Death on the Rive Nord

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

Three hundred metres beyond the police lines, a man in dark clothing lay on the top floor of the deserted sawmill, surveying the scene through binoculars. The Cafe Emile jumped sharply into view, highlighting the grubby curtains at the windows, the peeling paintwork, the general air of dilapidation of a building consigned to the slow and ignominious death of decay.

As he focused, he saw the curtain flick back, then the front door opened a crack.

Samir Farek appeared. He was calmly smoking a cigar, outwardly impassive and unconcerned by the heavy police presence surrounding the building. Just for a brief second, his eyes flicked sideways and seemed to fasten directly on the eyes behind the binoculars.

No way out of this, Samir, thought the watcher, studying the area around the cafe. The warehouse on the far side was a crumbling ruin, with no viable cover even if the gang boss managed to reach it unscathed. The sawmill was too far across open ground littered with weeds and bits of rotting wood, broken glass and tangles of wire, an obstacle course waiting to trip even the most athletic of men. And Samir Farek, tough as he talked, was no athlete.

He watched as negotiations began between Farek and the tall cop; the introductions, the opening stances, the cold stares between enemies weighing each other up. It would take time, the way these things do. The cops wouldn’t want a bloodbath and he doubted Farek’s men wanted to die an early death. In the meantime, they’d talk. And he would bide his time until he could give Farek a way out.

He put down the binoculars, turned and pulled a long canvas bag towards him, of the type used by fishermen. He opened the zip and took out a MAS 36 bolt-action rifle fitted with a telescopic sight, and a magazine holding five rounds.

He uncapped the lens, blew away a speck of dust, then set the butt comfortably into his shoulder, the rubber socket against his right eye.

Farek’s face jumped into view, framed in the cafe doorway, his head haloed by a cloud of blue cigar smoke. He studied the area around the cafe, checking for movement in the background, for unforeseen problems. Once he was satisfied, he swivelled the barrel across the empty space to the police lines, over the stony faces of the men behind the police vehicles, the immaculate uniforms of a clutch of senior officers standing near the rear. Settled on the tall man in the centre, dressed in black, a patch of orange-yellow on his forehead.

He clicked the magazine into place, then settled himself comfortably, watching Rocco and studying the man’s clothing. Made a minute alteration to the focus of the scope and clicked the sight setting a notch or two. Even from here he could tell the man was a smart dresser. For a cop, anyway. Hell of a target, that patch.

He smiled and blinked several times to clear his eyes. Settled back and waited. He didn’t really need the telescopic sight; but he liked to see the look of surprise on their faces.