She reached into the box again and lifted out a small metal spout and trigger assembly which she screwed on to the top of the can. Gastal saw what it was and shuddered. A blowtorch. A miniature version; the kind a chef might use to put a glaze on a crème brûlée. She shook the can, pulled the trigger and a jet of blue flame shot out. She trimmed the spout and the flame narrowed to a hissing blue spear-tip, two different shades, light and dark.
‘Not that I planned it that way, I admit. It just . . . happened. Things I could never have dreamt of.’ When she had the flame as she wanted it, she dipped back into the box and came out with what looked like a finned dart the length of her little finger. ‘Which is what has happened with Georges Lafour. My old teacher, Georges Lafour.’
Carefully she rolled the tip of the dart in the jet of blue flame, took it out, inspected it, put it back in again.
‘Thirty years ago cher Georges was working in a family business that negotiated beet prices in northern France. Did you know that? There wasn’t a ton of beet sold on the market that did not have a Lafour family ticket on it. Percentages. Very small, but enough to keep the family comfortable, to secure a good upbringing and education for young Georges and provide good holidays. And then Monsieur Lafour senior died in a car crash and Gorgeous Georges took over . . .’
Virginie drew the tip of the dart from the flame and Gastal saw the red glow. In an instant, she drew back her arm and flung the dart at him. It hit him in the top of the thigh, and stuck there, drooping. At first there was no pain, just the tiniest impression of a prick, nothing more than the flick of a fingernail against his skin, the tip of the dart no more than a couple of centimetres in length. He looked down at it, and as he did so the red-hot tip buried in his thigh started to make itself felt. A sharp burning sensation, like a wasp sting. He struggled against it, shaking his leg, trying to work it loose. But he couldn’t budge it. He looked back at Virginie. She had another dart in her hand and, as she talked, she heated its tip with the blowtorch.
‘In a very short time,’ she was saying, ‘our man, Georges, had moved from beet sales to crop futures . . .’
The second dart hit Gastal in the hip, its red-hot tip striking bone, the burning pain starting up much quicker than the first.
‘. . . playing the markets, trading everything from beet to barley, from maize to wheat. And as the business grew, he set up a financial services group to support his dealing and widen his interests . . .’
A third dart pierced Gastal’s chest, close to his right nipple.
‘. . . and in time that small financial services group became a bank, no less. And he was the boss . . .’
Another dart glanced off his collar bone and punctured his neck.
‘. . . and getting richer and richer.’
The next dart was thrown with fury and Gastal flinched as it pierced the skin just a few centimetres below his navel.
‘The next thing you know, there are stories about him in the press. This acquisition, that acquisition. Art and culture. Prominence. A society wedding. All the trimmings. And another fortune to add to his own . . .’
Another dart hit home, close to the one in his belly.
‘And now, all these years later, the loathsome little connard is at the pinnacle of his profession . . . favoured, fêted. About to be elevated to the highest ranks, whispering in the ear of Monsieur le Président no less . . .’
Another dart pierced the inside of Gastal’s thigh, high enough for the fins to brush against his scrotum as he squirmed with the pain from the burning puncture wounds.
‘A ripe, luscious plum ready for the picking . . .’ Virginie shook her head; words, it seemed, had failed her. But she took a quick little breath, and smiled. ‘And you know what? You know what’s even better? They’re not even related, Georges and Elodie. Did you know that? She’s not even his daughter.’ Another dart hit him above the knee. ‘He’s just the stepdaddy. He’s going to have to do what he’s told, to save someone else’s child. How noble is that? How perfectly, perfectly delicious. And she’s dead, anyway.’
Virginie let out a harsh cackle of delight, and flung another dart. It flew wide, thudding into the beam above Gastal’s head. ‘That lovely little Elodie’s going to cost him dear, mark my words. Ooooh yes. Not money, of course, not some cash-packed briefcase, used notes in low denominations. Nothing so trite, nothing so vulgar. Something infinitely more rewarding, more refined. Something even more satisfying than that cheating dago shit fighting for breath in my father’s coffin. And do you know what that is?’
