GL addressed him only as “Old Philippe”, and while he wouldn’t elaborate further, GL vouched for him as a long-time friend. Old Philippe had retired from the sea years before, following a mild stroke, and now worked out his years on the docks, supplementing his retirement fund with a well-earned reputation for discreet handling of ‘green routes’. Not so discreet that he wouldn’t accept a higher payment to spill the beans, mind, and after a furtive exchange of euros he did just that.
“Two of them; Spanish-looking,” he said. “They had a package they wanted routing to England, and I sorted passage for it via Guernsey.”
“When was this?”
“Last night? Maybe the night before.” Old Philippe shrugged, and swigged his beer.
Henri cursed. One way or another he’d missed the package, and probably the men too. “Where’s the boat now? Could it still be in Guernsey?”
“Portsmouth by now. It might sit there for a while, though.”
“And the men? They were carrying forged passports; did they travel with the package?”
“They were in no fit state to go anywhere,” said the old man with a cold, dry laugh. “One looked like he was going to pass out right where you’re standing. Green as grass, he was.”
“What was wrong with him?”
Philippe raised an eyebrow at GL. “Does your toyboy think I’m a doctor?” GL snorted with laughter.
Henri remembered something Marcel had said during their last meeting. “You’re the contact they were directed to from Toulouse, aren’t you? They were looking for someone who could help them smuggle an item from this port.”
“I have friends everywhere.”
Henri doubted that. “Could they still be here in Saint-Malo? Did they ask about hospitals, or where to get help without attracting attention?”
“The only thing they asked about was handling procedures for the package.”
GL nudged Henri. “This is why I think it’s your men. Go on, Philippe.”
“I was about to, if you’d let me speak, woman,” said Philippe, taking another swig of beer. “They insisted it not be opened, which is normal enough. But they also wanted to make sure it wouldn’t be scanned, at any time, and that costs extra.”
“You mean scanned with X-rays?”
“X-rays, microwaves, they even wanted assurances it wouldn’t get sniffed by dogs. I don’t know what’s in that package, but if it’s just drugs I’ll eat my gloves.”
“And yet you agreed to ship it anyway.”
Old Philippe shrugged. “Money is money.”
Henri balled his fists in frustration. “And they’re probably already halfway back to Portugal. Dammit.”
Philippe reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Get over yourself and pay me another hundred euros,” he said.
The paper was folded; impossible to see what it contained. “What’s that?” Henri asked.
“I wasn’t born yesterday, boy. I made a copy of their initial manifest. All the way from…well. That would be telling.”
Henri looked to GL. She shrugged and said, “It’s your money. How badly do you want this?”
He sighed, knowing she was right, and that he had little choice. He gave Philippe the extra cash in exchange for the photocopy, unfolded the paper, and scanned the form. It was unfamiliar, and he knew almost nothing about shipping conventions or lingo, but he didn’t need to in order to find what the old sailor had teased him with.
At first he was surprised, then confused, and finally deeply concerned. These emotions must have run over his face in quick succession, because GL whispered in his ear, “Come on, babe, you’re a gangster like I’m a Barbie doll. What is this, DGSI?”
Henri kissed her on the cheek, excused himself, and ran outside to call Emily Dunston.
53
For the second time in ten minutes, Bridge was caught by surprise. Had the landlord heard the fight, and called the police? What were the odds that the responding gendarme would be Novak, of all people? Or was this no coincidence?
Novak stepped inside, never taking his eyes off Bridge as he bent to retrieve the Grach pistol from the hallway floor. Behind him, the wide-eyed landlord backed away down the stairs. Novak held the pistol by his side, pointed down at the floor, and pulled the trigger. Once, twice, three times.
He already knew it wasn’t loaded. He expected it to be empty. And that could only mean one thing: that Novak knew James Montgomery, and knew he kept an unloaded Grach in his apartment. Bridge’s mind began speculating wildly based on that conclusion: Novak may have given Montgomery the gun; this all but confirmed Novak as the mole’s French contact; Novak’s position as a gendarme gave him a licence to move and go almost wherever he wished; how many other Agenbeux police officers might be involved in this? And, and, and… But the facts as they stood were simple.
Montgomery was dead. Novak was here. And Bridge had been caught red-handed.
She scrambled back, ducking around the corner of the lounge, and listened to Novak’s steady footsteps approaching down the hallway.
“What is your name, miss? Why are you in Mr Montgomery’s apartment?”
His accent was so good, it took her a moment to realise he was speaking English. He knew damn well who she was.
With the sun overhead, the strongest light came from the landing outside the apartment, throwing a long shadow in front of Novak. Bridge watched it carefully, edging closer to the corner where she still stood with her back pressed against the wall, its shadow hiding her own.
Before Novak could round the corner, Bridge pivoted on the ball of her foot, swinging her other leg up and around with her full bodyweight behind it. She was tall, but Novak was taller, and her boot struck him on the shoulder. He flinched, surprised by the blow, and grabbed for Bridge’s foot. She’d expected that, and retracted her leg immediately, but before she could plant it on the ground Novak followed through and barged into her, leading with the same shoulder. She staggered back, and he swung at her with the empty Grach, the pistol butt missing her face by millimetres.
He took one more step, then
