Past Imperfect

FORTY-THREE

Dominic spread out a map of France. Where? Where? Two of them now to find. Vacharet and Duclos.

No registration. Two gendarmes taking it in turns to guard Duclos the past weeks, and neither had taken Duclos’ car numbers: The garage door was always closed. Our Station Commander never asked us to. The only number we know is the car they used regularly when going out — the Renault.

Dominic shook his head. He'd put out a registration search through Lepoille and Interpol National over an hour ago. No answer yet.

Duclos could be halfway to Paris by now, or to the Swiss border, or heading due south. One of those sleepy Pyrenees border posts with Spain where guards just wave people through. Without a registration number, they couldn't conduct a national search or a border alert.

And Vacharet had been on the run almost two hours longer. No trace yet either on where he was headed.

Two hits planned, Betina Duclos said she'd overheard. Vacharet was mentioned as one — explaining his sudden flight — but the other hadn't been named.

They'd put additional pressure on the only other person in hand: Aurillet. Two hits. What did he know? Aurillet said that Vacharet had voiced concern following the Eynard hit and about another planned, but no name; it was more in the vein of at least some good coming out of their plan. 'Now at least that hit won't be made. One life saved.'

But Vacharet obviously knew. It could be another child pimp like Vacharet or Eynard, but what if Duclos had sent a hit man after Roudele to bury the coin evidence, or to England after Eyran Capel?

Dominic clenched a fist tight. Twenty minutes passed with no return calls, and his impatience grew. He could have phoned his Lyon station, but he had no wish to hear the day's panics and emergencies. Only one thing now that he wanted to know.

He called Monique to ease his tension. She was at Vidauban, spent more time there now in the summer months. She'd travelled down by train the night before, Gerome had picked her up at the station.

'I'll be quite late tonight,' he said. 'Could be a long one.'

'Will you go back to Lyon or come here?'

'Probably Vidauban.' He was better off staying in Aix or Marseille for news on Vacharet. Vidauban was closer. 'But don't expect me much before ten or eleven.'

She started some small talk about Gerome, but he was only half listening — and cut her off early. Anxious in case calls were trying to get through.

Unsettling silence again. The phone inert. Dominic's thoughts fighting to move, but in the end equally inert. The clock on the wall provided an ominous, pulsing reminder that things elsewhere were in motion while he sat there: Duclos racing across the country, a hit man heading for his targets. Ghosts skittering across a map with no discernible form or direction.

But how far could Duclos get? No passport, assets frozen, money perhaps just for food, petrol and a few nights pension.

Seven minutes before the phone rang again, though it seemed far longer. It was Lepoille.

'We've found something on Vacharet. Air France flight to Corsica.'

'Can we get the Ajaccio airport police to stop him?'

'Too late. He landed over twenty minutes ago. He's in a taxi and away. Could be anywhere on the island.'

Momentary hope fading. Perhaps Bennacer could dig something up from the lead. 'Anything yet on Duclos and car registration?'

'Nothing yet. Could be a long haul. There's nothing in his name, and apparently he got the car recently on leasing through a company. We've got to find the company and hope that the registrations already through. Otherwise we'll find nothing.'

A quick good luck and 'keep hunting', and Dominic phoned Bennacer. 'Vacharet's in Corsica. Anything spring to mind?'

'Not immediately. Let me see if anyone else here has any ideas…' Dominic could hear Bennacer calling out: Vacharet — any friends or contacts in Corsica? Mumble of background voices. After a moment: 'Doesn't seem so, I'm afraid.'

'Maybe Moudeux could go to Vacharet's. Say that we know he's in Corsica, explain that a hit man's chasing him. If we've got the information of where he is — then it's a good bet so has the hit man. Perhaps with a bit of pressure on his barman or manager, then-'

Bennacer cut in. 'Wait a minute, Dominic. One of my people working the Panier has remembered another club owner that Vacharet's friendly with…' Bennacer's voice faded: second conversation in the background before returning. 'Guy called Courchon. Owns a villa in Bussaglia on the North-West coast. Long shot, but it might be worth a try.'

Dominic thought things through quickly. He was in a temporary office in the Aix Palais de Justice that Corbeix had arranged for him — but flight connections were better from Marseille. 'I'm coming down to you. I should be with you in half an hour. Meanwhile get the Bussaglia police to head out to Courchon's villa, and check the next flight time to Ajaccio.' Dominic glanced at his watch: 6.52 pm. He gave Bennacer his mobile number for anything urgent coming up on Duclos en route, then left a similar message for Lepoille.

