Six Months to Kill

by Enzo Bartoli

  The barman in Le Passage recognises me now. He sees me getting out of my car at almost the exact same time every morning. I sit at the same table with a book, a newspaper and a couple of scientific reviews. He gives me a white coffee and I pretend to be engrossed in my reading while actually never taking my eyes off number 151 – her office building. Occasionally, he asks me to free up the table, so I place another order. I alternate between coffee and orange juice. I settle the bill as soon as the drink is placed in front of me, just in case I have to make a swift exit. Every two hours, I have to leave and top up the parking meter just a few yards up the avenue. It’s never too far away and I’ve been lucky enough so far not to lose my table. Whenever I leave for good, I can sense the suspicious look the waiter gives me. It’s something I can almost physically feel on the back of my neck. If it’s ever on the news that something dreadful has happened to the nice woman who works across the road, he’ll call the police and inform them about my odd behaviour. That’s a given. My lack of conviction in this mission means I’m forgetting about being careful. I’m not taking the most basic of measures. This isn’t very professional, seeing as I’m supposed to be a contract killer. Well, a part-time contract-killer.

  I don’t see her leave this lunchtime. What I do see is a caterer delivering around a dozen meal trays. Perhaps she has a meeting with clients or some of her staff? So I stay where I am. This means I have to order a steak with Béarnaise sauce and chips. Obviously. Professor Lazreg told me that I might experience a loss in appetite, but that doesn’t seem to be the case at all.

  It’s now 4 p.m. I’ve just finished reading a rather thorough article on the question of whether or not an antiquark might be present in the composition of a pentaquark. No doubt unconcerned by the absurdity of such a theory, the barman is having a quick snooze behind the counter. He’d been polishing the same glass for at least ten minutes. Logically, I have another three hours to wait before my target leaves her office for her daily exercise. And so I wait, hoping for an exciting turn of events and not just the same old routine from Stéphanie.

  My wish is granted when just a few seconds later I see her leaving the building. Her car is parked across the road, but she doesn’t go anywhere near it. I’m not sure what to do next. I watch as she waits on the pavement and looks at the passing cars carefully. I realise that this means she’s waiting to be picked up. I’m going to have to get to my Twingo fast if I want to know what happens next.

  I leave the cafe, muttering a quick goodbye, and scurry out to get to my car.

  It has to be over forty degrees in this tin can and the air conditioning only kicks in after a few minutes. I can’t stop looking at Stéphanie Tisserand and my eyes are literally burning.

  This is the first time I detect a little anxiousness in her face. She continues to watch the cars as they pass and every few seconds she looks down at her mobile. Perhaps she’s checking the time, or reading messages?

  From where I’m parked, I can take a good look behind me at every car before it reaches her. Not a single one slows down. Nobody seems to be looking for anything . . . or anyone. Except, maybe . . .

  There’s a five-door Porsche approaching now. I can’t make out the driver himself but I clock the way he’s behaving. It’s what I was hoping to see. He slows down, but he’s not looking for somewhere to park. I’m sure of it. As he draws level with me, I notice that his number plates are Dutch. No, from Luxembourg. I thought I might be able to see who was behind the wheel, but I’m still a little wet behind the ears and the windows are, of course, tinted. There’s not a chance of seeing anything that’s going on inside that car.

  My intuition is right. Stéphanie Tisserand looks like she recognises the vehicle, and when it stops in front of me, I watch her cross the road, walk around it and lean into the passenger window, which is now rolled down. There isn’t even the hint of a smile on her lips as she gets in beside the driver. They drive off. I follow them, fingers crossed. I hope against hope that they don’t take the motorway. I don’t know if I’m up to this.

  I watch as they make a U-turn on the roundabout on the Pont de Neuilly and head back in the direction of Paris. I feel semi-reassured at this point. When I notice that they’re not going anywhere near the ring road and are instead about to take Avenue de la Grande Armée, I know that we’re not about to travel the length of France this afternoon and feel relieved. As we approach Place Charles de Gaulle, I reduce the distance separating my car from the Porsche. Innumerable roads lead off this roundabout, so I can’t afford to leave any room for surprises, though I very much doubt they’ll spot me in such a sea of traffic. We cross the immense intersection and continue down the Champs-Élysées before branching off on to Avenue Montaigne a little further down. They blend perfectly into the background in the Porsche. The designer boutiques flash by and I feel like we’re not too far from our destination . . .

