Death on the Rive Nord

CHAPTER FIVE

Farek didn’t need to watch Bouhassa at work, but stayed, anyway. It was part of the ritual, just as giving the victim one last taste of a meal was his way of doing things… and of instilling an aura around himself. He was the boss here, le chef. And if you weren’t prepared to get your own hands soiled, even at one step removed, where was the honour to be gained? Where was the respect from those around you, and from those who heard only the rumours? It was the rumours feeding on each other which built and enhanced his reputation and power.

He sat on a hard chair in the corner and watched as Bouhassa flipped out the chamber of the revolver. Underworld rumour had it that he had ‘liberated’ the gun from a police chief in Algiers with a predilection for collecting weapons. But nobody had ever cared to confirm or dispute it; Bouhassa had a reputation, too. He inserted a single shell and flipped his hand again, locking the chamber.

As Farek was well aware, Bouhassa liked to load the shells himself, using a reduced charge. He also fitted a hollow point head which he’d worked on, in place of the standard head, to fragment on impact. For Bouhassa’s kind for work, range was never a priority.

The fat man cocked the hammer and looked at his boss. Abdou, horrified and frozen, swallowed hard as if the food he had just eaten was rising in his throat.

Farek took his time. Lit a cigarette, holding it between fleshy fingers, and considered the man in the chair like a minor puzzle waiting to be solved. He shook his left wrist, freeing a solid gold watch, the light glinting on two thick gold rings. It was a conscious move, a mannerism he’d seen and copied from a cop film when he’d served with the French army. The film’s villain liked to remind people of his wealth… when he wasn’t reminding them of the power he wielded over them.

Farek could relate to that.

‘You collected a woman and boy from Al Hamri five days ago,’ he said softly. For a few moments, the cargo plane had gone quiet, leaving a hush in the atmosphere as if ordered by Farek himself. ‘Where did you take them?’ Al Hamri was the broad, tree-shaded street where Farek had an apartment, away from the overheated centre of the city and cooled by gentle breezes from the hills.

‘I don’t remember… it was too long ago… I…’ He stopped, eyes locked on the gun in Bouhassa’s hand. It had a black, shiny finish, a thing of cold beauty with but a single purpose.

‘ Where?’

Abdou dragged his gaze away from the gun and Bouhassa, and stared imploringly at Farek. ‘I got a call,’ he babbled, holding out his hands, palms upwards in supplication. ‘To collect a fare… that is all. I didn’t know who they were…’ He jumped up suddenly as if launched by a spring, but Bouhassa reached out a huge hand and pushed him back down.

‘I. Said. Where?’ Farek leant forward, enunciating the words with exaggerated care. ‘Did you take them to the airport?’

To the airport might have given Abdou a slim chance. Lots of people travelled to the airport for all sorts of normal reasons, and he couldn’t be held responsible for the whims of women. But where the woman had gone was not normal — not for one like her. He swallowed noisily and closed his eyes, as if all vestiges of hope had gone. Then he said softly, ‘No. Not there. Le Vieux Port. A ship called Calypsoa. ’ He sank back like a deflating balloon, resigned to his fate.

The Old Port. Where the steamers and trawlers and junk ships were berthed; where many transactions were carried out without the benefit or obstacle of official paperwork; where no woman in her right mind went, and where no cab driver would willingly take a woman without knowing exactly why she was there… and without taking money to ensure his silence. Farek knew the Old Port well; he had cause to, having used it for most of his adult life in one way or another. If she had elected to leave by sea, and from such a place, it meant she had done so to avoid being seen by Farek’s spotters at the air terminal and passenger port. In doing so, she had taken enormous risks… but risks she must have decided outweighed any reason for staying. That could only mean one thing: she wasn’t coming back.

He nodded at the fat man.

Bouhassa moved over to Abdou, his breath whistling in his nose, balancing himself carefully on his feet as if he were about to take a plunge off a high board. He flipped the industrial glasses down over his eyes and grasped Abdou by the hair, jerking the man’s head backwards. Abdou shrieked, eyes bulging as he finally realised what was about to happen. Like many in the city, he would have heard the stories of what happened to men who crossed Sami Farek, and the part that the fat man Bouhassa played in their despatch.

It was called swallowing a shot.

He tried to speak, but the words in his throat were cut off as the gun barrel with the silencer was thrust into his mouth. There was a crackle of breaking teeth and the prisoner gurgled and shook his head, fighting against the pain and terror. But Bouhassa was too strong. He pulled Abdou’s head right back, forcing the gun deeper and deeper until his knuckles were pushed hard against the man’s teeth and Abdou’s Adam’s apple bulged against the skin of his throat.

In the background, the cargo plane increased power and hurtled down the runway.

‘Do it,’ Farek commanded.

The shot was muffled, and would not have reached the outside world, even without the silencer or the airplane’s roar. Bouhassa quickly withdrew the gun and clamped Abdou’s mouth shut, noting with what appeared to be distaste a few spots of blood on the sleeve of his djellaba, and a trickle of urine as the dying man voided his bladder.