The Dying Minutes

by Martin O'Brien

  As Constance tore forward into the swell, bucking up and down with every incoming wave, Didier managed to get off another couple of rounds, close enough to part Jacquot’s hair before smacking into the wheelhouse. But Jacquot paid no heed. Gripping Didier around the throat, he kept on smashing the man’s gun hand against the edge of the locker until the gun slipped from his bloodied fingers and slithered away across the seat, coming up short where locker lid met transom.

  If the gun was out of reach, it didn’t stay that way for long. As Constance rose over a swell and crashed down into a following trough, the gun came sliding back down along the seat. Both men saw it at the same time, and snatched wildly for it as they, too, were sent spilling forwards, Jacquot’s head crashing into the base of the binnacle as the gun slid off the seat and into Didier’s lap.

  Dazed, trying to blink away the stars in his eyes, Jacquot used the next incoming swell to help lift him to a sitting position, pulling up his legs to get his feet under him. But that was as far as he got. Out on the aft deck, Didier was scrabbling away from him, bringing the gun up from his lap, trying to keep himself steady and get his finger through the trigger guard as Constance battered her way through the swells.

  And then, as Constance rose up on the next wall of water, Jacquot saw what Cassel had seen, coming in fast.

  ‘Attention!’ he screamed, pointing behind Didier.

  And Didier turned, as Jacquot had prayed he would.

  Which gave Jacquot precious seconds to launch himself sideways and drop through the open wheelhouse hatch, the knuckles of his backbone rattling over the edge of the five companionway steps leading down to the main cabin, his head hitting the deck with another dizzying crunch.

  But there was no time to brace himself, no time to reach for something to hold on to. Seconds after his head hit the deck, the police launch he had seen coming straight at them crashed into Constance with a sickening thud and scraped along her port side with a splintering, grinding screech, first tipping the smaller craft over to starboard, before its higher, rising hull pulled her hard down to port, all in a matter of seconds, great gouts of water bursting up between the two clashing hulls.

  Jacquot’s body followed both impacts, first rolled like a loose piece of timber to his left, then picked up off the deck and flung against the side of the chart table like a bag of washing as Constance tilted back again.

  A sluicing torrent of water cascaded through the hatchway and splattered over him. Wiping the water from his eyes he saw Didier slide into view, his broad shoulders jamming into the hatch, his drenched polo-shirt clinging to his body. There was a volley of gunfire, easily heard over the sound of the engines and crashing hulls and the swells battering against their bows, and as Jacquot ducked out of any incoming fire, he saw three red roses bloom one by one across Didier’s back and a bloody mist spray down on to the chart table.

  125

  ISABELLE CASSIER, APPROACHING fast on the police launch she’d requisitioned just an hour earlier from the Gendarmerie Maritime, hadn’t been expecting to see Constance race towards them, streaking out of the narrow gap between Corsaire and the shelf of rock at the edge of the cove.

  And nor had her skipper.

  There was no time to avoid a collision.

  If Constance hadn’t veered away to starboard after passing Corsaire’s stern, the two launches would have hit head on. But that readjustment served only to delay the impact, the two boats brushing up against each other, beam to beam, with a jarring, screeching intent, the larger, heavier police launch getting the better of the contact, tipping Constance sideways, then rising up over her port side and pulling her down under the weight of her hull.

  Up on the bridge the police skipper was the only one who wasn’t sent sprawling by the collision, Isabelle crashing first into Laganne and then staggering into Salette whom she’d tracked down after Laganne told her about Corsaire and Désiré, praying the old boy would know where Jacquot had gone. And he had, parlaying the co-ordinates that Jacquot had given him that morning into a place on the launch.

  ‘You,’ shouted Isabelle, recovering her balance and pointing at Salette. ‘You stay here, compris?’ Then, turning to the skipper, ‘Keep her alongside as long as you can, got it?’

  Reaching for handholds Isabelle hauled herself across the tilting bridge and, with Laganne close behind her, she clambered down on to the aft deck where, suddenly drenched with spray, she made her way to the starboard side, the two boats rising and falling through the swells, clashing together with never more than a metre between them.

  Berettas drawn, bracing themselves against the battering swells, she and Laganne peered over the side, through sheets of seawater, at the sliding, sprawling figure of a man on Constance’s aft deck, also with a gun in his hand, even now bringing it round to take a bead on them.

  The three of them blasted off almost simultaneously, seven or eight shots whining through the salty spray thrown up between their two craft, three of those bullets finding their target.

  126

  ‘GET US OUT of here,’ shrieked Duclos. ‘Get us the fuck out of here. Now!’

  Like Cassel, he, too, had spotted the police launch, and knew the game was up. They might have dealt with Corsaire, but the cops were quite another matter. Even now he could see the long grey shape of a Coastguard cutter bearing down on them from the open channel. What they had to do now was get the hell out of there, as fast as they could.

  Hamid threw down his gun and stepped up to the wheel, preparing Désiré for departure while Beni kept up a solid rate of covering fire, confident now that they had the advantage, ever since he’d taken out Corsaire’s skipper. But the cover he provided wasn’t quite as effective as it should have been.