Nothing Dominic could do sitting where he was to aid the search for Duclos' registration. That was a game now being batted between the nation's network of computers.

Duclos headed east towards St Etienne and Givors. He was unsure at first where to go, in the end deciding to join the N7 near Givors. It was the busiest and most faceless of France's motorways, and from there he could head north to Paris, south for the Cote D'Azur and Spain, or east at Valence for Switzerland and Italy.

He'd been left one current account unfrozen for monthly expenses. He stopped at the first cash machine outside of Limoges and drew the day's maximum. Together with what he had in his wallet, 3,260 Francs. With food and petrol, enough to keep him going for five days or maybe a week if he stayed in cheap hotels. He knew he couldn't risk stopping again at a cash machine. Even if they hadn't by then frozen the account, his movements could be tracked.

His car was inconspicuous and didn't draw attention. Just one of countless thousands of blue Peugeot 505s nationwide, and the police probably hadn't been able to trace the registration. But he felt conspicuous, self-conscious himself, was desperately afraid people would recognize him. He'd stopped only once for petrol just after St Etienne and kept looking down as he went to pay at the counter. At the last moment he saw a baseball cap for sale to one side and grabbed it along with some sweets. The cap's peak would at least shield part of his face at future stops.

He hit the motorway again and at the Givors junction headed south. Speed steady between 120-130kmph. Not too fast to draw attention, but not too slow either. Still the occasional truck would push him over to the slow lane and rumble past.

Then it hit him: 6 pm! He glanced at his watch: 5.38 pm. At six, the main news bulletins would come on. The case had been in the press, but the only recent photo had been hazy and distorted through a car window. Few people would recognize him.

But for the main news that night, they'd probably have a full face portrait shot. From then on, he'd hardly be able to stop anywhere without being recognized. He'd planned originally to stop to eat later — but suddenly changed his plan. He pulled into the first motorway service station.

He chose a burger and fries at the self-service grill counter. The girl looked up at him and smiled, Merci. A baseball cap not too dissimilar to his own. A Have a nice day smile, or had there been a glimmer of recognition?

Duclos' nerves were racing by the time he paid and took his tray over to a table by the far wall. He took a seat facing the wall, his back to the restaurant. It was a large sprawling complex with supermarket, shops and a bar on a bridge structure spanning the motorway. A television was on in the bar area beyond the restaurant, but hardly anyone was at the bar counter paying it attention.

He let out a slow breath, tried to relax, eat his burger. It felt dry, difficult to swallow. His nerves had killed his appetite. But he forced himself, realizing that it might be his last meal for several hours. He laboured over each mouthful; it was like trying to chew and swallow cardboard.

He'd made the decision to head south just after Clermont Ferrand: he had to get to Provence before Brossard made the hits! If Brossard made the hits, he was sunk: Betina had overheard him order them!

Minutes after the thought hit, he'd stopped and phoned Brossard's number. Fifteen minutes later, when he'd stopped for petrol, he'd phoned again. Still no Brossard or message. Brossard was probably already heading towards the targets.

'I'll aim to do both tonight.' Obviously Brossard didn't want to risk the hits in daylight. Duclos looked at his watch. Two and a half hours of daylight left. If Brossard wasn't contactable, would he make it down there by then?

If he could get there in time and they never happened, he could claim it had been Betina's neurotic ramblings. Faced with just the rest — the tenuous coin and psychic evidence and the questionable testimony of two child pimps — Thibault could still pull a few rabbits out of the hat. Perhaps Brossard could make a deal with Vacharet: his life for silence. Faced with just Aurillet, their chances in court were good.

Options, angles. Play, counter-play. Duclos' thoughts bounced between hope and desperation, skittering along a tightrope of possibilities as a bleep-bleep crashed in abruptly. Two kids had started playing on a nearby space wars machine. Duclos was nervous with them so close, but they paid him little attention. Bleep-bleep… zap… crash. Bleep-bleep... It was more the noise that grated, bringing his already fevered nerves to boiling pitch.

His hands were shaking uncontrollably. He'd eaten two thirds of the burger and a third of the fries. He put the burger down; suddenly he couldn't stomach another bite. He remembered another restaurant from thirty years ago, staring out at the boot of his car… wondering what to do with the boy inside...

And suddenly everything else around came crashing in: the space wars machine, the clatter of plates and cutlery, the noise and bustle… the news report coming up on the TV. People standing up and pointing, shouting: it's Duclos… Duclos! He's there… over there! The child murderer!

