ He shook him by the hair as a terrier shakes a rat, and Saoula felt another tooth coming loose.

  ‘Cop? What cop? I never talked to a cop!’

  The slap this time was harder, knocking him out of the chair. He hit the floor on his side and rolled, trying to escape what was surely going to follow. It wasn’t enough. He fetched up against a wall and felt a foot like a battering ram slam into him, squishing his ribs as if they were made of sausage meat. The crack of bones travelled around the room and Saoula felt an unbelievable agony slice through his gut and set fire to every nerve in his body. He tried to scream but couldn’t, and a bright light flared in his eyes. He slumped back, a small part of his mind wondering vaguely what would happen to his best girl now he wasn’t going to get back with a nice bunch of flowers.

  ‘Hey, Youcef. Careful, man.’ The voice of one of the men penetrated the waves of pain. ‘Lakhdar said to wait until he gets here, remember?’

  ‘I don’t give a piss-fuck what Lakhdar says!’ Youcef hurled back, spittle spraying from his mouth. ‘Don’t tell me what Lakhdar says! This piece of donkey shit tried to betray our brother to the cops!’ To reinforce his strength of feeling, he kicked Saoula again. Then again.

  The other men looked nervously at each other, but didn’t dare try to stop him.

  Down on the floor, Saoula felt something cold touch his very core as a sliver of broken ribcage pierced his heart. Then the light in his eyes went dim and faded to black, and he ceased worrying about his best girl for ever.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The sweep was a go. Rocco was amazed.

  He’d come in after an early-morning phone call expecting another day of prevaricating, only to hear that Massin had called an emergency briefing. Someone in the Ministry had finally taken the decision to authorise a search for illegal workers. All uniforms had been mobilised and told to stand by, complete with buses for anyone without papers to be taken into custody, and with suits from the Immigration Service in attendance from Lille to oversee the inspection of papers. The general feeling was that the suits weren’t likely to have their work cut out.

  ‘This operation will be strictly low-level, aimed at finding those workers without papers, the gang bosses who run them and the people who brought the workers into the area.’ Massin shuffled papers and looked briefly out over the room, looking like a man trying to assimilate the orders received from the Interior Ministry and translate them for staff. ‘This operation is being replicated in towns such as Strasbourg, Lille, Lyon, Marseilles and the commercial belt around Paris. We begin at twenty-three hundred hours tonight and the operation ceases at O-three hundred. All leave is cancelled as of now. Any questions?’

  Nobody had. They were all trying to think about what would happen when they descended on the factories later that day. Most would be shut, but as they knew well, many had lights burning at all hours, ostensibly to complete orders at a time when productivity requirements were high. But was it as simple as that, or were they using the cover of night to use a cheaper, underground workforce? It was a question most patrol officers had asked themselves from time to time, but without the authority to go in and ask, they had been forced to leave well alone.

  ‘Let me emphasise something,’ Massin continued heavily, the light glinting on his spectacles. ‘This is not a public announcement. If news of this gets out, we’ll be hounded by the press, the unions, the factory owners and pressure groups from all sides … quite apart from alerting the gangs and workers involved.’ He paused. ‘I do not want any leaks. Any officer found discussing it with anyone outside this room will be arrested and will feel the full weight of the law. Am I clear?’

  A murmur of assent, with a few surprised looks between officers who knew that keeping something like this quiet all day would be a minor miracle. Detective Tourrain, Rocco noted, was barely suppressing a smirk the size of a dinner plate. For a man who had little regard for illegal workers, it was probably at the prospect of being able to get out there and drag them into custody.

  ‘There is one important condition to this operation.’ Massin dropped the papers by his side and looked around the room, eyes finding and settling on Rocco with an expression almost of regret.

  Great, thought Rocco. Here it comes.

  ‘One factory will not be subject to this sweep. The Ecoboras plant. My orders are that it is not to be included and not to be approached. As an important subcontractor to the Ministry of Defence, its work is regarded as too sensitive to be disrupted. Clear?’ He nodded, adding, ‘That’s all. Organise your men.’

  Rocco watched the room empty, and found Massin approaching him.

  ‘The matter of the criminal, Farek,’ said Massin. ‘It has been referred back marked ‘No action’. As I suspected, we have no grounds to stop him coming here. He has committed no crime in France and the Algerians say they have no record, either.’ He looked sceptical, adding, ‘No doubt if they looked harder they might find something, but there is nothing I can do.’

  Rocco nodded and left the room with Massin’s eyes boring into his back. He was angry but not surprised. Politics again, interfering with the business of law by sheer inaction. Well, there were ways round that.

  He went in search of Desmoulins, but before he could find him, he was approached by one of the desk officers.

  ‘Inspector? There’s a man named Caspar asking for you. Says it’s urgent.’

  Rocco followed the man to his desk and picked up the telephone. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Farek’s in Paris. He’s called a tent meeting.’

