Deadlock

11

Klein was also up early. He had stayed overnight at the Hotel Roi Rene in Aix-en-Provence. Never linger at the same place for more than twenty-four hours. That defeated the system of hotel registration the French employed -with the police calling for their copies of the registration form during the night.

He drove off at six for his appointment in Cassis, the small resort east of Marseilles. He arrived at the iron grille gates of the luxurious villa overlooking the sea at 7.30 a.m. A guard checked his passport, then operated the mechanism which opened the gates. Who would dream that the head of the local Union Corse lived in a place like this?

Emilio Perugini was waiting for him in a lounging chair by the side of the obligatory status symbol, a swimming pool. A large Alsatian swam in the water, heading for a rubber ball the small fat man in the chair had thrown.

'Sit down, Mr Klein. What can I do for you?'

'Find me a specialist with very specific qualifications. For a fee.'

Klein handed the fat envelope containing two hundred thousand French francs to the tanned man with brown hair and a face like that of a cadaver. Perugini opened the envelope, made a quick flip through the banknotes, dropped the envelope on the table as though it were nothing.

'What qualifications, Mr Klein?'

'Someone you can spare for several months. An expert with a hand-gun, an automatic weapon, a knife, also,' he added as though an afterthought, 'a first-rate scuba diver.'

'You don't ask for much, do you?'

'I pay quite a lot. It's a while since we last met – but you will have what I need, I know.'

'The hand-gun, the automatic weapon, the knife. He is a hard man you're wanting?'

Dressed in a white shirt open at the front and shorts, Perugini reached for a bottle of red wine, Klein shook his head and the Union Corse chief refilled his own glass. He patted his fat belly, sprawled short thick legs under the table as the Alsatian dropped the ball by his side.

The animal stared at Klein, bared his teeth and gave a snarl. Klein turned and gazed straight at the animal. He pushed his chair back a few inches. 'Cesar doesn't like you,' Perugini remarked. The dog backed away when Klein half-rose from his chair, gave a low yelp and flopped some distance away.

'Yes, a hard man,' Klein said, sitting down again. 'And he needs to have experience with explosives…'

Perugini threw his bony head back and laughed contemptuously, a weird cackling sound. 'All that for two hundred thousand francs! And my man is out of action for several months? You must be joking…'

Klein took out another fat envelope, tossed it on the table, waited. Perugini regarded it without touching it, drank more wine.

'How much in there?'

'Another two hundred thousand…'

'Double it and I may help…'

'Nonsense time is over.'

Klein's tone was cold, bleak. He reached forward under the low table, wrenched something attached to the under surface and produced a miniature tape recorder. His long fingers tore out the recorded tape reel, he turned to the dog and hurled the reel far out into the pool. Cesar dived in, swam underneath, came up with the mangled tape in his teeth.

'You shouldn't have done that,' Perugini snapped. 'I only have to flick my fingers and a couple of my boys come out that villa.' He waved a hand across the beach. 'The sea is wide and deep. A weighted corpse stays down forever…'

'Except that neither of us would be around for it to happen.'

'What does that mean?' Perugini asked, his eyes hooded.

'See those wooded hills behind your film-star villa?' Klein waved his own hand. 'Four men are up there, two watching us with field-glasses ever since I arrived. The other two have rocket launchers. We'd end up as jelly.'

'You're bluffing.' Perugini sounded uncertain, glanced up at the woods.

'Want to risk it?'

'OK.' Perugini had reached his position of power by taking fast decisions, by never taking unnecessary risks. 'You get your man – for the fee on the table. Louis Chabot. He is based in Marseilles. Here is the address.' He produced a crumpled notebook from his back pocket, scribbled on it, tore out the sheet and handed it to his guest. He was anxious to get rid of Klein. Something about the man's eyes disturbed him. He checked the second envelope, tossed it back on the table.

'Is that it, Klein?'

'Not quite. My fee buys absolute silence. See that rock sticking up out of the sea?'

Klein stood up, raised his right hand, dropped it in a chopping movement. There was a whooshing sound. Then a loud bang. Perugini stared at the rock where the explosion had happened. The top half had vanished, splinters of rock splattered the sea.

'Don't ever threaten me again,' Klein said and left.

Klein climbed the worn stone steps of the evil-smelling tenement building behind the Old Port to the first floor. The plaster was crumbling between the stonework. He paused outside the old heavy wooden door to Number Eleven. No sound from inside.

