Death on the Rive Nord (21 page)
‘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.
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 café 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.
The traffic in the square increased the closer it got to the appointed time. Cars dropped off men in twos and threes, rarely stopping for more than a few seconds. But a few – a special few – took their time and lorded it over the others by hogging the pavement, chauffeurs hopping out to open rear doors so that their passengers could step out
with their chests puffed like stars at a cinema premiere.
Caspar felt depressed by the theatrics. These people were unreal. Acting as if they were untouchable, which, OK, some of them were … for a while. But they were calling attention to themselves by parading like this as if they hadn’t a care in the world.
At a guess, Farek was about to change all that.
He finished his snack and stood up. The two men did the same, wiping their fingers and dropping some notes on the table. Caspar’s chest heaved in a momentary panic. Had it been a deliberate move or had he merely acted as the catalyst for them to get going, too? He walked out, his heart banging, and held the door open to bring himself deliberately into their aura, and the three of them walked across the square and entered the theatre as if they were together.
Inside, there was more muscle than President de Gaulle himself would have had around him. Big men in suits, cold of face and suspicious of eye, checking bags and patting armpits. They were choosing their targets by instinct and appearance, Caspar noted, all from different clans and for once sharing a common task. Nobody wanted gunfire here. But while they were carefully avoiding checking the main players, everyone else was fair game.
The two men from the café breezed through the security cordon without stopping. Caspar moved with them, giving a guard who looked his way the cold eye.
The guard nodded and stepped back.
Another hurdle gone.
He walked up a flight of stairs and entered the main room. It smelt of fruit and sugar, a reminder of its usual function. The floor had been levelled and was packed with chairs in
rows, many of them filling up fast as men arrived and found colleagues and friendly faces.
Caspar split off from his two unwitting escorts and took a seat near the back, where he could sit in a shadow cast by a dud bulb. If he’d been recognised last night, there was always the likelihood that the same might happen here. He was taking a hell of a risk, but it was what he’d done all his life.
He noted a few other single men sitting nearby. Most likely individual operators with small territories and no firm gang affiliations. But they would still have a vested interest in knowing what was going on.
He looked around and wondered what the police brass would say if they could see this gathering. There must be more crims here than at any time and place over the last twenty years. Some big, some small, but each with his own illicit agenda.
A light came on above the stage and the buzz of conversation died instantly.
Samir Farek was sitting on a leather chaise longue covered with a colourful Berber blanket, hands resting on his knees. He looked squat and resolute, staring out at the assembled faces without expression, eyes dull and unreadable, a sheik looking out over his subjects. On one side stood his brother, Lakhdar, thin and pot-bellied, a heavy moustache covering his lips like a veil. Farek the businessman. On the other side stood Youcef. Massive, hands hanging down by his side like twin shovels, shoulders hunched, eyes dull. Farek the idiot. But a Farek nonetheless, and therefore highly dangerous.
And then there was Bouhassa. The killer was standing behind Samir Farek, sinister and imposing, chewing slowly
and popping on a mouthful of pink gum. His eyes were as vacant as marbles, yet giving the firm impression that he was fully aware of his place in the order of things. A bland Buddha with only violence and death in his make-up.
Caspar swallowed. Farek was looking right at him. He held the gaze, not daring to move, and breathed a sigh of relief when Farek turned his head away. He felt a faint pain in his chest and wondered if the
tabouleh
had been such a good idea.
Farek began speaking, using a small microphone. He had a soft, almost hypnotic voice, using it to address each gang leader individually, welcoming them as brothers and impressing on them how honoured he was by their presence. It was standard stuff, Caspar thought, as common to the corporate boardroom as it was to this gathering of shiny suits and black hearts. The speech rumbled on, speaking of common interests and shared futures, and inviting a realisation that in all of France there was a new reality for commercial ventures and businesses, so why not for them, too? He glossed briefly across the pains of the past years, waving a hand as if brushing all that aside. It was gone, he suggested, history which would never be repeated. Now there were new opportunities, and he was here to maximise those opportunities for everyone.