  ‘What the hell’s that?’

  ‘Search me. Something from way back, apparently, like a council meeting of elders or tribal leaders. Only this one is between gang bosses.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Belleville. Eight this evening.’

  Rocco knew it well. A working-class neighbourhood, it was a frenetic and mostly friendly mix of Jews and Muslims from across the North African divide. Kosher bakeries sat side by side with halal butchers, with almost no trouble between the two. It was an ideal location for Farek to meet with others of his kind. There would be eyes on every corner and outsiders would stand out like tourists at a burial service. Any police presence would be detected within minutes and word would fan out, sending everyone scuttling for cover.

  ‘These gang bosses … can he really make them get together as easily as this?’

  ‘Looks like it. There’s been a rush of faces and names moving into Paris all day, from all over the north and central region. They probably see him as a force to be reckoned with. Don’t forget, he’s got a fair bit of influence through the deals he’s done in the past … and a hard reputation. He’s also got two brothers to help him out with identifying the locals.’

  Rocco was surprised. ‘I thought they were out of it.’

  ‘Me too. But it seems not. From the chatter I heard, I got the impression they’ve been working a
way quietly, setting up contacts, businesses, front companies and the like. Leastways, one of them has. The other’s a dick.’ Caspar explained the difference between Lakhdar the wheeler-dealer and Youcef the mindless thug. ‘If Farek’s planning a takeover, he’s being smart. He’s confronting the bosses on their own turf with no warning. He’ll be offering deals, working relationships. Coming with gifts to win them over.’

  ‘And if that doesn’t work?’

  ‘It’ll be war.’

  ‘For real?’

  ‘Farek wants it all. But he’s a realist. He knows he can’t trust anyone for long in his business, so he’ll come in strong and show them the alternatives: the bitter and the sweet. The only people he does deals with are cops and officials; they take too long to replace once they’re in position. Gang bosses, though … they can be removed in a second. His only problem is that there’s always another one coming along behind.’

  ‘Can you get in the meeting?’ It was another dangerous thing to ask of Caspar, but if they could find out what was going on, they might get one step ahead of Farek and his plans.

  ‘I’ll try.’ Caspar sounded cautious. ‘I got word about it from a contact last night, but I think I was made by a watcher. I told my contact to duck out and ring me this morning, but I haven’t heard from him since and he’s not picking up the phone.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘What?’ Caspar was instinctively defensive. Undercover cops never reveal their sources.

  ‘If you haven’t heard from him I can have someone run a check of the overnight reports. In case he’s run into trouble.’ The nightly log of activity in the city recorded deaths explained and unexplained, assaults, hospitalisations and arrests.

  ‘Oh. Right.’ A long pause while Caspar digested the possibilities. Then, ‘His name’s Karim Saoula. He’s a pimp who deals a few drugs … low-level stuff. Keep it quiet, though, can you? He’s OK. I owe him.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘There’s one other thing.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It might be nothing, but I heard Farek’s wife has run off. Could be he’s on the warpath about that, too. Big loss of face for a man in his position.’

  ‘I thought he didn’t care about her.’ He didn’t mention Nicole; Caspar knowing she was here wouldn’t help, especially if he was to run into trouble.

  ‘He doesn’t. But who knows what goes on in the mind of a man like him?’

  Rocco rang off and dialled Michel Santer. If anything bad had happened, providing Saoula hadn’t been buried in concrete somewhere, Santer would be able to find out. Santer picked up on the third ring and Rocco gave him the name.

  ‘Jesus, like I’ve got time to be your run-around,’ Santer muttered, noisily scattering paper across his desk. ‘Ah. Here we are. Let me see …’ He hummed names and incidents as he ran down a list. ‘Doesn’t look like anything’s turned up in the last twelve hours. A quiet night all round. Oh, hang on.’

  Rocco waited.

  ‘This could be your man. One North African male, identity unknown, residence ditto, found dumped in an alleyway behind the Gare de l’Est. Beaten to death. I’ll see if I can get him identified.’

  ‘Thanks. If it is, can you get word to Caspar? Saoula’s one of his.’

  ‘Will do. Is this going to get me a gold star anytime soon?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He rang off with Santer’s laughter echoing down the line, then sat back and thought about what Caspar had told him. Something wasn’t right about this. Would a man in Farek’s position risk being caught travelling through France by opposition gangs or the police, just so he could catch up with a runaway wife he didn’t want anyway? Even to save face, he was taking a huge gamble on not being seen … or sold out.

  The other oddity was why the power struggle and why now? There had been no rumours, no build-up, none of the usual minor gang skirmishes preceding a major takeover. Farek might have been a big wheel in Oran, but that was far away and a small city. In France, he was just a name. It was almost as if this thing had happened overnight. Even Caspar seemed perplexed, and if there was anyone plugged into the community who should have known about it, it was him.

