Dance with the Enemy (The Enemy Series)

by Rob Sinclair

  ‘You were expecting me, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Sorry, I was just in the middle of something.’

  Lindegaard didn’t look convinced but he didn’t push it.

  Mackie was embarrassed but he hoped he’d managed to hide it. He wasn’t sure where the lines had got crossed, but the last thing he had been expecting was for Lindegaard to be in his office. In fact, in Lindegaard’s seven years in his role, Mackie wasn’t sure the man had ever been in his office.

  Mackie knew what this was about. Lindegaard’s presence was intended to put extra pressure on Mackie. And he didn’t like that.

  ‘So I’m assuming he knows?’ Lindegaard said.

  ‘Who knows what?’ Mackie said, deliberately feigning ignorance.

  ‘Does Logan know about Selim?’

  ‘Of course he does,’ Mackie said, faking surprise at the question. ‘Why would I keep something like that from the lead agent on the case?’

  Lindegaard didn’t look convinced but Mackie wasn’t going to give him any wriggle room. Whatever his own thoughts were on the matter, he wouldn’t delve into them with Lindegaard or the JIA committee, or anyone else.

  ‘And how did he handle it?’

  ‘How I would expect a lead agent to. He took it on board and I’m sure he’ll be looking into the connection to Selim.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I think you know that.’

  ‘Look,’ said Mackie, leaning forward towards Lindegaard, his tone blunter now, ‘I’m not entirely sure what you want me to say here. Logan knows. He was working the case before we found out about Selim. And he’ll work the case the same now. There’s nothing more to it. And, quite frankly, I’m getting just a little bit perturbed by your constant badgering.’

  Lindegaard didn’t respond to Mackie immediately. The two men stared at each other, as if competing as to who would look away first. Eventually Lindegaard did. He turned his head this way and that, looking around the room.

  ‘It’s a nice office you have, Charles,’ Lindegaard said, his insincerity riling Mackie further. ‘Very nice indeed. You’ve done well for yourself.’

  ‘Thank you. That really means a lot to me.’

  Lindegaard sighed. ‘Charles, I’m going to be very frank with you. You know we weren’t convinced by Logan being brought back for this case. And, well, that was even before we found out about Selim. And before Logan’s little antics at Saint-Joseph. So surely you can understand that we’re even more uncomfortable now?’

  ‘Jesus wept. Logan’s been in Paris for twenty-four hours. He’s actually made good progress in that time. He –’

  ‘Good progress?’ Lindegaard interrupted. ‘You mean him running around a busy hospital, making himself a person of interest in a murder inquiry?’

  Mackie glared daggers at Lindegaard. ‘The fact he was there at all was because of his own intuition,’ he said, trying his best to defend what he knew had been an error by Logan.

  ‘Yes, and I’m sure he’s still got certain talents. And I’m sure, in his own way, he could get to the bottom of this mess. It’s not like you can forget how to ride a bike. But you know, Charles, I’ve lost men before as well. Selim isn’t just a big deal to you and Logan. Do you know how many agents we’ve lost going after him?’

  Mackie assumed Lindegaard’s ‘we’ was referring to the CIA. ‘That’s got nothing to do with me or Logan.’

  ‘I’m just setting the scene here. I want this to work out right just as much as you do. But for that to happen, we have to run this case through properly. I’ve had to call it a day on many good agents who lost their way. Personal feelings shouldn’t come into this. Logan is a loose cannon. God knows what damage he could cause us, you, in the process of getting the job done.’

  ‘So what are you proposing?’

  Lindegaard shifted in his seat, looking just a little nervous for the first time in the conversation. And Mackie knew that he wasn’t going to like what was coming.

  ‘I’m sorry, Charles. The decision has already been made. Logan’s got twenty-four hours. And then we’re sending in someone else.’