  I’m not wrong. The indicator flashes orange and the Porsche slips into a side street and parks up on the Plaza Athénée. A valet rushes out of a huge hotel to greet them, but a man – who I had no inkling was there – beats him to it and gets out of the back of the car to open the door for Stéphanie Tisserand. As she steps out, I note that she’s not really giving off a friendly vibe; at least, she’s smiling a lot less than she was in the photos.

  The driver joins them. He is tall and slim, but the way he moves and holds himself betrays his age. He’s knocking on a bit. Anyone can see that. He’s wearing sunglasses and a black fedora in plaited straw – the summer version. His collar-length grey hair confirms his years. He hands the key over to the valet and joins Stéphanie as they walk up the wide flight of stairs to the doors of the hotel. I don’t manage to see his face. The two of them walk into the building, but the first man – who, I’ve just noticed, is disconcertingly imposing in stature – stays on the pavement, standing away from the hotel staff with his hands behind his back and looking from side to side. If he’s not a bodyguard then he’s doing a very good impression of one.

  I’m looking desperately for somewhere to park but trying to go about it as calmly as I can. I’m feeling quite optimistic, though, even with the presence of this massive gorilla guy, because it looks like Stéphanie Tisserand’s attitude has changed. This has got to mean something: the car . . . this place. She seems so much more serious than usual, more professional somehow. I can feel that there’s something very challenging ahead of me now, and I’m excited. This has got to be an improvement on the last few days.

  I have no idea how long they’re going to be. What should I do with myself in the meantime? There’s not a chance I can stay parked outside in a Twingo without drawing the attention of the hotel staff. I start circling, going up and down the surrounding streets in an effort to find somewhere to park. No luck. I’m going to have to stay stuck behind the wheel. I realise that now. I hover around a no-parking bay and reason that I can just move off if I’m in anybody’s way.

  I normally look down on drivers who keep their engines running when they’re at a standstill, but I do it today. I need the air conditioning on. I don’t think my environmentally unfriendly behaviour is too big a deal. The ozone layer isn’t likely to be impacted greatly, because I see the black Porsche is on its way back already. The valet stops in front of the steps and Stéphanie and her friend exit the building. They’re joined by two young women. I’m on the other side of the square at quite a distance, but even from where I am I can see that one is a blonde and the other a brunette – Asian, maybe. They’re both extraordinarily beautiful. They climb into the back seat with Stéphanie Tisserand and the driver gets behind the wheel. The bodyguard comes out of nowhere and joins him in the front this time. I imagine it’s quite a squeeze in there. And they’re gone. I don’t want to lose them so I’m going to have to get myself into gear. There are no police vehicles around that I can see, and the traffic isn’t that heavy . . . So I go for it, and make a quick but risky U-turn. I can see them at the end of the road. I’m only a cou
ple of hundred metres behind them now. I look at the clock on the dashboard, feeling pretty pleased with myself. They can’t have spent any more than twenty-five minutes in the hotel.

  We start our zigzagging through the streets of Paris again. We’re back on the Champs-Élysées, and then Place Charles de Gaulle. I imagine we’re returning to Neuilly, but we don’t take Avenue de la Grande Armée as we circle the Arc de Triomphe; instead we head down Avenue Foch.

  Am I having a lightbulb moment here? I remember coming down this street one evening and being shocked that the city’s most expensive location, at least on the Monopoly board, was the place to go for high-class prostitutes. Is this just a coincidence? Or are we here for that very reason?

