Jaws of the Tiger

by Andre Baby

  Dulac dropped his knife.

  “Bon Dieu!” He swore aloud. Messier’s place. Dulac rushed to the TV and increased the volume. A woman with a microphone stood next to the ambulance.“—appears to have been shot twice in the head. No further details will be available on the man’s identity until the police notify the next of kin. This is the twelfth homicide this year in the—”

  Dulac rushed to the living room and grabbed the phone. He dialed Lyon’s police headquarters.

  “Centrale, agent Dutolier,” said a voice.

  “Thierry Dulac, Interpol. Put me through to the officer in charge.”

  “One moment.”

  Dulac waited for a moment and heard the click of his call being transferred.

  “Ici Capitaine Colomer. Who is this?”

  “Thierry Dulac, Interpol. Are you in charge?”

  “ID number.”

  “07 3688-4.”

  “Just a minute.” The phone clicked.

  Dulac waited, still watching the TV screen from across the room. There was no more news on the homicide.

  Moments later, another click sounded and the voice came back on the line. “You are the inspector from the Chimera case?”

  “Yes. Listen, I have to speak to the officer in charge. Are you—?”

  “Poitiers is in charge today. I’ll put you through.”

  Another long moment. Another click.

  “Poitiers.”

  “Dulac. You had a homicide on Rue d’Amboise today. Who is the victim?”

  “What is your business with this?”

  Dulac felt his gut tightening. He somehow sensed he didn’t want to know the answer to his next question, but he had to ask it. He had no choice. “Is the man’s name Henri Messier?”

  “I, I am not at liberty to answer. If you have—”

  “I’ll meet you at the Préfecture in twenty minutes.” Dulac hung up. Merde! No such thing as coincidence. Sorry I got you into this, old friend.

  He got dressed, went to his desk and closed his computer.The USB sticks Messier had provided were on the desk, next to the phone. Better take them with me. He pocketed them, holstered his .38 Benelli and went downstairs to the garage. He’d entered and started towards his car when he noticed the garage door was open. No car was near the entrance. Funny. It usually closes automatically.

  That’s when the black Mercedes roared down the ramp, tires squealing, and raced through the open garage door. The car kept accelerating, heading straight for him. He lunged desperately between two parked cars, diving onto the floor as the Mercedes whizzed by, shots erupting from its open passenger window. Bullets ripped into the doors and the side windows of the car beside him, showering Dulac with bits of broken glass. Dulac flattened himself behind a concrete pillar just as the Mercedes came to a screeching stop before the garage wall at the end. The driver spun the car around in a cloud of smoking rubber and squealing tires. Dulac unsheathed his Parabellum Benelli.38 from his ankle holster and fired at the Mercedes. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the apartment’s occupants starting to open the metal entrance door of the garage. The Mercedes’s gunman shifted his aim and fired at the opening door. It closed quickly. The black sedan roared by Dulac again in a blaze of gunfire, bullets ricocheting off the pillars before the Mercedes exited though the open doorway, bounced up the steep ramp and swerved right onto the street.

  Kneeling down behind the column, Dulac felt his hands, his arms, then his whole body start to shake. He took in deep breaths and after a moment, he regained his composure and holstered his gun. He walked over and stood for a moment next to his car. He felt inside his jacket right pocket. The USB sticks were still there. Twenty minutes later, he was standing in front of the Préfecture Centrale’s reception desk.

  “Inspector Poitiers,” said Dulac to the female sergeant at the desk.

  “Whom shall I announce?”

  “Tell him it’s Dulac. Thierry Dulac.” He could hear the strain in his own voice, an octave lower than usual.

  “What is the nature—?”

  “Just tell him I’m here.”

  She turned away and spoke into her headphone.