Gastal shook his head, grunted, weeping now with pain and fear, the darts and their gaily coloured fins wobbling as he wept.
‘Justice, Monsieur Flic. Justice done, and justice seen to be done. Le double.’
Virginie let out a long, low sigh, and switched off the blowtorch, put it back in the box, snapped the lid closed.
‘But right now, my fat little friend, it’s you in the firing line. Call it payback for snooping, for getting in the way, for daring to think I might be bothered by your interest. I am not. You are nothing. No threat. Just a little something to pass the time, down here in my little playroom. You will never provide as great a pleasure for me as the death of cher Guillermo, or the imminent downfall of the house of Lafour, but I will try to make it worth my while. And yours, of course.’
Getting out of her chair, Virginie dropped the dart box on to the trolley and went over to the leather chest. Squatting down beside it, she rummaged around inside, and brought out a shiny chrome dildo attached to a spooling length of insulated cable. At the end of this cable was a jackplug which she pushed into a small chrome socket set in the floor. Then she reached in the chest again and brought out what looked like a tube of toothpaste.
‘And now,’ she said, straightening up, ‘I’m going to show you something rather unusual. Made for me by a master craftsman who specialises in this sort of equipment. Tailor-made to my specifications. And very expensive, I can tell you. Oh, and very, very entertaining.’
Clamping the dildo under her arm, she twisted the cap off the tube and squeezed a worm of clear jelly on to her fingers. Dropping the tube on to the trolley, she retrieved the dildo and smeared the jelly over its tip, and up and down its sides, until the silvery mirror shine of the chrome was dulled.
‘It’s a little messy, this stuff,’ she conceded, wiping her fingers on her slacks and leaving a dark, greasy stain. ‘But it works brilliantly. Not just as a lubricant, you understand, but as the most amazing conductor. Just you wait and see.’
Virginie stepped right up close to Gastal – close enough for him to smell her perfume through his snot-and-blood-filled nostrils – and moved the tip of the dildo around his nipples. He felt a tiny vibration followed by a very gentle pulse of electricity, just a soft tingling that danced across his skin, nowhere near as searing as the taser, strangely arousing as a matter of fact.
‘Electricity,’ Virginie murmured. ‘Such a clean, pure power, n’estce pas? But don’t worry,’ she continued. ‘It gets stronger. You see that socket there? In the floor?’ She nodded back towards the chest. ‘It’s a combination timer and rheostat. Over the next hour or so, as I show you a few more tricks, the vibrations will increase, and so will that tiny pulse of electricity. Gets to be some fun, I can tell you. And all these little darts, all those sharp little tips . . .? Well, they’re also part of the kit. They may have cooled but they are there for a reason. Tiny little . . . receptors. To create a circuit, do you see? As the power increases, you’ll feel them start to react, pick up each little shock, amplify it.’ She reached up, pulled the last dart from the wooden beam and, without a thought, plunged it into his cheek.
‘Oh, I should just mention, there is one small . . . downside. When my little silver friend here is properly inserted, there’s really no way to get it out again. Look here, you see?’ She pointed to a tiny row of backward facing spines half-way up its jellied length, and then made a circle with her thumb and forefinger. �
��I push it up, comme ça, then I bring it down, like so.’ As she slid it down between her fingers Gastal saw the row of spines rise like a spikey collar, and catch. ‘Et voilà, c’est en place.’ She shrugged, smiled. ‘So it doesn’t drop out, you understand.’
She gave him a pat on his dart-free cheek and walked behind him, trailing the cable after her.
‘So, let us see. Ah, yes. Here we are. Now, just relax, relax. And whatever you do, Monsieur Flic, don’t forget to scream.’
98
THE MY LÉONIE WAS CLEAN. No sign of Elodie anywhere on board. From stern to prow, from bridge to engine room, from the anchor chain compartment to the aft inspection hatches above the twin screws, Chabran’s boarding party had opened every door, every cupboard, turned every mattress and checked every possible hiding place. And found nothing. A clean sweep.
