A military officer with strong opinions and possible sympathy for the OAS. It wasn’t news, but it was hardly the kind of information the authorities would want broadcast. Disaffected and potentially violent individuals with no ties to the establishment were easily dismissed as malcontents. But former soldiers — especially former officers from elite regiments — were bad press for a government trying to push a line of propaganda based on national unity.
He sat upright, the clutches of sleep falling away.
Colonel Francois Saint-Cloud. He’d also been a member of the 1st REP. Was there a connection, other than that they liked to throw themselves out of perfectly safe airplanes for a living? He wasn’t sure. But it was too close to be ignored, too much of a coincidence to disregard — especially with his limited number of choices.
Santer hadn’t finished. ‘There’s more. I had a call from Caspar. His contact couldn’t get the name of the motorcycle escort who fought off the attack, but he knew the hospital where he was taken. It’s a specialist military unit near Versailles. Caspar got close and did some digging. He’s still trawling for information at the moment, but he asked me to let you know what he’s found so far.’
‘Go on.’ Rocco sipped the coffee. Strong enough to float a horse; he probably wouldn’t asleep for a week after this.
‘The escort’s name was Jean-Paul Leville. And guess what — he’s no normal escort.’
‘Don’t tell me — another specialist.’
‘Damn. How did you know?’
‘I didn’t. But it seemed unusual for a motorcycle cop to survive coming off his bike enough to fight back and disable two attackers. What is he?’
‘A former marine commando. Served with an elite unit in the Horn of Africa, trained men at Lorient, the commando training school, and even ran specialist courses for the Legion on escape and evasion techniques and close-quarter fighting. There are gaps in his resume of several months at a time, but we can both guess what they were.’
‘Covert missions.’ It had to be. The alternative was prison. But men with prison records wouldn’t get anywhere near becoming a motorcycle cop, let alone serving as an official security guard. Leville was a government gunman.
‘Exactly. Falling off a bike at speed and getting up again would be pretty simple for a guy like him, don’t you think?’
‘Yes. So what’s he doing riding a bike for the official fleet?’
‘God knows. Certainly not for the excitement or the fresh air.’
There was only one reason Rocco could think of: someone had known the car was going to be hit and had brought in a specialist. If that were the case, the attackers couldn’t have known their plan was exposed, and would have been in ignorance about who they were up against. If they had known, as reckless as some of the extreme groups were, they would have thought twice about launching the attack.
Unless they had been told something completely different.
‘Where is this supersoldier now?’
‘Disappeared. Caspar said the hospital’s now under a shutdown order. He got all this from a contact who got a peek at Leville’s medical record.’
‘They had it to hand just like that?’
‘Seems so. He had light abrasions and a wrenched shoulder. Pretty standard stuff for a para, I’d have thought. They discharged him at his own request and he was gone.’ He sighed loudly. ‘Listen, Lucas, this isn’t over; I’ll call you back the moment I get anything. I’ve got to go.’
‘Thanks, Michel.’ Rocco put the phone down.
The whole thing smelt wrong. Medical records didn’t simply turn up like that at the drop of a hat, not even with improved filing systems. But they might if the person they applied to was expected to suffer injuries and need urgent treatment. The president, for example, was one; soldiers on dangerous missions were others; and specialists on high-risk covert assignments in-country.
The attackers had been set up to fail.
As he thought it over, his eyes settled on a crumpled slip of paper on the table. It was the note Desmoulins had handed him in the station. He hadn’t even looked at it yet, too weighed down with what had taken place back at the station. He picked it up and read it. Then read it again. It was in Rizzotti’s handwriting, and helpfully concise.
Tell Lucas the DS battery carried a supply sticker from Ets. Lilas Moteurs — a garage in St Gervais.
Rocco felt as if an electric charge had gone through him. St Gervais. If it was the same St Gervais he knew, it was an eastern suburb of Paris and within spitting distance of Delarue’s stamping grounds around the 10th and 19th arrondissements.
He grabbed the phone and dialled Santer. When his friend answered, he read him the contents of the note. It was a remote possibility, but what were the chances of a car battery from a garage in eastern Paris ending up out here? Was that why the people behind the killing of Bellin had been so keen on seeing the car destroyed — to eliminate any possibility of a link back to them?
‘Anything’s possible,’ Santer said reasonably. ‘But a damn sight better than anything else we’ve got. I’ll get Caspar to go in there. That way we don’t have any jurisdictional problems. In the meantime I’ll get someone looking into who owns this place. I’ll call you as soon as I have anything.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Tasker was back at the Old Bourbon, in Stepney. Ketch was behind the desk as usual, with Brayne sitting in like a watchful Buddha, saying little but absorbing every word.
‘We’ve had word from our friends across the Channel,’ Ketch announced grandly, studying the end of a fat cigar and blowing gently on the burning tip. ‘Your pal Inspector Rocco has been suspended pending investigation for corruption. How about that? They don’t hang about, do they? One whiff and those Frenchies bring down the chopper.’
Tasker smiled. It was the best bit of news he’d heard all day. ‘Pity it doesn’t work that quick with our own lot,’ he muttered. He was surprised by the speed of events; he’d expected a couple of days at least before anything happened.
‘If only. It seems someone dropped off some very tasty pictures showing him accepting a packet of readies. Good work, George. You done well. There’ll be a pressie for Bones, too. Nice snaps, they were. Classy.’
Tasker glowed. It was nice earning some praise after the last lash-up. It also made up for the nightmare of a flight that Ketch had put him through. The tiny plane had creaked and rattled all the way over and back, with the pilot acting like a Battle of Britain ace until Tasker had threatened to break a few of his fingers. ‘Yeah, well
… he walked right into it, the mug.’
‘Thing is, will it stick? They’re not stupid; they’ll know it’s a bit iffy, done out in the open like that. Still, short notice, it was the best we could do.’
‘It might slow Rocco down and put a dent in his career prospects,’ Brayne ventured. ‘The smell lingers. Trust is very difficult to keep under those circumstances.’
Ketch nodded and settled back in his chair. ‘You’re right there, Brayne. Still, that’s done and dusted. On to other things, eh?’ He looked at Tasker. ‘Our French friends want us to run another “scenario” like the last one. Different place this time, but similar tactics.’
‘Again?’ Tasker couldn’t help it; he needed another trip to France like a dose of the clap. And what were the French playing at?
‘Yes. Again. And why?’ Ketch lifted his eyebrows, daring Tasker to argue. ‘Because we’re being paid to do it, that’s why. It’s a business contract, pure and simple. The only difference is, as well as this scenario,’ he lifted his hands and mimed speech marks, ‘you’ll be doubling up.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘We’ve been doing a bit of research on the side, George.’ He glanced at Brayne. ‘What was the term you