Duclos stood up abruptly, turned away. He was dizzy, disorientated for a moment, wasn't sure what he should be doing next. He felt like screaming help… Help!… out loud above the bleep-bleep of the space machine and the general clatter and commotion.

He was shaking, chill sweat and goose bumps on his skin. He started making his way out hurriedly, away from the noise, the people… then stopped abruptly by the prepared food display. He knew that he couldn't go through this ordeal again of sitting in a cafe with people around. He grabbed five packs of wrapped sandwiches, three bags of crisps and a large bottled water and dumped them on the check out.

Wry smile from the girl at the mountain of food as she totted it up.

'Large family in the car,' he smiled back. But he was sure it came out wrong.

He could feel her eyes still on him as he moved away. He looked at his watch: 5.57pm. In a few minutes the news item would come up… and then everyone would be staring! A moment's recognition, and the girl would reach for the phone, start dialling the police…

Help. Help? It was then that he remembered Marchand's words: '… if you should feel the need for additional help. Just call. It's just so that you know that if the worst comes to the worst, you have friends out there. People who will help you.'

But he knew that he couldn't risk making the call to Switzerland from there, risk the news item coming up and someone grabbing his shoulder while he was still on the phone. And still he had to hope that he could make it down to Provence in time to stop Brossard.

The view along the Bussaglia coastline was breathtaking. Rugged and undulating mountains, a rich green shroud of Mediterranean pines clinging to sheer rock against the azure sea.

But Francois Vacharet hardly looked at the view from the villa's front terrace; his eyes were pinned to the short snake-like stretch of road far below. The only warning of a car approaching.

The road led to only nine villas. Courchon had already told him all the regular cars to expect: he'd written them down on a piece of paper. Any cars sighted not on the list and he would race in and warn Courchon — then head across the road. Twenty metres along steps meandered down the cliffside to a small shingle beach and a boat house cut in under the rock. Courchon would greet whoever it was, then come down and tell Vacharet when they had gone.

Vacharet had mentioned his concern about the other hit to Courchon. Duclos was out of control, partly unhinged.

Courchon hissed in breath sharply when he heard who the target was. 'Jesus. Could be trouble. Duclos doesn't have to live in Marseille, you do.' Courchon went on to explain the problem wasn't just with the police, but with the local milieu.

Vacharet's heart sank as he envisioned years on the run, of him having to sell his clubs and property without returning to Marseille. If he lived that long. For now, his main worry was surviving the next few days. Being stalked by the hit man he'd originally introduced? He might have found the irony amusing if he wasn't so desperately frightened. Brossard was an unstoppable killing machine. As far as he knew, had never missed a contract.

He jumped at practically every noise or car sighting on the road below. Only three had so far approached: all local villa owners. But what was he going to do as it became dark — sit out there all night? Even if he did, the road was unlit: there would be no warning except noise, indiscernible from any of the other owner's cars.

But seeing his concern, at least Courchon had offered one ray of hope. 'I've got some good contacts in the milieu. I can certainly clear your name on that front of any repercussions. They'll be pleased too of the warning.'

Great. So Brossard might still get to him, but at least he'd die with a clean bill of health as far as the milieu were concerned. Comforting.

Vacharet's nerves tensed. A white car was snaking its way along the road below. He trained the binoculars: Citroen BS. There was only one on the list: metallic grey. Vacharet darted inside to warn Courchon.

'Where is he now?'

'Heading down towards Provence,' said Marchand. 'Apparently he's hoping to meet up with someone there urgently.' Marchand hadn't asked why, nor did Duclos offer any explanation. Duclos' call had come only minutes after Marchand had seen him on the Geneva news: fifth item on, though he was sure it was the top story in France. Minister on the run.

Marchand had spent the last few minutes explaining the sorry mess. At the other end, Miguel Perello was thoughtful. They'd only met once before, in Panama. Perello ran the Panama associate office of a California-based law firm. That was what had made Marchand suspect it was a consortium of California bio-tech companies trying to throw the EU debate. Though it could equally be the Japanese using a California linked company as a smokescreen. All Marchand knew was that they were happy when the finger was pointed at the Greens. Industry protectionism at its best: knock an $8 billion hole in a rival market by swinging a crucial debate.

'Sounds messy,' Perello said. 'Duclos could be too much of a loose cannon now. Too dangerous.'

