Read Dance of the Angels Online
Authors: Robert Morcet
Dance of the Angels
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2011 Robert Morcet
Translation copyright © 2015 Roland Glasser
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as
Le bal des anges (LE CELTE t. 1)
by the author via the Kindle Direct Publishing Platform in France in 2011. Translated from French by Roland Glasser. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2015.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503950382
ISBN-10: 1503950387
Cover design by Edward Bettison
C
ONTENTS
N
OTE
TO
R
EADERS
We waited for a long time before publishing this series of exploits involving Loïc Le Goënec, star of the Anti-Crime Brigade. We were concerned about the risk of revealing trade secrets to the public, and of shedding light on the gritty details behind terrifyingly violent news items. This is why we have given our hero an alias, but this policeman and his colleagues are still active officers, and they have never been busier. Le Goënec, known to cops throughout France, and abroad, as the Celt, pursues his merciless struggle. The man whose name strikes fear into the hearts of major-league crooks and criminals continues to risk his life tracking them relentlessly.
Have we made life more risky for this exceptional individual by telling all? Perhaps encouraged a trigger-happy maniac or low-level thug to shoot him down with a bullet in the back in order to make a name for himself in the underworld?
We asked the Celt for his permission beforehand. With his usual modesty, he agreed, on one condition: that the accuracy of the facts be conveyed to the letter, for truth is often stranger than fiction.
As you read this book, know that the Celt and his men from the Anti-Crime Brigade are still out there, and they’re still packing heat.
Theirs is an ongoing war, but their courage is unflinching.
You’ll be hearing news of them regularly.
C
HAPTER
I
Time stood still in the outer Paris borough of Sarcelles, where an air of panic hung over the shopping mall parking lot. The gawkers opposite the bank held their breath, while the cops from the elite squad stood poised. They’d gotten the red alert but were now obliged to wait for orders.
The graffiti-covered walls of the housing projects were streaked with flashing blue lights. In these rough neighborhoods, the local artists seemed to favor war scenes. An icy wind whipped at the faces of the SWAT team as they caressed the triggers of their assault rifles, watching impatiently for the arrival of the Big Boss. They’d surely have to go in and clean up once Bulldozer got here.
Deputy Commissioner of the Anti-Crime Brigade Loïc Le Goënec, better known as the Celt, had been freezing his balls off for hours in this filthy ghetto stuffed full of immigrants, the jobless, and thugs who’d love to bust the whole place apart.
Le Goënec glanced up at the snipers on a nearby roof, ready to shoot up the place as soon as they got the word. Yet again, luck was not on the veteran cop’s side. Why did holdups gone wrong always occur on his days off?
I was supposed to go see the new James Bond film in surround sound. I’m cursed!
The owners of the shops on either side of the bank had lowered their metal shutters and switched on their alarm systems.
Farther away, across the parking lot, the scavengers of the small screen waited patiently, determined not to miss a single scrap of “the happy ending,” while secretly dreaming of a massacre live on air. Great for the ratings, buddy. Housewives below fifty have a weakness for stories that reek of death. Philippe Schneider, high priest of the evening news, was already there. The ratings vulture stared France straight in the eye and, in a calculatedly dramatic tone, recounted the long wait endured by the victims.
A word he adored.
Speaking of the victims: they were nothing but plebs, minimum-wage drones, and long-term welfare recipients. To the right-minded folks in power, these were all the undesirables, and ever since the bank opened for business that morning, they’d been held hostage by a rabid gang ready to light the powder keg if their demands were not met.
Right, here we go,
said Le Goënec to himself, relieved at seeing the Citroën Xantia of Police Commissioner Jean Tavernier, alias Bulldozer, pull up with a screeching of tires.
The rear door opened to reveal a man measuring five feet seven inches of steely determination. He still wore his nickname well, despite his fifty years. Even the finest shots on the police force paled beside him on the firing range. As for the crooks, those who’d had the misfortune to cross his path remembered it for many long years behind bars—or six feet under, for the more reckless ones.
Le Goënec warmly shook the hand of the square-faced man with the graying brush-cut hair. His boss got straight to the point.
“What do these sons of bitches want?”
“Ten million francs, one-way tickets to Paraguay, and an exclusive interview with Schneider.”
The housewives’ favorite rushed over to the two policemen and brandished his microphone at Tavernier, who shot the reporter a dark look. He hated going on television. Media-friendliness was not one of the boss’s strong suits.
“Commissioner Tavernier, you’re the anti-crime boss, and you’ve dealt with several situations like this in the past. As you know, the hostage takers are determined not to budge on their demands. Can you tell us where the negotiations currently stand?”
“We are presently awaiting instructions from the chief of police. He is in contact with the minister of the interior. I can’t say anything more.”