  A moment later a man with brownish, obviously dyed hair and the broken nose of a prizefighter appeared at the desk, looking annoyed. “I’m inspector Pierre Poitiers. As I mentioned earlier—”

  “Listen Poitiers, I’ve just been shot at in my garage and I’m in no mood for any of your secretive, retentive crap. I want you to send a squad to 56 Rue des Forgerons and check out the garage. I want to see the man who was murdered this morning on Rue D’Amboise.”

  “What business do you have with—?”

  “I don’t think I’m getting through.” Dulac reached in his pocket and took out his cell. “If I have to call your boss Després in Paris to get answers—”

  “Minute, minute. There’s no need for that.” Poitiers threw up his right hand. “You must understand we get all sorts here. Necrophiles, thrill-seekers, crackpots.”

  “You’ve checked my ID. I want to see the body. Now!”

  “But why?”

  “He was a friend of mine.”

  Poitiers hesitated, then conceded. “Very well. Follow me.”

  They walked along the narrow hallway, down a flight of stairs and Poitiers opened the twin doors. The sign above read Salle du Médecin Légiste.

  “The coroner is working on him now,” said Poitiers. “Before being shot, he was tortured.”

  Dulac bit his lip. They went to the table and joined the man wearing glasses and a green smock. A naked dead body lay on the slab in front of them.

  Poitiers made the introductions. “Docteur Sançon, Inspector Dulac from Interpol.”

  Dulac nodded to the Coroner and looked at the man on the table. He recognized Messier immediately. He looked down at Messier’s left hand and saw that two of his fingers were missing. Dulac’s stomach churned. “What was the cause of death?”

  “Two 6mm bullets to the left side of the brain.”The diminutive doctor pointedat Messier’s head with a pencil. “Judging from the wound, I’d say it was a Beretta, but don’t hold me to it.” Sançon pointed to two red welts on Messier’s left forearm. “Cigarette burns.”

  “They must have wanted something from him pretty badly before they killed him,” said Poitiers.

  Chapter 53

  P & W Headquarters. October 31st

  It hadn’t taken much more convincing from Froome for Bolding to agree that she should contact the international law firm of Phillips and Kent. They agreed to represent P & W on a contingency basis. Froome would remain lead counsel and review the draft civil actions against the US Government in London’s Old Bailey and New York City’s Supreme Court before the issuing of the writs.

  With this fresh information in hand, Jane Davies immediately went to work, disbursing the information to her all-too-willing press contacts. The morning the story broke, Bolding sat at his desk with Toombs across from him. Both men sipped coffee and admired the results obtained by P & W’s Public Relations Officer. Bolding couldn’t have asked for better than the London Financial Time’s morning headline.

  P & W Cruise Lines to sue US Govt. Over Wrongful Use of Bezorban Gas.

  Bolding picked up the phone and dialed a London number he knew only too well, Berkeley’s Trust.

  “Put me through to Hugh Walters. Tell him it’s Sir Adrian Bolding.”

  After a moment, the familiar voice answered.

  “Good morning, Sir Adrian.”

  “That it is. Did you happen to read today’s Times?” Bolding knew full well all of London’s bankers read the Times at breakfast, or on the tube on their way to the office.

  “I have. Most interesting.”

  “I think we should meet.” Bolding looked at his watch. “Shall we say 2 pm. this afternoon at your offices?”

  “I, I’ll have to check with—”

  “Wonderful. I’ll see you there.”

  Bolding hung up and looked at Toom
bs. “Give me a moment, will you?” He gestured to the door.

  Toombs got up and stepped outside Bolding’s office, closing the door behind him.

  Bolding opened his cell and dialed Sir Terence Hay’s encrypted private number. After one ring the automated message came on. “We are sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

  Bolding clicked his phone shut and pressed his secretary’s extention. “Get Sir Terence on the line.” He looked at his watch. “No, wait. On second thought, I’ll call him later.” Bolding picked up the Times, read the headline quickly again, folded the newspaper and put it his briefcase. He got up and walked to the window. Outside, the clouds had started to dissipate and a ray of sunshine illuminated Temple Square with a solitary beam of light. He went outside his office, where Toombs stood next to the coffee machine.

