Past Imperfect

shortly after.

But at other times he'd feel that he'd suffered enough, that the dreams were only still haunting him because each call from Chapeau would remind him, bring the incident alive again. And in those moments he'd want it all ended, the nightmare of the continuing calls and demands, the worry with his career progressing that each year he had more to lose. The price on his head increased.

And he knew then why he'd picked up the gun, knew that there was only…

Duclos' thoughts were broken. Chapeau's car had pulled up to one side. Duclos got out hastily, it was vital they weren't inside his car when he pulled the trigger. He felt light rain spots touch his face, and prayed that Chapeau didn't find it strange that he was standing outside.

Chapeau got out and walked over. New car, Duclos noticed: Citreon CX Pallas. With the money he'd been paying to Chapeau the past years, hardly any wonder he could afford a better car than himself. He put one hand in his coat pocket, touched the cool metal of the gun butt.

'I didn't know you were a country lover,' Chapeau commented, his breath showing on the cool damp air.

The weather was ideal. He'd purposely delayed the meeting until it turned damp and cool. He could wear a coat without Chapeau being suspicious.

Chapeau's feet crunched on loose shale and stone as he shuffled close. The track ran between a small area of woodland twenty miles north of Montpelier. It led to a picnic area further down which in summer would be busy; at this time of year it was deserted. Duclos had made the excuse of not wanting to meet at the usual restaurant car park: 'a waiter was looking out at intervals during our last meeting.' Chapeau said he hadn't noticed, but had agreed to the new meeting place.

Chapeau's features had become heavier with the years. His neck had a thick jowl and the bags under his eyes gave him the appearance of a sad, malevolent bulldog. He often wore dark or tinted glasses to hide his bad eye, but today there were none: the weather was too dull.

'It's cold out here,' Chapeau said. 'Has the heater been on inside your car?'

Duclos glanced at the car, thinking quickly before his hesitance gave him away. 'Probably. But I wanted a bit of fresh air. We'll be finished soon.'

Chapeau held his gaze for a second. Duclos hand tensed on the gun butt in his pocket. Was Chapeau suspicious, wondering why he wanted some fresh air when it was misty and raining?

Chapeau looked down thoughtfully, then to one side. 'No worry of any nosy waiters here. Good choice if you like privacy.' Then his gaze swivelled back until it rested on Duclos.

Duclos felt a faint trembling start to grip his legs. He took the hand hastily out of his pocket.

'You must be quite proud, Minister. I read that recent press clipping. Impressive stuff. If I didn't know you so well, I'd be tempted to vote for you myself. Amazing how your private life can be so different to your public image.'

Through the years, Duclos had become used to reading behind Chapeau's comments. What he meant was: Now your public profile has been elevated yet again, is even more polarized from your private life, the threat of downfall has far higher value. I can charge you more.

'… What a surprise they'd all get if they realized what a prick you really were.' Chapeau laughed. 'No more invites to boy scout or youth club hall openings!'

And always ended on a rebuke, a tease. Christ, for that alone it was going to feel good to kill him. Duclos sneaked his hand back on the gun, snaked one finger around until it was on the trigger. No more teasing and mocking. No more having to look into Chapeau's sad fish eye to see that the only thing to bring some life into it, some mirth, was his own discomfort.

The first thought of killing Chapeau had come as much as five years ago, but getting someone else to do it; then he quickly thought again. That was what had landed him in this cycle of blackmail in the first place. He could end up just replacing one blackmailer with another. Yet in that first moment of discovering his uncle's gun, he never dreamt that years later he would be standing on a damp and desolate lane with his own finger on the trigger.

Each meeting, each rebuke and insult, each payment, the fear of discovery and downfall stronger with each year… had bit by bit built a patchwork quilt of hatred and resolve. He would have to do it himself; there was nobody else.

'Are you okay?' asked Chapeau.

'Yes… yes. Fine.' Duclos stuttered. He could feel his nerves returning as he steeled himself, the trembling was back in his legs. 'Let's get it over with. As you say, it's cold out here.' He passed the envelope to Chapeau.

The gun and ammunition would be untraceable. Nobody had seen him come into the lane, and the location was miles away for both of them. There would be no possible connection. He would have to make the first shot count, hitting the chest or stomach, with two or three in quick succession after. A superficial wound or a miss and Chapeau would start firing back.

Chapeau was opening the envelope, starting to count the money.

With Vacharet now dead, the last link between the two of them had also gone. The last traces of 1963 would die with Chapeau. He'd got away with it once, he could do it again. He tightened his grip, felt his palm sweating on the gun butt. The best moment was while Chapeau was looking down, distracted with counting the money.

'Thirty thousand, wasn't it?' Chapeau confirmed. But he hardly looked up from counting.

'Yes.' Twelve years focused into a single moment. His legs were trembling uncontrollably and there was a tight constriction in his chest. He swallowed to try and ease it. He'd thought initially of shooting Chapeau through the coat pocket, but then realized that with the mark and powder burns he'd have to dump the coat; it could be traced. But now he began to worry that in lifting the gun out, Chapeau would see it. A flicker in the corner of his eye while he was counting, making him reach for his own gun.

Chapeau was two-thirds through counting the first bundle. Duclos knew the routine: Chapeau would count the first bundle fully, then would flick quickly through the other bundles and measure them against the first. There were six bundles in all: 5,000 Francs each made up of 100 Franc notes.

All the months of preparation, and now the moment was upon him, he felt frozen into inaction. He'd even gone out to a deserted field near Limoges one weekend to fire off a few rounds: make sure the ammunition wasn't damp or faulty and get used to the feel of the gun. But what use was that now. This was no longer cardboard targets, but pumping bullets through flesh and bone! His nerves were racing, his whole body starting to shake. Perhaps he should wait until Chapeau had finished counting, started to walk away. Shoot him in the back.

Chapeau was finishing the second bundle.

But what if Chapeau suddenly looked up and read into his expression that something was wrong? Chapeau would see that he was in a cold sweat with panic, would reach for his gun before he even had the chance. Chapeau was flicking rapidly through the bundles… starting on the fourth. Any second he could look up and the chance would be gone.

With one last silent prayer into the misty air, Duclos started to ease the gun from his pocket.

TWENTY-THREE

Marseille. 3rd October, 1978

Heartbeats. Their own pulses marking time. All the three men in the car could hear as they waited for the full cover of darkness. They watched as two more people left the bar.

'How many would that leave now inside, Tomi?' the man behind the wheel asked.

'Maybe nine or ten.' Twenty minutes earlier Tomi had gone in the bar for a quick reconnaissance, downed a pastis and left. 'I doubt if we'll find a time with less people inside. Later on, it will start filling up again.'

The driver, Jaques, took out the 11.43mm automatic from his shoulder holster. In the back, Tomi's fingers tapped nervously on the barrel of a pump-action shotgun. Heartbeats. It had all been agreed earlier: they couldn't