by Chris Ewan
He’d seen it too often.
He reacted very fast.
He surged forwards, closing the space between them. He reached around Alain with his left arm and grabbed his wrist before he could get to the Ruger. His right arm mapped the same trajectory. It slipped inside the jacket that Alain had unwittingly opened, just for him, and his hand grasped the revolver and snatched it free all in one fluid movement.
Alain was still turning. He barged into Trent. Wrenched his right hand free and jabbed him with his elbow, hard in the abdomen.
Trent buckled. His face came down. Alain jabbed again, higher this time, striking his chin. Trent’s teeth chipped off one another. His jaw shunted upwards, the blow radiating out through his nose and cheeks and eyes, his sight blurring, skull whipping back.
He felt himself rock. Felt himself teeter.
Now Alain was attacking his hand, wrenching back his thumb, digging his toughened fingers into the small bones of Trent’s wrist.
Trent was losing his grip. Losing the gun.
He squeezed the trigger.
The report was very loud. It went off like a grenade. A .44 Magnum round, straight to the gut. Close quarters. Alain grunted and spun and fell backwards like he’d been rugby-tackled. He crashed into the desk. Flung his arms out to steady himself, knocking the lamp and Aimée’s necklace to the floor. He flailed for a grip against the wash of papers. Stamped a foot and moved as if to lurch forwards, then wheezed and looked down at his side.
He exhaled in a fast hiss. Clasped his hands to the torn flesh and rushing blood. Gazed up at Trent, his face greenish and drooping, a look of despair and betrayal and incredulity in his eyes.
He slumped back against the desk. Tipped over onto his elbow. Grasped at a sheaf of papers and wedged them clumsily into the gushing, bloody mess.
Trent took a step closer and fumbled his wallet from his jeans. He tugged Aimée’s photograph free and held it in his unsteady palm and shoved it towards Alain like he was a cop showing him his ID, the revolver up alongside it, his hands shaking crazily.
‘Where is she?’ he asked. ‘What happened to her?’
Alain squinted but he wasn’t focusing on the image. He was grimacing against the pain.
‘Her name’s Aimée.’ Trent tapped the photograph with the muzzle of the Ruger. ‘Jérôme hurt her in some way, didn’t he? You must know what happened to her. You must have seen. Tell me where I can find her and I’ll call an ambulance for you. I’ll get it here fast.’
Alain was clenching his teeth, spittle foaming round his lips. He hugged his hands against his gut. His nostrils flared.
‘She’s my fiancée,’ Trent told him. ‘Tell me where I can find her. Tell me.’
Alain eyed the photograph. He considered the giant revolver in Trent’s hand. He glanced down at his stomach, at the blood pooling round his fingers, coating his wrists, leaking onto the floor. He looked up again. Bared his teeth. Nodded once, sweat drenching his brow.
Alain parted his lips. But not to say the words Trent longed to hear. He tilted back his head and he opened his throat and he unleashed a yell that was as loud and as ferocious as anything Trent had ever heard.
He didn’t hear it for long. He pulled the trigger a second time. Another Magnum round, straight to the head.
III
The Drop
Chapter Thirty-nine
Trent watched through the windscreen of the BMW as Girard paced across the square. It was just over twenty minutes since he’d fished the car keys out of Alain’s pocket. He’d retrieved the holdall of cash from Bernard and dumped it on the seat behind him. The open brown envelope rested on his lap. He had Alain’s Ruger nestled beneath his thigh, the box of spare cartridges in his pocket.
Trent was sitting in the car as a precaution. Alain’s scream and the gunshots had been loud. His ears were still ringing, his hearing fuzzed and swirling. He was afraid that his neighbours would have heard the commotion and might come to investigate. Or worse, call the police.
He couldn’t afford to be trapped now. He’d come too far. Got too close. So he’d decided to sit in the car with everything he needed, ready to speed away if he was threatened at all.
But now it seemed that he’d been lucky. Maybe the cramped box-room had smothered the noise of the gun. Maybe his neighbours had been shocked awake by Alain’s cry but had been left disoriented, uncertain of what they’d heard. Or possibly they were reluctant to become involved in a situation that didn’t directly concern them.