  “Care to join me to see Walters?”

  Toombs put down his coffee on the table next to the machine. “If you plan to have a lawyer present, it might be better to have Froome. A junior lawyer will appear less threatening. Besides, she’s much better looking than I am.”

  “Good idea. I’m booked on the 12.05 pm. train to London.”

  “I’ll have her join you at Southampton Central.”

  * * *

  At 1.55 pm., Bolding and Froome exited their cab at 48 Notting Hill Gate, and walked into the vast, marble-floored main hall of Berkeley’s Trust, its massive white columns and arched ceiling enhancing the impression of permanence, wealth and power. They reached the ramped area bordering the Managing Director’s office, where a bespectacled woman with a thin face and wide-set eyes sat behind a desk, typing at her computer. She raised her eyes slowly and put on the perfunctory smile of someone accustomed to being near power and authority.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re here to see Hugh Walters. Sir Adrian Bolding and Sarah Froome,” Bolding said.

  “I’ll tell him you’ve arrived.” She got up and walked to the walnut-paneled door and knocked softly. When a muted reply came from inside, she turned the large bronze doorknob and opened the door slightly to announce the visitors.

  She returned to her desk. “Mr. Walters will see you in a moment.”

  Bolding looked around at the expressionless clerks going about their routines in hushed tones while they waited. After a moment, Bolding looked at his watch, signaled to Froome to follow him. He strode through the gate and past the ramp to the walnut-paneled door.

  “Excuse me sir! Sir!” The secretary rushed after them, clearly offended at this breach of decorum. “You can’t—”

  Bolding gave two abrupt knocks and entered.

  Walters looked up from his desk, surprise on his face. To his credit, he recovered quickly and got up.

  “Good morning, Sir Adrian.” He offered his hand. “And this is…”

  “Sarah Froome.”

  “Sorry to rush in, but we have other appointments with your colleagues across town.” Bolding fought to keep a straight face.

  “I see. Please sit down. Walters gestured to the two chairs in front of his billiard table sized desk. He looked at his secretary, who stood sheepishly in the doorway. “Can we get you something? Tea, coffee?”

  “We’re fine.” Bolding sat down in one of the plush, leather-backed chairs.

  The banker sat down and leaned back, arms across his chest. “Now then Sir Adrian, what can I do for you this morning?”

  “I’ll cut to the chase. Ms. Froome here has something to say.” Bolding turned towards the chic blonde barrister.

  She cleared her throat. “Mr. Walters, my clients Sir Adrian Bolding and P & W lines have suffered serious prejudice by your bank’s unjustified and sudden withdrawal of its line of credit and the seizing of two of its ships. I say unjustified after a lengthy and exhaustive study of the case law, Mr. —”

  “Just a second.” Walters held his hand up and stopped her. “I wasn’t aware you’re a solicitor. Perhaps I should call our solicitor and—”

  “That shouldn’t be necessary,” interrupted Bolding. “What Ms. Froome means is that we could take action against the bank without further notice. But that’s not going to get anyone anywhere, is it Mr. Walters?

  “No, it isn’t.”

  Froome opened her briefcase and took out a document. “I have prepared a claim form, including particulars, against the bank for 658 million pounds in damages. I won’t file it or have it served without permission from my client. Also, you are certainly aware that P & W will be suing the US government for 5.1 billion pounds for negligent and wrongful use of the gas Bezorban. We have been forced to react to circumstances beyond our control that threaten the financial security of P & W.”

  “I was under the impression we were here to discuss business, not lawsuits.” Walters looked reproachfully at Bolding.