  Chapter 14

  Logan had left the hotel just before ten a.m. Mackie had given him the name and address of the passport counterfeiter, Thierry Djourou. Both the phone number Logan had found and the bar receipts linked Vincent to this man. And given his trade, it wasn’t implausible that his skills had been used to help some of the attackers in their scheme. The fact that Djourou was also a Muslim and, according to the French police, had tenuous links to some extremist groups also hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  Djourou lived in Clichy-sous-Bois. Logan didn’t know the area, had never been there, but he knew of its notoriety. It was one of the most poverty-stricken areas in Paris, a melting pot of unemployment and disadvantaged ethnic minorities. It had been the centre of riots in 2005 that made headline news around the globe. The riots had been sparked off after two local teenagers were accidently electrocuted as they hid from the police, who were allegedly pursuing them. Residents had long complained of police harassment and brutality. Friends of the boys claimed they had simply been playing football when they fled from a routine police patrol, fearing a confrontation with the officers.

  Years later, tensions in the area remained on a constant high. Residents battled not only amongst themselves but with the police, who struggled to keep order. The majority of people living there were Muslims of Algerian and Moroccan descent. Djourou, though, was part of a growing population of immigrant Muslims from the Ivory Coast.

  Logan had to get close to Djourou. He needed to find out what he knew about the attack on Modena. More importantly, he wanted to find out what he knew about Selim.

  He sat in a rented Fiat, which he’d picked up near the hotel. Before him was Djourou’s home: a ten-storey block of concrete, built in the sixties. It was decrepit, almost irretrievably it seemed. And yet it probably housed twice as many people as it was intended to, in conditions that many would have thought of as impossible in one of the most fashionable cities in the world.

  But Logan had seen enough of the world to know that this was nothing out of the ordinary. Every major city had areas as bad, if not worse than this. Logan felt nothing but pity towards the majority of the residents of these ghettos. But he would never feel pity towards the likes of Djourou and the other criminals who lived amongst these communes, because they preyed on and exploited the vulnerability of their own people. And that was something that wasn’t acceptable to anyone, from any race or religion, in any country.

  He got out the car and started towards the apartment block. Bin liners, car parts and broken household furniture were strewn across the unkempt lawns in front of the building. The small group of kids kicking a ball around out front had taken to using the road as their playing field rather than the heavily littered grass. They probably weren’t even as old as teenagers, but Logan kept his head down as he walked past them. There was no point in drawing attention to himself. It wouldn’t be the first such place he’d been to where it was these young children who were the watchmen for the gang leaders. He was relieved that they didn’t seem to take any notice as he went past them and up to the building entrance.

  He was carrying a Beretta today, slipped into the back of his trousers. He was sure that Djourou would search him before he was willing to speak to him, but he’d kept the weapon on him deliberately. He hoped it would help to build trust with Djourou if Logan openly admitted to carrying it and handed it over to his host. That was the very reason he’d asked Mackie for a Beretta, which he’d been given at the hotel that morning, rather than the more usual Glock that he had carried yesterday. The Beretta had a safety catch, the Glock didn’t. And if he was going to hand his gun over to Djourou, he at least wanted that little bit of extra comfort.

  Logan walked into the open stairwell. He noticed a bank of lifts in the centre of the building, but he would get a better understanding of his surroundings by using the stairs, so he started up
them. The stench of urine came and went as he made his way up the flights. The sound of TVs and stereos blaring, babies crying and couples fighting emanated from the nearby apartments as he approached each floor.

  He reached the sixth floor and made his way towards apartment 609, walking down the exposed corridor which lined the front of the building. The door to this apartment was noticeably different to the others. It was made of metal, reinforced at the edges, and had a four-inch-wide square flap in the middle of it. Djourou was clearly a security-conscious man. Though it wasn’t exactly discreet. He may as well have had a big sign on the door that read: Criminal lives here.

  Logan knocked on the door three times and waited. Ten seconds later the flap opened and a man’s face appeared in the hole. Logan couldn’t see enough of the face to figure out whether or not it was Djourou, but he assumed it wouldn’t be, given that he was the supposed boss of the counterfeiting operation and so was more likely to want to keep out of sight if he could.

