Death on the Rive Nord

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Marc Casparon stood in a narrow doorway and watched the darkened street before him for signs of movement. He was in a narrow, cobbled cut-through just a short walk from the Rue de Rivoli near the Isle St-Louis, and the smell coming from the alcove behind him was pungent enough to choke a donkey. But he’d experienced worse — as had the working girl who was here when he first arrived. A few notes had persuaded her that she was better off elsewhere.

He shuffled his feet to keep warm. His position was only temporary at best. Sooner or later one of the hardened deadbeats who lived on the street would come looking to occupy this space for the night, and he’d have to move on. Such men had their own codes and weren’t afraid to stand up for themselves if they found a usurper in their place — even if the usurper was a cop. Caspar had no desire to get into a fight with a man looking for a place to doss down for the night.

He was tired. He’d spent the day trawling through his list of contacts in the Algerian community, both the pieds-noirs of the former, mainly European colonist community, and the recent ethnic-Algerian arrivals, mostly unskilled and poor, some of whom had gang connections here and back in Algeria. Carefully easing into conversation with the ones he trusted most, he’d found them willing enough to talk — but about everything except a man named Samir ‘Sami’ Farek. Distant though he was across the Med, the gang boss evidently commanded enough fear and respect to keep mouths firmly shut and opinions silent, and Caspar had found conversation dwindling fast the moment he mentioned the man’s name.

Now he was at the end of his list, with only one more contact he could rely on. He had so far heard only one brief mention of Farek’s name, and that was a snatch of conversation between two known gang enforcers. It had been brief, a rumble of gossip. But it was enough to tell him that Farek was on his way — and why. Having a wife run out on you was bad news in most societies. But in the world Farek lived in, he’d be seething with anger and outraged honour, thirsting for a way to demonstrably save face. Reason enough for such a man to risk exposure by coming here.

What he hadn’t learnt was how imminent was Farek’s arrival. If this final contact didn’t give him anything concrete he wasn’t sure what he could do to get the information Rocco was after. But he had to try. If he got lucky with this, Rocco might put in a good word for him and get him back into his old line of work. He’d have to take a medical and put in a stretch doing simple legwork so the bosses could say they’d done their bit. But better that than the slow death that consumed most former undercover cops who’d lost their jobs.

He slipped out from the doorway and made his way along the street, skidding on squashed fruit and kicking through scraps of newspaper. A breeze had got up and was cutting along the street, bringing with it the smell of the river and a hint of cooking from the gaggle of restaurants beyond this seedy ditch of a place. He nodded at two girls looking for punters. They were huddled under coats but with a flash of underclothes visible at a flick of the hand. They watched him go without giving the usual come-on.

They knew. The thought made his gut churn and he wondered how much further he could push this before he lost his nerve altogether.

He stopped outside a cafe with a faded curl of script above the window. Maison Louise: it sounded upmarket, but it was a dive where only the most naive of tourists wandering off Rivoli in search of local colour ever stayed longer than a few minutes. They usually ended up cleaned out by the riff-raff inside and could count themselves lucky if money was all they lost.

It was where his final contact spent much of his time. Karim Saoula was a low-level criminal who ran a few girls, sold a few drugs and traded in information. Most of the chatter was reliable, picked up over a few canons of cheap red or passed on by his girls while working their clients: who was talking to whom; who was moving goods through the ports and haulage depots surrounding Paris; which VIPs in French society were playing away from home or getting into debt through illicit gambling. Some of the information proved useful, some not. Caspar usually passed it on up the chain anyway, leaving his handlers to sift through the intelligence and decide what to do with it. Day-to-day, however, he had come to rely on Saoula over the years for his inside link to the gangs, to tell him who was rising or falling within the ranks of the various criminal factions around the city. It had never ceased to amaze him how much information the man picked up, most of it from loose talk among traditionally tight-lipped criminals. The man was a human sponge.

He pushed into the cafe and stepped up to the bar. He couldn’t see Saoula, but that didn’t bother him. He couldn’t very well come in and leave without buying a drink, as that would look suspicious. Better to take his time and see if Saoula came to him.

The place was crowded, a smoke-filled hovel with yellow lights barely managing to cut through the haze. Groups of men were in huddled conversation at the bar or sat around tables spread with glasses and overflowing ashtrays. A few turned to check him out, sensing the movement of cold air at their backs, then went back to their talk. One or two who knew him nodded, but didn’t rush to invite him over.

He was used to that.

The barman slid a glass of pastis and a jug of water towards him, and he poured a generous amount, turning the aniseed-flavoured liquid a milky yellow. He’d have preferred a good malt whisky, but that would have marked him out immediately. In this kind of company only the known players threw that kind of money around without drawing unwanted attention.

He sipped the drink, swishing it across his gums and watching the reflection of the room in the mirror behind the bar. He’d give it ten minutes. If Saoula hadn’t put in an appearance by then, he’d be able to leave without causing comment.

One man in the cafe wasn’t so interested in his drink or his conversation that he could ignore the gaunt, intense individual who had just walked in and now stood at the bar, sipping at a glass of pastis. To the observer, he appeared to be relaxing like any working man at the end of a long day. But it soon became clear that the newcomer was using the mirror to survey the room. No working man, then.

An outsider. Or a cop.

The observer stood and went through to the corridor at the rear of the cafe, and picked up the public telephone. He dialled a number and spoke briefly, one eye on a small mirror on the wall. It was angled in such a way as to give a discreet view of the room and the front door — a necessary caution for many of the men using this establishment. As he watched, another man entered the cafe and joined the pastis drinker. They got into conversation, shoulders touching, and the observer voiced a name into the phone before replacing it and returning to his seat.

The pastis drinker had disappeared, leaving the man the observer knew as Saoula alone at the bar.

Outside, Caspar walked away quickly, his heart pounding. He’d noticed the man who’d stood up and walked through to the back of the cafe moments before Saoula arrived. At first he’d been unsure; customers were up and down using the phone all the time, placing bets, calling wives or girlfriends — sometimes one immediately after the other — setting up meetings and deals, even this late at night. Hell, especially this late at night. Why should this man be any different? Then Saoula walked in and Caspar caught a flicker of movement from the corridor. He remembered the spy mirror on the wall. He’d used it himself a few times and knew he’d been spotted by a watcher. These were gang members employed to keep an eye on everyone who came and went in their assigned territory. Their skills were confined to identifying known cops, suspicious strangers or dubious friends, and passing on that information.

Caspar stepped over a battered moped lying across the pavement and tried to recall where he had come across the man before. But the recollection was hazy, like an image swimming up slowly from a dark and murky pond. It didn’t matter. He’d been clumsy, got himself made the moment he walked in. Most likely a face from his past; someone he’d crossed in some way. Whatever. It had been enough. He’d drained Saoula of everything he knew, which wasn’t much, then left, advising his contact to do the same and stay out of sight for a few days. If he had any sense, he’d already be on his way.

Caspar reached the end of the street and glanced back. A lone figure was standing outside the cafe, looking his way. Caspar began to breathe easier, then felt a flicker of dread.

It wasn’t Saoula.