I Kill (50 page)

Rémy started the engine and cut down Avenue des Beaux-Arts, turning left on to Avenue Princesse Alice to keep the prey in view. His man was turning on to Avenue de Monte Carlo, which
merged into Avenue d’Ostende. If he hadn’t been gipping his handlebars Rémy would have rubbed his hands together in delight. That stretch of road was practically deserted: the
ideal place for people like him to earn their daily bread.

Rémy drove slowly in second gear with his visor up and the zipper of his light weight leather jacket half open, like a regular tourist on his motorcycle, lazily enjoying the warm summer
breeze. He spotted his victim not far off, walking leisurely and smoking a cigarette. Excellent.

At the beginning of Avenue d’Ostende, the man crossed the street to the same side as Rémy. He was even carrying the briefcase in his left hand. Rémy could scarcely believe
it. He couldn’t have chosen a better setting himself. His man had obviously used up all his luck at the Café de Paris.

Rémy decided to make his move. He took a deep breath, raised the front wheel, and with a push upwards on the handlebars, went on to the pavement.

He was behind his victim, just as he was tossing away his cigarette butt, the briefcase clasped tightly in his hand. Rémy accelerated suddenly and came right up to the man, who turned his
head when he heard the noise. Rémy’s fist hit him on the left side of his face, between his nose and mouth.

More from surprise than from the blow, the man fell to the ground, still holding the briefcase tightly. Rémy stopped the motorcycle with a skid of the back wheel. He leaned the bike on
the stand and got off as quickly as a cat. He’d modified the bike to meet his needs so that it wouldn’t turn off automatically when he put the lever down.

He went over to the man on the ground, his left hand in his pocket, pushing out his leather jacket.

‘Don’t move or you’re dead!’

Rémy got down on his knees, slipped a hand into the man’s inside pocket, and pulled out the wad of euros. The operation was clumsy and the light material of the lining ripped.
Without even looking, he thrust the wad of money into his jacket. Then he stood up and held a hand out to the man.

‘Hand over the briefcase.’

Rémy looked at the guy’s sickly face and weak body. Now, with his nose all bloodied, he looked all the more ready to give out. So it was even more of a shock when the guy suddenly
reacted violently. Once he understood that the biker in the leather jacket was mugging him, the guy leapt to his feet and whacked Rémy on the helmet with the briefcase.

Rémy could tell that the man was not really very tough; his reaction was more from instinct than an ability to defend himself. The guy had panicked, that’s all. If, instead of
hitting him on his crash helmet, he’d shoved the briefcase between Rémy’s legs with that same force, the man would have broken his balls.

Rémy was a fit young man, in much better shape than his victim. He punched the man in the face and heard a tooth break. If he hadn’t been wearing gloves, he would have hurt his
hand.

Luckily, there was still nobody else around, although a car passed on the other side, going uphill. One of the passengers turned around to look. If he realized what was happening and reached the
Place du Casino, where there were always a few cops around, things might end badly. He had to hurry.

The man was still not letting go of the briefcase in spite of the second blow, but the two punches had done their job. His nose was pissing blood now, spurting it on to his jacket and shirt. He
had tears of pain and rage in his eyes.

Rémy grabbed the handle of the briefcase and pulled with all his might. He managed to tear it out of the man’s hand but as he turned and headed towards the motorcycle, his victim
found the strength to reach up and grab Rémy around the neck. Rémy tried unsuccessfully to shake him off. He jabbed him in the stomach with his elbow and felt the man gasp and deflate
like a balloon.

He felt the man’s weight leave him, looking down to see him bent double, holding his stomach. To avoid any more surprises, he kicked him in the shoulder. The man slipped backward off the
kerb on to the street, just as a large dark sedan was rounding the bend from Avenue d’Ostende at fairly high speed.

Laurent Bedon was hit straight on and the impact threw him to the other side of the street. His head struck the pavement. He died instantly.

He had no time to hear the sound of the motorcycle rushing off, a woman’s hysterical scream, the screech of brakes as another car tried to avoid hitting his inert body on the street. A
pool of blood was slowly spreading on the asphalt under his head.