  I think I have my answer. The Porsche indicates and pulls in next to the pavement. My initial instinct is to do the exact same thing, but I know that parking is forbidden here, and I can’t afford to draw any attention to myself. So I overtake and reduce my speed as much as I can. I have no other option but to continue down the street and try to watch what I can through my mirrors. The driver has put on the hazard warning lights. A door opens. The back door. One of the two younger women gets out. It’s the blonde. I can see her a lot more clearly than before, and she’s no woman. The term ‘young girl’ is definitely more appropriate. She’s almost a child, in fact. She’s slim – skin and bones, really – and the amount of make-up she’s wearing is beyond belief. Her outfit is far too provocative for a girl of her age. She leans in towards the passenger window and makes a vague sign with her hand. Then the car is on the move once again.

  She stands for a few seconds and watches as it leaves. I am overcome with a desire to stop my car, approach her and ask her what’s going on. But I can’t. What would I say? How could I even go about it?

  ‘Hi there, Miss . . . I was just wondering . . . Are you a prostitute and have you just been selling your charms to horrible rich old men at the hotel on the Plaza Athénée?’

  I’m not sure how well that would go down. And anyway, until she says otherwise, the only thing I’m supposed to be doing for Chloé is following our target. This means I have to keep going. I continue down Avenue Foch at an average speed now. Not too fast, not too slow. The Porsche overtakes me before we reach Porte Dauphine and this time we take the ring road.

  I slip into the traffic and worry that I won’t be able to keep up with them, but the driver goes at a nice steady pace in the middle lane. I allow a couple of cars to get between us and we all continue to head north.

  As we near Porte de la Chapelle, I get a slight scare. I watch them choose the right-hand lane. What’s going on? Does this mean they’re heading for the airport? They leave the ring road at the junction. What are we doing getting off here? The luxurious car will stick out like a sore thumb in this neck of the woods. We’re halfway between Seine-Saint-Denis and the eighteenth arrondissement, and even putting aside all prejudices one might have about the residents of this neighbourhood, I don’t think I’d feel particularly safe in a car like that around here. The driver puts on his hazard warning lights again and comes to a stop. So we’re not going to the airport. That’s something, at least. This time, my reactions are a little quicker and I park behind a small van so I can climb out and get a better look. There are quite a lot of cars parked nearby and some of them are not in the best condition. In fact, there are a couple that look like they’ve been parked here for years. And then I understand. I’m a bit slow on the uptake, you see. Some of these vans have been fitted out for a purpose – to receive punters. I dread to think what else I’m going to witness now.

  And my fears are very quickly realised.

  The Asian girl gets out of the Porsche. So it’s her turn now. She doesn’t look back once at Stéphanie Tisserand or her gentleman accomplice, but just crosses the road, quickening her pace as she nears the other side. She’s teetering along in the highest of heels with a heavy-looking handbag swinging from her minuscule arm. Her silk skirt is unreasonably short, and I get a glimpse of the tops of her black stockings. As she reaches the other side of the street, she stops between two parked cars and lights up a cigarette.

  Instinct tells me to abandon my pursuit of Stéphanie and I let the Porsche go on its way. I’m stuck now. Do I go and talk to the girl? My decision is made for me as a Volkswagen estate drives up to the girl and slows down. The driver, the very image of a decent family man, exchanges a few words with her. I can’t imagine following them. I don’t even want to know what this man’s up to. So I start the engine and drive off back in the direction of the west of Paris.

  It’s only when I’m back in front of Stéphanie’s Neuilly offices that I remember feeling a vibration in my pocket earlier. Before getting out of the car, I check the voicemail on my phone.

  ‘Her PA has just booked her a one-way ticket from Paris to Vilnius for Thursday evening and another seven tickets to Vilnius for Sunday. So we need to get this done before then. OK? Where are you?’

  CHAPTER 13

  I’m relieved to find they haven’t yet arrived in Neuilly. I’m stretching my legs on the pavement when I see the Porsche coming back. Stéphanie Tisserand steps out of it almost before the car has come to a complete standstill. Immediately, I can see that she’s a lot more relaxed and, for the first time, I feel like I’m dealing with someone with a kind of double personality. She’s a pleasant, affable businesswoman in her nine-to-five life, and then in her down time she becomes this cynical, perverse creature involved in some of the worst activities out there. I watch her enter her office, her stride as jaunty as ever, and I head back to my table over at Le Passage. As I close the door behind me, a storm hits.

