The Prone Gunman (9 page)

16

Terrier's face turned pink, except for the edges of his lips, which turned pale. Unfaithful once more, his companion had her back to him. Terrier could see Maubert's legs, his trousers still on. The copulating couple had not heard the man come into the converted attic because a record player was loudly playing Verdi. The monks of
Il Trovatore
were chanting:

Miserere d'un'alma già vicina

alla partenza che non ha ritorno.

Miserere di lei, bontà divina,

preda non sia dell'infernal soggiorno.

. . . And simultaneously, Leonora (Leontyne Price, a magnificent black beauty) was singing:

Sull'orrida torre,

ahi! par che la morte

con ali di tenebre

librando si va!

Ahi! forse dischiuse

gli fian queste porte

sol quando cadaver

già freddo sarà!

. . . and so forth. Terrier moved his lips several times and several times uttered a low sound like a sigh, and his face reverted to a homogeneous pallor. He finally went and stopped the record player by pulling out the plug. The opera slowed and groaned to a stop. In the silence, the setter could be heard barking some distance away outside. Anne had jumped to her feet next to the bed. Hands on hips, she looked Terrier up and down and seemed shocked, even offended and furious. Maubert had sat up. Without looking at anyone, he struggled to put his swollen dick back into his briefs; then he stood up to close the zipper of his trousers. Finally, he met Terrier's gaze. From downstairs came the sounds of the setter and Cécile rushing agitatedly back into the house. Cécile yelled for Maubert.

“Go downstairs,” Anne told him.

“Cécile could care less,” said Maubert. “We're not together.”

“Go downstairs.”

Maubert headed for the trap door that led downstairs. He had to pass very close to Terrier, who was standing motionless with his fingers rigidly extended. The professional killer breathed slowly. Maubert gave him an uncertain glance.

“Let me by. Don't do anything stupid.”

Terrier nodded. Maubert went past and disappeared through the trap door. Terrier went and sat on the corner of the bed. Anne had wiped her crotch with a handful of Kleenex and was quickly getting dressed.

“Idiot!” she said. “So what did you expect?” Seemingly calm, Terrier paid her close attention. “Idiot!” Anne repeated. “Just tell me, what did you think? Did you think I was going to wait ten years? Do you think I'm going to wait ten more years? Do you think there was only Félix, before? Do you take me for some brainless little porcelain doll? What do you take me for? I'm sick and tired of this. Cretin! Fag!” Terrier shrugged. Anne sat down heavily at the head of the bed and eyed him. “I cheated on Félix. So what do you expect?”

An indistinct sound came from Terrier's throat. Anne watched him; she frowned. The man made vague gestures. He got up, looked around for something, turned back to Anne, and pretended to write in his palm.

“What is it?” asked Anne. “Don't tell me you think the room is bugged!”

Terrier was insistent. Anne rummaged through her things and produced a small notebook with a tiny pencil. Terrier wrote carefully. Downstairs, Maubert and Cécile were having a vociferous argument. Terrier handed the open notebook to Anne. She read it and looked at Terrier with arched eyebrows. Since he did not seem to be joking, she reread it.

“You've got to be kidding!”

Terrier smiled and shook his head. He had painstakingly written: “I can't speak anymore. Complete aphonia. I think it's because of the psychological shock. But I don't understand it.”

Anne looked Terrier quickly up and down as if there was something strange about him. There was actually something strange about him. She half smiled, as though this strangeness interested her, perhaps even agreeably disturbed her. Then she became hard again, even sarcastic.

“Stop playing the fool. Seriously, what's going on? Are you mute?” Terrier nodded. “You really can't talk?” He nodded again. She seemed about to burst out laughing or else get very angry. “Because of me?” she asked. “Ha! That's a good one—that takes the cake!” She shook her head. “But you must be kidding. It can't be true.”

Terrier nodded once again. He picked up the notebook and wrote: “I'm not kidding. I'm fucked up. I'm sure it will go away. Right now, I have important things to tell you. You must obey me to the letter.” He tore off the page and handed it to Anne. As she was reading, he wrote at top speed. When she finished reading, she watched him write. She seemed mystified but interested. He yanked off another page and gave it to her. Just then, Maubert and Cécile burst through the trap door. Maubert was waving a rifle. Cécile was disheveled and furious. Terrier scribbled something and handed it to Maubert, who hesitated before taking the piece of paper.

