loss of the man he’d sent to watch his wife and Rocco, and with the arrest of one of his brother’s men in the town, he was finding his movements savagely curtailed by the local police raids on factories in search of illegal workers. Although they had nothing on him, the last thing he wanted to risk was being picked up at a random stop. If that happened, the gang leaders in Paris would take it as a sign of weakness and he’d be finished. Lakhdar would be able to hold on for a day or two only if they didn’t know where Samir was. Until then, he was reduced to hiding like a petty crook in the Cafe Emile with Youcef, Bouhassa and the others. He badly wanted to take out his frustrations on someone but lacked a visible target. Instead, he had chosen a solution which, while solving his main problem in one way, would also send a message to anyone who doubted his reach and his capabilities, and reinforce his reputation while leaving him absolutely clean of any involvement.
It had necessitated a telephone call to his brother, Lakhdar, which he was loath to make. But sometimes compromise was a necessity, as were forceful tactics. Lakhdar had argued fiercely against this, as Farek knew he would. His brother favoured talk and resolution, which he did not. In the end Lakhdar had relented.
As if to remind him, the telephone rang on the back wall. ‘It’s your brother,’ said the owner, holding out the handset as if it might bite him.
‘I’m busy,’ growled Farek, stirring sugar into the sludge they sold as coffee. What the hell did his brother want to argue about now? Outwardly he looked calm, as he knew he must. But inwardly he was seething, his blood bubbling and his teeth clenched to a painful degree as he considered his options. Staying here was not one of them. But neither was going out, not right now. He should never have come here, he knew that. It had been impulsive and reckless and left the door wide open to anyone who cared to stab him in the back. Having so easily gained control of the gangs by a combination of his brothers’ preparatory work and the elimination of a single key protester, he should have stayed to consolidate his position and reputation. But he hadn’t; he’d gone instead for the chance to regain a position of honour by tracking down his bitch of a wife. And Rocco.
He sipped his coffee, then stood up and walked without haste to the back of the room. He snatched the telephone from the terrified owner’s hand.
‘What?’ he snapped.
‘Samir, my brother. You are wasting your time. Our time.’ Lakhdar’s voice, usually the tone of reason, of calm, was now edged with impatience. And something else. Farek felt a tinge of unease.
‘What? You’re calling to tell me this?’
‘Let the woman go. She is worthless — and the policeman can be taken at any time.’ It sounded so simple. Not for nothing had Lakhdar made a fortune in trade after they had dismantled the original gang in Constantine. The careful planner of the family, the negotiator, he had been able to capitalise on his experiences and take them into a legitimate area of operations in Paris, building a base from where he — and Samir when he’d called him — could launch their bid for control of the gangs in the city and the north of the country.
‘I don’t want to wait,’ Samir countered. ‘The policeman can be dealt with immediately. Without his protection the woman will come to me.’
‘Meanwhile, you are powerless.’
Farek swore silently and threw a vengeful glance at Lakhdar’s men, standing guard by the front window of the cafe. One of those fucks had been keeping his brother informed of what was really happening here. He’d glossed over the reality earlier, explaining that he was staying here to draw Rocco to him. Then his plan could be put into operation.
‘Not powerless,’ he argued. ‘It will soon be over.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ The words carried a needling tone of disbelief. It was one of Lakhdar’s more irritating habits, the attitude of one who thought himself intellectually superior and commercially astute.
‘I told you, yes. Then we are done here. They have nothing to hold me for. They can prove nothing.’
‘I hope you are right. Because I am already picking up signs of discontent among the families. They are impatient for change. What we — you — promised was a chance to build our position here, to amalgamate and consolidate to everyone’s advantage. You should have begun showing the lead already… but that has not happened because you are chasing your woman and this policeman. The others are becoming uneasy, saying-’
‘Words. They’re just words,’ Farek broke in, feeling the need to smash something, to lay waste to something tangible. ‘Let the cretins complain. What will they do, these well-fed sheep, huh? What can they do? I will be back soon. Until then, you must exercise control.’
‘How am I supposed to do that? You are the new figurehead, not me.’
‘Set an example, that’s how. Have you forgotten everything we learnt?’ He gritted his teeth in frustration. There had been a time when Lakhdar was more ruthless than himself. Now he had gone soft, but expected others to do the dirty work. ‘Did you do as I asked?’ he demanded softly. ‘Did you send someone as I requested?’
A sigh, then, ‘Yes. Of course. He will be in place by now. He’s one of the best. But, Samir, I ask you one last time to forget this madness. They will know it is you and it will lead back to us. I can still call him off-’
‘No!’ Farek slammed down the phone, cutting off his brother’s words. Always offering advice, always holding him back. He turned to the room where Lakhdar’s two remaining men, Youcef, even the normally placid Bouhassa, were all standing quite still, watching him.
‘What are you all staring at?’ Farek yelled. ‘Are you all afraid, too? Huh? Have you all lost your balls? What’s the matter with you?’
Youcef was the first to speak. He swallowed once, then gestured to the front of the cafe. ‘It’s the tall cop,’ he whispered. ‘Rocco. He’s out there. So’s half the French police force.’
‘Are we sure he’s inside?’ Rocco looked at the sous-brigadier who had spoken to him in the cafe with Alix what seemed like days ago. It now seemed a distant memory.
‘He’s there. One of my men spotted him through the curtain earlier. We’ve got eyes on the back door and unless he’s started tunnelling his way out, he’s stuck.’
‘How many with him?’
‘We think four, plus the cafe owner. Two in suits, a big man and a fat slug in a djellaba.’
Bouhassa. Rocco nodded. ‘Stuck’ was one way of putting it. He could feel the police presence behind him: Canet’s uniformed teams, the detectives like Desmoulins who wanted in on the action, and the brass like Massin and Perronnet. In reserve were the intimidating lines of tough CRS personnel spoiling for a fight. And beyond them, unseen but always present, were the eyes of the Ministry and the government, watching with drawn breath to see how this would unfold.
‘What we don’t need,’ Massin had warned Rocco earlier, when sanctioning the operation to take Farek, ‘is a massacre. We want prisoners. Alive and able to walk unsupported. Got it?’
Rocco had agreed, although he wasn’t sure if it would be quite that simple to bring off. A man like Farek wouldn’t allow himself to be taken without a fight, and he had the means and willpower to resist them. His entire structure was based on ego and violence, so why should he change now?
‘You don’t seem convinced.’ Massin was studying his face.
‘Farek’s up to something. He’s not the sort to allow himself to get cornered like this. He must have something in mind.’
‘We could lob some tear gas through the window to soften them up,’ suggested the sous-brigadier, whose name was Godard. ‘The longer he’s in there, building up a head of steam, the more desperate he’ll get. There could be collateral damage.’
Rocco agreed. There were houses nearby, and bullets fired in anger were indiscriminate in their targets. He opened his mouth to give the order.
Then the cafe door opened.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Three hundred metres beyond the police lines, a man in dark clothing lay on the top floor of the deserted sawmill, surveying the scene through binoculars. The Cafe Emile jumped sharply into view, highlighting the grubby curtains at the windows, the peeling paintwork, the general air of dilapidation of a building consigned to the slow and ignominious death of decay.