Using the phone number Perugini had scribbled on the scrap of paper with the address, he'd called Chabot, made an appointment for 11.30 a.m. It was now eleven o'clock. Klein liked to arrive early. You sometimes learned important things about a new recruit by catching them off guard. He rapped loudly on the door.

'Who the hell is it?' a man's voice called out in French.

'I phoned you earlier…'

'And you're early.' The door had opened on a thick chain, a swarthy, heavy-jowled face peered out. Naked to the flat waist. Trousers hastily thrown on. The man called to someone over his shoulder. 'Get dressed, get out…'

'No names,' Klein warned as the man unfastened the chain, gestured for him to come inside. 'You are Louis Chabot?'

'That's me.'

'You'll know who I come from then.' Klein handed him the scrap of paper when Chabot had relocked the door, glanced round the room.

'The mark at the bottom tells me.' He turned to the girl who had recently scrambled out of the bed against one wall. She'd had time to slip on her skirt, but like Chabot she was naked above the waist and had a pair of firm, rounded breasts. She stared saucily at Klein as she reached for a sweater, then pulled it over her head and slid her bare feet into shoes.

This is Cecile, my new girl,' Chabot introduced.

Her presence disturbed Klein: she'd had a good look at him, but he said nothing. Apart from the bed, which Cecile was hastily making up, the room was unexpectedly clean, neat.

Chabot put on a fresh striped shirt, buttoned it to the neck, then donned a linen jacket hanging over the back of a chair. On his instruction, Cecile took dirty glasses into the kitchen and washed them. She was a bottle blonde with a pretty gamine face and kept glancing at Klein when she was in the room.

He stood with his back to her, staring out of the window. It overlooked a jumble of ancient roofs on the far side of a narrow street. Lines of washing hung on makeshift clothes lines on flat rooftops, drying in the morning sun. Klein remained quite still as Cecile left.

'See you soon, dear,' Chabot called out to her. 'Don't do anything I would…'

'That's going to be a hell of a lot of fun.'

Then she was gone. Klein swung round, studied the Frenchman as he locked the door. About thirty, thick brown hair with brows to match, a hooked nose, pale blue eyes which didn't waver before his visitor's scrutiny, a brutal jaw. Heavily built, Chabot moved lightly on his small feet, his legs and arms long, his hands large, powerful-looking. Strangler's hands, Klein thought.

'Seen enough?' Chabot demanded. 'Want a drink?'

'Coffee.' He followed the Frenchman into the small kitchen. 'Who is that girl?'

'Cecile Lament. Hangs out at a bar along the street. The Wolf.' He was preparing cafe filtre. Klein said no milk, no sugar. 'It's our first week.' He glanced at Klein. 'If you have in mind what I think you have, she performs well. But only if she likes you. She likes you. Now, what's this all about? Do I measure up? You've been working that one out ever since you came in.'

'Know much about explosives?'

'Everything. Handle with care. Never trust them…'

'How did you get the knowledge?'

'Working in a stone quarry. Blasting rock. Everything I know I've learned legit. That way you don't get a police record.'

'Ever been inside?'

'Not a chance. Coffee's ready. Let's go into the other room, make ourselves comfortable…'

For ten minutes Klein grilled Chabot. At the end of that period he was convinced Perugini had not lied: this Frenchman had all the qualifications he needed. He nodded, his head turned slightly to the right.

'You'll do. On conditions…'

'Not so fast, Klein. What do I have to do. Kill a few people?'

'Maybe quite a lot…'

'You mean that?'

Klein didn't answer. With hands clad in white cotton gloves he had worn since leaving Aix, he took out an envelope, dropped it in Chabot's lap. 'Ten thousand francs. That's just for starters. And expenses.'

'What comes later?' Chabot was counting the banknotes.

Two hundred thousand. Used notes, of course.'

'What's the job?'

'That's part of the two hundred thousand. You don't get any more information until you need to know. And we work in cells of no more than three people. There will be a lot of cells – it's a security precaution. Which also protects you.'

'Does make it safer. You seem well organized.'

That was the moment when Klein knew Chabot was hooked. But the swarthy-faced man had one more question. 'It isn't political?'

Klein smiled grimly, a smile which did nothing to soften the coldness of his personality. He shook his head, gave his final instructions.

'I said there were conditions. You vanish. From Marseilles, I mean. No goodbyes to old cronies…'

'I don't have them. And if you're worried about Perugini – I work freelance. He hires me as bodyguard from time to time. At least six people want to take over from him, know the only way they can is to bury him. He told you I was freelance?'

