Death at the Clos du Lac (24 page)

Rocco dropped Claude and Alix off in Poissons before heading back to Amiens. He found a note from Massin, waiting to see him in his office.

‘I’ve been advised,’ Massin said as soon as Rocco entered, ‘that an undercover team of officers working in the Pantin district of Paris was attacked last night while raiding an apartment. One of them was shot and wounded, but not seriously. He was lucky. Inside the apartment they found two bodies, both male, both shot at close range.’

‘Who were they?’

‘Well, that’s where it gets interesting. The undercover team had been following the two men’s progress across the north of the city, although they hadn’t managed to get a clear sighting or identify them. But they were certain they were driving a furniture van with Véronique Bessine inside.’

‘But they didn’t find her.’

‘No, sadly, they didn’t. What they did find is a large van
parked in a street nearby containing ample evidence that a person was held captive for a number of days. And one of the men has a history of being involved in kidnaps, although no firm convictions.’ He looked at Rocco. ‘You don’t sound surprised.’

‘I’m not.’ He hesitated, wondering how far he could take this man into his confidence. They had a chequered history, he and Massin, where trust had not been a high priority between them. But he couldn’t see any way past this point without telling Massin what he suspected … and what he knew for certain. What Massin – who invariably chose the safe against the risky where his superiors in the Interior Ministry were concerned – chose to do next was anybody’s guess.

He told Massin everything.

The senior officer looked aghast at first, then incredulous, then shocked when Rocco told him about the trade talks and the motive behind the kidnap of Bessine’s wife.

‘Rocco, I find this hard to believe,’ he said at one point. He reached for the telephone. ‘Do you want coffee?’

‘Yes. Please.’

He ordered coffees, then told his secretary to hold all calls, no matter who they were from. ‘Well, of course,’ he conceded after a brief exchange, ‘unless it’s from
Monsieur le President
. But I don’t think that’s likely, do you?’ He shook his head and put the phone down as if it might bite him.

He looked hard at Rocco, then held up a finger and stood up. He walked around his office, then sat back down again, clearly agitated. ‘So let me understand this properly. All this … the killing at the Clos du Lac, the murder
of the guard, and then of this supposedly already dead Stefan Devrye-Martin and his friend, and the approach to you by this Miss – Roget, you say? Roget, yes – on the orders of this Commander Levignier of ISD, and now the killings in Paris … they’re all linked to this kidnap, which has been carried out by, you suspect, Levignier’s people in order to frustrate trade talks between Bessine’s people and Taiwan.’

‘In favour of Peking and other industrialists here in France, yes.’

‘Incredible. It doesn’t seem possible. Why—’ He broke off at a knock on the door, and leapt up to admit his secretary carrying a tray with cups and a fresh brew of coffee. She handed the tray over before being ushered out again, but not before glancing at Rocco with a look of incomprehension.

‘Who else knows about this?’ he queried, stirring sugar into his cup.

Here it comes, thought Rocco. This might be where it gets stamped on.

‘Desmoulins, Lamotte … and
Gardienne
Poulon,’ he conceded, adding, ‘they all know bits and pieces – Desmoulins probably more than the others.’

‘Good, good.’ Massin drank some coffee, then took another walk around his desk, tugging at his jacket. ‘We need to keep this contained.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I don’t mean swept under the rug, Inspector. I mean between a select few officers.’ He sat down and gave Rocco another hard stare. ‘Can you get her out of there – the Bessine woman?’

‘I think so.’ Rocco held his breath. This was unexpected. He didn’t know what to say. Thank you seemed inappropriate.

‘You’ll need men – good men. I’ll speak to Godard. He’s got some excellent officers under his command. And whatever resources you need from here. But you’ll have to be discreet. If word leaks out about an operation being planned …’ He shook his head and didn’t finish. Natural caution rearing its head again, thought Rocco.

‘So,’ he said quickly, before there was a change of heart, ‘you’re ready to go with this?’

‘Of course. I should have my head examined, I know. But if we had not had the … uh … experiences that we have, you and I, then I would now be calling the Ministry for advice.’ He stared into his coffee. ‘But we all know that would be a disaster. When are you planning on going in?’

‘Tonight, after dark. There’s a back way in, but we might have to play it by ear.’

‘Not sooner?’ The implication was clear: what about the kidnap victim – if indeed she was in there?

‘They’d see us coming. The guards look as if they know what they’re doing, and they must have a fall-back plan in case of a raid. Darkness gives us the edge.’

