followed me here so quickly, and not in his car.’
‘And will he?’
‘Yes. He will come. Soon. Samir Farek does not forgive betrayal by anyone, least of all a wife. I know the way his mind works. He will have lost face and his sole interest will be winning back respect among his associates and family.’
‘How will he get here?’
‘He will follow the trail along the pipeline, name by name. If that doesn’t work, he will go through the Algerian community here in France and use them to find me. And they will. It is his way.’ She sat up, startled, as water suddenly gurgled around the barge. ‘What is that?’
Rocco stood up and took his gun from his pocket. He checked both ways along the towpath. Nobody in sight. He couldn’t see Claude and guessed he was keeping his head down. He looked down at the surface of the canal to where some leaves were floating by on a surge of water, channelled along the hull by some unseen current. He told Nicole and she relaxed. But it was a reminder that even here, they were not completely safe. Her next words confirmed it.
‘Samir has been biding his time. He hates the French, even though he was in the French army and had a lot of influence. But then they left and he had to start again. He wants to become a major “player”, a word he used many times — I think from America. I believe he intends to stay here and build another network, only much bigger than in Oran. Once he links the two, he believes he will be all-powerful.’
‘He’s probably not wrong,’ said Rocco, and thought of the appalling outcome of a man like Farek moving in on the established gangs in Paris and Marseilles. It was the way of things: every new gang boss had to be more ruthless and nastier than the one before, just to prove that he could. It would turn the two cities and everywhere in between into a battlefield.
‘But first,’ Nicole continued softly, breaking the thought, ‘he will not rest until he has his son back… and I am dead.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
They left the barge a few minutes later. Before parting, Rocco asked Nicole again if she would be safe where she was. Any place he might suggest as a safe haven would be official, therefore requiring paperwork and details and the inevitable dispersal of information. He couldn’t take that risk.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘My friend Amina is not part of the Algerian community. She doesn’t know about Farek, so does not have any fear of him. But she knows what it is to fear someone. We only just met, but I trust her like a sister.’
‘Good. Does she have a telephone?’
Nicole hesitated, so he explained, ‘I might need to contact you urgently if I hear something. You might not have much time. You should be ready to move at a moment’s notice.’
She saw the sense in it and wrote a number and an address on a piece of paper. ‘It is a telephone in the house, but anyone can use it. Don’t ask for me; ask for Amina and she will find me. I’ll have a bag packed with essentials, just in case.’
There was no loss of control, he noted, no sudden panic at the idea that her and her son’s lives might come down to a matter of minutes. He was impressed but no longer surprised; for anyone to have made their way through the people pipeline was a feat of some courage. For a woman with a small child, it was heroic.
He left her to make her way back to where she had parked her car, then walked back to the boat. He was joined along the way by Claude.
The garde champetre was carrying a shotgun under his arm. He shook his head. ‘Nobody that I could see apart from the woman. She’s pretty. Nice skin.’
‘Yes. She says her husband wants to change that permanently. And not because of me,’ he added heavily. They stopped by the boat and Rocco told him about Nicole’s flight from Oran, but left out the full details about Farek. He didn’t want to drag Claude into anything too heavy unless he had to.
‘Nothing about a dead man?’
‘No.’
‘Clever,’ said Claude. ‘Who would think of looking for illegals out here, huh? Move them into Amiens at night and nobody’s the wiser. Shitty place to keep them, though. Looks like a good shake and this tub would sink like a brick.’
‘How deep is it here?’
‘Enough to drown. A couple of metres mostly, but there are spots where it’s up to four, maybe five metres deep.’ He jutted his chin at the water. ‘Like out there. See the darker patch? There’s a fault in the canal bed… it fills up with soft sediment but there’s no substance. The barge would sink right into it.’
Rocco left Claude at the parapet and drove to Amiens. He needed information, and as quickly as possible. He’d already been out of the main intelligence loop long enough to have lost touch with the latest details on big-city criminals and their activities, and the bulletins circulating the office were at best selective, geared predominantly to each region’s list of priorities. It was therefore not surprising that sudden changes in criminal activity did not always arrive until too late. In the criminal underworld, that could mean several regime changes taking place in quick succession, where you were only the boss as long as others thought you were too powerful or too ruthless to challenge.
He found an empty office and rang Michel Santer. His old boss wouldn’t have the precise information he needed, but he’d undoubtedly know someone who did.
‘What do you want?’ Santer came on with his usual sour manner, but it was a thin camouflage to those who knew him well. People like Rocco. ‘What mess have you got yourself into now? I’m not having you back here — it’s peaceful without you making waves and upsetting people. I’m almost enjoying myself.’
Rocco grinned. In a career spanning the army and police force, there weren’t many people that he’d ever considered close friends. But Michel Santer was certainly one. ‘Glad to hear it. I need some information.’
‘Great. No “How are you, then, my old mate?” No cordial greeting and offers of a long lunch. You owe me a few, all the favours I’ve done for you.’
‘OK.’ Rocco smiled down the phone. ‘Lunch it is — but not just yet. I’m a little busy.’
‘I suppose that will have to do, then. What is it the Americans call it — a rain check? I’ll take a rain check. Go on, then, fire away.’
‘I’ve only got a name at the moment. Sounds fairly big in the Algerian underworld and has plans to set up over here. A man called Farek.’
‘Farek? Sami Farek?’ Santer’s voice rose a pitch, then dropped suddenly. ‘Are you kidding me? You haven’t heard of him?’
‘How could I?’ Rocco kept his voice calm. ‘We don’t get international bulletins out here among the cowpats. Who is he?’
Santer hesitated, then said, ‘I won’t waste your time, Lucas. I know about as much as you do. But this sounds serious. There’s a man who can possibly help. His name’s Marc Casparon. Everyone calls him Caspar. He just retired from working ten years with the Sud-Mediterranee Task Force, most of it undercover. He was involved in all kinds of shit I don’t even want to think about. He knows Algeria like I know my wife’s bum. Ask him nicely and he might tell you what’s what.’
‘You don’t sound very sure of it. What’s the problem?’
Santer grunted. ‘He’s a bit unpredictable, that’s all. There are some who reckon he’s nuts. They might not be wrong. He spent too long underground fighting the drug gangs and didn’t come out so well at the other end. Actually, word is, he didn’t retire — they pulled the rug before he got himself killed. Unfit for active service. That must be a real kick in the balls after everything he did. If I give you his details, just be careful how you go.’
‘Why?’
‘Remember how some of the men you served with ended up? Like that.’
Rocco remembered very well. The men who had returned — the so-called ‘lucky ones’ — from the war in Indo-China were radically changed from when they went out. It hadn’t been noticeable at first, even among friends
