Six Months to Kill

by Enzo Bartoli

  ‘Régis! Do I have to spell this out again? What we’re up to here isn’t exactly what you’d call legal, is it? If we run into a problem down the line, I’d really rather nobody you know had seen us together.’

  ‘He won’t see you. You can stay in here and I’ll take him to my room and then show him straight back out of the door. Plus, I have to admit that I’ve been finding him a little on the intrusive side anyway. He’s a kind man, but he hangs around trying to get me to open up and share my feelings. He’s always wanting to chat about how I’m dealing with my death sentence. If I tell him I have company, I don’t think he’ll dare stick around. Please stay.’

  I’m not sure she’s overly enthralled by my proposition because she lets out a heavy sigh and says, ‘If you want.’

  It sounds false. But as soon as we resume our earlier conversation, she appears to forget all about being annoyed. ‘The first thing you need to know is that she works under the umbrella of an official company – events management. And she’s the director. What she says she does is supply hostesses for conferences and exhibitions and the like. She has some major international companies on her books as well as top civil servants. Her reputation is up there with the best of them. From the outside, it looks like she just goes about her life as your typical career woman. She lives in the sixteenth arrondissement, just opposite the Auteuil racing track, and her offices are in Neuilly. She travels there by car every morning and tends to spend most of her day there. Every now and again she might venture out to see a client or go to one of the exhibitions to check on her girls. But it’s all just a front.’ She’s just about to grab another handful of crisps but changes her mind and pushes the dish towards me. ‘Get these away from me, will you? I’ll end up exploding.’

  ‘Shall I get you another beer, then, to wash them down?’

  ‘Erm . . . Go on, then . . . Just one more.’

  I leave for a minute or so to fetch another couple of 1664s. When I get back to her, Chloé is whispering into her mobile phone – not the one she uses for our conversations, but the other one. I turn around to leave the room and give her some space, but she calls me back.

  ‘It’s OK, Régis. I’m done. I just had to leave a message for a friend.’

  Obediently (as has been the case since I first started getting to know her), I sit back down and open our beers. Again, she downs half the bottle in a couple of swigs, with a pleasure that shows how quickly she’s forgotten her reticence.

  ‘Back to the dark side,’ she says, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. ‘First things first – during the week, she drives herself to her office in her own car. But if she’s ever conducting business – the bits of it that we’re interested in – she’s escorted by at least one bodyguard. They change all the time, so it’s difficult to keep track. According to our information, it would seem that they’re all members of her Eastern European network and that their visits to France don’t last more than a couple of weeks. Something else you need to know: she herself is always armed when she’s out and about with her girls. A handgun – a 9mm Glock. It’s discreet, but effective.’

  ‘This is like something out of one of those dark Scandinavian TV series,’ I remark.

  ‘You haven’t heard the half of it. I’d say that most of her clients for the girls she’d refer to as her “elite merchandise” are massive drug and arms dealers. And these girls are just lambs to the slaughter. It’s the Albanian mafia that takes them, mainly. You can imagine . . . We’re dealing with the crème de la crème of organised crime here.’

  ‘Yes . . . She sounds charming. But there is something I’d like to—’

  I’m interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. My dear doctor has turned up with his magic potions, which means I have a few difficult hours ahead of me.

  When I open the door, he flashes the caring smile I’ve come to know so well, but there’s something a little more harried than usual about him. My impression is confirmed when he starts making apologies the second he’s inside.

  ‘I’m so sorry, but I’m in a terrible rush. I need to be out of your hair as soon as possible tonight.’

  He starts to make his way towards the living room, which is where he usually tortures me, but I tap him on the arm and point instead along the corridor.

  ‘My apologies, but I have company tonight. Is it all right with you if we do this in my bedroom?’

  ‘What? Oh . . . Yes, of course.’

  I pop my head around the living room door and assure Chloé that I’ll only be a few minutes before leading the doctor to my room and sitting down on the bed. As he takes out his stethoscope and blood pressure monitor, he asks, almost absent-mindedly, ‘So, how have things been this week?’