  “We are, Mr. Walters, we are,” said Bolding. “No one, least of all I, wants to start lengthy and costly legal proceedings against the bank. I’m just saying that if push comes to shove, we are fully ready to take whatever means necessary, however distasteful.” Bolding felt his voice gaining confidence. “I am here to assure you that P & W will ride through this temporary setback, as it has in the past. What we want to know, sir, is whether or not Berkeley’s Trust will back us up? Will the bank be our partners in this?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “In practical terms, I want the bank to release my ships and—”

  “And what about the mortgage payments in arrears?”

  “You can reschedule them. A five year term would do just fine.”

  “That’s a tall order, Mr. Bolding, coming from the owner of a company on the edge of bankruptcy. What assurance do we have P & W can meet those obligations?”

  “None.” Froome smiled a Cheshire cat smile.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “It’s really quite simple. Your other option is to bankrupt the company, end up with a fleet of ships that no one will buy in this already overcrowded and fiercely competitive market, and insure your investment value sinks to zero. That’s not counting the ongoing costs of maintaining the ships in insurable condition, taxes, dockage fees, settlements of garnishments, payment of wages etc…. etc.... On the other hand if you free the ships, extend the loan and re-establish my client’s line of credit, you’ll be giving notice to the shipping world that you have faith in P & W’s viability. The US government will know that it will have to negotiate, thus securing your investment.” Froome paused for effect, just long enough for her statement to sink in. “I’d say that’s an easy choice, Mr. Walters.”

  “So you’re saying your lawsuit against the US government is a form of security for the bank?” Walters eyed Froome, then Bolding.

  “Exactly,” said Bolding. “On top of which, we have asked the British government to guarantee the outstanding loan payments.” That’s the truth. Even if they refused. Bolding had nothing to lose and decided to ennoble the truth. “Sir Terence Hays is bringing the matter up before cabinet as we speak. He assures me he can swing it in our favor.”

  Walters’s look relaxed slightly and Bolding saw the beginning of a ray of hope.

  “When will you hear from Hays?” Walters.

  “Immediately after the meeting is concluded.”

  “I see. Perhaps I could take the matter under advisement until then.”

  “In the meantime, you would do well to free my ships.”

  “I didn’t agree to anything yet, Mr. Bolding. All I can say is that I will discuss the matter with my colleagues.”

  Bolding decided to go out on a limb. He knew the bank’s chairman, a man he disliked thoroughly and with whom he’d had a recent tiff over membership dues at their club. But Walters didn’t have to know that part. “Would it help if I called Sir Archibald?”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’ll let you know the bank’s decision.” Walters got up from his desk. “Good day, Mr. Bolding, Ms. Froome.”

  Chapter 54

  Interpol HQ,
the following day

  Dulac had left the Préfecture Centrale knowing he’d left Poitiers with more questions than answers about Messier’s murder, and why he’d been shot at in his garage. He had neither the time nor the inclination to explain the intricacies of a complex case to a local policeman. At least not yet.

  The following morning, he went down to the cafeteria and saw Annette Arlberg sipping her usual double espresso and reading a local edition of Le Figaro. As Dulac approached he could see she was absorbed by the headline article of Messier’s murder. A pang of guilt overtook him. He pulled up the plastic chair in front of her and sat down.

  She glanced up, acknowledging him with a short nod. “Nasty business this.” She put down her cup.

  “I may have had something to do with it.”

  “What?” Her eyes locked onto Dulac, and her usually smooth forehead broke into waves of furrows.

  “You’re not going to like this.” Dulac looked around at the employees sitting at the tables around them.

  “In my office. Now.” She folded her paper and got up.

  Dulac followed her.

  Once upstairs, Arlberg winced as Dulac explained how he’d had Messier hack into P & W’s phone and email logs, then asked Messier to find the unlisted number’s owner. He finished with a description of the shooting in the garage the previous evening and his visit to the Centrale to identify Messier’s body.

  “Messier was shot with a 6mm, probably a Beretta. I’ll bet my bonus the bullets the police find in my garage came from the same gun.”

  “So you’re saying these people got onto Messier’s game, tracked him down, tortured him into telling them the name of his principal, and then went after you?”