He reached for the receiver, his hand slightly damp as he imagined Chapeau's eyes still burning into his back. He started dialling, fluffing the first numbers so that only the last three counted: the speaking clock. As it rang, he turned and casually surveyed the room. Chapeau was looking back at Marichel, deep in conversation. Marichel drew hard on a cigarette, exhaling smoke in staccato bursts as he talked.
It was then that Brossard noticed the girl directly in line behind Chapeau, and cursed. He'd told Marichel to choose seats by a wall. The wall was behind them from the bar view, but not from this angle. The girl was fully obscured only when Chapeau leant forward.
Bob Marley pulsed against his neck, two inches below his earlobe as he listened to the talking clock.
With the sweep of the gun, it was going to be difficult not to hit her at the same time. Brossard wanted the hit to be clean. For a moment, Brossard tensed, a quick window of opportunity appearing as Chapeau leant forward — then just as quickly it was gone. Chapeau relaxed back again. It was a tease. Brossard considered the possibility of stepping to one side as he fired, sharpening the angle so that the wall was behind. But would that split second delay make him more vulnerable?
Chapeau was listening intently to Marichel explain the hit. It appeared straightforward enough, but some of the details from Marichel were becoming repetitive and he seemed slightly nervous. He'd noticed Marichel look up at the motorcycle messenger at the bar, and had glanced up briefly himself as the messenger had crossed to the phone — before bringing his attention back to the business at hand. But now he noticed that at intervals Marichel would give the messenger a sideways glance, as if trying to judge his position without staring overtly. And he was suddenly conscious of the messenger looking across, his attention shifting between them and the table behind.
All the other small signals suddenly gelled in that instant. Chapeau tried not to give away the sudden realization, would have averted his eyes to give him a moment more to think — but by the messenger's reaction, he knew it was already too late. The alarm in his eyes had shown.
The messenger reached for the package as Marichel leapt aside.
Chapeau's impulse reaction was to raise one hand as he stood, the other reaching inside his jacket for his gun. He saw the package open, the compact Uzi machine gun swing up as the package was tossed aside. But he was sure he'd be able to level his gun first.
Brossard knew he'd passed the point of no return as soon as Chapeau looked up. He saw the hand raising in a 'stop' motion, a distraction from the other hand reaching for the gun — but he'd already committed himself to swing the arc of the Uzi from the right. The girl behind was suddenly forgotten. He saw the first shots rip through Chapeau's outstretched hand, but the other hand was raising rapidly, the gun barrel almost pointing straight at him.
Chapeau could see the black leather figure clearly in his sights as the stinging pain hit with the top part of his hand ripped away. He squeezed off his shot virtually at the same time — wondering for a moment why the recoil was so heavy, had tilted him sharply back until he was facing the ceiling.
The arc of Brossard's fire swung across and caught Chapeau squarely in the chest, throwing off his aim so that his bullet missed Brossard by more than a yard. Marichel was now two yards clear of the table, leering wildly with a mixture of surprise and raw excitement.
Brossard paused only briefly, then swung across again, continuing the arc — enjoying the moment's total bewilderment that crossed Marichel's face. The hail of bullets shattered Marichel's breastbone and removed the top part of one shoulder. No witnesses or knowledge of the set-up. It was safer. Brossard had decided the action shortly after hiring Marichel.
Most people in the bar had dived for cover on the floor or behind tables and chairs. Hysterical screaming rose from somewhere near the door. Brossard moved closer to the sprawled bodies. Chapeau was still breathing faintly. Brossard could see his chest moving as it struggled for air from lungs filling rapidly with blood. Chapeau's shattered fingers lay several feet away. Brossard fired a quick final burst to Chapeau's head, then to Marichel's, and ran out.
TWENTY-SIX
Dominic looked anxiously at the map. Eight or nine kilometres past Bourgoin Jallieu, the motorway branched into two: the A43 to Chambery and the A48 branching off to Grenoble. Radio messages crackled back and forth to two operators to his side.
It had been one of those mornings. He'd seen the message to phone Marinella Calvan as soon as he came out of an early morning meeting. A number in England, he wondered whether it was something to do with his previous Interpol work, though the name didn't strike a chord. But there were other, more pressing emergencies: there had been a bank robbery in the La Guillotiere area of Lyon, and after a sighting a chase had ensued with three police cars on the A43 heading east.
But already events had gone tragically wrong. Bullets fired from the robber’s car had struck one of the pursuing cars, shattering its windscreen and causing it to careen into the central barrier; two of the three officers inside had been seriously injured. The only way to avoid more mayhem was to set up a road block, preferably at a turn-off
‘Looks like they're heading for Grenoble!' one of the radio operators, Morand, called out.
Dominic looked up from the map. 'We need a quiet junction, next three turn offs. Somewhere where the peage won't be too busy. Suggestions.'
'Eleven or twelve could be good,' said Morand.
Dominic checked the distances: Sixteen kilometres and thirty-four. 'It will have to be twelve. We'll need time to put everything into place.'
It took another nine minutes: three police cars ahead took up all three lanes, gradually slowing so that a visible jam built up just ahead of junction 12. At the junction 12
All other traffic turning off meanwhile would be waved rapidly through the vacant
Dominic looked across sharply as the phone rang on his desk. It could be news on the injured officers; he'd asked for anything urgent to be put through on his private line. He picked it up. The girl on desk duty informed him that it was Marinella Calvan phoning again from England, and that she said it was urgent..
'Okay, put her through.' He’d probably have a spare two minutes.
As Marinella introduced herself apologetically and started explaining the reason for her call — for Dominic, it was as if the rest of the room and the activities in it had suddenly receded, become little more than incidental background.
Only the imperatives broke through. At one point, Morand raising a thumb's up and shouting: 'They've gone for it! They've taken the bait and turned off. They're coming up to the peage.'
On the far side of the
When Morand leapt into the air and a quick cheer went up from the radio desk, Dominic knew that everything had gone well.
He said 'One moment' apologetically to Marinella Calvan as he hit the secrecy button and looked towards Morand. 'So?'
'One injured. The others came out arms up, no resistance. No injuries our side.'
Dominic nodded and smiled, but Morand could tell that his attention was fractured. Dominic wasn't sure if he was more distracted through struggling to make sense of what Marinella was saying — a young boy in England, hypnotic sessions and a possible link with Christian Rosselot — or through his suspended belief, the painful nostalgia as the years were stripped away. Dark and hazy memories which he thought had been long buried.