“He can't talk,” said Anne.

“Up to here with both of you,” read the piece of paper that Maubert was holding. “Neutralized Cécile to remind you I'm dangerous. Took a quiet little walk, that's all.”

“You've lost your voice?”

Terrier nodded.

“He can't talk,” Anne repeated.

“From now on, I'll communicate in writing,” wrote Terrier. He tore off another page and held out the piece of paper.

“You're nuts. You're really nuts, pal,” said Maubert.

“It's an attack of nerves,” said Anne.

“Now leave me the fuck alone,” Terrier declared in writing.

Maubert looked at Terrier, who gave him a half-smile and held out the notebook. Maubert shook his head.

“It's a trick,” he said. Terrier shrugged. “Let's eat while I think it over.”

No one said much during the meal, and Terrier didn't say anything at all. Cécile shot him hostile glances, but she didn't try to argue with him because Maubert had explained the situation to her. Maubert seemed to be thinking as he ate mouthfuls of stew. Looking vacant, Anne picked at her food. Terrier ate heartily.

“I'll bring the bosses up to date—that's the best thing,” said Maubert at the end of the meal. He went toward the telephone, coffee cup in hand.

Anne and Terrier went upstairs. Terrier immediately began writing in the notebook. He showed Anne what he had written. She read it and looked at him with a doubtful expression. Terrier nodded emphatically.

“Yes,” said Anne. “That makes sense.”

She sighed and got up from the bed. Half an hour later, when Maubert knocked on the trap door and came in, he saw that the roofing in one area had been destroyed. The ceiling laths had been loosened and pulled out, the tar paper had been broken through and the layer of fiber-glass insulation pulled out; finally, tiles had been carefully taken down so as to make an opening in the roof. The winter air now poured in through this opening, making it cold in the converted attic. Maubert shivered. Terrier was stretched out on the bed, leafing through an old issue of
Le Chasseur français.
Anne had disappeared.

“Where has she gotten to, for Christ's sake?” Maubert asked hopelessly.

Terrier handed him a bit of paper on which he had neatly written: “I have removed Anne because with her held captive the bosses had a hold over me. She's in a safe place. The operation will continue as planned.” Maubert sighed and sat down on the end of the bed. He looked distractedly at the gaping roof.

“You've got me in deep shit now,” he said. “I suppose I'd better call the bosses again.”

He stayed a moment where he was, looking morose and pensive, then went down to telephone. He came back up a quarter of an hour later, rubbing his hands together in a mechanical, reflective way.

“We'll continue as planned,” he said. “There's nothing else we can do. I want no more of your tricks, though.”

Terrier smiled vaguely. He spent the next two days reading old magazines and, every now and then, smoking. It was pleasant in the attic: Maubert had patched the hole in the roof. Terrier would go downstairs for meals.

“You still can't talk?” Maubert would ask him every now and then, trying to salve his conscience. Terrier shook his head.

Cécile served the food with brusque gestures. She never looked Terrier in the eye.

“Get your things ready,” Maubert said to Terrier at the end of one dinner. “We're leaving for Paris within the hour.”

Terrier nodded as he continued to pour himself coffee. Later, the two men came out of the country house. A royal blue Estafette van was parked in front of the building; since when, Terrier didn't know.

“Hey! Hold on!” shouted Cécile from the front door.

She signaled for Terrier to come back. She gave him a kiss as cold and wet as a raw clam. She gave him an icy look.

“Go get yourself killed,” she said.

Maubert was behind the wheel of the Estafette. Terrier got in beside him. The van turned into the road and drove off into the night.

17

To get back to Paris, they headed toward Orléans, where they got on Autoroute A10. It was cold but dry. The little van went fast.

“You can take a look at the materiel in back,” said Maubert some ten minutes after their departure. He gestured toward a diver's flashlight, covered in black rubber, in the glove compartment.