‘Well, that’s your … speciality. But you have my full authority.’ He picked up the telephone and said, ‘I’ll speak to Godard, Canet and Perronnet. I can’t hide this from them, but I know they will be discreet and support us where necessary.’ He nodded and began to dial, and Rocco took it as his cue to leave.

Rocco found Desmoulins churning through some paperwork, and said quietly, ‘What are you doing this evening?’

‘Nothing. Why?’

‘Come to my house, eight o’clock. Don’t tell anyone.’

Desmoulins looked at him, eyebrows raised. ‘Are we going hunting?’

‘Something like that. Dress for the occasion.’

‘You bet.’ Desmoulins looked excited, and began to attack the paperwork with renewed vigour. ‘See you later.’

Rocco picked up the phone and rang Claude.

A light mist was hovering around the lake like a shroud as Rocco and Desmoulins made their way around its perimeter, keeping the water to their right. Claude had assured them that the ground here was solid enough, as long as they didn’t stray too close to the reeds.

It was two-thirty in the morning, and the air was still, carrying the metallic aroma of water and rotting vegetation. A cloudy sky ensured no moonlight, and there was a promise of rain in the air. Poor visibility wasn’t ideal, but it favoured them rather more than the guards on watch.

They were both dressed in dark clothing, with smears of mud on their cheeks and foreheads, and even from a couple of metres away, Desmoulins merged like a wraith into the gloom.

The hours had ground past with agonising slowness following his talk with Massin, expecting to hear at any moment that the kidnappers had been caught somewhere
else with their victim, or that the raid was off. But first Godard had sought him out to discuss plans and personnel, then Canet and even Perronnet had appeared to give him a subtle nod of support.

Now he was here, Rocco felt calm and ready for what lay ahead. His nerves were on edge, but that was a necessary part of any armed operation. He paused every few metres to scan the ground ahead. He had a clear image of the area in mind from a previous sighting: the grassy area ran flat for about fifty metres, before reaching a line of trees standing like sentinels in the dark, their tips just visible against the slightly lighter sky. They were poplars, lining the canal and planted by the same man who had designed the Clos du Lac, no doubt to add order to the view on offer.

He had no reason to suspect that the new security arrangements had placed a scout out here this far from the buildings, but he wasn’t about to take chances. Jean-Pierre looked the sort to shoot first without asking questions, and he didn’t want to increase the risk to Desmoulins or Claude, who was approaching on the far side of the sanitarium, by exposing them to a trigger-happy thug with an attitude problem.

He looked to his right, across the lake. Two of Godard’s men were over there somewhere, approaching on a similar course, while Godard and two more men had control of the road running past the Clos in case anyone tried to leave. All had military experience and were skilled at moving around in difficult terrain.

A burst of activity betrayed a waterfowl skittering away through the reeds, and Rocco sank down instinctively, Desmoulins doing the same. They waited until the bird
had splash-landed out in the centre of the lake before continuing.

As they neared the trees, Rocco looked for a flash of white in the gloom. It would be a marker post put in place by Claude earlier, to show the location of a footbridge across the canal. From the other side it was only a short walk to the lane running past the Clos. He was counting on the guards keeping a close eye on the lane itself, running from the road out of Poissons, rather than expecting any approach across the rougher ground around the lake and the canal. If they got that far without being spotted, they were in business.

The ghostly shape of an owl drifted by overhead, and other noises in the dark showed how easily disturbed were the creatures of the night. Rocco slowed his pace, feeling his shoulders beginning to tense. It brought back memories of other times and places when he’d sought to become part of the world around him when all his nerves were screaming to be somewhere else. Then it had been jungle, vivid and claustrophobic, deadly in every sense; not the benign French countryside of the Somme valley. Yet with what he sensed might be waiting in the form of Jean-Pierre and his colleagues, the danger was no less real, no less final.

He reached beneath his coat and checked the comforting feel of the MAB semi-automatic. It was no guarantee or protection but going in without it would have been suicidal.

Claude had instructions to wait when he got into position, having first scouted the general area around the sanitarium. They would meet up near the back door to the pool house, which was a blind spot for the guards, and
decide on a point of entry once they knew what they were up against.

‘What exactly are we looking for?’ Claude had asked over the phone.

‘The guards,’ Rocco had replied. ‘Where they are, how far they move.’ He told him of the new arrival on the stretcher, and that gaining fast access to the inside was their first priority.

‘Who do you think it is? Another dodgy criminal hiding from justice?’

‘Bigger than that.’ He’d paused before saying it, the words suddenly seeming ludicrous. But it was too late now. ‘I think they’re holding Véronique Bessine, to put pressure on her husband and derail his trade talks.’

