‘Good to see you again,’ he said quickly, unlocking his car. ‘Thanks for coming.’
Caspar looked in good trim, although still gaunt, but less strained than he had previously, less haunted. ‘My pleasure. I needed a change of scenery, anyway. And it gave me an excuse to sit on a train and do nothing for a while.’
‘Good idea. Santer says you’re working.’
‘Yes. Some regular jobs doing security and a bit of low-level surveillance. Nothing too big yet. But getting there.’ He smiled almost shyly, his demeanour a complete transformation from when Rocco had last seen him. But then, he had been beaten and shot, which tends to make even the strong wilt a little. ‘But this is good.’
‘You still want to get back in?’ Caspar had been suspended on health grounds after the strain of working undercover had become too great. But he’d been desperate to regain his badge ever since, convinced he could still make a contribution.
‘Actually, I’m no longer so sure about that.’
‘Really? What’s changed?’
‘The work. The stuff I do now, it’s got its moments, but there’s no longer the same pressure. There’s some risk, but I can handle it.’ He shrugged. ‘And I’m not kidding myself anymore, you know? I was too near the edge for too long. Problem was, I couldn’t see it.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a girlfriend now. Christ, I’m almost respectable!’
Moments later, Saint-Cloud came out and climbed in his car. If he noticed Caspar, he gave no indication. Rocco led the way out to the Pont Noir, filling in Caspar on the way, including Bellin’s part in the car’s planned disappearance.
‘I’ll put the word out,’ Caspar said. ‘See what the gossips are saying.’
‘It was just a car — a tool for a job. But I think Bellin was being paid by someone big to get rid of it; someone he’s terrified of.’
‘Someone around here?’
Rocco shook his head. ‘Someone in Paris.’ The capital was full of scary people; people who’d only have to glance at a man like Bellin to throw him into a funk.
Caspar puffed his cheeks. ‘Christ, that narrows it down a bit. But not much.’ He nodded through the windscreen. ‘He looks familiar. Not your boss, is he?’
‘Have you heard of Colonel Saint-Cloud?’
‘What, Big Charles’s bodyguard?’ Caspar looked impressed. ‘That’s him? What’s he doing here — and why you?’
‘I was about to explain that. You’ll be working on his payroll, although I don’t expect you to like him for it.’
‘Great. And as long as I don’t have to throw myself in front of a bullet for him.’
‘I had the same thought.’ He explained where they were going, and Saint-Cloud’s resistance to the idea of an attack site or the method involved.
Caspar caught on fast. He’d been around senior officers and officials enough to know that one always had to be on one’s guard. ‘Right. So it’s eyes and ears to the ground, keep my head down and my mouth shut.’
‘Exactly. Find out anything you can about the attack at Guignes… and whether it’s possible they or another group could be planning a follow-up here. They might be crazy enough to try again just because nobody expects it.’
‘Or someone will try to top it.’ Caspar stared out of the window. ‘Wouldn’t take much, topping failure with a successful hit.’
‘Or that.’
‘So he’s definitely coming?’ Caspar meant de Gaulle.
‘Saint-Cloud seems to think so, but he’s not giving anything away.’ He told him what Blake had said about the private visit.
‘I’ll see what I can find out. I know a few OAS guys with long memories, but they’ve gone quiet since independence. I doubt they’re still active, although they might know people who are. What exactly do you want me to do?’
‘Dig around, see if you can get a line on any groups with contacts out this way. So far I’ve got nothing because Saint-Cloud’s given me nothing. But I don’t want to be handed my head on a plate for not trying, and missing something obvious… something you might be able to dig out instead. Santer will fill you in on the N19 attack, but that ended so badly, I wouldn’t rate them as being ready for another go.’
‘Sounds like it was costly, losing two men for a carload of paperwork.’
Rocco agreed. It still puzzled him that the attackers, which had included a former soldier, had stumbled so badly. Getting imprecise information on a target’s timing or route was always a risk plotters had to juggle with. But getting it so badly wrong had been disastrous on an epic scale. It prompted a thought.