Trent wasn’t sure what to make of it. He wasn’t thinking straight. The whistling and the swooshing in his ears were distracting him – like trying to concentrate while someone vacuumed the inside of his skull. Even now, he wasn’t sure if summoning Girard had been the right thing to do. Part of him was tempted to twist the key in the ignition, drive away and press on by himself. But he’d called Girard for a reason. He needed his input. More than anything else, he needed someone to convince him he wasn’t losing his mind.
Girard had entered the far corner of the square on foot. Must have parked in a street near the Cathédrale de la Major. He was wearing a blue windbreaker zipped up to his goatee, his hands stuffed inside the front pockets, tenting the lightweight material so it looked as if he was wearing some kind of pouch around his midriff. His head was down, grey locks dangling over his sunken eyes, and it wasn’t until he was crossing the road towards Trent’s apartment that he glanced in through the fly-spattered glass of the BMW. He did a double take. Hesitated. Trent raised a hand and signalled to him. Girard lingered a moment more, then shuffled closer.
Trent could see that one of the pockets at the front of Girard’s windbreaker was lower than the other, as if weighed down by something. The waxy nylon had moulded itself around the object. The outline was thick at one end, elongated at the other. The material had puckered up at the point farthest away from his hand, closest to his zipper.
Girard opened the passenger door and craned his neck, assessing Trent and the tensed way he was sitting, as if he might spring sideways at Girard like a jack-in-the-box. He looked at the envelope on Trent’s lap and the black holdall on the bench seat behind him.
Trent noticed that Girard had opened the door with his left hand, which had looked a little awkward. A little unnatural. His right hand was still tucked inside the bulging pocket.
‘You’re armed,’ Trent said.
He saw the twitch in Girard’s cheek, the squint of his eye, as if he were embarrassed. He sized up the passenger seat with a momentary frown, like it was a minor puzzle of some kind, then folded himself down and in, the nylon jacket swishing with his movements. He gauged the street outside once more, then eased out the gun. It was a semi-automatic pistol. A Glock. Matte black finish. He balanced it in his open palm like it was a curiosity he’d found on his way across the square.
‘It’s just a precaution. You weren’t making much sense when you called. You were talking very fast.’ He slipped the gun back inside his pocket. Rubbed his hands together as if for warmth. ‘What’s in the envelope?’
Trent parted the seal and slid out the map he’d found. It was neatly folded with a blue-on-green cover that featured a photograph of a glistening Mediterranean cove. The map was a popular acquisition for visitors to the region. Trent had a creased and battered copy somewhere in his apartment. You could buy duplicates from the city’s main tourist office or any number of souvenir shops. It was a 1:15,000 scale guide to Les Calanques.
The Calanques were a spectacular twenty-kilometre stretch of barren, rocky inlets, secluded beaches and high limestone cliffs running along the coast between Marseilles and Cassis. The zone had been designated a French national park only recently and it was criss-crossed with treacherous hiking trails. There was a winding D-road running behind the massif, but most of the rugged coastline was inaccessible by car. It was a haven for walkers and climbers and nature lovers.
It was a nightmare for Trent.
The map was folded concert
ina-style. Trent spread it between them, across the steering wheel and the dash. There was a lot of green parkland and a lot of blue ocean. The topography was daunting. There was barely any flat. There were concentric lines everywhere, describing multiple hills and slopes and crevices, the lines becoming dense around the vertiginous sea cliffs.
Trent reached across and stabbed his finger at an area towards the right-hand side of the map. A specific point on the D559 had been circled in black ink, beside a blue symbol that denoted a parking spot. It was the beginning of hiking trail number 7, a demanding and circuitous pathway marked in vibrant red, like a thread of blood twisting and unspooling in a glass of tap water. The trail terminated at the most famous and picturesque of all the beach inlets, the Calanque d’En Vau. The cove had been circled, too.
An arrow had been drawn from the first circle to a few lines of printed text in an uninterrupted patch of green just above.