  Zach, peering out from Corsaire’s bridge, watched as Désiré’s anchor broke surface, the cruiser turning gently, its speed increasing as the manouevre was completed. As Désiré moved away, straightened, increased speed, Zach could clearly make out her skipper crouching at the wheel, and another man, on his belly, firing off a fusillade of random shots in their direction. But the shots were wild and it was clear that the gunman hadn’t spotted Zach. Reaching for Milagro’s M40, he tucked the rifle stock into his shoulder and lined up the crosshairs of the sniperscope onto the skipper’s back. By now the Désiré had picked up some speed and was heading out of the cove. His finger found the trigger, the crosshairs stayed steady on the skipper’s back, and Zach squeezed gently.

  Hamid was punched forwards, his arm catching in the spokes of the wheel and tugging it to the right, his body falling on to the throttle levers. With a roar of power, the Adagio 60 spun round to starboard and with an astonishing burst of acceleration that lifted her bow high out of the water, she surged towards the rocky shelves of the cove’s headland.

  127

  TIMING HER JUMP, Isabelle leaped from the police launch and landed on Constance’s aft deck, rolling away from the body in the wheelhouse, a gun still held in its hand, bringing up her own and levelling it just in case.

  But there was no movement from the body, just a swaying and tipping in time with the motion of the boat, the head slumped forward on the chest as though examining a polo-shirt soaked in blood.

  A moment later Laganne also made his jump from the launch, landing more clumsily than Isabelle, his feet shooting out from under him, sending him crashing into a seat locker.

  Getting to her feet, Isabelle made it over to the wheelhouse, grabbed the wheel and brought Constance clear of the police launch, pulling back on the throttles as she steered away from the swells and back into the relative shelter of the cove.

  To her right, Corsaire lay still in the water, no movement on deck. But to her left, Désiré had started her engines and was preparing to make a dash for it.

  They wouldn’t get far, she thought, watching the Coastguard cutter that the Gendarmerie Maritime had called in for support, squaring up to block any attempt at escape, or prepared to follow and apprehend should Désiré some
how manage to make it through.

  But there would be no escape.

  Behind her, from Corsaire’s bridge, Isabelle heard the mighty crack of a rifle shot and ducked instinctively. But the round wasn’t meant for her. While Laganne and two of the crew on the police launch returned fire, she looked ahead and saw Désiré’s skipper go down, slumping over the controls. With a whine from her engines, the boat turned, her bow rising up as she accelerated towards the rocks.

  Fifty metres away.

  Twenty metres …

  But Isabelle never saw her hit.

  128

  LAGANNE FOUND JACQUOT in the for’ard cabin with the two women. The three of them were standing in a tight hug, arms round each other, murmuring words of reassurance, whispers of comfort, the cabin a tumbled chaos of glass, books and bedding.

  ‘You okay, Danny?’

  Jacquot turned, smiled. ‘We’re okay. Is it over?’

  ‘It’s done,’ replied Laganne, but the smile was not returned.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Jacquot, stepping away from the sisters, knowing immediately that something was wrong.

  ‘You need to come with me,’ Laganne replied. ‘Up top,’ he added, nodding over his shoulder.

  Isabelle Cassier was lying on the aft deck, legs splayed, arms at her sides, her head resting on Salette’s lap. The old harbour master looked up as Jacquot came on deck, stepping over Didier’s body, a single small hole in his forehead added to the three bullets that had brought him down, but not killed him.

  When he saw Isabelle lying there, Jacquot hurried over, dropping to his knees, searching for a wound, some blood, something to explain why she was down.

  He caught Salette’s grim look.

  The old sailor shook his head, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, as Jacquot took his place.

  Her eyes were closed, but as he pushed back a slick of wet black hair from her cheek they fluttered open, widened on the sky above her, then moved and settled on Jacquot’s face. She frowned, as though trying to remember who he was. Then she smiled. She knew.

  ‘You owe me,’ she whispered, so low he had to bend down to hear the words. As he did he saw the blood welling out of the armpit in her Kevlar vest, pooling behind her neck until a swirl of seawater pinked it, washed it away across the deck.

  ‘Lunch. Wherever you want,’ said Jacquot with a smile that was hard to find. He knew there would never be any lunch. Judging by the flow of blood, the bullet she’d taken had hit her on the left side where the velcro side straps kept her Kevlar vest in place, a few centimetres below the armpit. He knew the terrible damage that bullet would have done. A lucky shot, from a dying man, but a deadly one.

  ‘Make it dinner?’ she whispered.

  ‘For you, dinner.’

  Isabelle winced, licked her lips.

  ‘I’m dying, aren’t I?’ she managed. ‘This is it. I always wondered … My last … my dying minutes.’ She hunched painfully, gave a cough, more a guttural clearing of the throat that brought a bubbling dribble of blood to her lips. ‘That’s all I’ve got. Just minutes. And, ohhh … so much I wanted to do.’