There had been a stunned silence from Claude, which Rocco had made no effort to fill. There had been plenty in the news already about the kidnap; Claude was a cop and would see the problems they were facing.

‘You better not get yourself shot, Lucas,’ Claude breathed, ‘that’s all I can say. Otherwise Mme Denis will cut my balls off.’

‘You’d be the lucky one. Think what she’ll do to me.’

Desmoulins stepped up alongside him, and Rocco sensed him pointing in the dark. ‘Over to the right,’ he whispered. ‘Is that your marker?’

Rocco saw a faint glimmer several paces away. They were on target.

‘That’s it.’ He led the way and found a short post embedded in the soil, with a splash of white paint on the side facing the lake. Beyond it lay the footbridge over the canal.

They moved apart and approached the bridge on a parallel path. Rocco paused and listened. If a guard had been posted anywhere out here, this would be a logical spot. But he couldn’t hear anything.

The footbridge was made of wood, narrow enough to allow two people side by side across, or a farm animal, but nothing bigger, and rising in a curve to allow canal barges underneath. Rocco felt the first rise of the ground beneath his feet, followed by the dull, hollow scuff of the wooden ramp. He trod carefully, one hand on the balustrade to steady himself as he crossed, then down the other side, stepping off quickly to one side to wait for Desmoulins.

He heard a clicking noise from behind, and the soft scrape of a footfall. Godard’s men, also approaching the bridge.

Five minutes later, they were crossing the field below the Clos, heading for the doorway to the pool house.

‘They’re coming.’ Delombre took out his gun and checked the magazine. He was standing in the kitchen with Inès Dion and the guard known as Jean-Pierre, and listening to the night sounds beyond the window. They had been ready to leave, to scatter, having made sure there was nothing incriminating left behind. Now every instinct told him that they’d left it too late.

‘They wouldn’t dare,’ murmured Jean-Pierre. ‘They can’t know for sure if she’s here or not. Anyway, we’re ready for them.’

Delombre looked at him with contempt. ‘If you really believe that, you’re an idiot. They’ll come because they know. It’s all they need. They’re not administrators, grey-suited
fonctionnaires
more accustomed to meetings and filling in forms; they’re no different to you or me. Especially Rocco. Christ, I should have dealt with him earlier, like I wanted to.’ He swore under his breath and
stared out of the kitchen window into the darkness. It wasn’t the only thing he wished he’d done differently. But it was too late now, all in the past. Regrets were for old men.

He slipped the gun into its holster and said to Dion, ‘What was the plan to deal with the woman?’

‘There’s a flagstone in the pump room behind the pool.’ Her voice was ugly and matter-of-fact, almost disinterested, as if playing at being tough. It made him want to slap her. ‘It’s been hollowed out. She’ll go in there. Nobody will find her without demolishing the building.’

Delombre winced at her lack of emotion, and wondered where these people got their ideas. If the police thought Véronique Bessine was in here, they’d bulldoze the place in order to find her, dead or alive. And that bloody Rocco would probably be at the controls.

Ever since getting the woman ready to speak to her husband nearly an hour ago, things had been going from bad to worse. First it had taken a lot longer to bring her round, the combined results, Dion had insisted, of the sedatives she’d been given and her deteriorating mental and physical condition. Whatever fight she may have had in her to begin with had faded.

‘Can’t we give her a tablet or something?’ The agreed time for the phone call impressed on him by Levignier and Girovsky was coming up fast. He was aware of the extensive use of Benzedrine and other stimulants in military circles, to keep troops and pilots going for long stretches, and could see no reason why they didn’t use something similar to get Bessine awake and ready to talk.

‘It would probably kill her,’ Dion had said firmly. ‘Then where would you be?’

Eventually, by a series of cold compresses and bursts of oxygen, Bessine had begun to show signs of coming to, first by asking where she was, then by struggling with surprising strength when she saw their faces.

Delombre recognised the desperate realisation in the way she fought: she was no fool and knew that now she had seen them, she wouldn’t be allowed to go free.

‘
Quiet!
’ Delombre had hissed fiercely, his face so close to hers that he could smell the sourness on her breath. He shrugged off Dion’s warning hand. There really wasn’t time for niceties. ‘Be still! Can you understand me? If so, say yes.’

Bessine’s eyes flickered and grew wide as she struggled to think. Then she nodded weakly. ‘Y-yes. I hear you.’

‘Good.’ He almost purred. ‘Now, listen carefully. In a minute, you’re going to speak to your husband, Robert. Do you understand?’