Negotiator
Park here by 10 a.m. Put the money in the waste bin. Leave your car. Do not look back. Walk to En Vau. You will find more instructions there.
Come alone.
WE KNOW WHY YOU WANT HIM ALIVE.
Trent waited for Girard to process the message. His lips parted. He vented air in a strangled groan, like someone was sitting on his chest.
‘Maybe it’s not what you think.’ There was a reedy tremor in Girard’s voice. He sounded as dazed as Trent felt. ‘Perhaps you’re reading too much into this. Of course you’d want them to release him alive. This is your job.’
‘But the message is addressed to me specifically, Girard. I think it’s a threat. A statement. They’re targeting me. That’s why they left the first package in my car. It’s why they left this envelope in my home. They know about Aimée.’
‘But how could they know?’
‘Jérôme.’
‘No, we discussed this already. It’s too dangerous for him.’
Trent supposed that was right. Jérôme would have to be out of his mind to tell Xavier’s gang what he’d done to Aimée. Even under duress or torture? That could alter things, sure. But why would Xavier’s gang try to elicit information like that? Why would they even suspect it?
‘Wait.’ Trent stared across at Girard. ‘They must have been watching Jérôme. Before the abduction, I mean. That would make sense, wouldn’t it? Look at us. We had him under surveillance. It took us more than a week to identify where he was vulnerable. And we were in a hurry. A rush. But perhaps Xavier has been preparing for longer. Maybe his gang have been monitoring Jérôme for months.’
‘You think they saw what he did to Aimée?’
‘Not directly.’ He glimpsed his reflection in the mirror. His jaw was white and rigid, the skin wet across his brow and deep purple around his eyes. His pupils were dark whorls. ‘But maybe they saw the aftermath. Jérôme had to clear up after himself. He probably made his bodyguard help him. They would have been acting suspiciously. Maybe it was enough to make Xavier’s gang want to find out more. Maybe they were good at concealing themselves. And watching.’
Girard fell silent. He ducked down and gazed out through the windows at the tall, crooked buildings that teetered all around them. ‘If they like watching, they could be looking at us now.’
‘Then let them look,’ Trent said bitterly. ‘They can watch until I find every last one of them and end this thing for good.’
* * *
The young man eased back in his chair, hiding in the greyscale dimness. Strange that the dark should be his ally now, when for so long it had been his tormentor.
He took his camera away from the window ledge and lowered it beneath the table. Shielded the screen with his cupped hand and glanced down at what was displayed there. His most recent shot featured the blue roof of the BMW and the blur of two figures inside.
He scrolled backwards through the images, the display jerking and tilting as each new shot bloomed. The zoom had worked very well. It had captured everything he could have hoped for. He had the former police detective. He had Trent.
And way before that, back through the shuttling, jolting feedback, he had the other guy, too – the man he’d spotted the previous morning taking a photo of Trent from his car.
The young man had seen him arrive in the BMW with Trent, close to an hour after the delivery van had driven away. He was a squat and muscular type. He moved with the bearing of a guy who could be dangerous when he needed to be and threatening the rest of the time. He was wearing a smart grey suit over a white shirt.
The young man had seen plenty of guys just like him. Guys who expected trouble and were capable of dealing with it. Take, for example, his composed response when they saw that the apartment door wasn’t secure and Trent had drawn a gun. The way he’d pulled his own gun and followed Trent inside very calmly and very confidently, pushing the door closed behind him.
Four fast minutes had gone by. The young man had stared at the blue front door, swaying in the gentle breeze, tapping against its frame. He’d kept his finger poised on the camera shutter, knuckle bent, finger aching with the constant light pressure he was maintaining.
Then he’d heard a sudden muffled crack from inside the apartment. There’d been a second muted bang, around a minute later. Something that could have been a shout.
Two men had gone in. Only Trent had come back out.
He was carrying a brown envelope and fumbling with a set of car keys, and he set off at a rushed jog across the square. He returned inside ten minutes, switching a bulky black holdall between his hands. He tossed the holdall into the rear of the BMW and dropped into the driver’s seat. The suspension compressed and rocked and then he thumped his palm against the steering wheel before fitting the key in the ignition and staring out at the street.
