Death on the Rive Nord

by Adrian Magson

  It had necessitated a telephone call to his brother, Lakhdar, which he was loath to make. But sometimes compromise was a necessity, as were forceful tactics. Lakhdar had argued fiercely against this, as Farek knew he would. His brother favoured talk and resolution, which he did not. In the end Lakhdar had relented.

  As if to remind him, the telephone rang on the back wall. ‘It’s your brother,’ said the owner, holding out the handset as if it might bite him.

  ‘I’m busy,’ growled Farek, stirring sugar into the sludge they sold as coffee. What the hell did his brother want to argue about now? Outwardly he looked calm, as he knew he must. But inwardly he was seething, his blood bubbling and his teeth clenched to a painful degree as he considered his options. Staying here was not one of them. But neither was going out, not right now. He should never have come here, he knew that. It had been impulsive and reckless and left the door wide open to anyone who cared to stab him in the back. Having so easily gained control of the gangs by a combination of his brothers’ preparatory work and the elimination of a single key protester, he should have stayed to consolidate his position and reputation. But he hadn’t; he’d gone instead for the chance to regain a position of honour by tracking down his bitch of a wife. And Rocco.

  He sipped his coffee, then stood up and walked without haste to the back of the room. He snatched the telephone from the terrified owner’s hand.

  ‘What?’ he snapped.

  ‘Samir, my brother. You are wasting your time. Our time.’ Lakhdar’s voice, usually the tone of reason, of calm, was now edged with impatience. And something else. Farek felt a tinge of unease.

  ‘What? You’re calling to tell me this?’

  ‘Let the woman go. She is worthless – and the policeman can be taken at any time.’ It sounded so simple. Not for nothing had Lakhdar made a fortune in trade after they had dismantled the original gang in Constantine. The careful planner of the family, the negotiator, he had been able to capitalise on his experiences and take them into a legitimate area of operations in Paris, building a base from where he – and Samir when he’d called him – could launch their bid for control of the gangs in the city and the north of the country.

  ‘I don’t want to wait,’ Samir countered. ‘The policeman can be dealt with immediately. Without his protection the woman will come to me.’

  ‘Meanwhile, you are powerless.’

  Farek swore silently and threw a vengeful glance at Lakhdar’s men, standing guard by the front window of the café. One of those fucks had been keeping his brother informed of what was really happening here. He’d glossed over the reality earlier, explaining that he was staying here to draw Rocco to him. Then his plan could be put into operation.

  ‘Not powerless,’ he argued. ‘It will soon be over.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’ The words carried a needling tone of disbelief. It was one of Lakhdar’s more irritating habits, the attitude of one who thought himself intellectually superior and commercially astute.

  ‘I told you, yes. Then we are done here. They have nothing to hold me for. They can prove nothing.’

  ‘I hope you are right. Because I am already picking up signs of discontent among the families. They are impatient for change. What we – you – promised was a chance to build our position here, to amalgamate and consolidate to everyone’s advantage. You should have begun showing the lead already … but that has not happened because you are chasing your woman and this policeman. The others are becoming uneasy, saying—’

  ‘Words. They’re just words,’ Farek broke in, feeling the need to smash something, to lay waste to something tangible. ‘Let the cretins complain. What will they do, these well-fed sheep, huh? What can they do? I will be back soon. Until then, you must exercise control.’

  ‘How am I supposed to do that? You are the new figurehead, not me.’

  ‘Set an example, that’s how. Have you forgotten everything we learnt?’ He gritted his teeth in frustration. There had been a time when Lakhdar was more ruthless than himself. Now he had gone soft, but expected others to do the dirty work. ‘Did you do as I asked?’ he demanded softly. ‘Did you send someone as I requested?’

  A sigh, then, ‘Yes. Of course. He will be in place by now. He’s one of the best. But, Samir, I ask you one last time to forget this madness. They will know it is you and it will lead back to us. I can still call him off—’

  ‘No!’ Farek slammed down the phone, cutting off his brother’s words. Always offering advice, always holding him back. He turned to the room where Lakhdar’s two remaining men, Youcef, even the normally placid Bouhassa, were all standing quite still, watching him.

