by Rob Sinclair
As Logan left the stairs onto the dimly lit corridor, he took just a moment to take in his surroundings. He wasn’t sure why but he could feel his nerves begin to take hold. Like a child would with a comforter, he put his hand to his side and felt the bulge where his gun was. A Glock. JIA agents didn’t have standard issues as such, but the Glock handgun was about as standard as they got.
The trouble with being in Logan’s line of work was that he didn’t have any kind of security clearance because most of his identities didn’t really exist. He couldn’t take a gun through airport security like some law enforcement officers could, and that made carrying weapons across borders difficult. As a result he would typically pick up a weapon soon after arriving in a country from a pre-determined source. This Glock had been ready for him at the safe house when he arrived.
The importance of de-arming before cross-border travel and re-arming after had been drilled into Logan from early on in his career. Having had to do it for years now, it was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. There was a well-told story of one agent who had fallen foul of the system which had always stuck in Logan’s mind. The agent, working on a case against a gang involved in people trafficking and weary from months of non-stop travelling around Eastern Europe, had turned up at airport security at Heathrow carrying a concealed handgun. He had simply forgotten he still had it with him. After causing quite a commotion, which made the national news, he was eventually charged with a whole host of firearms-related offences and sentenced to four years in jail. Whether to set an example of him, or whether it was just the way they did things, the JIA never intervened in the process, never came to his aid at all. The agent ended up spending over two years in jail before being let out on parole.
When Logan was younger, the part he had liked most about the story was how the agent had never once tried to defend himself by claiming to work for a government organisation. He didn’t try to persuade the police, the judge or the jury that it was all part of his job. Didn’t ask them to check out who he really was. He never asked for help from anyone. He just accepted his punishment, almost as if he acknowledged that he had done wrong by not following the JIA’s rules. Two years of his life gone and he had accepted it as though it was a slap on his wrist. That, to Logan, spoke volumes about what working for an organisation like the JIA was all about. When he was younger, he had admired that – had admired both the JIA’s and the agent’s response to the situation.
He wasn’t so sure he felt the same way about it anymore.
Would they just sit and let him rot if he was banged up in some archaic foreign jail? He already knew the answer to that. If it suited them, then yes, they would. The trick of course was not to get caught. But nobody is perfect.
Logan shook his head, realising that he’d let his mind wander. He needed to focus. He carried on down the corridor, which was deserted, and approached the door to apartment 3d, one hand still on his Glock. But he came to a stop on the near side of the door when he realised that it was already ajar. As he looked more closely, the splintered wood on the door frame made it clear that the lock had been jimmied.
He looked around, up and down the corridor, his senses on high alert. No signs of anyone else. He stood there for a few seconds, listening for any sounds coming from within the apartment. But there was nothing. His heart rate was quickening nonetheless. He inched forward, pulled his Glock from his trousers and held it out, using the barrel to push open the door further. And as it opened to reveal the studio-style apartment inside, Logan felt a pang of satisfaction when he realised this lead might be worthwhile after all.
Because Logan didn’t believe in coincidences.
And it was quite clear that someone had ransacked Jean Vincent’s apartment.
Chapter 8
‘Is it done?’ bellowed Reggie, an oaf of a man whom Johnny worked for from time to time as a ‘security’ consultant. Reggie wasn’t shouting, his voice was just naturally raucous. He was six foot seven and weighed almost twenty stone and his voice matched his appearance.
‘Yes, of course,’ Johnny said, entering the lounge and sitting down on the empty three-seater sofa adjacent to Reggie. ‘It’s not going to be a problem anymore.’
‘Okay. Good. Make sure this is the end of it. No more cock-ups.’
Johnny could tell that Reggie was fuming inside but, somewhat unnaturally for him, he was keeping it below the surface for now. It wasn’t Johnny’s fault that things looked like they might have turned south. Well, not entirely. And at least he’d taken the initiative in sorting the problem out. He was pretty sure that they now had the collateral to keep the problem under wraps.