Terrier took the light into the back of the vehicle. He began by examining the false floor of the van. The depth of the hiding place was very restricted. The man didn't try to lay down in it. He then opened a long, narrow case that resembled a large saxophone case. It contained the parts of a Finnish-made Valmet assault rifle, a telescopic sight, and a Lyman scope. Terrier assembled and disassembled the weapon, except for the scopes. He carefully examined the parts and the mechanism of the Valmet, which was unfamiliar to him. He put everything away and returned to the cab, where Maubert had turned on the radio and was listening to Radio Luxembourg. The driver glanced at Terrier, who grimaced discontentedly.

“You'll have three thirty-shot magazines,” said Maubert. “You'll get them in due course. That should be enough, right?” He half smiled. “7.62mm,” he added. Terrier nodded slightly and tapped an ear with his middle finger. “Don't worry,” said Maubert. “With the other shooter letting loose with tracers, no one's going to pay attention to anything else. I told the bosses you wanted a Weatherby or something like that, something you could silence a little, but they wanted automatic fire. You understand that you won't really be able to see the guy, right? You understand that you'll have to spray the whole car in five or six seconds?”

He glanced at Terrier again. He seemed unhappy and exasperated, but he shrugged and settled into his seat, leaning his head against the back. Time passed. Every now and again, the travelers lighted a cigarette. Every now and then, Maubert babbled about the weather or other trivial subjects. Once they were on the highway, they stopped for coffee.

They made good time, reaching the Paris area in the wee hours of the morning. They parked the Estafette in an underground garage at Orly airport before going on to the PLM hotel. They went up without checking in. Maubert knocked on the door of a room. The short guy with black eyes opened the door, his eyelids puffy with sleep and his gray overcoat rumpled. He greeted Maubert and Terrier with a nod and left right away. Maubert hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the knob before closing the door.

Terrier woke up a little after eleven o'clock on the day of the planned assassination. In his underwear, he sat for a moment on the edge of his bed, slowly rubbing his belly. Through the half-open door of the bathroom came the light buzz of an electric razor. Then Maubert came out of the bathroom, in shirtsleeves. He wore an S&W .38 in a beige cloth shoulder holster. Terrier took his turn in the bathroom. He stayed a long time under the hot shower with his eyes closed and his lips shut tight. When he came back out into the room, the short guy with black eyes was sitting in an armchair. Maubert was waiting, standing against a wall. His weapon was now concealed by his jacket.

“Nothing else?” he asked.

“No,” said the short guy.

“Don't you ever take your overcoat off?”

“Yes. Sometimes.”

Maubert shrugged. He and Terrier went out and, after eating grilled pork in an airport restaurant, spent the afternoon in a movie theater, where they distractedly and successively watched an American crime story with Charles Bronson, a French crime story with Alain Delon, and a Walt Disney animated feature. Night had fallen when the two men came out of the cinema complex. They went to dinner. This time, while Maubert as usual ate heartily, Terrier hardly touched a thing. His companion, instead of babbling, was silent almost the whole time.

“I suppose you know you're not exactly what you might call a fun guy,” said Maubert after dinner as he nursed a big tulip-shaped glass of extra-fine cognac. “This not-talking thing doesn't help at all—you should see a doctor, you know. Anyway, I don't get the impression you'd have a lot to say. You're a real pain. I'd really like to know what goes through your head.”

Terrier raised his eyebrows. He smiled slightly. Maubert sighed disgustedly.

“It's time to go,” he said.

They got the Estafette out of the underground garage and drove toward Paris, which they reached around ten-thirty in the evening. When they passed through the Porte de Versailles, Terrier turned for a moment to contemplate the façades of Boulevard Lefebvre, where he had once lived. Then, via Rue de Vaugirard and Les Invalides, the Estafette reached the Seine and the Champs-Elysées roundabout, where they made a hairpin turn into Avenue Montaigne. The van entered the left-hand service road. Maubert peered through the windshield. He braked and flashed the headlights. Immediately, a Lincoln in a marked-out parking space illuminated its parking lights and its turn signal. It backed up, pulled out, and left. Maubert gave a grunt of satisfaction and parked the Estafette in the freed space.

“There we are,” he said.

He turned off the lights, opened a compartment under the dashboard, and brought out four curved magazines.