  Rain pours down in sheets and doesn’t let up for over twenty minutes. It hasn’t rained for almost three weeks and the ground just can’t soak up the water. It’s a total deluge. Soon there are torrents gushing through the gutters, overflowing on to the pavement and roadway. The very few passers-by caught in the downpour rush to find shelter, their summer clothes immediately soaked and clinging to their skin, but I can still read on their faces a sense of relief at finally being released from the heavy, stifling atmosphere.

  And of course, as soon as the storm has passed, the temperature becomes bearable again. We can all breathe, and I feel liberated.

  I’ve decided not to get back to Chloé. Not immediately, anyway. It’s gone 6 p.m. and unless this afternoon’s events have somehow changed what she’s up to today, I’m expecting the woman I’ve now seen in a very different light to come back out of her office any time now.

  An idea strikes me. I remember her daily runs and the route she usually takes. She always goes up Avenue Charles-de-Gaulle, along the banks of the Seine and past the numerous houseboats that are moored there. She then crosses the bridge before completing two laps of the Île de Puteaux.

  I also think about the type of clothing she usually wears. It’s always so light – far too flimsy to conceal a weapon anywhere on her person. And I’ve really left no stone unturned. I’ve followed her for three days straight and I’m certain there’s been no bodyguard anywhere near her. As Chloé said, she’s only escorted when she’s out and about in the underworld of prostitution or up to other shady dealings.

  Last night, still hot on her heels, I also managed a full lap of the island. Without really thinking that it might come in handy at some point, I found two or three isolated spots, sheltered from any possible prying eyes, right by the dirty brown waters of the Seine. I took particular note of the southern tip of the island, just next to the floodgate at the foot of a bridge. There’s a small area there, blocked from view by a building belonging to the French Waterways organisation and so close to the barrage of water coming from the floodgates that any possible noise would be covered up.

  It’s looking pretty solid. Now it just remains to be seen whether she’ll take the same route she usually takes and, should the opportunity arise, whether I have the courage to act. Because I’m under no illusions here. Drowning someone is m
uch more violent in nature than giving them an injection. Plus, and Chloé was right to mention this straight away, it’s a woman this time. A woman who, until this afternoon, I wouldn’t have suspected of the slightest wrongdoing.

  I’ll be in at the deep end soon enough. I don’t have any time to waste and want to be sure of getting there ahead of her, so I leave the bar and return to my car. I do my best to avoid the puddles lingering on the tarmac and hope that this afternoon’s storm hasn’t dissuaded her from taking her evening jog.

  From behind the wheel, I fiddle with my phone. I’m wavering on that resolution I made not to call Chloé. Should I tell her of my intentions and, if so, do I think she’d approve? I’m starting to doubt myself now. I know she’s not a massive fan of improvisation. But the worst thing about all this? The only thing I’m actually giving any serious thought to is how to please her. It’s as if I want to give her the death of Stéphanie Tisserand all wrapped up in pretty packaging, so we can move on to the next part of our little story. This is my sole aim. Should I be worried about that?

  To help me with the waiting part, I switch on the car radio. Just as the news comes on, Stéphanie Tisserand walks out of her building. She is in her sports gear and heads off at a brisk pace towards La Défense. I start the engine.

  It’s impossible to find a parking space anywhere near the Puteaux bridge. It’s now the third time I’ve driven up or down every nearby street without success. I know that it doesn’t take her any more than quarter of an hour to get to this point; if I don’t find somewhere soon, I’m done for. I’ve just driven down Boulevard Richard Wallace with no success (again) and I’m starting to lose patience when I spy a young woman on the pavement getting a bunch of keys out of her handbag. She presses a remote control on her keyring and the lights on a Twingo, not dissimilar to my own and parked just behind me, flash briefly as the car is unlocked. I slam the brakes on and start to reverse before questioning the woman with pleading eyes. She gives me the charitable smile that all motorists give their fellow drivers when they are freeing up a much-needed parking space. I watch her manoeuvre out, bumping the vehicle in front at least three times, before finally driving away.