When they’d finished their search, the Léonie’s skipper, Petro Mili, was waiting for them in the panelled dining room off the main salon. He had shaved, brushed his hair and changed into khaki drills, a sharp crease on his trousers, epaulettes on his pocketed shirt. He smiled at Jacquot, Chabran and Marie-Ange as they took their seats at the dining-room table, its wooden surface polished to an impossible shine. He was drinking coffee, but he didn’t offer them any. Beside his cup and saucer was a stack of passports and work permits belonging to his crew, still gathered in a corner of the main salon, where they’d been brought before the search began, so that nothing could be concealed, nothing spirited away. Apart from Mili and his second officer, Rohan Kosti, both of them Croatian, the Léonie’s crew were either Vietnamese of Filipino.
‘As you requested,’ said Mili, with a tight smile, sliding the paperwork across the table. ‘I think you will find that everything is in order.’
While Jacquot and Chabran started through the pile, Marie-Ange pushed away from the table and wandered around the dining room, slipping through a mirror-panelled door into the small galley that serviced it. As she did so, she saw in the mirror Mili’s eyes follow her. Something in the way he looked at her gave her a strange, unsettling sensation. She recalled a game she had played with her father when she was a little girl. Hot or Cold. When they’d played it, her father hadn’t needed to say ‘Hot’ when she was about to find whatever he had hidden for her, or ‘Cold’ if she strayed too far away. She just had to look at him to know. The way his eyes held her.
And that was the feeling she got from Mili, watching her, just as her father had done.
Something had been hidden, she was suddenly sure of it.
Or maybe someone.
And she was close.
Hot.
And getting hotter.
Carefully she examined the narrow galley. It reminded her of the same working spaces on commercial airliners. But where an airliner’s galley was stacked with scuffed metal containers and tea and coffee and water dispensers, the Léonie’s galley was sleek and stylish, oak panels concealing a half-dozen cupboards. The first ones she opened contained glassware, crockery, table linen. Another was a chiller, packed with condiments – everything from ketchup to cornichons. There was also a small fridge stacked with white wine and beers and mixers and bottled water, a freezer with an ice dispenser, a microwave and two warming ovens set above a wood counter, wide enough to carry whatever was sent up from the kitchens below.
Marie-Ange paused, frowned, reached out a hand.
Two ovens? Why would there be two ovens? she wondered.
And then she realised that one of the ovens wasn’t an oven at all, even though its black glass door was the same as the black glass doors on the real oven and microwave, even though the controls were identical.
Or almost identical.
Off and On, for the microwave and oven.
But Up and Down for the second ‘oven’.
Not an oven at all.
A dumb waiter.
To bring up the food from the kitchens below.
No one searching this small space would have thought to check a pair of ovens, open their doors, look inside.
Behind her, Marie-Ange could hear Mili answering questions from Chabran about the tests they were carrying out on Léonie’s steering system, but as she turned away from the dumb waiter she could see his eyes flicking nervously over Chabran’s head . . . watching her . . . watching her . . . Just like her father had done.
‘Jacquot,’ she said. ‘I think there’s something . . . ’
That was when the lights went out and shots rang through the darkened dining room.
99
IT WAS THE SECOND OFFICER, Rohan Kosti, standing in the arch between dining room and salon, who killed the lights, drew a gun and fired. In the darkness there were strobing yellow flashes from the gun’s muzzle, the shattering of glass, the whine of a ricochet and a groan from the dining table.
Jacquot had just picked up another passport when he heard Marie-Ange call his name. As he turned in his seat, he saw Kosti slide one hand into his jacket and reach out for the light switch with the other. He sensed immediately what was going to happen next. As the room was plunged into shadowy darkness and the first shots rang out, he pushed back his chair, slammed the galley door shut on Marie-Ange, and was out of his seat, coming round the side of the table, reaching for his own gun.
As he chased after the fleeing Kosti, a looming black shape racing across the salon towards the aft deck, he tried to remember the layout of the darkened cabin but forgot the two steps that led up to it. He went flying at exactly the moment that Kosti blasted out another couple of rounds towards the dining room. He heard the bullets whine like angry bees over the top of his head and knew that, but for the steps, they would have caught him full in the chest. Looking up, he saw Kosti turn and head for the aft deck doors. When he reached them, he snatched them open and a gust of chill air swept into the salon.