  ‘You’re not dying,’ said Jacquot softly, stroking back her hair, reaching for her hand, ice cold to the touch, no strength in the fingers. ‘If you were dying, you’d be …’

  Isabelle tried to shake her head. ‘Non, non, non … Tell me about dinner instead. That’s what I want to hear about. What we would have done. You and me. Like … Mirador, that first time. Remember?’

  She closed her eyes, squirmed a little, tried to get comfortable.

  Jacquot knew she wasn’t interested in dinner. He was right.

  Her eyes opened, widened, settled on him, as they had before.

  ‘Tell me you love me. Really.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Claudine and Delphie standing in the wheelhouse. Claudine had her arms wrapped around herself. Delphie clung to her. They were both watching him.

  He turned his attention back to Isabelle and smiled. ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘You’re the one.’

  Isabelle’s lips curled into the tightest little smile, her fingers tightening around his hand.

  Then she sighed, clear and deep for a moment, but when more blood bubbled up she began to choke, tried to swallow, rolled her eyes and died in his arms.

  129

  IT WAS ON a Sunday morning, three days after Isabelle Cassier’s funeral in Marseilles’ Saint-Pierre cemetery and two days after Delphie caught the train home to Paris, that Jacquot stepped aboard a Gendarmerie Maritime launch in the port of L’Estaque.

  He sat up on the bridge with the skipper, a slim, crisply uniformed young man who knew better than to notice his passenger’s shorts, T-shirt and espadrilles, happy to exchange the usual professional pleasantries until they passed the breakwater. Then, with a nod to Jacquot, the young sailor took off his cap, slipped on a pair of mirrored Oakleys and pushed forward the throttles, the sound of the engines and a buffeting whip of sea-breeze bringing all conversation to a halt. Which suited Jacquot just fine, leaning back in his seat and watching the sprawl of the docks and the city speed past, the sea low and calm, a high blue sky softened by a sheet of milky gauze. A perfect day to be out on a boat, he decided, and had she not been confined to the Malmousque yards for repairs, that boat would have been Constance.

  ‘Plage des Solitaires? Is that where you want?’ asked the skipper thirty minutes later, cutting back on the throttles and closing on the northern slopes of Île des Pénitents.

  That would do just fine, Jacquot told him as the rocky shoreline drew closer, a low soundless chop splashing up against it. Five minutes later, the skipper steered them past the burned-out hulk of Désiré and into the Solitaires cove, bringing the launch to within a couple of metres of the shingle.

  ‘It’s as close as I can get us,’ the skipper called down, but Jacquot waved aside the apology. Dropping off the side of the launch into chest-high water he waded ashore, the shingle slipping beneath his feet, a rucksack slung over his shoulder.

  Ten minutes later he stepped across the first of the prison’s wall footings and followed the path he’d taken with Delphie and Dhuc and Léo through its ruins.

  When he reached the open courtyard, Jacquot went straight to the low section of wall where Philo and Eddie had buried their gold, and where Dhuc and Léo had made him re-bury those four last bars. He’d forgotten all about them until driving back to the millhouse after Isabelle’s funeral, and it had taken a few phone calls before he’d been able to hitch a lift with the Gendarmerie Maritime. Had he said anything about gold bars, they’d have got him out there in a finger-flick. But he’d given no reason for the trip, just put in a request through official channels.

  Now he was there, looking at the section of low wall where he’d packed away those four gold bars.

  But he didn’t bother squatting down to dig them up.

  Instead he put his hands on his hips and smiled.

  Someone had beaten him to it.

  130

  ON THAT SAME day, on the western slopes of Cap Ferrat, Patric Polineaux, the last of the great parrains, died in his sleep.

  Not at night, in his bed, but in the afternoon, in his wheelchair, on the terrace of Hauts des Pins.

  When he drew his last breath, he was dreaming of a fine old English sports car, red as blood, that smelled of leather and petrol and made a sound like growling thunder, of a girl with wavy blonde hair, and bars of gleaming gold.

  He was reaching for the gold when that last breath came.

  A long, rattling gasp that made him reach out a hand, knocking his brandy glass from the terrace table.

  It was the sound of the glass shattering on the tiles that brought the butler, Jarrive, out on to the terrace to check that everything was all right. He could see that his employer was dead before he reached him, the old man’s body slumped – almost deflated – in his wheelchair, head tipped back, mouth open, bony arms hanging down at his side.

>   Delon, the nurse, had taken the day off, but Jarrive knew what to do. He placed two fingers against Polineaux’s neck to check for a pulse. When he found none, he left the body where it was and went inside to call emergency services.

  It took the ambulance just twenty-five minutes to reach Hauts des Pins, during which time Jarrive had opened Polineaux’s safe, removed the two twelve-kilo bars the old man had put there, and transferred them to his small apartment over the garage.

  He’d be out of a job, now that Polineaux was gone.

  But given the rising price of gold, it might be a while before he needed to look for another position.

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  Copyright © Martin O’Brien 2012

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