  ‘What are you all staring at?’ Farek yelled. ‘Are you all afraid, too? Huh? Have you all lost your balls? What’s the matter with you?’

  Youcef was the first to speak. He swallowed once, then gestured to the front of the café. ‘It’s the tall cop,’ he whispered. ‘Rocco. He’s out there. So’s half the French police force.’

  ‘Are we sure he’s inside?’ Rocco looked at the sous-brigadier who had spoken to him in the café with Alix what seemed like days ago. It now seemed a distant memory.

  ‘He’s there. One of my men spotted him through the curtain earlier. We’ve got eyes on the back door and unless he’s started tunnelling his way out, he’s stuck.’

  ‘How many with him?’

  ‘We think four, plus the café owner. Two in suits, a big man and a fat slug in a djellaba.’

  Bouhassa. Rocco nodded. ‘Stuck’ was one way of putting it. He could feel the police presence behind him: Canet’s uniformed teams, the detectives like Desmoulins who wanted in on the action, and the brass like Massin and Perronnet. In reserve were the intimidating lines of tough CRS personnel spoiling for a fight. And beyond them, unseen but always present, were the eyes of the Ministry and the government, watching with drawn breath to see how this would unfold.

  ‘What we don’t need,’ Massin had warned Rocco earlier, when sanctioning the operation to take Farek, ‘is a massacre. We want prisoners. Alive and able to walk unsupported. Got it?’

  Rocco had agreed, although he wasn’t sure if it would be quite that simple to bring off. A man like Farek wouldn’t allow himself to be taken without a fight, and he had the means and willpower to resist them. His entire structure was based on ego and violence, so why should he change now?

  ‘You don’t seem convinced.’ Massin was studying his face.

  ‘Farek’s up to something. He’s not the sort to allow himself to get cornered like this. He must have something in mind.’

  ‘We could lob some tear gas through the window to soften them up,’ suggested the sous-brigadier, whose name was Godard. ‘The longer he’s in there, building up a head of steam, the more desperate he’ll get. There could be collateral damage.’

  Rocco agreed. There were houses nearby, and bullets fired in anger were indiscriminate in their targets. He opened his mouth to give the order.

  Then the café door opened.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Three hundred metres beyond the police lines, a man in dark clothing lay on the top floor of the deserted sawmill, surveying the scene through binoculars. The Café Emile jumped sharply into view, highlighting the grubby curtains at the windows, the peeling paintwork, the general air of dilapidation of a building consigned to the slow and ignominious death of decay.

  As he focused, he saw the curtain flick back, then the front door opened a crack.

  Samir Farek appeared. He was calmly smoking a cigar, outwardly impassive and unconcerned by the heavy police presence surrounding the building. Just for a brief second, his eyes flicked sideways and seemed to fasten directly on the eyes behind the binoculars.

  No way out of this, Samir, thought the watcher, studying the area around the café. The warehouse on the far side was a crumbling ruin, with no viable cover even if the gang boss managed to reach it unscathed. The sawmill was too far across open ground littered with weeds and bits of rotting
wood, broken glass and tangles of wire, an obstacle course waiting to trip even the most athletic of men. And Samir Farek, tough as he talked, was no athlete.

  He watched as negotiations began between Farek and the tall cop; the introductions, the opening stances, the cold stares between enemies weighing each other up. It would take time, the way these things do. The cops wouldn’t want a bloodbath and he doubted Farek’s men wanted to die an early death. In the meantime, they’d talk. And he would bide his time until he could give Farek a way out.

  He put down the binoculars, turned and pulled a long canvas bag towards him, of the type used by fishermen. He opened the zip and took out a MAS 36 bolt-action rifle fitted with a telescopic sight, and a magazine holding five rounds.

  He uncapped the lens, blew away a speck of dust, then set the butt comfortably into his shoulder, the rubber socket against his right eye.