Jacquot leapt to his feet just as the spotlight from P.60 blasted through the cabin windows. When the boarding party had clambered up on to Léonie’s deck, Chabran had ordered it to be turned off. But someone aboard the cutter had heard the gunfire and its glaring white light now shafted through the darkness and spilled over the rear deck. Crouching as he ran, Kosti let off another couple of rounds at the spotlight but without hitting the target.
Flicking the safety off his gun, Jacquot dodged from cover to cover – an armchair here, a sofa, a pillar there – until he reached the sliding doors in time to see the gunman leap over the transom. There was another shot, a scream of pain and a heavy splash. Jacquot raced through the door, across the deck and reached the yacht’s transom in time to see the P.60’s helmsman, Willi, floating in the swell, and Kosti in one of the Zephyrs. As he backed away from the Léonie, he let off a couple more rounds at the second Zephyr’s outboard engine and her black inflatable sides. Throttling up a roar from his own engine, he swung the Zephyr round and raced for the shelter of Léonie’s starboard side, away from the searchlight, powering off into the darkness, putting distance between himself and the cutter.
Hard to port, with a matching roar, the engines of the P.60 growled into life and Jacquot saw the cutter swing wide and start to give chase, its spotlight snatched away from the Léonie and lancing through the darkness.
But Jacquot didn’t have time to watch. Willi, the helmsman, was still in the water, unconscious, face down and spinning away, caught in the pull of the passing Zephyr, his body only kept above the swell by the bouyancy jacket he was wearing.
Without thinking, Jacquot threw down his gun, leapt over the side and into the water. He remembered it was November and how cold the sea would be in the millisecond before he hit the surface, plunged under, and came up spluttering and breathless from the numbing shock. Flailing his arms, he struck out for the floating man, there one minute, gone the next, in the chop. Pushing away the freezing water with heavy sleeves, spending more time below the surface than above it, Jacquot finally reached Willi and flung out a hand for the collar of his bouyancy jacket. Turning back to the boat, gasping for
breath, spitting out mouthfuls of seawater, he heard a stutter of gunfire to his right, and the answering rat-a-tat boom of the P.60’s canon. Then, gloriously, a lifebelt sailed over his head, a line of rope sliced past his cheek, and five seconds later the lifebelt reached him. Tucking one arm through it, still clinging to Willi with the other, Jacquot felt himself hauled through the water in jerking tugs, banging up against the sports deck, arms reaching down for him, the two of them hauled up out of the icy water.
Teeth chattering, shaking from head to foot, Jacquot sprawled on the aft deck.
‘M-m-m-merde, but that was fucking cold . . .’ he managed.
100
TWO AÉROSPATIALE PUMA HELICOPTERS, bearing the red, white and blue chevron livery of the Gendarmerie Maritime, came in low over the P.60 and took up station, the first over Léonie’s upper deck, the second holding a hundred metres out, just off the cutter’s bows. Rotors thundering, spotlights shivering down from its belly, the aircrew of the first Puma threw out ropes to each side of its cabin, and a dozen armed combat troopers abseiled down to take control of the Léonie and reinforce the P.60’s crew. After it peeled away, the second Puma took its place and a metal basket was lowered for the first of the passengers brought up topside to be airlifted out. Ten minutes later, the last of them brought aboard, the Puma’s side door was secured and the pilot tipped away from the Léonie and headed back to the coast.
There were five of them in the main cabin: Jacquot, Marie-Ange and Elodie belted into their seats, Léo Chabran and his helmsman, Willi, strapped on to stretchers. Both men had gunshot wounds, the helmsman with a bullet in the thigh, Chabran with bullets in his upper arm and shoulder, the first shots that Kosti had fired blind into the dining room. Both men had been sedated, their heads swaying to the beat and rhythm of the Puma’s mighty rotors clattering above them. As for Kosti, the P.60’s crew had retrieved his bullet-shredded inflatable but were still searching for his body when the Puma took off.
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