  He considered talking to Massin again about stopping Farek, then decided against it. It was too late for that; the man was already here. He’d caught them all on the hop.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Caspar arrived early and studied the venue chosen by Farek for his tent meeting. It was an old run-down theatre on one corner of a square, not far from the Boulevard de la Villette in the Belleville area of north-east Paris. The theatre was now used as a community hall and market centre, the stage having long been forced to give way to the demands of television and film. Even so, the building still possessed a faint but shabby air of elegance and glamour, with its elaborate plaster frontage and the sweep of the canopy over the front entrance. Now, though, instead of crowds of theatregoers, the array of lights across the front revealed a clutch of heavy men in dark suits spaced at intervals around the building and hovering just inside. Security was tight.

  Caspar slid into a seat inside a café across the square and kept watch while working his way through a dish of tabouleh. The line between being invisible and being noticed was a very fine one, but it was one he’d weathered many times before, and he knew how to fit in. You stayed relaxed, you acted as if you didn’t care because this was your world and you didn’t have to explain yourself to anyone. That was how you survived.

  Which Saoula hadn’t, he was convinced. The idiot must have stayed too long in the Maison Louise last night and got himself picked up instead of walking away when Caspar had warned him. But at least he’d delivered.

  Tent meeting. Belleville Theatre, 20.00 hours tomorrow.

  He had no clear idea what a tent meeting was other than the obvious, given Farek’s possible Arab-Berber ancestors; but he figured it was a deliberate play on a shared heritage among the Algerian players, with a strong touch of dramatics thrown in. Rather appropriate, he thought, given the venue Farek had chosen.

  He nodded at two men in shiny suits and heavy moustaches who walked in and sat down at a table across the room, flicking fingers for coffee and semolina cake. They gave him the once-over, eyeing his neat suit and polished shoes and no doubt seeing a reflection of themselves, minus the face hair. They nodded back, muttering a greeting, then relaxed.

  He’d just passed one hurdle. Dressing the part was essential, too. He went back to his snack, enjoying the refreshing tang of mint. Now was not the time for heavy, sweet food; light was best when tension was high.

  The traffic in the square increased the closer it got to the appointed time. Cars dropped off men in twos and threes, rarely stopping for more than a few seconds. But a few – a special few – took their time and lorded it over the others by hogging the pavement, chauffeurs hopping out to open rear doors so that their passengers could step out with their chests puffed like stars at a cinema premiere.

  Caspar felt depressed by the theatrics. These people were unreal. Acting as if they were untouchable, which, OK, some of them were … for a while. But they were calling attention to themselves by parading like this as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

  At a guess, Farek was about to change all that.

  He finished his snack and stood up. The two men did the same, wiping their fingers and dropping some notes on the table. Caspar’s chest heaved in a momentary panic. Had it been a deliberate move or had he merely acted as the catalyst for them to get going, too? He walked out, his heart banging, and held the door open to bring himself deliberately into their aura, and the three of them walked across the square and entered the theatre as if they were together.

  Inside, there was more muscle than President de Gaulle himself would have had around him. Big men in suits, cold of face and suspicious of eye, checking bags and patting armpits. They were choosing their targets by instinct and appearance, Caspar noted, all from different clans and for once sharing a commo
n task. Nobody wanted gunfire here. But while they were carefully avoiding checking the main players, everyone else was fair game.

  The two men from the café breezed through the security cordon without stopping. Caspar moved with them, giving a guard who looked his way the cold eye.

  The guard nodded and stepped back.

  Another hurdle gone.

  He walked up a flight of stairs and entered the main room. It smelt of fruit and sugar, a reminder of its usual function. The floor had been levelled and was packed with chairs in rows, many of them filling up fast as men arrived and found colleagues and friendly faces.

  Caspar split off from his two unwitting escorts and took a seat near the back, where he could sit in a shadow cast by a dud bulb. If he’d been recognised last night, there was always the likelihood that the same might happen here. He was taking a hell of a risk, but it was what he’d done all his life.

  He noted a few other single men sitting nearby. Most likely individual operators with small territories and no firm gang affiliations. But they would still have a vested interest in knowing what was going on.

  He looked around and wondered what the police brass would say if they could see this gathering. There must be more crims here than at any time and place over the last twenty years. Some big, some small, but each with his own illicit agenda.

  A light came on above the stage and the buzz of conversation died instantly.

  Samir Farek was sitting on a leather chaise longue covered with a colourful Berber blanket, hands resting on his knees. He looked squat and resolute, staring out at the assembled faces without expression, eyes dull and unreadable, a sheik looking out over his subjects. On one side stood his brother, Lakhdar, thin and pot-bellied, a heavy moustache covering his lips like a veil. Farek the businessman. On the other side stood Youcef. Massive, hands hanging down by his side like twin shovels, shoulders hunched, eyes dull. Farek the idiot. But a Farek nonetheless, and therefore highly dangerous.