'I thought that was the whole idea of offering him help if things went wrong. Get him away from the whole mess.'

'Yes, of course.' Moment's silence. Crackling on the line between Panama and Geneva. 'But how long can we effectively ensure a safe haven for a prominent figure such as Duclos? It might be worth considering again the other option we discussed.'

Marchand went cold. The subject had come up at the same time they'd discussed offering Duclos help to get away. Marchand had voiced his protest strongly: Duclos suddenly killed in the midst of such a high profile investigation, however well disguised as an accident, could rebound badly. Too risky. He re-iterated the protest now.

'I know. But now look at others like Medecin,' Perello commented. 'Every so often he makes the threat of coming back to France and telling all, bringing everyone else down with him if his hand is forced. I'm not sure my people would be happy with that sort of threat hanging over them indefinitely.'

'I still don't like it.' But the protest now sounded lame.

Perello sensed Marchand's discomfort with the thought of Duclos being hit. Swiss lawyers: watches, chocolate and money. No blood. He shifted its portent to one side. 'It's certainly not a decision that would be taken lightly, or right at this moment. And whatever's finally decided, it should in any case appear that we wish to help Duclos escape. So let us keep our eye on that for now.'

Marchand was once again a willing participant. They discussed a few options before deciding: private aircraft to Portugal, scheduled airline under new identity from there. Perello confirmed fund lines and they divided duties for the final arrangements.

When Duclos phoned forty minutes later as arranged, from somewhere near Avignon, Marchand gave him an airfield name and time: Luc et du Cannet. 10 pm. 'The pick-up will be quick. Three minutes at most. You'll know it's him because he won't show lights the last few hundred metres of descent.'

Moudeux tried to shield his mobile from the echoing bustle of the airport and the intermittent tannoy. 'I see. Yeah. Yeah… So no show on Vacharet? Yeah. One moment.' He turned to Dominic, sensed his eagerness to be brought up to date. 'The local police called. Courchon met them at the door. Said he hadn't seen anything of Vacharet. They searched the villa anyway, asked a few questions such as was Courchon aware of any other friends Vacharet had on the island — but blanks at every turn. They left. Bennacer's asking what you want the local police to do next — if anything.'

Dominic nodded and held out his hand. Moudeux passed him the phone. 'Did the police believe him or do they think he was covering up?'

'They thought he acted a bit cagey — but nothing too suspicious.'

Dominic glanced up at the flicker board. Fourteen minutes left to boarding. No Duclos. No Vacharet. Deafening tannoy bombarding what few clear thoughts remained. Hustle, bustle. Everyone heading somewhere — except them. Yet another dead end. Dominic's eyes darted, searching for inspiration; but all that crashed in was people, noise, suitcases, cameras, flight bags. Finally: 'Get the local police to head back out to Courchon's and park fifty metres down the road. Sit there a couple of hours — then knock again on Courchon's door. Vacharet might yet show, or at least it might rattle Courchon into remembering something.' But it was mainly because it felt wrong just giving up on Vacharet, and Dominic couldn't think of a better plan.

'Okay. I'll phone them back. Are you catching the flight still?'

'I don't know yet. There's still a few minutes to decide.' Though Dominic knew the answer already. They'd headed to the airport because if positive news on Vacharet came through, no time was left to catch the next flight. But Corsica without Vacharet had little appeal. Too remote if…

Cameras! The thought suddenly spun back. Dominic's eyes fixed on another passing tourist with a Pentax slung over one shoulder. He was only half listening as Bennacer signed off. 'Yes, fine,' he mumbled. Thoughts clearing, focusing. His breath caught slightly in his throat as they finally gelled. Fresh adrenalin rush after the disappointment of Vacharet. Fresh hope. He tapped out straightaway to Lepoille's number.

Lepoille had phoned while he was en route between Aix and Marseille: company traced that Duclos had leased under two years ago, but nothing registered since. He would keep looking.

'Still nothing,' Lepoille confirmed. He sounded resigned, defeated. 'I just don't think it's been registered yet.'

'Don't worry. I think I might have hit on a solution. Cameras!' Silence from Lepoille. Dominic explained: 'Apparently Duclos' home has been dogged by the press the last few weeks. When he made his break, no doubt a few will have tried to get a clear shot of him. One of them might at the same time have caught his registration number. Quick enlargement, and we've got it!'

Lepoille agreed: chances were reasonable to good. 'I'll get on it straightaway.'

Five main national papers. It shouldn't take long to find out who was outside Duclos' gate that afternoon.