  My need to gather my thoughts forces me to delay a little and I don’t give him an immediate response. But wasn’t he the one who wanted me to find something adventurous to do before I die? What would he think of me if he knew? Régis Gaudin is not just a ridiculous stick-in-the-mud incapable of the slightest change to his boring little life after all.

  ‘I’ve had a very good week. I went to Brittany for a few days.’

  There it is. He stares at me. It looks like I’ve pressed the pause button on old Lazreg. His eyes widen as if checking to see if it’s actually me who’s speaking. He shakes his head a little, bringing himself back to reality, and manages to whisper, ‘Well . . . that’s good. That’s very, very good, in fact.’

  He straps the blood pressure monitor on to my arm and starts to inflate it. This is the worst bit. I feel like he won’t stop pumping until every vein in my body has burst. Then he tells me it says 120 over 60, which isn’t too bad at all. He frowns a little and mutters something that I’m unable to quite catch.

  ‘Is something wrong, Doctor?’

  It’s plain how preoccupied he is, because as he turns to me it’s almost as if he’s surprised to see me there. ‘What? No . . . It’s just that you seem to be handling the treatment fairly well. I think you’re in better shape than you were last week, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps it was your little holiday?’

  He forces out a laugh and I don’t really like it. I mean, it’s not as if he can really tell how far my disease has spread (or not) just by taking my blood pressure. He looks a little less nervous as he readies the syringe. I’m getting a sudden Dr Frankenstein vibe from our eminent Professor Lazreg. How am I going to get him to open up?

  I try a little humour. ‘Do you think I might be cured? Is that it?’

  As I imagined, he smiles apologetically at my weak attempt at a joke and replies frankly. ‘Not at all, unfortunately. But you knew that already, didn’t you?’

  I nod, but make no reply.

  ‘I was actually thinking about something else,’ he continues, ‘and I think I’m going to have to make a confession.’

  This gets my attention all right. Might he have lied to me about how ill I am? Is the end even nearer than we thought? I surprise myself with how anxious I feel, and he must read the worry in my eyes because his voice is calm and reassuring as he explains himself.

  ‘Please don’t be too concerned. It’s nothing more serious than what you’re already dealing with. Only . . .’

  He pauses as he presses the needle into my arm. I watch him and think about the injection I gave Reimbach. He doesn’t seem any surer of himself than I did. In fact, I actually think I might have made a better job of it.

  When he finishes, he points to the syringe and his demeanour becomes solemn all of a sudden.

  ‘You were saying?’ I prompt him.

  ‘As I explained, this treatment hasn’t been put on the market yet and the reason I have to do the injections myself is because I can’t ask anyone else to administer them.’

  ‘I understood all that.’

  ‘It means that if you go away for any length of time, I don’t know how we can do this. And it was me who told you not to stay locked up inside and to go out and live a bit . . .’ He looks at his watch hurriedly and I can tell that h
e really does have to be somewhere else this evening, but the problem he’s just broached means he won’t be able to leave as quickly as he would have liked.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere exotic in the immediate future, if that helps at all,’ I say, trying to quell his fears.

  As he returns all his equipment to his bag, he looks relieved and places a hand on my shoulder. ‘At the same time, I want you to be out there enjoying yourself. Please just give me a call if you feel like going away again. Depending on where you choose to go, perhaps I’ll know a doctor there who I can trust to do this.’

  He is already at the front door and looking at his watch again. I manage to catch him up just as he steps out on to the landing.

  ‘Doctor?’

  ‘Yes?’ I can sense that he’s torn between cutting me off so he can make a quick getaway and the compassion he has always shown since giving me my final diagnosis.

  ‘I just wanted to ask you . . . about my state of health . . . Is everything going as you thought . . . or . . . ?’

  I’ve managed to surprise him again and he looks at me curiously. ‘I’m worried about misunderstanding you here,’ he says. ‘Do you want to know if the time frame I’ve given you has been extended? Is that what you’re asking me?’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking.’