‘What? He’s here …?’ She tried to sit up and Delombre held her arms in a vice-like grip until she subsided.

‘No, he’s not here. But you will talk to him on the telephone, understood? But only if you promise to behave.’

‘Yes … of course.’ She stared at Dion, standing nearby, then up at Delombre. ‘I’ll do it. Please let me speak to him.’

‘There. It’s very simple, isn’t it? You do as I tell you, and we’ll get on fine.’

‘What do you want me to say?’ Her voice was becoming firmer, more assured, Delombre thought, probably due to the promise of speaking to her husband, and an eventual happy outcome.

‘Say anything you like. Preferably that you’re well and looking forward to coming home.’

She looked as if she didn’t believe him. ‘Is that all?’

‘Well, there is a little more. Tell him … tell him that the people holding you are allied to an extremist Chinese group and that he must cut off discussions with Taiwan. Immediately.’

‘I don’t understand.’ She frowned and looked around. ‘What has this got to do with China?’

‘You don’t have to understand,’ he said coolly. ‘Just do it. Now repeat back to me what I just said.’

She hesitated and licked her lips, and Dion stepped forward to give her a sip of water. It took three goes before she was able to parrot with any degree of clarity what Delombre had said, but eventually he was satisfied.

‘By the way,’ he warned her, ‘if you deviate from this, if you try to describe our faces in any way, if you don’t do exactly as we’ve asked, I will make one phone call.’

She looked at him but said nothing, waiting.

‘That call will send a two-man team to your husband, and he will be dead before the hour is up. Are we understood?’

Véronique Bessine nodded. ‘I understand.’

But the phone call had never taken place.

First he’d called Levignier as arranged, using the extension in the kitchen, to signal that everything was ready and that the culmination of their plans was finally upon them.

There was no reply.

He rang Levignier’s private number. No answer.

He tried the duty officer at the ISD headquarters. The duty desk knew of everybody’s whereabouts – apart from his own, at least – and would surely be able to find Levignier.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the man, ‘but the commander
hasn’t been in this afternoon. Would you like me to take a message?’

‘Wha—? No.’ He slammed down the phone and stared at the floor, sensing a rising feeling of panic. This couldn’t be happening. Everything was in place –
he
was in place – so where the
fuck
was Levignier? He was supposed to be in his office, coordinating the supposed call from the kidnappers! He took out a slim notebook and checked through the pages. Found the number for Girovsky. It went against all his instincts to even consider talking to the obnoxious Pole, but this was an emergency.

He dialled the number, found he was holding his breath.

‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice. Elderly. Cultured.

‘Is Girovsky there?’

‘No, I’m afraid he isn’t. He’s gone to a meeting at the Foreign Ministry. Shall I take a message?’

‘No, thank you.’ He was about to put the phone down when a thought occurred. ‘Why is he at the Foreign Ministry? My apologies, but I’m a work colleague. We were supposed to meet somewhere else.’

‘Ah, I see. Well, it’s all the latest news, I suppose. It’s taken everyone by surprise, Josef says.’

‘News?’ He hadn’t listened to a news broadcast since this morning.

‘Yes. About the Chinese. They’ve changed their minds, apparently, about trade talks. The Foreign Minister’s apparently in a dreadful huff about it – he’s already flying home. I’m surprised you didn’t know, being a colleague of Josef.’

She continued rattling on but Delombre was no longer listening. He dropped the handset on its rest and reached
out and switched on a radio on the side, waiting impatiently for a news broadcast. When it came on, he felt the floor open up beneath him.

‘Chinese officials at the Foreign Ministry in Peking have called off trade talks with the French Trade Delegation with immediate effect, amid rumours that they have signalled a preference to rethink their strategy on international relations. This follows unconfirmed rumours of a split in the Chinese government on who should become a preferred trading partner during the coming decade. Early reports from French industrial leaders and officials is that this puts any talks firmly back with Taiwan, China’s main competitor for foreign and export trade in the region, and returns to centre stage the aircraft manufacturer, Robert Bessine, whose group has already been in discussions with them for some weeks. There are doubts in some quarters, however, that Bessine, whose wife is at the centre of a kidnap rumour, will be able to deal with this development, which observers say will have a detrimental effect on French manufacturing if moves are not made immediately to—’

Delombre switched off the radio.

It was over. Done. Levignier was gone. Girovsky was doing what Girovsky did best: looking after his interests.

He took out his gun. He felt better holding it, now things were this close. He said to Dion and her friendly gorilla, ‘Bring the woman to the pool house – now!’