‘How’s our friend?’ Johnny asked.
‘Asleep, apparently. I’ve not seen him for the last couple of hours – too many other things to worry about.’
‘Yeah, well, one less thing to worry about now.’
‘One less thing to worry about?’ echoed an unfamiliar voice from over by the door.
Reggie and Johnny both turned their attention to the man standing in the doorway. He was slight, and dressed in beige trousers and a blue turtleneck. He had silky black hair and a manicured black beard. His voice was smooth and his upper-class English accent belied his Middle Eastern origin. Johnny had never met him before, and he wasn’t much to look at, but Johnny knew all about this man. He was someone you really didn’t want to get on the wrong side of. Although Johnny hadn’t until now come face to face with him, he knew Reggie and the others had been in contact within him for some time. And he could tell by the unusually pleasant look on Reggie’s face that even the big man was wary of him.
‘Johnny, I don’t believe you two have met,’ Reggie said, getting to his feet and walking towards the newcomer.
‘No, we haven’t,’ the bearded man said.
Reggie shook his hand before ushering him into the room. ‘This is Johnny. He works for me,’ he said, pointing towards Johnny, who was now on his feet.
‘Johnny, this is –’
‘I know who he is,’ Johnny said, timidly shaking the bearded man’s hand but not daring to look him in the eye.
‘You said there was one less thing to worry about?’ the bearded man said.
Reggie and Johnny looked at each other, aware that he must have been listening to their conversation. Johnny could see the look of unease on Reggie’s face. As confident as Reggie was, it was clear he was scared of this man. Johnny felt the same. He’d heard about the grisly fates of his many enemies and he really didn’t want to be one of them.
‘There’s nothing to worry about now,’ Reggie said. ‘It’s been taken care of.’
‘What’s been taken care of?’ the man asked.
‘It was nothing. Just a problem with one of our men.’
‘What was the problem?’
The bearded man’s tone was calm and as smooth as his hair. But his placidness was unnerving. Reggie looked over at Johnny again, who was squirming away. The question had clearly been aimed at Reggie and Johnny wasn’t going to bail him out. He really didn’t want to delve into the trouble he’d just been sorting out because he knew it made them look amateurish.
‘Nothing really,’ Reggie said, scratching his head. ‘Someone wanting more money than they were promised. But it’s sorted now.’
The bearded man smiled at Reggie and then at Johnny. ‘Well, that’s good to hear. We don’t want anybody getting greedy now, do we? So, you’ve taken care of him?’
‘Yeah, we’ve taken care of it,’ Reggie said.
‘No, I asked have you taken care of him?’
Johnny knew exactly what he meant.
‘No. It’s too difficult to do that right now,’ Reggie said. ‘Let’s just say we’ve made provisions so that he can’t do us any harm.’
The bearded man shook his head. ‘That’s not the same thing at all, though, is it?’
‘We’re trying to be careful here,’ Reggie said, the forced softness in his voice waning. ‘We don’t need any unwanted
attention.’
‘Just get it done.’
‘Don’t you think it’ll be a bit obvious?’ Johnny blurted out, surprised at himself for speaking up. ‘We can’t just leave bodies lying around here, there and everywhere.’
‘Bodies are only a problem if you’re not careful and make a mistake,’ the bearded man said, shooting a glare at Johnny.
‘And just how do you expect us to do it, then?’ Reggie said, struggling now to keep his pleasant tone.
The bearded man flicked Reggie a stare that spoke volumes. ‘Well, I would suggest you do it something like this.’
The man lunged towards Johnny, sweeping behind him and grabbing him round the neck with his left arm. He whipped his right arm from around his back, a gleaming hunting blade in his hand. He wrenched Johnny’s head back and pushed the blade onto his exposed neck.
‘You put the blade here,’ the man said.
