water, and stood at a very low level. There seemed no easy way across, as the top of the gates were too narrow for negotiating in the dark. The next section, beyond a massive pair of gates, would be higher, and he hoped held the traditional footway which allowed barge crew and lock-keepers to move from one side of the canal to the other.
He felt a touch on his arm. It was Demai, beckoning him on. The man seemed confident of where he was going, or maybe he was simply eager to get this over with.
Rocco followed, making sure Desmoulins was close behind, and found the Algerian walking close to the canal. So close he could feel the cold touch of spray on his face. Then they reached the next set of gates and Demai was scrambling across with almost carefree agility, pausing momentarily before jumping down the other side.
The path this side was smooth and well worn for a hundred metres or so, testifying to regular use by pedestrians strolling by the canal and watching the barges passing through. Then it turned to grass, with a lumpy feeling underfoot. The water was black and still, sitting now on their right like a cold ribbon. Rocco had completely lost his bearings now, but knew they must be close to the factory area.
Demai stopped.
Rocco stayed close, wondering if he had finally lost his nerve and was about to take off. If they lost him now, he’d be impossible to find again. He patted his arm, hoping the reassurance of contact would work where words would not. After a second or two Demai seemed to gather himself and continued walking. Seconds later, they rounded a curve in the canal and Rocco knew instantly where they were.
They were standing at the corner of the Ecoboras factory, the metal fence rearing up against a distant glow of lights like prison bars, the mist moving around the sharpened, curved points in a slow caress. They were below ground level here, and out of sight of anyone patrolling the grounds. Even so, he motioned to Demai to squat down, making sure Desmoulins did the same.
Bending down seemed to accentuate the cold from the water, and Rocco felt his stomach grow chilled. He tapped Demai on the arm and pointed at the nearest building. ‘In there? You work in there?’ As he spoke, he heard a distant clatter of metal from inside the building and the whine of hydraulic machinery. Whatever was going on in there, it sounded very busy for this time of night.
Demai nodded, squatting with his haunches resting on his heels and hugging himself against the cold. He made a motion of going over the fence, followed by a gathering and then a twisting motion with his hands.
Screwdriver, thought Rocco. Assembly work.
‘Where did you sleep?’ he asked. Demai looked blank until Desmoulins moved forward and placed both hands under one cheek.
The Algerian pointed to the canal and first mimed a boat moving away, then a walking motion. They left the factory by boat and walked to wherever they lived.
‘That’s good.’ Rocco said. They could get him to show them where the living quarters were located later. He turned to study the fence, trying to figure out how the workers got through. If it was all conducted in secret, they surely didn’t use the front gates.
Demai seemed to read his mind. He scurried back a short way and carefully slid up the bank towards the fence, keeping his head and body close to the ground. When he was within arm’s reach of the metal uprights, he pointed to one of the main support posts and flapped his hand. Rocco followed him, smelling his body odour as he slid past. Then he saw what Demai was pointing at.
The fence was hinged. It was a gate, located conveniently between two clusters of security lights so that a shadow fell across this section of fencing. He moved closer. The next support post had a simple bolt attachment top and bottom, both of which could be slipped out to allow the gate to swing back. The bolts had simple locks inserted through them, but placed in a way that made them invisible to a casual observer.
He risked a quick look over the top of the bank, peering between the uprights. But the building blocked any view of the front, and all he could make out was a loading bay and a number of skips and wooden pallets half- hidden in the shadows.
And a light-coloured Citroen DS 19.
Rocco slid back and tugged at Demai’s sleeve. ‘You’ve done well. Let’s go.’ He didn’t know whether the man understood, but he followed quickly as if relieved to be on the move away from this place.
As they regained the police car waiting for them, Desmoulins touched Rocco’s arm. ‘I meant to tell you earlier, I got some information on that place, Ecoboras. I spoke to a friend who keeps an eye on the business pages. They’ve been going about five years, a subsidiary of a larger multinational business. They make electrical components for radio equipment.’
‘Military?’ If so, it would account for the contract and the protective shield from the Ministry.
‘Not so far. Ordinary household stuff. But they got a reputation for delivering on time and six months ago won a tender for assembling components on a new piece of kit for the army. There’s a whisper of friends in high places, but that’s nothing new, is it? It sounds pretty genuine to me.’
‘What about Wiegheim and Lambert?’
‘Well, that’s where it gets interesting. Marcel Wiegheim’s what he says: a plant manager. He makes things happen in production processes. But Fabien Lambert’s got some history…’
Fabien. Hell. The man was about as far from Rocco’s idea of a Fabien as he could get.
‘He doesn’t use the name, apparently. He’s known as Lambert, plain and simple. He’s down on paper as a director of the company, but less than five years ago he was kicked out of the army for “undisclosed activities not compatible with the French military”. He was with a specialist counterterrorist group at the time, but I couldn’t find anything more than that. Since then he’s been working in the security industry.’
Rocco nodded. That terminology had a number of meanings, ranging from watching building sites to ensure nobody ran off with the bricks, to working as a mercenary in Africa and other troubled hot spots. And ‘activities not compatible’ was usually a military euphemism for anything ranging from corruption or brutality through to selling military hardware. He was willing to lay good money that Algeria might have figured in Lambert’s service record.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Marc Casparon stood in a narrow doorway and watched the darkened street before him for signs of movement. He was in a narrow, cobbled cut-through just a short walk from the Rue de Rivoli near the Isle St-Louis, and the smell coming from the alcove behind him was pungent enough to choke a donkey. But he’d experienced worse — as had the working girl who was here when he first arrived. A few notes had persuaded her that she was better off elsewhere.
He shuffled his feet to keep warm. His position was only temporary at best. Sooner or later one of the hardened deadbeats who lived on the street would come looking to occupy this space for the night, and he’d have to move on. Such men had their own codes and weren’t afraid to stand up for themselves if they found a usurper in their place — even if the usurper was a cop. Caspar had no desire to get into a fight with a man looking for a place to doss down for the night.
He was tired. He’d spent the day trawling through his list of contacts in the Algerian community, both the pieds-noirs of the former, mainly European colonist community, and the recent ethnic-Algerian arrivals, mostly unskilled and poor, some of whom had gang connections here and back in Algeria. Carefully easing into conversation with the ones he trusted most, he’d found them willing enough to talk — but about everything except a man named Samir ‘Sami’ Farek. Distant though he was across the Med, the gang boss evidently commanded enough fear and respect to keep mouths firmly shut and opinions silent, and Caspar had found conversation dwindling fast the moment he mentioned the man’s name.
Now he was at the end of his list, with only one more contact he could rely on. He had so far heard only one brief mention of Farek’s name, and that was a snatch of conversation between two known gang enforcers. It had been brief, a rumble of gossip. But it was enough to tell him that Farek was on his way — and why. Having a wife run out on you was bad news in most societies. But in the world Farek lived in, he’d be seething with anger and outraged honour, thirsting for a way to demonstrably save face. Reason enough for such a man to risk exposure by