  ‘I need to speak to Djourou,’ Logan said in English. ‘I was told he could help me.’

  ‘Quoi?’

  There was a fair chance this guy didn’t speak much English, but Logan had a role to play here. He wanted to appear to be a needy foreigner, someone who was in trouble and was desperate for Djourou’s help. An easy ride for the African.

  ‘I have money,’ Logan said, waving his wallet in front of the open flap. Even this guy couldn’t misunderstand that. ‘I need a passport.’

  The man slammed the flap shut without another word. Logan wasn’t altogether surprised. He knew how these guys operated. Part of it was about being careful, but part of it was a show. They would never just let a stranger in straight off. But money talks, and they wouldn’t want to turn away business. They wanted to know you were serious. And they wanted to know you were desperate. If you were both, then you were their ideal customer.

  Logan waited a few seconds, then knocked again. The flap opened almost immediately.

  ‘I need a passport. I have cash. Euro. I have euro.’

  The man shouted something in quasi-French at Logan. He couldn’t tell what it was, the accent was too strong. But he understood the sentiment.

  ‘Jean Vincent told me to come here. He told me to ask for Djourou. Are you Djourou?’

  The barrel of a gun poked out through the flap. A single-barrel shotgun from what Logan could tell. This was it: he was either going to get an invitation inside or he was about to get his head blown off. He wasn’t sure whether to carry on talking, or even what more he could say. He thought of mentioning Selim. But even if Djourou and his cronies did know Selim, that may be a step too far. People didn’t just go around bandying his name about.

  ‘Please, you have to help me,’ Logan said. ‘I’m in trouble.’

  He heard more voices inside but they were muffled and he couldn’t pick out any of the words that were said. The gun barrel disappeared and the flap was shut. A few seconds later the door creaked open.

  Two men stood in the doorway. One was only about five feet tall, in his late twenties, Logan guessed, and was holding the shotgun at shoulder height, pointing it directly at Logan. He saw now that it was a Remington 870, a twelve-gauge pump action shotgun – one of the most common shotgun types and one of the most reliable. The other man was taller and older, probably close to fifty. He wore a stained white vest that showed off his lean physique. He was of a similar height to Logan but probably a stone or two heavier. The extra weight was more or less pure muscle.

  ‘What do you want?’ the taller man said. His English was good but with a strong African twinge.

  ‘I’m here to see Djourou. I was told he could help me.’

  ‘I’m Djourou. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m a friend. I know Jean Vincent. I was told you could help me.’

  Logan saw the look of recognition in Djourou’s eyes when he mentioned Vincent’s name. He didn’t know whether that was a good thing or not. He knew his pretence would come to an end sooner or later. It was just a question of when.

  ‘I don’t know this Jean Vincent,’ Djourou said, less than convincingly.

  ‘He knows you. And I have money,’ Logan said, holding up his wallet again.

  Djourou smiled broadly, exposing his nicotine-stained teeth, and said, ‘Then come inside.’

  He moved aside and Logan walked in. He stepped past the two men and stopped in the hallway of the apartment. The place was dark and dilapidated. The walls were scuffed and pockmarked, the carpets stained and worn. The smell of tobacco and marijuana was almost overpowering.

  Djourou shut the door and the little guy came round in front of Logan, still holding the Remington, still pointing it at Logan. Another man appeared from the room at the far end of the corridor. He staggered through the doorway, probably stoned. He was of a similar size and build to Djourou, with the same muscular physique, but he was noticeably younger, probably in his thirties, and he was wearing only a pair of shorts. In his hand was a gleaming machete.

  Logan looked from the machete to Djourou.

  ‘If you’re a cop, we’ll kill you,’ Djourou said with no hint of emotion in his voice. ‘And it won’t be with the gun.’

  Logan got the picture. The man with the machete gave him a toothless smile and held the oversized knife up to Logan’s face.

  ‘Are you a cop?’ Djourou said.

  ‘Do I look like one?’ Logan said.

  ‘No. If you did, you wouldn’t have made it inside.’