Frank looked at the pile of dispatches on the desk in Nicolas Hulot’s old office. He couldn’t sit in that room without feeling his friend’s presence. All he
had to do was turn around and he would see Hulot standing behind him at the window. He leafed through the papers as if shuffling a deck of cards, examining them hurriedly. There was nothing
important. They were still up to their ears in shit.

Once the elation of establishing No One’s identity had passed, nothing had really changed. Forty-eight hours after discovering
who he was,
they had yet to discover
where he
was.

Frank had never seen such a huge deployment of police. All the forces in the bordering countries and all their special sections for the apprehension of violent criminals, with acronyms that
corresponded to ViCAP of the FBI, were on alert. There wasn’t a cop in Europe who didn’t have a series of pictures of Jean-Loup, actual photos as well as computer mock-ups showing
possible changes he might have made to his appearance. Streets, ports and public and private airports were full of roadblocks. No car went unexamined, no plane took off without all passengers being
searched, no vessel left port without being inspected.

Practically every inch of southern Europe had been searched by every means possible in the manhunt. A demonstration of overwhelming authority was necessary to combat a criminal who had made such
a deep impression on the public. The Principality of Monaco had a lot of influence. Some still considered it a Ruritanian state, but that judgement was both hasty and misleading.

Still, however, they had found nothing.

Jean-Loup Verdier, or whoever he was, had disappeared into thin air, which actually made the Monte Carlo police appear less of a failure. If he had managed to elude everyone, if nobody had been
able to handcuff him, he was obviously of
much
higher intelligence than the norm, which justified their failure to that point. The philosophy of ‘a trouble shared is a trouble
halved’ could apply even to hunting criminals. Frank thought they might as well try consulting a psychic – they were that desperate.

Jean-Loup’s house in Beausoleil had been turned upside down without finding even the slightest clue. They had managed to get some information about his past by following through with
Hulot’s investigation, thanks to the phone number Morelli had found for him. The caretaker at the Cassis cemetery had confirmed that he had told Nicolas the story of La Patience and what had
happened there. They concluded that Hulot had most probably been caught and kidnapped by his murderer right at the cemetery.

Their inquiries about Marcel Legrand through the French police had ended up hitting a dead end. Legrand had been a member of the intelligence service at some time in the past and his file was
top secret. All they managed to unearth was that at a certain point, Legrand had abandoned active duty and retired to Provence in complete isolation. There was some complicated manoeuvring of
diplomatic and state secrets to try to move certain obstacles and open certain doors. Legrand was just a skeleton, but it was still very difficult to get anyone to open the closet. On the other
hand, no leads could be neglected, whether they came from the past or the present. No One was dangerous and his freedom threatened the lives of anyone who crossed his path.

Until then, he had killed his prey in delirious attacks that followed scrupulous patterns. Now he was fighting to survive and everyone was the enemy. The ease with which he had disposed of the
three agents showed what he was capable of doing. This was no mere radio deejay, a good-looking guy who could play music and answer phone calls. When necessary, he was a top-level fighter. The dead
bodies of three highly trained policemen were proof enough.

In the midst of all that, Frank was trying unsuccessfully to push the thought of Helena to the back of his mind. He missed her so much, and knowing that she was a prisoner in the hands of her
unscrupulous father was agony. His feeling of helplessness was slowly loosening all his inhibitions. The only thing that kept him from running to the house and strangling the general to death was
the certainty that it would only make things worse.

Here I am. This is who I’ve become. A man at a desk who doesn’t know where to start hunting ghosts.

He opened a drawer and stuck the dispatches inside, though he was tempted to throw them in the bin. In the open drawer he saw the floppy disk that he had put there when he had first taken over
the office. The label said COOPER in his own handwriting. In the chaos of the last few days, he had completely forgotten Cooper’s phone call and the lawyer, Hudson McCormack, whom Cooper had
asked him to check on.

It wasn’t the moment to ask for something like that, but he had to try. He owed it to Cooper and everything they had been through to try to lock up Jeff and Osmond Larkin. He buzzed the
intercom and called Morelli.

‘Claude, could you come in here a moment?’

‘I was just about to. Be right there.’

The sergeant walked in the door a moment later. ‘Before you start, there’s something I have to tell you. Laurent Bedon is dead.’