‘You might get Santer to find out the name of the motorcycle escort who fought back. See if you can speak to him.’
‘Why — you think there’s something there?’
‘Well, he’s wasted riding a bike, for a start. If that’s his real job.’
Caspar’s eyes went wide as he considered the implications. ‘Damn, you’ve got a devious mind, Rocco.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can find.’
Rocco pulled in to the side of the road opposite the track, just short of the bridge. He and Caspar climbed out as Saint-Cloud parked in front and walked back to join them.
‘Who is this?’ he queried, as if noticing Caspar for the first time. He shrugged on a warm coat, the skin on his face pinched and white, and Rocco wondered how often he ever got out of the office on field trips.
He made introductions, but Saint-Cloud seemed barely interested. ‘Fine,’ he said, when Rocco told him Caspar was on the strength and would be looking into the Paris end of things. ‘Whatever you think is necessary. Clear payment with my office.’ He glanced at Caspar. ‘Just make sure you find me some names, you understand? We’ll drop the hammer on them. We need to stop this thing before it goes too far.’ He glanced around at the bridge and fields. ‘Is this it? This is your suggested attack zone?’ He shook his head. ‘Rocco, you disappoint me.’
Rocco bit his tongue. Losing his temper with Saint-Cloud would serve no purpose. He indicated the point where the road passed the mouth of the track. ‘I believe they’ll leave some kind of obstruction here to slow down the president’s car… work signs, something like that. But instead of using guns, they’ll come down the track past that shed, using a truck to drive the official car off the road here and over the edge.’ The shed’s pigeons, he noted, were looking at the three men with wary interest. No doubt they had learnt at an early stage that anything that flew was fair game for the end of a long gun.
Rocco led the other two to the brink of the gully and pointed down. The drop drew a faint oath from Saint-Cloud. ‘Once down there, there’s no coming back. They could do whatever they choose to finish the job. There’ll be nobody to stop them.’
Saint-Cloud looked sceptical. ‘Oh, you mean wine bottles filled with petrol? Like you said that farmer saw the film crew using? The idiot was deluded. Who throws petrol bombs anymore?’
Caspar frowned, unfazed by Saint-Cloud’s rank or position. ‘I saw Molotovs being used during a protest in Saint Denis a couple of months back. Pretty effective they were. Set a couple of cop cars on fire, broke up the CRS ranks, too, for a while.’ He looked down the slope and murmured, ‘If I was going to make sure nobody got out of a car alive, down there is where I’d do it.’ He shivered. ‘Nasty way to go.’
‘Well, thank you for that expert analysis,’ Saint-Cloud muttered. ‘Believe me, these disaffected groups prefer streets for their cowardly attacks, not open fields. Busy roads, traffic, people — and escape routes for when they run out of courage or ammunition. Out here, they’d be exposed… vulnerable and frightened.’ He turned and walked away across the bridge, stiff-legged and impatient.
‘What an arse,’ Caspar murmured. ‘On past experience, he’s right… but that’s just being blinkered. Makes you wonder how de Gaulle survived this long with him in charge.’
‘Because when it came down to it, others were providing the real protection,’ said Rocco. He felt surprisingly calm in the face of
Saint-Cloud’s scepticism. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to win this one, not here and now. But that meant he’d simply have to prove he was right.
Saint-Cloud came back across the bridge, shaking his head. ‘No — I don’t buy it. The president is unlikely to come this way, and even if he wanted to, there’s no way we could let him come to such an isolated spot without full protection. Once any attackers saw that we were prepared, with no way out, they’d call it off.’
‘And go underground,’ Rocco pointed out.
‘Maybe. Maybe not. But I have a better idea of where they might plan an attack. And it fits with what we know of their methods. Come on.’ He walked back to his car, leaving the other two to follow.
Saint-Cloud drove fast and efficiently, showing that he was not entirely without skills outside the office. They soon arrived on the outskirts of Arras, on a wide crossroads dotted with a handful of houses, a cafe and a depot supplying Camping Gaz. Saint-Cloud had parked on a piece of waste ground next to the cafe, and walked over to join them as Rocco pulled up.