The knife dug into Johnny’s neck, just below his left ear. He felt a sharp pain as the blade was pushed against his skin and shivered at the sensation as a line of blood ran down onto his clothes. He began to shout and writhe, but despite his superior size over the bearded man he was helpless.
Reggie stood motionless, his mouth wide open.
‘And then you take the blade and you cut from ear to ear, like this.’
The bearded man’s tone had now switched to a menacing hiss. He swept the knife across Johnny’s neck, nicking the skin, making Johnny wince.
‘You want to go nice and deep at the start. You’re not looking for a mere flesh wound.’
He placed the knife back up against Johnny’s skin, pressing against his larynx.
‘You can easily cut a man’s head off with a knife like this. The hardest bit is the throat. You can open it up with ease, but to cut right through you need to press down hard – don’t just rely on the blade. Or if you want, go in at the side first, and force the blade out to the front. Either way, you should be able to cut through in one go.’
He pressed the knife further into Johnny’s neck, cutting deeper into his skin now. Johnny was in a panic. Surely he wasn’t going to do it? Not here, like this?
‘You can take his head off if you like, but it’s messy. And it’s not for everyone.’
The man pulled the knife away and released Johnny’s left arm. Johnny fell in a heap on the floor, whimpering. He felt his neck then looked at his bloodied hand.
‘He cut me!’ he shouted. ‘He fucking cut me!’
‘Just get it done!’ the bearded man spat, his whole face contorting with anger. Then, quick as a flash, the look was gone again and his eerie calmness returned. He swept his hair back, away from his face. ‘Now. Where is dear old Frank? I really am dying to meet him.’
Chapter 9
Having first checked Vincent’s apartment to make sure he was alone, Logan spent a few minutes searching the place for anything of interest. He had no idea how Vincent fitted into the wider picture of Modena’s kidnapping, but given the ransacked apartment his instincts were screaming at him that Vincent was in some way involved.
After leaving the building, Logan made the decision to head to the Saint-Joseph Hospital. It was time to speak to Vincent himself. Apply a little pressure. However it was that Vincent fitted into the attack on Modena, he was surely only a small cog. So Logan needed to find a bigger cog. And he was good at persuading people to talk.
The hospital was less than two miles away from Vincent’s home, so Logan decided to walk. He needed the fresh air and the exercise would hopefully wake him up – the long flight the night before was quickly taking its toll.
The weather was pleasantly balmy and the sun in the clear sky beat down on him as he made his way, making him feel warm and clammy even though he wore only a jumper on top.
He called Mackie as he walked and explained what he’d found.
‘Anything useful to go on?’ Mackie asked.
‘Not much. No phone, wallet, computer. An angry letter from his landlord about unpaid rent, but other than that, not much correspondence.’
‘Damn it. What were they looking for?’
‘Who knows?’
‘So you’ve got nothing.’
‘I didn’t say that. I’ve got a phone number you should check out. It was on some scrap of paper stuffed in his jeans pocket.’
‘Okay. Anything else?’
‘Two receipts from a bar. One was with the phone number. The other was in his rubbish bin.’
‘Bar receipts. Jesus, you’re really scraping the barrel there, Logan.’
‘Maybe. But why would Vincent be visiting a bar in Clichy-sous-Bois? It’s not exactly his local. And it’s not an area known for its thriving nightlife.’
Logan had never been there before but he knew that Clichy-sous-Bois was one of the most deprived areas of Paris. A hotspot for gang-bangers and career criminals.
He stopped at a busy crossroads and, conscious of the people milling around him, he waited for the lights to turn before he carried on the conversation.
‘What about at your end?’
‘Well, I have to admit,’ Mackie said, ‘it looks like you might have been right about Vincent. We’ve done some digging and some things here don’t look right.’
Logan felt a wave of relief. He’d half been expecting a berating for having wasted everyone’s time with nothing but a phone number and a couple of bar bills.