“There's four of them,” he observed. “I don't think you'll need all that, but. . . . ” His voice trailed off. “One hundred and twenty rounds,” he added cheerfully.

The two men slipped into the back of the little van. Terrier assembled the Valmet. He examined the magazines, then inserted one into the weapon, which he weighed up intently. His fingers mechanically palpated the mechanisms.

“It works like a Kalashnikov, doesn't it?” asked Maubert.

Terrier nodded vaguely, as if to say, yes, more or less, you could say that. He continued to handle the weapon. He shouldered it several times, bringing the barrel to bear in the same motion. He smiled at Maubert and nodded. Leaning over the seatbacks, Maubert turned the radio on low and tuned it to France Inter, which sometimes gave a little more information than other stations when it came to diplomatic news and gossip about statesmen. The short eleven o'clock bulletin was indeed just starting, but Sheik Hakim's visit to France was mentioned only briefly, without details. Maubert turned off the radio. He went back to Terrier, who was sitting on the cold metal floor and cradling the assault rifle. The man with the blond mustache opened a kind of hold in the side of the van and extracted a long, flat portable transceiver, a kind of walkie-talkie. He drew out some tens of centimeters of antenna in the darkness of the van and flipped a switch.

“Goldfish.” he said. “In position. Lookout, go ahead.” He twiddled something.

A wave of static was heard, in the midst of which a low crackle might have included the words: “Lookout. Understood, Goldfish. Hold on. Silence. Out.”

Maubert put the set on the metal floor and sat down facing Terrier. The two men could barely see each other in the darkness of the van. The orange glare of the urban lighting illuminated the avenue well; it illuminated the interior of the cab acceptably; but it filtered only indirectly into the back of the Estafette. Terrier and Maubert were silent and motionless for a long while. About eleven-thirty, Maubert lighted a cigarette, holding his pack out to Terrier, who shook his head.

“Basically,” said Maubert, “anyone could do your job. I bet they pay you well, but anyone could do it. You're paid for running the risk. For the responsibility. I mean, if you're nabbed one day, you're nabbed as a killer—that's what I mean when I say ‘risk.' They don't pay you for your skills.”

With both hands, Terrier offered Maubert the Valmet in the dark. Maubert laughed nervously and shook his head. He drew on his cigarette as Terrier placed the assault rifle back on his lap and smiled.

“No, thanks,” said Maubert. “Besides. . . . ” He thought for a moment. “Besides, you're certainly paid for your reflexes, too. Think about it, I've never killed anyone. I mean, not in cold blood. In war, yes.” He spoke softly in the darkness out of caution. For one thing, every time the lights turned green, traffic surged down the avenue; for another, the occasional pedestrian hastened through the freezing night right past the Estafette. “I'm sure I'd be capable of killing in cold blood. But if something went wrong, I don't know how I'd react. You always have the right reflexes, don't you? That's why they pay you so much, right?”

In the darkness, Terrier shrugged. Maubert was quiet for a moment. Then:

“What do I open so you can shoot?”

Terrier leaned forward and stretched out an arm. He tapped on one of the two lower panels of the back of the van as if he were knocking softly to be let in, then he leaned back again. Maubert nodded.

“Your girl really made a play for me, you know,” he said abruptly. He cleared his throat. “I don't know anything about your relationship. But she offered herself openly, you know what I mean? As a general rule, it's not my style to fuck around on a job. But this was different. She took me by surprise. I mean, it was something violent. She's a little nuts, I have to say.”

The walkie-talkie on the metal floor began spitting out incomprehensible words. Maubert picked it right up.

“Goldfish,” he said. “Repeat.”

He listened. He squinted. He put the set down.

“The target is early,” he said worriedly. “He's on his way.”

It was close to midnight. Traffic had increased after the movies had let out. Here and there, along the part of the avenue near the roundabout, small groups of pedestrians and couples were returning to their cars, starting their engines, and letting them warm up before setting off.

“Shit, what a fuck-up,” said Maubert.

Terrier had crossed his arms and slipped his fingers under his armpits. Maubert quickly opened the rear door that Terrier had designated.

“You haven't attached the sight,” he said anxiously.

