coming here.
What he hadn’t learnt was how imminent was Farek’s arrival. If this final contact didn’t give him anything concrete he wasn’t sure what he could do to get the information Rocco was after. But he had to try. If he got lucky with this, Rocco might put in a good word for him and get him back into his old line of work. He’d have to take a medical and put in a stretch doing simple legwork so the bosses could say they’d done their bit. But better that than the slow death that consumed most former undercover cops who’d lost their jobs.
He slipped out from the doorway and made his way along the street, skidding on squashed fruit and kicking through scraps of newspaper. A breeze had got up and was cutting along the street, bringing with it the smell of the river and a hint of cooking from the gaggle of restaurants beyond this seedy ditch of a place. He nodded at two girls looking for punters. They were huddled under coats but with a flash of underclothes visible at a flick of the hand. They watched him go without giving the usual come-on.
They knew. The thought made his gut churn and he wondered how much further he could push this before he lost his nerve altogether.
He stopped outside a cafe with a faded curl of script above the window. Maison Louise: it sounded upmarket, but it was a dive where only the most naive of tourists wandering off Rivoli in search of local colour ever stayed longer than a few minutes. They usually ended up cleaned out by the riff-raff inside and could count themselves lucky if money was all they lost.
It was where his final contact spent much of his time. Karim Saoula was a low-level criminal who ran a few girls, sold a few drugs and traded in information. Most of the chatter was reliable, picked up over a few canons of cheap red or passed on by his girls while working their clients: who was talking to whom; who was moving goods through the ports and haulage depots surrounding Paris; which VIPs in French society were playing away from home or getting into debt through illicit gambling. Some of the information proved useful, some not. Caspar usually passed it on up the chain anyway, leaving his handlers to sift through the intelligence and decide what to do with it. Day- to-day, however, he had come to rely on Saoula over the years for his inside link to the gangs, to tell him who was rising or falling within the ranks of the various criminal factions around the city. It had never ceased to amaze him how much information the man picked up, most of it from loose talk among traditionally tight-lipped criminals. The man was a human sponge.
He pushed into the cafe and stepped up to the bar. He couldn’t see Saoula, but that didn’t bother him. He couldn’t very well come in and leave without buying a drink, as that would look suspicious. Better to take his time and see if Saoula came to him.
The place was crowded, a smoke-filled hovel with yellow lights barely managing to cut through the haze. Groups of men were in huddled conversation at the bar or sat around tables spread with glasses and overflowing ashtrays. A few turned to check him out, sensing the movement of cold air at their backs, then went back to their talk. One or two who knew him nodded, but didn’t rush to invite him over.
He was used to that.
The barman slid a glass of pastis and a jug of water towards him, and he poured a generous amount, turning the aniseed-flavoured liquid a milky yellow. He’d have preferred a good malt whisky, but that would have marked him out immediately. In this kind of company only the known players threw that kind of money around without drawing unwanted attention.
He sipped the drink, swishing it across his gums and watching the reflection of the room in the mirror behind the bar. He’d give it ten minutes. If Saoula hadn’t put in an appearance by then, he’d be able to leave without causing comment.
One man in the cafe wasn’t so interested in his drink or his conversation that he could ignore the gaunt, intense individual who had just walked in and now stood at the bar, sipping at a glass of pastis. To the observer, he appeared to be relaxing like any working man at the end of a long day. But it soon became clear that the newcomer was using the mirror to survey the room. No working man, then.
An outsider. Or a cop.
The observer stood and went through to the corridor at the rear of the cafe, and picked up the public telephone. He dialled a number and spoke briefly, one eye on a small mirror on the wall. It was angled in such a way as to give a discreet view of the room and the front door — a necessary caution for many of the men using this establishment. As he watched, another man entered the cafe and joined the pastis drinker. They got into conversation, shoulders touching, and the observer voiced a name into the phone before replacing it and returning to his seat.
The pastis drinker had disappeared, leaving the man the observer knew as Saoula alone at the bar.
Outside, Caspar walked away quickly, his heart pounding. He’d noticed the man who’d stood up and walked through to the back of the cafe moments before Saoula arrived. At first he’d been unsure; customers were up and down using the phone all the time, placing bets, calling wives or girlfriends — sometimes one immediately after the other — setting up meetings and deals, even this late at night. Hell, especially this late at night. Why should this man be any different? Then Saoula walked in and Caspar caught a flicker of movement from the corridor. He remembered the spy mirror on the wall. He’d used it himself a few times and knew he’d been spotted by a watcher. These were gang members employed to keep an eye on everyone who came and went in their assigned territory. Their skills were confined to identifying known cops, suspicious strangers or dubious friends, and passing on that information.
Caspar stepped over a battered moped lying across the pavement and tried to recall where he had come across the man before. But the recollection was hazy, like an image swimming up slowly from a dark and murky pond. It didn’t matter. He’d been clumsy, got himself made the moment he walked in. Most likely a face from his past; someone he’d crossed in some way. Whatever. It had been enough. He’d drained Saoula of everything he knew, which wasn’t much, then left, advising his contact to do the same and stay out of sight for a few days. If he had any sense, he’d already be on his way.
Caspar reached the end of the street and glanced back. A lone figure was standing outside the cafe, looking his way. Caspar began to breathe easier, then felt a flicker of dread.
It wasn’t Saoula.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Karim Saoula wasn’t much given to jumping at shadows. In fact he rarely jumped at anything once he’d had a few drinks. After his brief meeting with the cop known as Caspar, and the exchange of folded notes, he’d decided to ignore Caspar’s warning and stay where he was. What the hell did a washed-out flic know, anyway? He’d had a lousy day and needed to get loaded. Not too much, just a little to take the edge off things. One of his best girls — the best girl, in fact — had gone down with something nasty, and a good deal on some hash had fallen through when a rich kid from the other side of the city had developed cold feet at the last minute. As if that wasn’t enough, he was feeling like death after a plateful of bad shellfish.
Now, helped by a couple of drinks and some money from Caspar, he was feeling mellow and at peace with the world. He was even considering sending his best girl a nice bunch of flowers. That would soon have her back on her feet… or better still, on her back. He giggled at the thought and finished his drink before waving goodnight to the barman and walking out into the cold night air.
All in all, a good ending to a bad day.
He was nearing the corner of the street where he had a tiny third-floor apartment, and carefully stepping around a pile of dog turds in the middle of the pavement, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and felt a hand reach out and grab his shoulder. The drink had wrapped his reactions in treacle. Before he could attempt to fight back or flee, he was being dragged into a doorway and slammed back against the brickwork.
As he lost consciousness, a black car purred to a stop at the kerb and he was bundled inside.
‘ Wake up!’ Saoula dimly heard the shouted command, accompanied by a stinging slap to the side of his head. He came round slowly, aware of a musty, mildewed smell and remembering his hurried meeting with the undercover cop, Caspar, followed by his drinking away the money he’d paid him and staggering up the street much later. The rest was a blur, although he vaguely remembered the dog turd on the ground for some reason. Now he