  Farek’s face jumped into view, framed in the café doorway, his head haloed by a cloud of blue cigar smoke. He studied the area around the café, checking for movement in the background, for unforeseen problems. Once he was satisfied, he swivelled the barrel across the empty space to the police lines, over the stony faces of the men behind the police vehicles, the immaculate uniforms of a clutch of senior officers standing near the rear. Settled on the tall man in the centre, dressed in black, a patch of orange-yellow on his forehead.

  He clicked the magazine into place, then settled himself comfortably, watching Rocco and studying the man’s clothing. Made a minute alteration to the focus of the scope and clicked the sight setting a notch or two. Even from here he could tell the man was a smart dresser. For a cop, anyway. Hell of a target, that patch.

  He smiled and blinked several times to clear his eyes. Settled back and waited. He didn’t really need the telescopic sight; but he liked to see the look of surprise on their faces.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  ‘You cannot charge me with anything,’ said Farek, calmly wafting away smoke with a flap of his hand. Behind him inside the doorway lurked the imposing figures of his brother and the barrel shape of Bouhassa.

  ‘If you think that,’ replied Rocco, ‘then you’ve nothing to fear. Come out with your men, unarmed. Let’s get this done without bloodshed.’

  ‘Without scandal, you mean. Without pictures in your newspapers.’ Farek’s French was excellent, with no trace of an accent, only a deep contempt. ‘Why have you come with all these policemen? You think I, Samir Farek, am so dangerous … so powerful? Huh?’ He laughed, showing white teeth, and Rocco knew he was enjoying this, seeing himself as some kind of anti-hero of the masses, standing up against the forces of the state.

  ‘You might think that. We don’t. Neither does the janitor you had spying on us.’

  Farek waved the words away. ‘Hah. One man – a nothing. Nobody.’

  ‘Like the man you killed in Marseilles? The one you killed in Chalon? Were they nobodies, too?’

  Farek took a deep puff of his cigar, studied the burning end. ‘Where is my wife, Rocco? You have her hidden away from me. I want her back.’

  ‘What for? To silence her, too? She must know a hell of a lot about you. Wish I had a memory like hers.’ It was an impulsive stab in the dark, prompted by an earlier thought. But it seemed to have an effect on the gangster. He blinked. Looked momentarily shaken, then rallied fast.

  ‘Silence her? For what? She knows nothing.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ He gave a twist of the knife, prompted by Nicole’s words now flooding back to him. ‘I have always been able to remember everything I hear.’

  ‘You think I would take a woman into my confidence? Hah!’

  ‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?’ Rocco waited, wondering where this was going but content to play it through. The more unsettled Farek became, the easier this would be. For now Farek would be assessing his chances, happy to play the brigand at bay until he saw a way out.

  If he didn’t, it could get very messy.

  ‘So. What are you offering me? A deal? Free passage back home?’ Farek stabbed the end of his cigar in Rocco’s direction, suddenly angry. Rocco’s taunting seemed to be working. ‘I have a right to be here! It is written in law!’

  Behind the gangster, Youcef and Bouhassa shuffled their feet. Rocco tensed. They were like guard dogs, picking up signals from their leader and getting ready to attack. One wrong move and this was all going to hell.

  And Farek was playing controller.

  ‘You can have passage back to Algeria,’ Rocco said calmly. But an Algerian jail, he thought. On charges of murder, with your wife as a witness. He didn’t voice the thought, much as he wanted to; he decided it might be a bit too provocative.

  Farek nodded, lips pursed as he considered the situation. ‘Very well.’ He turned his head and spoke briefly. Moments later, a man in an apron and two men in dark suits stepped outside, hands held high. A rattle of weaponry came from behind Rocco, and he held up a warning hand to stop anyone opening fire.

  ‘Step five paces forward and down on the ground,’ he ordered, and saw a flicker of movement as armed officers moved forward alongside him to cover the three men.

  Seconds later they were being hustled away. There were no signs of weapons.