‘The future is ours,’ he said softly, scanning the crowd with his heavy, dark eyes. ‘Is there anyone here who does not want to share in this? If so, I would suggest they leave now.’
The silence throbbed throughout the theatre, broken only as men shifted on their seats, some looking at each other in surprise. The meaning was clear: this wasn’t an invitation Farek was issuing – it was a challenge. Put up or get out.
‘Why should we listen to you?’ A single voice called out. It drew gasps from the crowd and an immediate movement from Youcef Farek, who stepped forward threateningly. But Samir Farek waved him to a halt.
It was one of the men from the café, Caspar noted with surprise. As the man stood up, his companion tried to pull him back, but he waved off the restraining hand with an angry gesture. ‘You think you can come in here just like that?’ He snapped his fingers, the sound loud in the silence. ‘You come from your little piss-pot of an
empire
in Oran and decide to tell us how we will run things?’ The man spat sideways into the aisle, showing his contempt. ‘Who the
fuck
do you think you are, huh? A man who can’t even control his own
wife
!’
An intake of breath followed amid warnings from within the crowd, most concerned, some not. But it was already too late. The challenge had been issued and in a most personal manner.
Farek stood up. He stepped to the front of the stage and gestured towards the door. ‘You are free to leave, my friend,’ he said calmly. ‘As is anyone else who holds the same views.’ He looked around the sea of faces. ‘Anyone?’
Nobody took up the invitation. The protester looked around, his face twisting in dismay as he realised that he was entirely on his own. He looked down at his companion for support, but the other man refused to meet his eye.
Then Bouhassa made his move.
He stepped out from behind the chaise longue and walked down the side of the stage. His heavy tread boomed ominously on the wooden steps and his nasal breathing was harsh in the ominous silence. As he moved, the crowd parted like the sea in front of a large ship, men moving quickly away from a killer
whose reputation had gone before him. Bouhassa reached the protester and grasped his arm as if he were a small child, then dragged him out through a swing door to one side, which flip-flapped after them in a grotesque imitation of a farewell.
Then came movement on either side of the stage as a number of men appeared. Men in dark suits, hands clasped in front of them, watching the assembled audience without expression.
There were gasps from all over the room; a few faint protests, but nobody stood up. Nobody moved.
Caspar found he was holding his breath. Jesus, the theatrics. But it was working! Farek had done it. He had taken over without a shot being fired. These people probably didn’t realise it yet, but they’d just witnessed the biggest cave-in in underworld history.
Someone clapped. It was a catalyst. Others followed, chairs scraping back as men stood, and the applause echoed around the auditorium. Voices began calling for more, welcoming the new order.
Caspar stood up and joined in, but felt sickened by the threat involved in this new future. If he did nothing else tonight, he had to get word out to his old bosses. They’d have a collective fit.
Then someone touched his arm. He turned and saw two men standing close behind him. Dark suits, rolls of muscle across the shoulders, bulges beneath their jackets, they eyed him without expression. The men closest to Caspar moved away, leaving him alone among the chairs, another untouchable.
As Caspar was led away, he looked back to see Farek watching him from the stage.
The operation kicked off at 23.00 hours precisely, with a fleet of vehicles spreading out from various locations around the town, carrying uniformed officers, detectives and personnel from the Immigration Service.
Massin oversaw the details like a military campaign, marshalling men and vehicles by the clock, mindful that his division would be under scrutiny from various quarters, both as soon as the first factory was breached and in the aftermath once the press, unions and other political bodies got word of events.
Rocco watched as the station yard emptied and men went about their tasks, and was impressed by Massin’s command of detail. But then, he reminded himself, the former army CO had been through the elite military academy of Saint-Cyr, where organisation and strategy were high on the curriculum for officers with ambition. If you could plan a battle, making a sweep through a few factories should be child’s play.
Desmoulins wandered across to where Rocco was eyeing a large chart on the wall of the briefing room. The chart showed the layout of three factory sites to be searched. They were mostly small operations employing unskilled staff, ranging from food production to assembly works. But that was the secret: unskilled staff on low wages working long hours. Nobody would be surprised by such places working throughout the night to fulfil desperately needed orders.