‘What the hell’s that?’
‘Search me. Something from way back, apparently, like a council meeting of elders or tribal leaders. Only this one is between gang bosses.’
‘Where?’
‘Belleville. Eight this evening.’
Rocco knew it well. A working-class neighbourhood, it was a frenetic and mostly friendly mix of Jews and Muslims from across the North African divide. Kosher bakeries sat side by side with halal butchers, with almost no trouble between the two. It was an ideal location for Farek to meet with others of his kind. There would be eyes on every corner and outsiders would stand out like tourists at a burial service. Any police presence would be detected within minutes and word would fan out, sending everyone scuttling for cover.
‘These gang bosses… can he really make them get together as easily as this?’
‘Looks like it. There’s been a rush of faces and names moving into Paris all day, from all over the north and central region. They probably see him as a force to be reckoned with. Don’t forget, he’s got a fair bit of influence through the deals he’s done in the past… and a hard reputation. He’s also got two brothers to help him out with identifying the locals.’
Rocco was surprised. ‘I thought they were out of it.’
‘Me too. But it seems not. From the chatter I heard, I got the impression they’ve been working away quietly, setting up contacts, businesses, front companies and the like. Leastways, one of them has. The other’s a dick.’ Caspar explained the difference between Lakhdar the wheeler-dealer and Youcef the mindless thug. ‘If Farek’s planning a takeover, he’s being smart. He’s confronting the bosses on their own turf with no warning. He’ll be offering deals, working relationships. Coming with gifts to win them over.’
‘And if that doesn’t work?’
‘It’ll be war.’
‘For real?’
‘Farek wants it all. But he’s a realist. He knows he can’t trust anyone for long in his business, so he’ll come in strong and show them the alternatives: the bitter and the sweet. The only people he does deals with are cops and officials; they take too long to replace once they’re in position. Gang bosses, though… they can be removed in a second. His only problem is that there’s always another one coming along behind.’
‘Can you get in the meeting?’ It was another dangerous thing to ask of Caspar, but if they could find out what was going on, they might get one step ahead of Farek and his plans.
‘I’ll try.’ Caspar sounded cautious. ‘I got word about it from a contact last night, but I think I was made by a watcher. I told my contact to duck out and ring me this morning, but I haven’t heard from him since and he’s not picking up the phone.’
‘Name?’
‘What?’ Caspar was instinctively defensive. Undercover cops never reveal their sources.
‘If you haven’t heard from him I can have someone run a check of the overnight reports. In case he’s run into trouble.’ The nightly log of activity in the city recorded deaths explained and unexplained, assaults, hospitalisations and arrests.
‘Oh. Right.’ A long pause while Caspar digested the possibilities. Then, ‘His name’s Karim Saoula. He’s a pimp who deals a few drugs… low-level stuff. Keep it quiet, though, can you? He’s OK. I owe him.’
‘Sure.’
‘There’s one other thing.’
‘Go on.’
‘It might be nothing, but I heard Farek’s wife has run off. Could be he’s on the warpath about that, too. Big loss of face for a man in his position.’
‘I thought he didn’t care about her.’ He didn’t mention Nicole; Caspar knowing she was here wouldn’t help, especially if he was to run into trouble.
‘He doesn’t. But who knows what goes on in the mind of a man like him?’
Rocco rang off and dialled Michel Santer. If anything bad had happened, providing Saoula hadn’t been buried in concrete somewhere, Santer would be able to find out. Santer picked up on the third ring and Rocco gave him the name.
‘Jesus, like I’ve got time to be your run-around,’ Santer muttered, noisily scattering paper across his desk. ‘Ah. Here we are. Let me see…’ He hummed names and incidents as he ran down a list. ‘Doesn’t look like anything’s turned up in the last twelve hours. A quiet night all round. Oh, hang on.’
Rocco waited.
‘This could be your man. One North African male, identity unknown, residence ditto, found dumped in an alleyway behind the Gare de l’Est. Beaten to death. I’ll see if I can get him identified.’
‘Thanks. If it is, can you get word to Caspar? Saoula’s one of his.’
‘Will do. Is this going to get me a gold star anytime soon?’
‘Of course.’
He rang off with Santer’s laughter echoing down the line, then sat back and thought about what Caspar had told him. Something wasn’t right about this. Would a man in Farek’s position risk being caught travelling through France by opposition gangs or the police, just so he could catch up with a runaway wife he didn’t want anyway? Even to save face, he was taking a huge gamble on not being seen… or sold out.
The other oddity was why the power struggle and why now? There had been no rumours, no build-up, none of the usual minor gang skirmishes preceding a major takeover. Farek might have been a big wheel in Oran, but that was far away and a small city. In France, he was just a name. It was almost as if this thing had happened overnight. Even Caspar seemed perplexed, and if there was anyone plugged into the community who should have known about it, it was him.
He considered talking to Massin again about stopping Farek, then decided against it. It was too late for that; the man was already here. He’d caught them all on the hop.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Caspar arrived early and studied the venue chosen by Farek for his tent meeting. It was an old run-down theatre on one corner of a square, not far from the Boulevard de la Villette in the Belleville area of north-east Paris. The theatre was now used as a community hall and market centre, the stage having long been forced to give way to the demands of television and film. Even so, the building still possessed a faint but shabby air of elegance and glamour, with its elaborate plaster frontage and the sweep of the canopy over the front entrance. Now, though, instead of crowds of theatregoers, the array of lights across the front revealed a clutch of heavy men in dark suits spaced at intervals around the building and hovering just inside. Security was tight.
Caspar slid into a seat inside a cafe across the square and kept watch while working his way through a dish of tabouleh. The line between being invisible and being noticed was a very fine one, but it was one he’d weathered many times before, and he knew how to fit in. You stayed relaxed, you acted as if you didn’t care because this was your world and you didn’t have to explain yourself to anyone. That was how you survived.
Which Saoula hadn’t, he was convinced. The idiot must have stayed too long in the Maison Louise last night and got himself picked up instead of walking away when Caspar had warned him. But at least he’d delivered.
Tent meeting. Belleville Theatre, 20.00 hours tomorrow.
He had no clear idea what a tent meeting was other than the obvious, given Farek’s possible Arab-Berber ancestors; but he figured it was a deliberate play on a shared heritage among the Algerian players, with a strong touch of dramatics thrown in. Rather appropriate, he thought, given the venue Farek had chosen.
He nodded at two men in shiny suits and heavy moustaches who walked in and sat down at a table across the room, flicking fingers for coffee and semolina cake. They gave him the once-over, eyeing his neat suit and polished shoes and no doubt seeing a reflection of themselves, minus the face hair. They nodded back, muttering a greeting, then relaxed.
He’d just passed one hurdle. Dressing the part was essential, too. He went back to his snack, enjoying the refreshing tang of mint. Now was not the time for heavy, sweet food; light was best when tension was high.
