For ten minutes Klein grilled Chabot. At the end of that period he was convinced Perugini had not lied: this Frenchman had all the qualifications he needed. He nodded, his head turned slightly to the right.
'You'll do. On conditions…'
'Not so fast, Klein. What do I have to do. Kill a few people?'
'Maybe quite a lot…'
'You mean that?'
Klein didn't answer. With hands clad in white cotton gloves he had worn since leaving Aix, he took out an envelope, dropped it in Chabot's lap. 'Ten thousand francs. That's just for starters. And expenses.'
'What comes later?' Chabot was counting the banknotes.
Two hundred thousand. Used notes, of course.'
'What's the job?'
'That's part of the two hundred thousand. You don't get any more information until you need to know. And we work in cells of no more than three people. There will be a lot of cells – it's a security precaution. Which also protects you.'
'Does make it safer. You seem well organized.'
That was the moment when Klein knew Chabot was hooked. But the swarthy-faced man had one more question. 'It isn't political?'
Klein smiled grimly, a smile which did nothing to soften the coldness of his personality. He shook his head, gave his final instructions.
'I said there were conditions. You vanish. From Marseilles, I mean. No goodbyes to old cronies…'
'I don't have them. And if you're worried about Perugini – I work freelance. He hires me as bodyguard from time to time. At least six people want to take over from him, know the only way they can is to bury him. He told you I was freelance?'
Klein nodded. Perugini, the bastard, had omitted that interesting item – to push up his fee. Klein told Chabot to start packing while he completed the instructions. The Frenchman hauled a case out of a cupboard, began neatly packing clothes as Klein continued.
'You travel by train today to Luxembourg City. Second-class. Go via Lyon, then Mulhouse – where you pick up the express for Luxembourg City.' He tossed another envelope across to Chabot who caught it deftly and waited for Klein to finish. 'Inside that envelope you'll find the route I outlined typed out. Plus a phone number. Call that number from Mulhouse. Ask for Bernard. Tell him what time your train reaches Luxembourg City. Nothing else. It's a Hotel Alsace you'll be calling. Bernard will phone the time through to the man who will meet you on the platform at Luxembourg City. Inside that envelope you'll also find a Cook's label. I've written on it, Brussels Midi, and circled it twice. You put that label on your case only when you board the express at Mulhouse. The label will identify you to the man waiting to meet you.'
'Wouldn't it be quicker to travel via Geneva and Basle – then straight up to Luxembourg?'
'Yes. But Swiss security is good. We'll avoid them. And the route I've laid down is all inside the Common Market. No checks.'
'Name of the man meeting me?'
'He'll know you.' Klein checked his watch. 'You've got thirty minutes to catch the train for Lyon. And that's it. No more questions. I hope?'
'Only one.' Chabot shut the case, snapped the catches closed. A man who didn't waste time. 'Curiosity,' he went on. 'Why wear those gloves in this bloody heat?'
'Because I have eczema. I dislike unsightly hands.' There was a pause. Klein's tone hardened. 'And curiosity in this game can kill you.'
Truly.' Chabot glanced at Klein, saw his stone-faced expression, looked away. 'I'll remember that. I'm off now…'
Klein left the room without a word. Perugini had not commented on the gloves. He'd known the reason why. To avoid leaving Klein's fingerprints on the envelopes. But that was why Perugini was living in a luxurious villa at Cassis, while Chabot occupied a tenement behind the harbour.
Klein returned to his car, drove slowly along the street until he passed Le Loup, the bar where Cecile hung out.
That gave him one more little task to attend to before he left Marseilles.
Eleven o'clock at night. Well after darkness had fallen. The bar, Le Loup, was packed with customers. Klein knew because earlier he'd peered through the bead curtain at the entrance. Cecile Lamont was perched on a bar stool, chatting to some man. He'd returned to his car parked a few metres away, climbed behind the wheel, and waited.
He was used to waiting, much as he hated it. It was 11.30 when Cecile came out, wobbling a little, and on her own – as he had hoped. He started the engine, drove after her and slowed alongside her.
'Cecile, care for dinner? Maybe a fun night? Up to you.'
He had his head poked out of the window and she recognized him instantly, which showed how wise he'd been to take this precaution. She jumped in, slammed the door, and he was driving off before she noticed how he was dressed.
'Why are you wearing that white coat?'
'Some fool in a bar spilt half a bottle of wine all over my best suit. Looked dreadful. The owner of the place loaned me this to cover up the mess. I'll change into a fresh suit at my apartment before we go on for dinner.'
'Where is this apartment?'
She lit the Gauloise after offering him the pack which he refused. They drove round the harbour and up the hill in the direction of Cassis. She looked at him when he didn't reply. He was a handsome bastard.
'Near Cassis,' he said eventually. 'I'm taking a short cut. Then we can get off to the restaurant…'
'I'm not too hungry yet – if you want to linger in your apartment.'
'We'll see.'
He swung off the main route on to a side road he'd explored earlier in the day. The car bounced about over the rough road, the wheels grinding over rocks. He came to the quarry which had been abandoned long ago, stopped the car.
'Got a present for you in the boot.'
Flowers, she thought. He's a gentleman, thinks of things like that. Unlike Louis. She followed him in the deserted night, thinking it was very quiet. He had opened the boot. She bent forward to see what was inside. Klein slipped the knife out of his sock, grasped her round the shoulders and slowly cut her throat from left ear to right. She gurgled, her blood spurted over his sleeve, down her front. He felt her go a dead weight. He lifted her and folded over her body the canvas sheet laid on the floor of the boot.
Half an hour later he dumped the canvas bundle in the sea, threw the screwed-up butcher's overall he'd worn after her. It had taken him three hours to find a shop where he could buy the overall to protect his suit. He drove back to Marseilles. He would continue north – towards Geneva. He felt satisfied. The problem of Cecile was dealt with. Never leave behind loose ends.
12
Gare de Lyon. Lasalle of the DSI checked his watch. The express from Marseilles was due in Paris. 10.50 p.m. He stood close to the exit barrier. A tall, heavily-built man in his forties, his eyes were half-closed under thick brows, behind horn-rimmed spectacles.
He wore a camel-hair coat against the night chill and a narrow-brimmed trilby, a motionless figure, hands thrust inside his pockets. By his side The Parrot looked even smaller, despite his crash helmet, goggles and motor- cycle gear.
'I'm surprised you came yourself, Chief…' 'Something about the way you described Lara Seagrave.
What she did down there south. A check has come through from London. Step-daughter of Lady Windermere. High society stuff.'
'Sounds an unlikely terrorist,' The Parrot ventured.