‘When?’ Frank sat up in his chair.

‘Last night.’ Morelli hurried to give him the details, in order to avoid a predictable series of questions. ‘Nothing to do with us. The poor guy was killed during a robbery. He
won a bunch of money at the Café de Paris last night and some chicken thief tried to steal it from him, right behind the casino. He fought back, fell into the street, and was hit by a car.
The thief got away on his motorcycle. If the licence number a witness gave us is correct, we should catch him in a few hours.’

‘Yeah, but it’s one more death to add to the others in this mess. Christ, it’s beginning to feel like a curse.’

Morelli answered by changing the subject.

‘Aside from that bad news, what was it you wanted?’

‘I need a favour,’ Frank said, remembering why he had called him in.

‘What is it?’

‘It has nothing to do with this. Is there anyone free to trail a suspicious character?’

‘You know what things are like. Right now, we’re even using dog catchers.’

‘Here’s the photo and name of someone who might be involved in a case my partner is on in the States.’ Frank threw the floppy disk on the desk. ‘He’s a lawyer
who’s officially here in Monaco for a regatta.’

‘Must be the Grand Mistral. That’s top-class yacht racing. The port of Fontvieille is full of boats.’

‘The guy’s the lawyer of a big-time drug dealer we caught some time back. The theory is that he’s more than just a lawyer and that he’s not here in Monaco just for a sail
around the bay, if you know what I mean.’

Morelli went over to the desk and picked up the disk. ‘All right. I’ll see what I can do, but it’s not a good time, Frank. I don’t have to remind you.’

‘Yeah. A bad time. No news?’

‘No news. Not a peep. After a flash of light we’re fighting shadows again. All the cops in Europe are chasing their tails and, as Inspector Hulot said—’

Frank finished his sentence for him. ‘The only thing attached to a tail is an asshole.’

‘That’s right.’

Frank leaned back in the chair. ‘Still, if you want my opinion . . . and I’m only talking about a feeling . . .’ He stopped, straightened up in the chair and leaned his elbows
on the desk. Morelli sat down in the armchair and waited. He had learned that the American’s feelings needed to be examined very carefully. ‘I think he’s still here. Searching for
him all over the world is pointless. No One hasn’t left the Principality of Monaco.’

Morelli was about to reply, but the phone rang and Frank looked at it as if it were asking him a question. He picked up on the third ring and was assaulted by the operator’s excited
voice.

‘Mr Ottobre, it’s
him
on the phone. And he asked for you.’ Frank felt like he’d just been punched in the stomach. There was only one person that could be meant by
him.

‘Put him on. And record the call.’

Frank pressed the speakerphone button so that Morelli could hear. He pointed to the phone with a slow movement of his right hand.

‘Hello?’

There was a moment of silence and then a familiar voice came through.

‘Hello, this is Jean-Loup Verdier.’

Morelli jumped from the chair as if he had been shocked. Frank rotated a finger in the air. Morelli answered with a fist and a thumbs-up and ran from the room.

‘Frank Ottobre here. Where are you?’

A short pause and then the deep voice of the deejay.

‘No useless chatter. I don’t need someone to try to talk to me. I need someone to listen. If you interrupt, I’ll hang up.’

Frank remained silent. Anything to keep him on the phone so that his men could trace the call.

‘Nothing has changed. I am someone and no one and I can’t be stopped. That’s why it’s useless to talk. Everything is the same. The moon and the bloodhounds. The
bloodhounds and the moon. The only thing missing now is the music. I’m still here and you know very well what I do. I kill

The line went dead. Just then, Morelli came racing in. ‘We got him, Frank. He’s calling from a mobile phone. There’s a car waiting downstairs with a satellite
dish.’

Frank jumped up and followed Morelli, running down the stairs four at a time. They shot out into the lobby like two bullets, almost knocking two agents to the ground. The car took off with the
doors still open, tyres squealing. It was the same expert driver as the morning that Allen Yoshida’s body was discovered. Frank was glad to see him at the wheel. A plainclothesman was sitting
in the passenger seat, looking at the monitor with a map of the city. There was a red dot on a wide street running along the coast.