‘See this?’ He gestured at the four roads in turn. ‘This crossroads is my concern. There is a possibility that the president will come here, to open a new library dedicated to the fallen of the two world wars.’ He pointed east, along a straight stretch of road. ‘He will have to come along this route, which is the quickest approach from the capital. Any other route takes him through too much traffic and narrow streets. But it makes this spot an ideal choke point for an attack.’
Rocco couldn’t disagree. It was ideal. Multiple routes in, escape routes out and enough nearby streets and dwellings to cause confusion and for attackers to get lost in. Anyone wishing to fire on the presidential car would be able to cause an obstruction anywhere here and simply hose down the vehicle as it went by. The technique had almost worked in Le Petit-Clamart last August, avoided only by the chauffeur’s driving skill.
But this wasn’t Le Petit-Clamart.
He wasn’t convinced. ‘So is he coming here, then?’
‘That is not for public consumption.’ Saint-Cloud seemed pleased, as if Rocco’s lack of dissent signalled a victory. ‘But we must be prepared. Should he decide to do so, I will arrange blanket coverage of the area.’ He gave a humourless smile, looking beyond them. ‘Anyone trying anything will suffer the same fate as the previous ones.’
By the time Rocco dropped Caspar off at the railway station, the light was fading. He went to his office to check for messages and found Berthier waiting for him with a note in his hand. He was scratching his head.
‘A man named Bellin rang for you. Sounded drunk or mad. Said something about his dog, and how he’s been marked.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know what that means, but he wasn’t making much sense. Is that Bellin at the scrapyard?’
Rocco dialled the number on the piece of paper. ‘Yes. You know him?’
‘Unfortunately. He’s one of the lower orders around here.’
The phone rang ten times before Bellin picked up. He sounded stressed, his words pouring out in a mad jumble once he recognised Rocco’s voice. ‘You’ve got to help me — they’ve killed Oscar!’ His breathing was hoarse, as if he’d run a marathon and was at the end of his reserves.
‘Who the hell is Oscar? And who killed him?’
‘I don’t know… some men — a man… They don’t have the guts to come out into the open. You’ve got to come — please!’
Then the phone went dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Rocco dropped the phone and called across to Berthier. ‘Where’s Desmoulins?’
‘Out on a job. He’s due back at any time. Can I help?’ He looked excited at the prospect of going out on a call, but Rocco had to disappoint him. This could be a fuss about nothing, Bellin’s imagination overcoming rational thought. The dog might simply have run off, as he would have in its place. But if it hadn’t, he couldn’t place a man on desk work in the line of fire.
‘Get him to follow me to Bellin’s yard.’
He drove as fast as traffic would allow, wondering if this was a panic over nothing, or whether this might finally produce results. A name was all he needed, then he could make some progress. Soon he was bumping down the lane to Bellin’s yard, pulling to a stop clear of the entrance.
He took out his gun and slipped through the gates as he’d done before. The light was fading, throwing the junkyard into something resembling a horror movie scene of jagged edges and shadows. There were no lights on in the cabin and no sign of Bellin. He strode across the yard, slipping on the mud, and peered through the doorway. Empty.
The telephone handset was lying on the floor.
Rocco turned and looked back at the telegraph pole outside the gates, which had once fed the phone line in a loop overhead to the cabin.
The wire had been cut.
He debated the wisdom of going further into the yard alone in search of Bellin. If anything happened, he’d be an easy target. On the other hand, Bellin had asked for his help.
He walked along the first open row, sticking close to the line of junked vehicle bodies, checking every few steps as he came across a gap. He stopped, listening for sounds of voices or movement, but there was nothing. The breeze was just sufficient through the metal piles to throw out a sound all of its own, deadening any other noises and creating a background hum which served to confuse the ears.
Then he heard a clink of metal. It had come from the area where he’d last seen Bellin, sitting morosely at the back of the yard, smoking endless cigarettes. He hoped the scrap dealer was resisting the urge this time; if anyone was here looking for him, all he had to do was follow the smoke.