  ‘OK. Well, as things stand, I’d say you’re not doing too badly at all. You could, despite the treatment, be showing signs of fatigue or suffering. But that doesn’t seem to be the case. So yes, you may have gained a little more time. I think we should look into doing some further tests and examinations. I promise you, we’ll take the opportunity to talk about it at length next time.’ He steps into the lift but stops the doors from closing. I just knew he would. ‘I really do believe that your break in Brittany did you the world of good.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply, before turning back into the flat.

  When I return to Chloé, she looks me up and down and seems almost panicky.

  ‘Has he gone?’

  ‘Yes! Stop worrying!’

  Obviously in some sort of attempt to calm her nerves, she’s taken up my favourite position on the sofa and has switched on the TV. Money Drop is on – one of my favourites.

  ‘Did it feel like I was gone ages?’

  ‘No, not really. I spent the time trying to find out what it is about this show you like so much. But I don’t get it.’

  I look at her in disbelief as I switch off the TV. ‘It’s too complicated to explain. Don’t bother yourself. That’s why I didn’t insist we watch it at the spa.’

  ‘And that was the right decision! I think I’d have just ditched your arse there and come back to Paris. How are you feeling, anyway?’

  ‘Fine, for the moment. I should be just dandy for the next couple of hours. Shall we carry on?’

  ‘To be honest, I’d rather you just relaxed, and we can look at all this when you’re more up to it.’

  ‘If you want. No problem. But there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. You can give me five minutes, can’t you?’

  ‘Erm . . . yes. Of course I can.’

  She hesitates for a fraction of a second before she agrees. I sense that she knows I’m about to tackle a subject she has no desire to talk about, but I try to gather my thoughts. However, the last thing Lazreg said is playing on my mind. This deadline of mine – excuse the pun – that I more or less accepted a month ago now seems so very unfair. And I don’t think my holiday did me the world of good, despite what he said.

  But I try to put these thoughts to one side as I work out how to word my question to Chloé. ‘I was going to ask you if it would be possible to meet some of the other members of your “organisation”, or however you put it.’

  I barely finish my sentence before she rears up, looking like she’s ready to tell me where to go . . . or, worse, run out without a word.

  But she responds. ‘That was never even on the cards, and I can’t think of a single reason why we’d change our minds on the subject now.’

  There’s something violent in her voice. I don’t recognise her. Being the coward that I am, I search in vain for something to say to appease her, to get her to forget what I’ve just asked and to bring the conversation back to what it was. But she doesn’t give me the time for any of that.

  ‘Can I ask what your motives are? Do you want to change intermediaries? I can ask for someone else to be sent . . .’

  ‘No! That’s nothing to do with it . . .’

  ‘Why, then? What’s this about?’

  She’s too good at this for me and I know that, even if I could spin a line on occasion, I’d still not be able to get the better of her.

  She starts again. ‘I’m listening, Régis.’

  I can see that she’s on the verge of heading out and never coming back. I really need to explain myself.

  I try . . . clumsily. As clumsily as one can, in fact. ‘It’s just that . . . because . . . this woman . . . that we’re meant to . . .’

  ‘Yes? What about her?’

  ‘Well . . . with Reimbach, it was easier for me to . . . fall into line. But with this woman . . . I don’t know her, and you haven’t actually told me all that much. And I was thinking that maybe someone . . . one of the people you work with . . . hates her for some other reason, or knows something else about her, and that I’d be better off hearing it from them directly.’

  There is so little conviction in my words that I prepare myself for a severe telling-off. But I get away with it. I watch as she pinches her lower lip between her thumb and index finger. She is weighing up the pros and cons, thinking how to respond without losing too much face.

  ‘I can understand that,’ she says after a long moment’s hesitation. ‘But I was supposed to be the only one of us you ever met.’

  ‘Ah . . .’

  ‘Listen, here’s what I suggest. Let’s start work on this, but I’d like you to make up your own mind as we go along. If after watching her for a while you still doubt our judgement on this, then I will try to get someone else to meet you. Does that sound OK?’