Milieu crime boss Andre Girouves listened carefully as his lieutenant related the message from Courchon in Corsica.

'And this other club owner, his friend Vacharet, is the one involved with Duclos and Brossard?' Girouves clarified.

'Yes. Vacharet apparently recommended Duclos to Brossard for something else years ago.'

Girouves pondered. Everything was clear so far: Duclos had involved Vacharet in a scheme which had backfired, and now Duclos was using Brossard to bury the traces. Standard practice. Even high flying politicians weren't too different to himself, he mused. He'd seen the Duclos items on the news. Politician fallen from grace. Loved it.

They were in one of Girouves' favourite cafes on Quai de la Tourette. To one side was his main business adviser, to the other a lumbering lieutenant serving as bodyguard. Business talks over late afternoon coffee and pastis.

'But it's the other hit planned which was the main reason for Courchon's call,' his lieutenant said. He shuffled nervously, looked down slightly as he told Girouves who it was.

Girouves' eyes closed for a moment. He rubbed his forehead with one hand. Courchon was right to have warned them. A Chief Inspector's wife! The repercussions could be enormous.

Part of the strength of the crime empire Girouves had built up along the coast the past two decades had been stability. A departure from the muddied dividing lines and power-vacuum struggles of the seventies. And part of that stability had been gained through not crossing certain lines with the police. No more Bar du Telephon massacres.

Even amongst their own was the strict rule of never involving family in hits. A Chief Inspector's wife hit by a regular milieu freelancer? Favours would be cancelled, clubs and bars raided, licences revoked, all suspected milieu businesses would come under brutal scrutiny. The clock could be set back years.

Brossard? If it had been practically anyone else, he could have just picked up the phone and said 'don't go ahead.' But Brossard prided himself on fierce independence, wouldn't swear allegiance to either side. No gang war hits, only internal enforcement or external contracts — Brossard worked all sides with equal ease. A true independent professional.

Girouves asked a few questions about the hit, but his lieutenant knew little beyond what he'd already passed on. 'Okay. Phone Courchon straight back. Try and pump him for more information.'

Girouves took a quick slug of pastis as his lieutenant dialled out on his mobile. If they didn't learn more from Courchon, he'd have to get a few men busy phoning around. Monique Fornier? Shouldn't be too hard to find out where she was. Then he would probably have to call Tomi. The only person he knew that would stand any chance against Brossard.

… In a world full of people, there's only some want to fly because they're not crazy… they're not crazy… crazy… Ohooho. Now we're never gonna survive, unlesss…

Brossard rapped his hands on the steering wheel to the pounding beat. He particularly liked the organ backbeat, the way it seemed to slip away… his finger tensing on the trigger, shadows of figures falling back as he fired… slipping away. But he could never picture any of their faces. Probably best. No ghosts.

Dented and rusty Citroen Dianne which had seen better days. Nobody would pay him any attention. He'd chosen a blue workman's overall which was worn and slightly stained from field work. He'd used it for a hit six years ago, though this time he chose a white cap instead of a beret, turning the peak so that it covered the back of his neck. Favoured uniform of so many fieldworkers. He planned to stay low in the fields, but if by chance somebody saw him, he would blend in.

Brossard pulled the Dianne into a track in the woodland that bordered the back of the field. To anyone passing, a farmer or someone having a woodland picnic. He turned off the cassette player, took a knapsack out of the car and headed deeper into the woods. Instead of sandwiches, inside the knapsack was a Llama.357 Magnum with silencer, binoculars and infra red night goggles. After eighty metres the woods cleared and the field lay ahead.

To one side were a few olive and carob trees, but most of the field was long grass, now starting to yellow with the summer heat. At the end of the field, two hundred metres away, was a short stone wall, and beyond that the farmhouse.

Brossard walked ten paces into the long grass and sat down with his knapsack. As soon as it was dark, he would move in. The sun was already low, threatening to fall behind the westerly ridge beyond the farmhouse. It would be dark soon.

Vacharet watched the gentle surf lapping against the beach. Half pebble, half sand, it was no more than fifteen metres wide, nestled under the sheer rock face above.

Vacharet sat inside the boat shelter at the back of the beach. Cut in under a heavy rock overhang, he was completely concealed from the road above.

Lap, swish. Lap, swish. Soothing at first, now after more than half an hour, the sound was driving him mad. What could have happened with Courchon? Fifteen minutes after Courchon had first come down to give him the all clear, the same police car was snaking its way back up the road again.