Rocco loosened his coat buttons and shrugged his shoulders, eyeing the ground in front of him. This was best done at speed, staying on the move. Anyone tracking movements around the yard would be as hampered as he was by the poor light and the shadows, and if they meant business, they would have little chance to pin him down.
He jogged down the row and turned right, holding the gun two-handed, the safety off. The light here was even worse, with giant shapes looming up on either side to create confusion. A truck body lay on its axles, the windows and engine gone and the rear end missing. A battered Simca stood on its nose against a pile of other car bodies, like a child’s parking lot at bedtime. Other vehicles were unrecognisable, merging one with another in the gloom.
He rounded the corner where he had last seen Bellin. He was sitting exactly where he had been before.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ the man hissed. He jumped up and threw a glance past Rocco’s shoulder. He looked terrified and was shaking visibly, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his filthy overalls to hide his nerves.
Rocco urged him back into the recess and made him sit down by the simple process of pushing him by his shoulders until his legs gave way. In Bellin’s present state, anyone out there would hear him and be able to pinpoint his location in seconds.
‘Tell me what happened,’ he said softly. ‘Keep your voice down and breathe, and we might get you out of here in one piece.’ He turned so that he could keep an eye on the open area towards the back fence. If anyone came looking for Bellin, he wouldn’t get much warning, but at least his own presence here might put them off long enough to take evasive action. To emphasise his intentions, he made a play of checking his weapon, which caused Bellin’s eyes to widen.
‘I got a call,’ Bellin muttered, rubbing his face with podgy hands. ‘A mate in Paris said I was in deep shit.’ His breathing came fast and shallow and his eyes were darting everywhere. ‘Told me to run or I’d regret it.’
‘Do you trust him?’
‘Yes. Well, pretty much. What’s that got-’
Rocco clamped a hand over Bellin’s mouth as his voice began to rise, cutting him off. ‘I’ve known some people all my life,’ he explained. ‘But I wouldn’t trust them further than I could throw one of these cars.’
Bellin struggled free of Rocco’s grip and said softly, �
�All right. Maybe he’s got an angle — I don’t know. But it makes no difference now, does it? Where the hell would I go?’
As he spoke, he heard a dull metallic clank. It had come from beyond the piles of junk at the front of the yard. Someone had pushed against one of the gates, disturbing the corrugated sheeting.
Bellin reacted as if he’d been scalded. He jumped up and stared around as if demons were about to emerge from the scrap metal.
Rocco grabbed his shoulder. ‘Are you expecting company?’
‘It’s them.’ Bellin’s voice was soft but high-pitched, childlike in fear. His face crumpled and he looked at Rocco as if he were about to burst into tears. ‘You’ve got to stop them.’
‘I can’t,’ said Rocco, ‘if you don’t tell me who they are.’ He checked the gun again, a last-second-before-action subconscious habit. Full magazine. Then he looked around at their position. He’d been in worse spots when attacked before, but he couldn’t recall when. Indochina without a doubt. Only the ones coming here were unlikely to be communist Viet Minh. But neither was he accompanied by trained and battle-hardened troops. He looked at the fence in front of them. It was nearly three metres high and clad in bashed metal. No handholds and no pile of scrap close enough to get a leg-up. ‘How strong is that?’
‘Forget it.’ Bellin bit the words off, resentful and angry. ‘I built it so the locals wouldn’t steal everything I had. I can’t climb that.’
‘You should have thought of that, shouldn’t you? So tell me, who is it likely to be, out there?’
Bellin swallowed and ducked his head. ‘Them. The ones who arranged the car thing. They’ve come to settle up.’
‘They must have a name?’
Another noise, and Rocco turned towards the front. As he did so, a small shape soared high into the air. It seemed to hang for a moment against the dark grey sky, then fell and bounced with a series of tinny clatters as it penetrated the scrap piles.
Death on the Pont Noir lr-3 Page 13