The young man had pivoted gently forwards on his chair. He’d adjusted his camera lens, angling it down at the car. He’d zoomed in and steadied his focus and compressed the shutter. He’d reached for his pad and pencil and made a careful note of the time.
Chapter Forty
‘Suppose you’re right,’ Girard said. He was smoothing his hand over the map like he was casting runes, the paper crinkling and deflecting under his touch. ‘Say they do know about Aimée. Why tell you now?’
‘To compromise me,’ Trent replied. ‘To motivate me to ensure the drop goes through.’
‘But why not before?’
Trent’s lips tightened. ‘They didn’t know how I was going to react once I became involved. So they waited until I sanctioned a generous payout. Way more than I’d normally have approved at this stage. They were happy with it. Very content. Otherwise, they’d have used their knowledge to force the price higher.’ He sucked air through his teeth. Forced his mouth wider still, muscles quivering in his cheeks, lips taut as cat gut. ‘They must believe it’s as good as they can get. Now they just want to be certain that I don’t try anything at the drop. They want to guarantee that I comply with their instructions.’
‘It’s a risk.’
‘More than a risk.’ Trent released the tension in his mouth. Worked his jaw until it clicked, then circled his hand around the area of the map where the gang wanted him to abandon his car and leave the money. ‘It’s a mistake.’
Girard gazed sideways at him. Waited for more.
‘They’ve pushed too hard.’ Trent stabbed his index finger into the map. Almost punched a hole clean through it. ‘I don’t like this set-up. Not one bit. They’re luring me out. Isolating me by insisting I come alone. Why make me walk so far after I drop the ransom? It has to be an hour-long trek to the beach from this point. And now they’ve told me they know about Aimée, the exchange has to work for me.’
‘So?’
‘So I need a guarantee. I can’t afford for them not to release Jérôme. So I can’t go by myself. I need back-up, Girard. I need you.’
Girard slumped in his seat. He raised a limp hand and unzipped his jacket with a weak, listless movement, eyes glazed and sightless, and he removed a c
igarette from a packet and let it dangle from his lip without lighting it. He blinked. He shook his head. He removed the cigarette, then put it back and moved it around in his mouth some more.
‘But we tried this before,’ he mumbled, with the glassy, unfocused look of a drunk talking to himself in a mirror running behind a bar.
‘They won’t spot you this time.’ Trent tilted the map towards Girard and nudged his arm. ‘Look at this terrain. You don’t have to get close. There’s plenty of high ground. Plenty of viewpoints. There are rocks and trees all over this area. You can drive the fast road to Cassis, then double back along this route. Park a few kilometres away. Find a location to watch from. You don’t need to intervene. You just need to be able to follow whoever comes for the cash. ID them. Whatever.’
‘It’s dangerous.’
‘It’s dangerous either way.’
‘You have to be sure. No doubts. You have to be absolutely certain.’
‘I am.’
‘If this goes wrong…’
‘It won’t. Why would it? This time is different, Girard. Everything has changed. You don’t have a team of people trying to conceal themselves. You’re just one man.’ Trent smoothed his hand over the map. He shifted closer in his seat. ‘One guy in all of this. And remember, they don’t know about you.’
Girard’s pouched eyes were fixed on the dusty rear window of the car parked in front of them. His gaze was as stony and blind as that of the naked cherub outside the Moreaus’ mansion.
‘I trust you, Girard. I do. And this is the chance you’ve been waiting for. This is the best opportunity you’ll get to find Xavier. To find his gang.’
Girard’s head swivelled towards him, fast and frictionless.
‘You have to be able to live with this. If they see me…’
‘They won’t.’ Trent clenched his arm. ‘And it’s the right decision. I can live with that.’
* * *
The young man watched the former police detective step out of the BMW, smooth his hair back from his eyes and quickly scan the cars and buildings close to him. He didn’t look up at the apartment the young man was in. He didn’t scope his side of the square at all.