Death on the Rive Nord

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Nearly eight hundred kilometres to the south, Samir Farek had already moved with extraordinary speed. With the name and address of the handler in the port of Marseilles forced from the agent, Selim, in Oran — now relieved permanently of his lucrative post and his life — Farek and Bouhassa were waiting for their man to appear. A telephone call to his flat in a six-storey apartment building off Rue du Genie, behind the bustling Saint-Charles Station, had established that he was in. He had sounded groggy, recuperating no doubt after a night of heavy drinking.

‘He’ll come,’ said Farek confidently. He didn’t know the man, but he knew the kind of person he was dealing with: a low-level criminal named Maurice Tappa, trading in drugs, prostitution and now people. A bottom-feeder, moderately successful if you looked at his address, which wasn’t bad but not great, either. He would be sensitive to threats from the police because he wasn’t rich enough to pay for high-level protection and knew there was probably plenty they could be calling about. The call had been brief and anonymous, informing Tappa that the official hammer was about to drop. It had been enough to dispel his grogginess and set him running. All they had to do now was wait for him to come scuttling out.

Farek was a realistic man. He knew his disappearance from Oran would have been noted with interest, by the authorities as much as his enemies. The latter, especially, would be looking for a vacuum, a gap to fill. It was the way of things in his business. And maybe they would fill it before he got back.

But right now he was facing a crisis that had to be dealt with. His wife had left him, taking their young son, and soon everyone would know; every crook, pimp, cop and politician. He no longer cared for his wife; her French ancestry had been a help when they first married and he was looking to impress people, especially in the military. But he no longer needed that dubious cachet; he had forged his own future and the old colonial power had gone. As for the child, only a nod to convention made him spare the boy a thought. But his anger was reserved for his wife. She had caused him to lose face among his peers and his family, and that could not go unpunished. He felt a simmering rage at the thought of her doing this to him, and wondered if another man was involved. If that were the case, his pleasure would be short-lived and very, very painful.

When people heard that he, Samir Farek, had gone after his wife, and of the penalty she paid — as she surely would — he would win back the respect he had lost. No doubt about that. A question of honour.

The light moved as the glass-panelled rear door to the apartment block swung open. A short, squat figure hurried out into the shadowy courtyard and headed for a Mercedes parked nearby. The man was wearing a crumpled suit and carrying a small holdall and looked as if he had dressed in a hurry. His face was unshaven and pallid.

As the man reached the car, Bouhassa stepped out from the doorway to a small maintenance building. He looked like a ghost in his white djellaba, his head a shiny dome beneath the wrap-around industrial glasses. But his presence was real enough.

As was the gun in his hand.

‘Dear God,’ Tappa muttered, and swallowed hard. He dropped his car keys. They clinked to the ground, but he didn’t bother trying to retrieve them. He had recognised the fat man immediately and knew of his reputation. He also knew that Farek couldn’t be far away.

He was right.

‘Monsieur Tappa,’ said Farek politely, and appeared as if out of nowhere, stepping in close so that the Frenchman couldn’t escape, even had his legs been able to carry him. ‘How delightful to catch up with you.’

‘What do you want?’ Tappa gabbled, and tried to melt into the coachwork of the Mercedes, desperately looking for a way out. The holdall fell with a soft thud.

For an answer, Farek bent and picked up the car keys. When he straightened again, he had them clasped with the main key protruding between his first and second fingers. ‘I believe you may have assisted a woman to come to France,’ he said softly. ‘From Oran.’ He lifted his hand and teased the point of the key gently across Tappa’s face, stopping just beneath his left eye. ‘Am I wrong?’

‘It wasn’t me,’ said Tappa automatically, eyes flicking between Farek and the fat man in the white robe. ‘I don’t move women — they’re too much trouble. Who told you it was me?’

‘Let’s say we have information from an impeccable source… in Oran. Well?’

‘Oh.’ Tappa appeared to relent. ‘Well, in that case, maybe I did, once.’

‘Is that a yes?’

‘Yes. Why do you want to know?’ Tappa was regaining his nerves. ‘You want to buy her back or something? She didn’t look that special to me. Just a sheep on the move.’

Farek lifted an eyebrow. Only those who knew him well would have noticed the sudden danger sign of a pulse beating in his neck. ‘A sheep? Is that all they are to you, these people?’

Tappa gave a feeble laugh. ‘Sure. Why not? They’re hardly high value, are they? Cheap labour, that’s all. They don’t smell too good, either.’

Farek tapped the key against the other man’s cheek. ‘Mr Tappa,’ he said very softly, ‘you’ve just been talking about my wife.’

What little colour remained drained from Tappa’s face. ‘What? I mean, I didn’t know who she was — how could I? She was just a sh-’ He stopped; he’d already said too much, then gabbled, ‘ They don’t tell us their names…!’

‘Where?’

‘P-pardon?’

‘Where did she go? It’s an easy enough question.’

‘I don’t — I’m not sure.’

‘Pity.’ Farek pressed the point of the key beneath the man’s eyeball, lifting it slightly in its socket, yet without breaking the skin. Tappa whimpered and lifted on his toes, trying to escape the relentless pressure and the first hint of the pain to come. To add to his terror, the vast figure of Bouhassa had moved in and was now standing close, cutting off any chance of escape… and any chance that someone might see what was happening. ‘ Wait! Wait… I can remember, I promise! Of course. Stupid of me to forget such a thing. It was north. That’s right, north.’

‘North where? North Pole?’ The key probed deeper.

‘Chalon-sur-Saone. Near Dijon.’ Tappa began to weep, his whole body trembling with fear.

Farek was unmoved. ‘How far is that? How long to drive?’

‘Distance, I don’t know. Four… maybe five hours… a little longer. Please, I don’t-’

‘Name.’

‘What?’

‘A name. At this place called Chalon-sur-Saone which is four, maybe five hours away.’ As Farek knew well from his own line of business, every supply line consisted of contacts, like way stations, with the product being shuttled from one to another. It mattered not whether the product was animal, vegetable or mineral. Or human. The arrangement was the same. Each cut-out reduced the chances of too many in the line being scooped up if someone talked. ‘Who do I ask for?’

Tappa held out only for a fleeting moment, then told Farek everything he wanted to know.

Farek stood back a pace and smiled. ‘There. See how easy that was?’ He bent and picked up the holdall, sliding the zip open. Dumped a spare shirt and underclothes on the tarmac, then raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, you keep your savings under the mattress, I see. Doesn’t say much for your faith in the banking system, does it?’ He closed the holdall and said, ‘Nice doing business with you, Maurice. Adieu.’ Then he turned and walked away, leaving a smiling Bouhassa to take his place.

Tappa groaned and fell back against the car.

The sound of his dying didn’t even reach the street.