  Then a brief argument broke out at the café door, and Youcef was standing outside, looking flustered. Bouhassa had virtually lifted him out with apparent ease on the orders of Farek, then moved to stand alongside his boss.

  ‘My brother,’ explained Farek. ‘He is nothing in all this.’ He waved Youcef away with a brief word, and the huge figure turned and did as he was told.

  ‘What the hell’s he playing at?’ It was Godard, moving in to stand close to Rocco. He motioned three of his men forward to take Youcef away. One of them patted down the big man, then shook his head. ‘They were all unarmed. They must have left their weapons inside.’

  ‘He’s playing us. Drawing it out for the maximum effect. Get your men down. If they go back inside, it won’t be for coffee and biscuits.’

  But suddenly Farek was walking forward, hands in the air and flicking the cigar away. ‘OK,’ he called. ‘I’m coming.’

  Bouhassa stayed where he was, staring at the surrounding policemen. It was impossible to tell if he was armed under that djellaba, Rocco noted, but if he made any kind of move for a weapon, he’d be cut down immediately.

  Farek stopped three paces away, eyes fixed on Rocco. It was as if nobody else was there; just two men meeting alone. He only glanced away when Youcef voiced a protest as he was being bundled into a police van, hands cuffed together.

  ‘He’s not all there, you know,’ he said, looking back at Rocco. ‘He’s not responsible for his actions.’

  ‘Tough,’ said Rocco. ‘He’s going to face charges of murder of a man named Saoula and the attempted murder of a police officer. We’ll let the courts decide if he’s guilty or not.’

  Farek’s expression stiffened. ‘I don’t know anything about that. What police officer?’

  ‘Marc Casparon. He got away and gave us a full account. You were right there. Ever heard of the charge of conspiracy? If not, you soon will.’

  Farek said nothing, merely turning to watch the van take his brother away. For the first time, Rocco detected an air of doubt lurking beneath the swagger. Then the gang leader turned back to Rocco with a faint smile on his lips. ‘You might get him, you might even hold me for a while … but you’ll never enjoy it.’ He tilted his head sideways. ‘See the sawmill? Top floor?’ He chuckled nastily. ‘Look death in the face, Rocco. And say goodbye.’

  Rocco turned his head, saw a flicker of movement at a window near the top of the building. The old sawmill which should have been cleared by the uniforms earlier in the day. An ideal firing point.

  A sniper?

  Everything that happened next was in slow motion. Rocco heard a shouted warning from Godard alongside him. He began to move but knew he was too late. He saw a puff of smoke at the top of the sawmill and
heard a dull slap, followed by a squeal from Bouhassa in the background as the fat man turned to run. Then another slap, but further off.

  But by then Rocco’s world had turned red.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Godard was white with anger when he returned from the sawmill accompanied by several of his men, all with their weapons drawn. His jump boots were scratched and dusty and he looked as if he had been rolling in cobwebs. He slapped his cap against his leg in disgust.

  ‘He’s gone. There’s a rope down the far side of the building where he abseiled down. Tyre tracks indicate he had a motorbike and rider waiting. Merde!’ He kicked at a tin can with the toe of his boot. ‘We missed a trick. Sorry.’ He held out a gloved hand and showed Rocco two brass shell casings. ‘He left these behind.’

  ‘He knew what he was doing. They won’t lead anywhere.’ Rocco sipped water from a bottle and spat it out, then stood still while a uniformed officer wiped blood off his face with a piece of damp cloth. ‘He waited to see what was going to happen, then took them out.’

  Massin appeared, scowling at Farek’s body lying nearby and stepping round the spray pattern of blood across the ground.

  ‘You seem remarkably calm, Inspector, considering you were standing right next to him when he was shot. How can you be sure you weren’t the target?’

  ‘Because he was too good.’ He looked across at the Café Emile, where a second, larger body was lying close by the front door. Bouhassa had tried to run for cover the moment he’d heard the first shot. But a second bullet had caught up with him. ‘Two shots, two clean kills. One of them a head shot on the move.’