Schneider didn’t press him further. The star presenter was sufficiently aware of the commissioner’s reputation; his famous fits of rage had sent many a news cameraman fleeing.
“Thank you, Commissioner.”
Tavernier glanced over at the bank, the windows of which had been barricaded. It was impossible to see anything inside. He took a Menthe-Claire out of his pocket and sucked it slowly, before grinding it angrily. The commissioner had two real vices: peppermint candy and filterless Gauloises Brunes.
“What’s the situation, Loïc?”
“Not great, boss. There are five of these bastards, armed to the teeth, with a dozen hostages. They want to talk to you.”
“We’ll see what guts these sons of bitches have,” exclaimed Tavernier.
“Easy, boss, watch your ulcer!”
Tavernier grabbed a megaphone, and his stentorian voice rang out toward the bank. “This is Commissioner Tavernier. Come out and lay down your weapons. You don’t have a chance!”
For a few moments, nothing happened.
Everyone held their breath as they stared at the front of the bank, where ads proclaimed: “Your Money? Entrust It to the Professionals.”
Suddenly the door opened. A masked figure stepped out brazenly and stood on the threshold. The sight of the grenade in his hand, pin removed, sent adrenaline coursing through the veins of the cops massed across the way.
“That you, Bulldozer?” shouted the hostage taker. “I hope you’ve not forgotten our ten million, or the health of the hostages don’t look too good!”
“Take it easy, fella! I’m not authorized to decide on the financing. The chief will turn up any minute now. Meanwhile, don’t do anything foolish.”
“As soon as he turns up, you can tell that old bitch we’ve got the manager. He’ll understand.”
“Can you explain, please? What’s this all about?”
“Fuck you, Bulldozer! You’ve got the upper hand for now. But if you try anything, you’ve no idea of the hell that’s gonna rain down on you.”
Le Goënec strode over to the commissioner, a dangerous glint in his eye. He was itching to be finished with these wackos.
“Get back, fucking pig, and clear off the parking lot,” the hostage taker said. “I don’t want to see a single blue light on the horizon!”
Le Goënec was having difficulty controlling his anger. He was so high-strung it felt like every valve was about to blow. It was going to be hard to remain Zen.
He grabbed the megaphone. “Listen to me carefully,” Le Goënec told the masked man in a firm voice. “I’m here with my boss to try and reach a sensible solution. If we each show some goodwill, we can avoid a bloodbath. If I were you, I would start by releasing one or more hostages. It will make a difference, believe me.”
“Listen, asshole. There’s gonna be some stiffs down at the morgue, and it’ll be all your fault. Do I need to spell it out?”
Le Goënec and Tavernier exchanged a dark look.
“This won’t be a picnic; they’re total loonies,” muttered the commissioner as he played with his candy wrapper.
It wasn’t easy for Le Goënec to play the appeaser opposite these nut jobs, but he did his best: “Think about it, my man. We can be pretty understanding if you stop digging yourselves further into this mess. It’s in everybody’s interest to avoid a bloodbath.”
“It’s all thought-out, jackass!” came the reply. “Hand over the dough—otherwise, it’s the hostages who’ll be bleeding.”
Just then, Chief of Police Hervet’s Citroën XM, driven by his ever-present chauffeur, pulled up beside the Xantia. His arrival in this garbage can of a housing project was as out of place as the pope visiting a peep show.
Paul Hervet was dressed with unusual elegance for a police chief. This senior official looked more like a moneyed pretty boy used to torrid nights at Le Queen, Paris’s premier gay club on the Champs-Élysées.
The son of a former minister of the interior, Paul Hervet had been catapulted to the peak of the police hierarchy and had every reason to be hated by his peers. Everybody knew he preferred nocturnal outings to strategic decision-making. Completely useless, he was always dressed to the nines, looking like he’d just stepped out of
Men’s Vogue
.
Hervet cast a worried eye over the dilapidated shell of the shopping mall. It made for a creepy scene. He would have been better off slipping into a bulletproof vest today, rather than his Cerruti suit.
“Anything new, Commissioner? Where are we with the negotiations?”
“It’s not looking good, Chief. I tried talking with the leader of the gang, but it was like flogging a dead horse. We’re dealing with some dangerous, desperate individuals.”
“Frankly, I’m scared it’ll turn nasty,” said Le Goënec.
“What do you intend to do?”
“Strike fast and hard. We’ve got no choice.”
“Careful. Don’t act hastily, Commissioner,” said Hervet. “We must continue to attempt a dialogue, find a way out . . . Yes, that’s it. Find a way out.”
“For the moment, I can’t see one!”