Klein nodded. Perugini, the bastard, had omitted that interesting item – to push up his fee. Klein told Chabot to start packing while he completed the instructions. The Frenchman hauled a case out of a cupboard, began neatly packing clothes as Klein continued.

'You travel by train today to Luxembourg City. Second-class. Go via Lyon, then Mulhouse – where you pick up the express for Luxembourg City.' He tossed another envelope across to Chabot who caught it deftly and waited for Klein to finish. 'Inside that envelope you'll find the route I outlined typed out. Plus a phone number. Call that number from Mulhouse. Ask for Bernard. Tell him what time your train reaches Luxembourg City. Nothing else. It's a Hotel Alsace you'll be calling. Bernard will phone the time through to the man who will meet you on the platform at Luxembourg City. Inside that envelope you'll also find a Cook's label. I've written on it, Brussels Midi, and circled it twice. You put that label on your case only when you board the express at Mulhouse. The label will identify you to the man waiting to meet you.'

'Wouldn't it be quicker to travel via Geneva and Basle – then straight up to Luxembourg?'

'Yes. But Swiss security is good. We'll avoid them. And the route I've laid down is all inside the Common Market. No checks.'

'Name of the man meeting me?'

'He'll know you.' Klein checked his watch. 'You've got thirty minutes to catch the train for Lyon. And that's it. No more questions. I hope?'

'Only one.' Chabot shut the case, snapped the catches closed. A man who didn't waste time. 'Curiosity,' he went on. 'Why wear those gloves in this bloody heat?'

'Because I have eczema. I dislike unsightly hands.' There was a pause. Klein's tone hardened. 'And curiosity in this game can kill you.'

Truly.' Chabot glanced at Klein, saw his stone-faced expression, looked away. 'I'll remember that. I'm off now…'

Klein left the room without a word. Perugini had not commented on the gloves. He'd known the reason why. To avoid leaving Klein's fingerprints on the envelopes. But that was why Perugini was living in a luxurious villa at Cassis, while Chabot occupied a tenement behind the harbour.

Klein returned to his car, drove slowly along the street until he passed Le Loup, the bar where Cecile hung out.

That gave him one more little task to attend to before he left Marseilles.

Eleven o'clock at night. Well after darkness had fallen. The bar, Le Loup, was packed with customers. Klein knew because earlier he'd peered through the bead curtain at the entrance. Cecile Lamont was perched on a bar stool, chatting to some man. He'd returned to his car parked a few metres away, climbed behind the wheel, and waited.

He was used to waiting, much as he hated it. It was 11.30 when Cecile came out, wobbling a little, and on her own – as he had hoped. He started the engine, drove after her and slowed alongside her.

'Cecile, care for dinner? Maybe a fun night? Up to you.'

He had his head poked out of the window and she recognized him instantly, which showed how wise he'd been to take this precaution. She jumped in, slammed the door, and he was driving off before she noticed how he was dressed.

'Why are you wearing that white coat?'

'Some fool in a bar spilt half a bottle of wine all over my best suit. Looked dreadful. The owner of the place loaned me this to cover up the mess. I'll change into a fresh suit at my apartment before we go on for dinner.'

'Where is this apartment?'

She lit the Gauloise after offering him the pack which he refused. They drove round the harbour and up the hill in the direction of Cassis. She looked at him when he didn't reply. He was a handsome bastard.

'Near Cassis,' he said eventually. 'I'm taking a short cut. Then we can get off to the restaurant…'

'I'm not too hungry yet – if you want to linger in your apartment.'

'We'll see.'

He swung off the main route on to a side road he'd explored earlier in the day. The car bounced about over the rough road, the wheels grinding over rocks. He came to the quarry which had been abandoned long ago, stopped the car.

'Got a present for you in the boot.'

Flowers, she thought. He's a gentleman, thinks of things like that. Unlike Louis. She followed him in the deserted night, thinking it was very quiet. He had opened the boot. She bent forward to see what was inside. Klein slipped the knife out of his sock, grasped her round the shoulders and slowly cut her throat from left ear to right. She gurgled, her blood spurted over his sleeve, down her front. He felt her go a dead weight. He lifted her and folded over her body the canvas sheet laid on the floor of the boot.

Half an hour later he dumped the canvas bundle in the sea, threw the screwed-up butcher's overall he'd worn after her. It had taken him three hours to find a shop where he could buy the overall to protect his suit. He drove back to Marseilles. He would continue north – towards Geneva. He felt satisfied. The problem of Cecile was dealt with. Never leave behind loose ends.