  ‘Then why did you bother to ask the question then?’

  ‘Because cops would know that,’ Djourou said, smiling again, ‘so would probably send someone who looked like you.’

  Funny guy, Logan thought. ‘Well, that makes sense. But no, I’m not a cop.’

  ‘My friend here will pat you down. Please put your hands in the air.’

  Logan did as he was told.

  ‘Do you have a weapon?’ Djourou said.

  ‘Yes. A handgun. In my waistband.’

  Djourou reached around Logan’s waist and pulled out the Beretta.

  ‘Nice,’ Djourou said, twisting it in his hand before aiming it at Logan’s head. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  Djourou nodded to the man with the machete, who handed his weapon to Djourou and proceeded to pat down Logan. It was a thorough search. These guys were being very careful – more careful than your average passport faker, Logan thought. Which meant they were probably up to something else in here as well. Drugs would be the obvious candidate, but it could be anything.

  ‘Okay, please come through,’ Djourou said.

  He handed the machete back to the other man, then turned and walked towards the room at the far end of the corridor. There were four other doors that led off from the main corridor along the way: three open ones led into a kitchen, a bedroom and bathroom, and the final door was closed. Beyond was the room that would provide the answer of whatever else these guys were up to. But Logan wasn’t here for that.

  The room that he followed Djourou into was a lounge. It had two worn-out sofas and a small portable TV that looked like it was at least thirty years old. The single window in the room was covered with a makeshift brown drape. There was also a table and cluttered bookcase in the corner containing what must have been the tools of the counterfeiting trade. It didn’t look like much. Without the guns and knives, Logan wouldn’t have suspected

  Djourou of anything other than having an arts and crafts hobby. Djourou sat down on one of the sofas and indicated for Logan to sit on the other. The two accomplices remained standing, one on either side of Logan. He was glad that they were both in front of him where he could keep an eye on them.

  ‘Why do you think I can help you?’ Djourou said.

  ‘I told you, Jean Vincent said you could.’

  ‘So you keep saying. Who is this Jean Vincent?’

  ‘A friend.’

  Djourou eyed Logan for a few moments before he spoke again. Logan could feel his
heartbeat steadily getting faster from a mixture of adrenaline and anticipation.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Ha, I’m not telling you that.’

  Djourou laughed. ‘Okay, well, what is the name you would like me to put on your passport?’

  ‘John Burrows.’

  ‘John Burrows. Very English. And you say Jean Vincent said you should come here?’

  Logan’s heart was now thudding in his chest, beating faster and faster in anticipation of what was to come. He had used the Jean Vincent ruse to get in, but he had never planned to leave with it still in place. And he knew that sooner or later events would head south. He just had to be ready.

  ‘Yes. I told you that already,’ Logan said. ‘Look, are we going to talk about Jean Vincent all day, or are we going to do business? How much is this going to cost me?’

  Djourou laughed again. Louder, more deliberate. ‘How much will it cost? It will cost a lot. It’s going to cost you a lot. You see, John Burrows, let me tell you how it is. Yes, I know Vincent. I met him through a friend. Vincent was a nobody. He was a courier. A dogsbody. He did whatever I wanted him to do for a little bit of money. And it didn’t take much. He was a cheap man. But because I know the circumstances of how I met him, I seriously doubt he recommended me to you.’

  Logan shifted in his seat. He had expected that this point would come. It had been the downfall of using Vincent’s name to get in. But he hadn’t had much else to go with.

  ‘So,’ Djourou said, cradling Logan’s Beretta in his hand, ‘you need to tell me, John Burrows. Why are you really here? And if you don’t give me an answer I like –’ Djourou nodded over to his accomplice with the machete ‘– well, you can use your imagination.’

  Chapter 15

  Logan remained silent. Tried to stay calm. At least on the outside. He didn’t want to show any sign of weakness to these guys.

  He looked over at the little man. Then at the one with the machete. They were both smiling at him. But neither was coming for him yet. They were waiting on Djourou to give them a signal.