What was Courchon doing — letting them camp the night? Or perhaps they'd taken him down to the station for questioning. Vacharet sighed heavily. The first grey and red wisps of sunset were showing on the horizon. He could end up on the beach half the night without knowing what had happened.

He pictured the police pacing around, firing question after question at Courchon… at the villa or down at the station? It was immaterial. The police were obviously determined, and in the end would catch up with him. Courchon might have cleared the slate with the milieu, but with the police it would be a different matter. He would have to stay away for months, longer if…

The realization suddenly hit him like a hammer. At first, he'd clung to the hope that Brossard would head first for Monique Fornier. That might at least give him a bit more breathing space. But now it hit him that he could be implicated. He'd recommended Duclos to Brossard! Being involved with the ruse with Aurillet was one thing — but conspiring to murder a Chief Inspector's wife? They would throw away the key.

Perhaps if he helped them, warned them in some way. But what if Brossard had already made the hit, and his call merely confirmed his knowledge of it, his involvement?

Vacharet came out from his hideaway below the rocks and looked thoughtfully at the steps winding up to the road above.

'What time was he there?' Lepoille asked.

'Got there about ten in the morning. Normally the time they might show to do some shopping — if they're going to come out at all. Which has been rare.'

Third on Lepoille's list: Gaston Contarge, Pictures Editor at Le Figaro. He'd already crossed out Le Monde and Le Matin. 'So he was there when Duclos made his break?'

'Yep. Got the whole thing. It'll be front page of tomorrow's edition.'

A tingle of anticipation ran down Lepoille's spine. He told Contarge what he wanted, and why.

Contarge was quick to mirror Lepoille's excitement. Breathless, slightly hoarse: 'Amazing. Look, I'll check with the editor — but I'm sure we'll help. The only thing he might ask is an exclusive for our part in all this. Any objections?'

'No. Not as far as I can see. I've got three more newspapers on my list. Whoever comes up with the photo first, gets the story. Seems fair enough.'

Lepoille smiled as he hung up. He knew that Contarge would be sprinting for the darkroom.

He phoned Dominic straightaway with the news. 'Three more to phone, but at least we've got one hopeful already.'

Dominic was on the motorway just approaching Gardanne, fifteen minutes out from Marseille. He'd stayed at the airport bar with Moudeux for a coffee and brandy while waiting on news, then decided to head back to Vidauban. With Duclos and Vacharet by now anywhere in France, it was as good a command centre as any. 'That's great news. Let me know the minute anything comes up. I'm heading back to Vidauban, but you can ring at any time. I'll be up till late waiting on news.'

Eight minutes later when his mobile rang again, he thought it might be Lepoille with an update. But it was Bennacer. His voice was urgent, frantic.

'Dominic! We just had a call seconds ago from Corsica. We now know the hit man's second target. And brace yourself, Dominic. It's Monique. Your wife, Monique. She's the other target!'

Numbness. Then blind fear, rage. 'When?' Dominic asked tremulously.

'Vacharet didn't know. Any time — it could have even happened already. Look — I'll mobilize the nearest station straightaway, get someone out there…'

But Dominic was hardly listening. A quick mumbled, 'Fine,' a pounding in his head drowning out all else as he pushed his foot flat to the floor… 150… 160… 170… 180kmph.

As he flashed past cars and trucks at breackneck speed, he dialled out his home number at Vidauban. But it was engaged.

Bennacer looked briefly at a wall map, and phoned the station house at Draguignan. It was on an answerphone. He slammed the phone down and dialled Toulon.

Girls voice: 'Un moment. Ne quittez pas.' Then a radio operator checking positions as Bennacer explained what he needed and stressed the urgency.

'The nearest car we have is just outside Cuers. They're engaged now, but should be free in five or ten minutes. Otherwise we'll have to pull someone up from the motorway section this side of Sollies Pont.'

'How many men in the Sollies Pont car?'

'Two.'

Two rookies up against an expert hit man? 'Send both cars. Dispatch them now! And warn them: they could be up against some heavy firepower.' Bennacer glanced back at the map. In fifteen, twenty minutes they should be there.

Dominic's speed held steady at just under 190kmph. With any luck, he should be there in just under fifteen minutes. His lights had been on for the last ten minutes, and now he flashed wildly at anyone in his way.

The last grey-red remnants of twilight faded over the hills in his rear view mirror. Beyond the beam of his headlights was pitch darkness.