Tavernier was seething at having to deal with such a drip, a man who was incapable of assisting him in any meaningful way. He would have liked to smash his fist into the police chief’s face, but he contented himself with fiddling nervously with his empty candy wrapper.
Just then, Hervet glimpsed one of the criminals, who had just come back out of the bank, still holding his grenade.
“That you, Hervet? We’ve told you our conditions, so don’t keep us waiting, assface. Send us the loot, quick!”
“We are going to find a middle ground,” answered Hervet without much conviction, “but I order you to release these men and women immediately.”
Tavernier, who could never get used to the chief’s grating voice, raised his eyes to heaven in dismay.
The furious masked man let fly a superb gob of silvery spit that splashed onto the asphalt, then shouted, “Let me remind you how this works, prick. From now on, we shoot a hostage every two hours, you got that?”
“He’s bluffing,” Hervet said, turning to an indignant Tavernier.
The chief of police forced himself to keep his cool, but the scant self-assurance he had left faltered under the criminal’s threats. There was a kind of emptiness in his head. What the hell was he doing here?
The Peacock, as his subordinates at police headquarters had secretly nicknamed Hervet, would have given anything to be seated at his usual table at Ledoyen.
“What are your orders, sir?” prompted Tavernier.
“It’s out of the question to give in, Commissioner. Orders from the minister. We must gain time at all costs. Avoid any blood being spilled.”
Unable to contain himself any longer, Le Goënec looked Hervet right in the eye and said, “I have studied the layout of the premises, and the hostage takers have placed explosives everywhere. If we intervene, we might take some casualties. There’s a real risk, but I don’t see any other way. Gotta move quickly, though. Otherwise this bank will become a morgue.”
“Wait, let’s continue the negotiations,” sputtered Hervet. “I demand that—”
The boss of every policeman in France was rudely interrupted by the masked man, who hollered, “For the last time, Hervet: You gonna fucking give us the cash, or what?”
“I am in contact with the minister of the interior. I am waiting for their decision. But I beg you, make a gesture first—free a hostage!”
“You want a hostage? No problem!”
The door of the bank slammed shut. For a few moments, a heavy silence hung over the parking lot. Philippe Schneider sensed that events were taking a turn. The journalist wore an expression worthy of an undertaker at a four-star funeral.
“Ladies and gentlemen, just a few moments ago, the hostage taker went back inside the bank. We still know nothing about the identity of these criminals, but the leader of the gang has just spoken with Chief of Police Paul Hervet. For the moment, the fate of the hostages is still unresolved. The chief of police has asked the terrorists to free one hostage as a show of good faith. We should know a little more in the next few minutes.”
Without waiting for an order from the chief, Tavernier and Le Goënec readied their men to execute Plan Red. The SWAT snipers stiffened, eyes glued to the sights of their rifles. The Anti-Crime Brigade drew their .357 Magnums. A veritable hail of bullets would be unleashed as soon as Tavernier gave the signal. Just a few meters away, Schneider’s cameras were trained on the front of the bank, for better or—above all—worse.
“Here we go,” said Philippe Schneider. “One of the gang has just come out with a hostage. You can clearly see, ladies and gentlemen, that the presumed leader of the gang has a revolver pressed to his hostage’s temple. It is truly appalling to be witnessing this live!”
“Let me go, I beg you,” exclaimed the hostage, who’d had the unfortunate idea of dropping by the bank before spending a chunk of his welfare check at the Carrefour supermarket.
“Schneider,” called out the masked man, “you filming me? Are your cameras getting all this?”
The hostage’s head exploded in a red geyser, spraying blood and brains across the wall. The journalist, who had gotten as close as possible to the action, puked right there in the parking lot. The gawkers drew back, horrified. A woman became hysterical in the middle of the surging, panicked crowd, which the police were unable to control. Tavernier and Le Goënec were champing at the bit. They knew that if they ordered the assault now, it would be a massacre.
A very pale Philippe Schneider took his place in front of the camera again, after requesting some touches to his makeup.
“What we are currently witnessing is truly dramatic. A man has just been executed, in front of you, on live TV. In light of such a tragic event, we are at a loss to understand the reaction of the police, or should I say the lack of a reaction, as they still have not intervened.”
The killer addressed the cameras. “In two hours, it’ll be time for the next one. Go on, Schneider, switch to the ads!”
The hostage taker went back inside the bank, leaving the man’s body lying in a pool of blood. Barely containing his rage, the commissioner walked toward Hervet, who had taken cover behind a police barrier and prudently remained there.
“One–nil, sir,” said Tavernier, scathingly. “I think we’re past diplomacy now!”
“I already told you, Commissioner, I won’t take responsibility for a slaughter.”
“Blood is sure to flow. These bastards won’t stop, believe me.”