  ‘Yes. Why not . . .’

  I’m relieved. I want to continue this discussion. I want her to tell me more about this woman, but I still feel somewhat distracted by Lazreg and his visit.

  Always tuned in to how I might be feeling or what mood I’m in, Chloé is already heading towards the front door to give me some peace. I have an urge to grab hold of her, to convince her to stay a little longer – just a little longer. But I don’t want her to see me weakened or diminished. These are all new feelings for me – this desiring the company of another . . . This need to be careful of the impression I make.

  She must have cast some sort of spell on me. Surely these emotions just aren’t possible. I let her go without another word.

  CHAPTER 12

  The tops of the tower blocks at La Défense disappear into the brooding clouds above. The atmosphere in the capital has been unbearably sultry since this morning, with every single Parisian hoping that the storm on the horizon will give us some breathable air at last.

  I’m on my fourth day of tracking her. Four days of watching every step taken by Stéphanie Tisserand and I am bored to death. I camp outside her flat from the early hours of the morning. I wait inside my little rented Renault Twingo until she leaves her garage at 8.30 a.m. – which she does, every morning, without fail. I follow her to her offices in Neuilly, on Avenue Charles-de-Gaulle, and then I wait. I sometimes take a quick stroll along the covered promenade or I sit in a nearby cafe until lunchtime. The first day, she drove to Les Quatre Temps shopping centre, where she grabbed a sandwich between trips to two prêt-à-porter stores. The day before yesterday, she just left the building and skipped across the road to get a pre-prepared salad from Monoprix and took it back to her office to eat. And yesterday, she met up with a female friend and the two of them went swimming at the nearby pool. The afternoons tend to be a little more exciting. I often have trouble keepin
g up with her in the Paris traffic. Sometimes she takes the ring road from Porte de Versailles, other times from the Palais des Congrès. Or she drives straight through Paris to some chic address or other in one of the better neighbourhoods. I imagine she’s attending professional meetings, but I don’t really know. She then heads back to her office and resurfaces again at around 7 p.m. in sports gear to set out on a run down the banks of the Seine as far as the Île de Puteaux. I must have made the resolution to start jogging at least a hundred times to rid myself of my extra pounds, so I have to admire the consistency of her efforts.

  Then she goes straight home. On the first night, she didn’t leave until the following morning. On the next night, I had to hide out in front of a swanky restaurant on one of those barges moored outside the Trocadéro until 11 p.m. She dined there with a couple who I can only describe as looking entirely unremarkable. Last night, she met up with an elegant-looking man, who also looked as innocent as they come, in front of the Théâtre Tristan-Bernard, where they saw a stand-up comedian. I had to buy a ticket. I forget the name of the guy, of course. All I remember is that I didn’t laugh once.

  The whole time, I’m on the lookout for her protection – trying to spot a meaty-looking man in her vicinity. As I follow her, I’m always checking the rear-view mirror for other vehicles that might be in her entourage. Around her building and outside her offices, I do the same. Where’s the sinister face of the Georgian mercenary or Moldovan hitman I’m hoping to find? There’s nothing. And she never looks worried. She doesn’t even come across as being particularly vigilant. I never see her looking over her shoulder as she steps into her car or heads out to a public place. I’m actually finding the whole exercise rather tedious and I start asking myself what I’m even doing. This is a far cry from the adventure Chloé first promised me.

  Perhaps it doesn’t help my mood that I haven’t seen her for a few days. I called her to let her in on the doubts I’m having about this seemingly never-ending pursuit that’s leading nowhere, but our exchange was brief. She simply asked me to remain patient and to trust her. I told her that at no time had Stéphanie Tisserand behaved in any way that would suggest she was into any kind of activity of an unsavoury nature. She scoffed sarcastically. Before hanging up, she simply said, ‘If that’s what’s bothering you, just wait a little longer and you’ll soon see what you’re up against.’ That was yesterday, and nothing’s happened since.