‘A bank job? Is that what this has all been about — money?’
‘No. That’s the point. They’re using it as a diversion.’ He told Desmoulins about the Pont Noir and de Gaulle’s proposed secret visit. ‘They’ll time the bank job to pull in police resources and tie up lines of communication, leaving the way clear for the hit to go ahead.’
‘Christ — we’d better get the troops out. Does Saint-Cloud know about this?’
‘Probably more than he lets on. Do you know where he is?’
‘He wasn’t around much yesterday, but he doesn’t exactly take me into his confidence. Do you want me to find him?’
‘No. Don’t bother. I’ll deal with it. You look into the bank end. You might start looking for one with a larger than average cash movement going on today.’
‘That’s easy enough,’ said Desmoulins. ‘The main banks in Amiens, Lille and Arras all have cash movements today for paying local factory workers. And Bethune.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘It’s a regular thing; after a couple of jobs two years ago, we had requests from the banks to have patrol cars keep an eye out for when the deliveries are made.’
‘And do they?’ Two years for any kind of standing instruction to be maintained rigorously was a long time, and any lack of activity could soon make officers less than attentive in their duties.
‘Depends if there’s anything else going on and if patrols can be spared. I wouldn’t want to bet on it, though.’
‘Why Bethune?’ Unlike the others, it was a small town about sixty kilometres away, between Arras and Lille. Rocco had only been once, but it had been a fleeting visit and had given him no feel for the place.
‘It was set up to service the Bridgestone tyre factory, among others. The Credit Agricole. It’s right next to the industrial zone on the outskirts of town.’
‘That’s got to be it.’ Suddenly Rocco knew deep down that this was where it was going to happen. English gangsters wouldn’t want to fight their way through busy traffic in a foreign town, especially if they were planning a quick getaway. That automatically knocked Amiens, Lille and Arras out of the equation. But a bank on the outskirts of a small town, loaded with wages money and on the way to the coast? It was a sitting target.
He let Desmoulins get on with his job and disconnected, then called Claude and told him to get ready.
‘You’re not going into the office?’ said Claude.
‘I can’t. I’m suspended, remember? If I show my face there I’m likely to be arrested.’ And even if he managed to get Massin to believe him and a show of force turned up at the bridge, the attackers would simply call it off and go underground. And that would end his chances of proving he’d been right all along.
‘So let me get this right,’ said Claude slowly. ‘You’re going to let an attack on you-know-who go ahead… to prove you haven’t been blowing smoke.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Mother of God, that’s risky, Lucas.’
‘It’s the only way.’
Claude grunted. ‘Well, in that case, I’ll see you in ten.’
Rocco shrugged into his coat and picked up the Walther P38 Claude had left behind. He tested the mechanism out of habit and loaded the shells, then slipped the gun in his coat pocket. If he had to use it and there was any fallout, so be it.
His phone rang. It was Santer.
‘Caspar says a criminal gang’s involved. It’s not political.’
‘A gang is mixed up in it,’ Rocco confirmed, ‘but it’s definitely political. Tell Caspar thanks. I owe him.’
‘Not as much as you owe me, you big lug. Oh, and another thing: I checked that Creteil thing you mentioned. Three men picked up at a lock-up? The security boys got a tip-off and sent in a special unit. Turns out they were planning a hit on the president, down near his place in Colombey.’
‘A tip-off.’
‘Yes. They think it was a rival group getting rid of the competition. Either way, Saint-Cloud should be happy, because that’s another threat off the list. Maybe he can relax a bit.’
‘No,’ said Rocco. ‘I don’t think so. It’s the exact opposite. That’s what everyone was meant to think.’ Another distraction move, only this time closer to home.
‘What’s going on? I can hear that tone in your voice.’
‘I’ve got to go — it’s started.’
‘Hellfire. Anything I can do?’
‘Stroke a rabbit’s foot for me.’
‘Take it easy, you hear? Don’t get yourself killed. And call me.’
Rocco put down the phone and walked out to the car.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Things began to go wrong the moment George Tasker and his men stepped through the door of the bank.
It was nine-fifteen, with snow in the air dusting the roads and pavements outside. The kind of day you were better off staying at home if you had any sense and nothing more important to do. The kind of day, he reflected, not to be relying on having to drive anywhere fast.
But some days you had no choice.
Leaving Calloway at the wheel of the black DS outside the entrance and facing towards the crossroads ready for a fast getaway, he’d led Biggs and Jarvis, each tooled up with old service revolvers, through the front door. Without pausing, he’d fired a shot from the sawn-off provided by their French contact into the ceiling, bringing down a portion of the tiling and stopping everyone dead in their tracks. Short of shooting someone, it was the single most effective method he’d come across of getting everybody’s full and undivided attention.
With the security van gone only minutes ago, Tasker had expected — indeed had been told — to find three handy metal boxes of cash waiting to be picked up. What he saw was one small box, and three men in suits staring at him and his fellow gang members as if they were creatures from outer space.
He plucked a piece of ceiling plaster from his jacket and flicked it away, then stepped over to the centre of the floor. Biggs and Jarvis stayed to cover the door and watch for anyone foolhardy enough to try anything heroic. Pointing his gun at an older man with grizzled grey hair and a hangdog expression, Tasker shouted, ‘Where’s the money, you French git?’ He fired another shot over the man’s head, breaking and reloading the gun in seconds, his hands a blur. It was a make of weapon he’d never seen before, stripped bare and filed clean, but it worked well enough and that was all he needed.
It galvanised the man into action. He muttered something at one of his colleagues, who walked over to a large metal door set in the rear wall. He swung the door back a fraction, revealing a glimpse over the counter of a small room lined with shelves.
‘Tasty,’ said Jarvis, and made to leap the counter.
‘Wait.’ Tasker stopped him. It was all too easy. Something about this set-up wasn’t right. Forget the fact that it was French; a bank was a bank was a bank. But this one didn’t feel good. The manager showing them the bank vault so readily was also odd; it stank of a distraction.
He looked around. No customers. Maybe it was too early in the day — and he hadn’t thought to ask about opening times. And most banks he’d ever seen had at least a couple of women workers. But not here.
Then he saw a coat stand in one corner. It held two coats, one red and the other a dull mauve colour, a man’s mackintosh and a couple of colourful scarves. Women’s stuff.
He pointed at the manager who was glaring at him. ‘You. Come here.’ He stabbed at a spot in front of him, making sure the man was looking down the twin snouts of the sawn-off.
The man complied. It was only when he was standing before him that Tasker realised something else was missing: that tangible element he was so accustomed to on a bank job, the inevitable reaction of a worker ant being faced by a man with a gun who was not afraid to use it.