Terrier shrugged again. He unfolded his arms and flexed his fingers. Then he stretched out on the metal floor and raised the Valmet. The position of the prone gunman was perfect. He had a clear view of the roundabout and the first two hundred meters of Avenue Montaigne. Maubert quickly moved back past Terrier's extended body and positioned himself behind the shooter. A full minute passed. Then the sound of whistles filled the crossroads. And, exactly as Maubert had described it earlier, four motorcycle cops bolted from the roundabout, followed by a Citroën SM, a Citroën Pallas, and another Citroën SM. Terrier aimed his weapon at the Citroën Pallas as soon as he saw it. The convoy turned into the avenue. All of a sudden, Terrier rolled over on his back. He glimpsed Maubert leaning over him with the Smith & Wesson in his hand. With all his strength, Terrier smashed the butt of his weapon into the man's testicles. Maubert's face was incredibly contorted; he doubled up. Swinging the butt down, Terrier knocked the revolver from his hand. Then he grabbed the crumpling, mustachioed man by the ears and beat his face against the floor. At that instant, at least three automatic weapons let loose along the avenue. Dropping the unconscious Maubert, Terrier jumped over the seatbacks and took the wheel of the Estafette. As he started up, he saw out of the corner of his eye that one of the motorcycle cops had fallen and that the other three were desperately trying to stop. An out-of-control Citroën SM, its windshield shattered, plowed into one of them and sent him sailing into the gutter before it climbed the sidewalk and hit a tree. Tires screeching, the Pallas zigzagged, and bullet holes appeared in its side as it successfully avoided the two unharmed motorcycle cops by veering from side to side almost on two wheels; eventually, it made its escape and snaked off toward Place de l'Alma. Meanwhile, the second SM spun around in the middle of the avenue and came to rest against the traffic island at the mouth of Rue Bayard. Two or three concealed shooters continued spraying, and the windows of the second SM crumbled. There were no tracer bullets.

During these same few seconds, the Estafette had started. Engine roaring, it tore out of its parking place, turned into the service road, and immediately swerved into Rue Bayard, which it took in the wrong direction. A Citroën 2CV was approaching slowly. Terrier turned on the headlights and accelerated. The little car swerved abruptly and jammed itself between two vehicles parked in front of Radio Luxembourg. The Estafette ripped off one of the little car's fenders as it went by and continued on toward the east, still accelerating. Far behind, at the junction of Avenue Montaigne and Rue Bayard, gunfire could still be heard, but it was more and more sporadic.

Terrier turned left at the end of Rue Bayard, which brought him back to the Champs-Elysées roundabout. He immediately turned right, then right again a little farther on; finally, he took the expressway along the Right Bank. From time to time he glanced at Maubert, who lay on the floor of the van. The man seemed to be unconscious. Terrier had taken Maubert's .38 and stuck it in his pocket. The Valmet assault rifle was propped next to him on the passenger seat.

Past Châtelet, the Estafette stopped for a red light. Terrier quickly took advantage of the moment to climb into the back, where Maubert was beginning to stir. He hit him hard in the back of the head with the butt of the Smith & Wesson before returning to the wheel and setting off again. Maubert had stopped moving. Terrier turned the radio back on. Between various pieces of light music, a woman with a pensive and lascivious voice chewed the fat with more or less forlorn human beings who called her on the phone to tell her that they loved Tchaikovsky or that they were sad or things of that sort. Terrier's face was covered in sweat, and his lips were in continual motion.

He left the expressway at the exit for the Gare de Lyon. He reached Place de la Nation, then came to Vincennes—not the park with its frequent police patrols, but the residential streets. He parked in a dark, narrow street. He went into the back of the van, sat Maubert up against the wall, and aimed the beam of the rubber-covered flashlight in his eyes. He pinched his cheeks and slapped him several times. Maubert half opened his eyes. He seemed drowsy. He couldn't focus. Terrier, who still had Anne's notebook and its little pencil, scribbled something and thrust it under Maubert's nose. The mustachioed man appeared to try and concentrate. His eyes were unfocused, and he kept blinking. He couldn't manage to read. Terrier lost his patience. He stuck the short barrel of the Smith & Wesson in Maubert's mouth, knocking him in the teeth.