‘We’ve been through his bank accounts, his mobile phone records. There’s nothing significant coming in or out of his bank account. To be honest, this guy wasn’t a big earner. But he’s not drawn out anything for almost two weeks now either, which looks odd.’
‘Actually, it stacks up nicely,’ Logan said. ‘It means he’s come into some money recently. Cash.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
‘And his phone records?’
‘Well, let’s just say this guy keeps some pretty lousy friends. What was that song about drug dealers on speed dial?’
Logan laughed. ‘Any of them look like they could be of interest?’
He stopped at another set of lights, still looking around him. Up ahead he spotted the hospital looming large.
‘We’re still working through the list,’ Mackie said. ‘As you know, big players are pretty careful, so we’re only talking about a handful of low-level pushers and guys with misdemeanours here. But like I said, Vincent keeps some poor company. So we need to find who he works for, and who they work for.
‘You know, there’s not really anything yet to actually link him to the attack on Modena. Given his friends, his apartment being broken into could have been to do with anything.’
‘You really believe that?’ Logan said, feeling a little deflated.
‘I’m just saying it’s possible.’
‘Okay. I guess there’s only one way to find out. I’m on my way to see Vincent now.’
‘Logan, just be careful,’ Mackie said, sounding just a little concerned. ‘I mean, please be discreet.’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ Logan said again, dashing over a side road just in front of a slowly approaching car. He tried his best not to rise to Mackie’s gibe.
Logan gave Mackie the details of the number he’d found and the bar receipts, and ended the call just as he approached the hospital’s main entrance. It was a modern, glass-fronted building that looked more like a corporate office. But behind the impressive façade it was much the same as any other large inner-city hospital: long, winding corridors, sterile colour schemes, confusing and utterly ineffective signage, and the distinctive smell of illness and disinfectant that only exists in such places.
Vincent was in an open ward on the second floor of the main building, having had surgery on his left leg the previous day. Logan headed to the bank of lifts and then up to the second floor. He exited and walked towards the double doors that led into the ward.
As he entered the ward he did a split-second recce of the area. Logan didn’t have a photographic memory but he was good a
t taking in his surroundings. While other people might fill their memory banks with phone numbers, birthdays and sports statistics, he was much more adept at memorising details in the short term; the layout of locations he went to, faces, clothes, things like that. Being aware of everything that was going on around him was an essential part of the job. It was a learned skill rather than something that had always been with him. After years of training and use, it was now second nature, to the point that it was almost subconscious.
The ward was centred around a long corridor with numerous small, open ward areas off it and also a number of doors which Logan guessed led into the private ward rooms for more serious or long-term residents. The reception desk was a few yards down the corridor, though there was a waiting area and a vending area on opposite sides of the corridor before that. Logan knew that the receptionists wouldn’t let him through to visit Vincent if he asked, but that wasn’t a problem. All it would take was a little patience. So many people come and go in hospitals that an unfamiliar face rarely draws attention. The majority of staff are there to serve the patients’ needs and are necessarily distracted by that. On this ward, the only people in Logan’s way were the two receptionists. And he knew it wouldn’t take long for them, too, to be distracted.
So Logan waited, milling around the vending machines, looking for the right moment. He eyed the people passing through, staff and visitors alike. But then a teenage girl in the waiting area caught his attention. She was nestling her head against the man sitting next to her, who Logan guessed was her father. Logan couldn’t help but stare. At first he wasn’t sure why. There was just something about her. And then it clicked.
Her long, dark hair. Her perfect skin. Those eyes.
She looked just like her.
Logan’s heart skipped a beat. He felt his hands begin to tremble. He took a step back, his legs unsteady, his hand reaching out for something to hold on to. He was unable to take his eyes off the girl, all of a sudden oblivious to everything else around him. Within seconds, sweat droplets began to form on his body, the same way they did each time he slept. His mind began to take him to a dark place. That place where he had first seen her, five months ago.