CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Stefan, it seemed, had managed to make himself a duplicate key to the filing cabinets in Drucker’s office, and over a period of several nights had trawled the files uninterrupted, scavenging information which he had hoped one day to sell. Of the five residents, two had been genuine government employees being treated for stress, according to the records, and sedated throughout their stay.

‘But that was a lie,’ Stefan muttered. ‘They were like zombies. I tried talking to them, but it was as if they’d been lobotomised. Then I saw their history notes.’

‘What did they say?’ Rocco asked.

‘A lot. Some kind of shell shock, according to the notes, and severe intestinal problems due to bacteriological infections. They’d been attached to our embassy in the Central African Republic, on “strategic affairs”, and got taken hostage by rebel groups opposed to French activities in the region. They were tortured until a ransom was paid, but only after they’d had both hands amputated. The notes said that could never be made public, probably because it would reflect badly on the embassy negotiators for having delayed paying up.’

‘Who else?’

‘Apart from me, you mean? Well, there was just one. His file name was Tourlemain. Jules Tourlemain.’ Stefan grinned without humour, showing nicotine-stained teeth. ‘How’s that for a made-up name? You’d have thought they could try harder than that.’

‘But you got his real one, of course.’ Stefan was keeping the best for last, which was where the bartering would begin. This was just a taster.

‘What’s it worth, Rocco? You can’t expect me to give up what I know without something in return. Without my help you’d have nothing. And don’t tell me that slimy worm Levignier will help you. He’s part of this whole business.’ He gave a sly smile, like a kid wanting to trade secrets in the schoolyard, building up what he had ready for the big reveal.

Rocco decided to play along with him. ‘Give me a flavour, as a sign of good faith.’

Stefan blinked a couple of times, then glanced at Desmoulins. But there was no help there. ‘All right. I know what Simon Ardois is. Was.’

‘So do I,’ said Rocco roughly. ‘He’s a dead man.’

‘OK. What he used to do, then. His real name was Simon Rotenbourg. He was a civil servant working in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, on trade matters.’

‘Go on.’

‘He wasn’t a patient, though. He was a prisoner. He’d been accused of spying.’ Stefan sat back and waited, a hint of smugness around his mouth.

‘I know.’

‘What?’ Stefan looked stunned. ‘How could you?’

‘Because I spoke to Pascal, his brother. He told me all about the trade talks. Is that all you’ve got?’

‘No. Wait … that’s not all.’ Suddenly Stefan was desperately trying to justify what he had, searching for something else to trade, his chins wobbling as he became more animated. ‘I spoke to him one time,’ he said quickly, leaning forward, ‘in his room. The nurse had gone downstairs and left his door open. All he could tell me was that he’d tried to expose a massive case of fraud by government negotiators backed by big industry, but nobody would listen to him.’ He reached out a hand. ‘Listen, this is true, I promise. He was mumbling … something to do with the Chinese being a preferred partner to Taiwan, and officials in the Foreign Ministry being paid to swing the vote towards Peking. I couldn’t make much sense of it … but it was like he’d cracked under the pressure. But it was most likely the drugs they’d put him on to keep him quiet.’

So Pascal had been right.

‘Not that he would have been surprised by what happened in the end,’ Stefan finished. He seemed suddenly drained, as if he’d used all his energy to get the words out.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I got into his room again two nights before he was killed. He was virtually immobilised with drugs and couldn’t get out of bed. He’d soiled himself and was rambling on about how they were going to kill him. It was the only way they could keep him quiet, he said, to shut him up for good. He said it was going to be a quiet execution, and there was nothing he could do to stop them.’ Stefan looked shaken by having to recount the incident, a line of sweat beading his forehead, and for the first time, Rocco believed what he was saying.

‘Did he say anything else? Who was doing it to him?’

‘No. I said he should tell Drucker. I mean, I was trying to help him out but what did I know? He said Drucker was a patsy, scared of his own shadow, that he was there as a public face. But he was resigned to his fate. He was just waiting for the moment when they came to kill him.’

It sounded too brutal, too authentic to be made up, or the result of some drug-induced fantasy. There were some things, Rocco reflected, that simply didn’t need embellishing. This, he guessed, was one. Whether Rotenbourg himself had imagined the threat or not, Stefan had believed him sufficiently not to try colouring it further. Because of that, it carried the chilling tone of reality.

‘But you didn’t hear or see anything else that night?’

‘No, I told you at the time. I never heard a thing until I woke up with all the shouting and noise. But that wouldn’t have been from the pool, would it?’

‘No. It wouldn’t. But now you’ve had time to think about it, is there anything else you can remember?’

Stefan shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t know anything until I saw Simon in the pool … and you standing there.’ He looked up, his eyes wet. ‘For a moment, when I first saw you there, and the body, I thought you were the Angel of Death.’ He looked down at his hands, which were shaking. ‘God, I’m so sick of all this.’

‘So tell me the rest,’ said Rocco softly. ‘Get it off your chest.’

There was a brief hesitation, then Stefan said, ‘The other patient, Tourlemain; he wasn’t a nice man. He pretended to take his drugs, too, but not all the time.’ Stefan’s voice had dropped, as if he’d run out of the will to barter further. ‘I hated him. Or maybe I was scared of him. He was a brute … a bully. The security guard, Paulus? He was there to keep him in line … and protect him.’

‘Explain.’

‘Tourlemain boasted once that his life was in danger … that he’d got a big price on his head and there were people who’d like to see him dead. He acted as if it was something to be proud of. He was a gangster. I don’t know about these things, but he had this aura … a kind of power. He scared me — and I think he frightened Drucker a lot, too. Every now and then some men would come to talk to him. They’d take him into a back room and be there for a couple of hours. The day before, they’d reduce his drugs so he could talk, but give him just enough to keep him subdued. And Paulus would be there, of course, to lean on him.’

‘Who were the men who came to see him?’

‘I don’t know. We were all kept out of the way when they came. But I recognised the type.’

‘Type?’

‘Cops. But not ordinary ones, in uniform.’ Stefan looked at him. ‘Men like you.’

‘So who was he?’

Stefan hesitated one last time, then gave a huge sigh. ‘The name in the record file said Bruno Betriano.’

Rocco’s blood went cold at the name, and Desmoulins swore quietly in the background. No wonder Stefan and Drucker had been scared of him. Bruno ‘The Bear’ Betriano was a ruthless gang leader born and raised in the slums of Marseilles. He’d long had a brutal grip over much of the trafficking through that port of drugs, people and arms, and had been bad news for years, a thorn in the side of the authorities and competitors alike. Yet the police had had little success in bringing him to book, for which there was, to most observers’ minds, only one rational explanation: Betriano had local politicians and policemen in his pocket. Yet nothing had been proved.

He was untouchable.

And like Stefan Devrye-Martin, he was supposed to be dead.

‘What happened to the others in this new place?’

‘No idea. Probably where I left them. I didn’t believe what we were being told, not after seeing the way Simon ended up, so I left. As soon as everyone was asleep I walked and kept walking. I had some money and managed to contact a friend, and ended up here.’ He sighed. ‘Fat lot of good it did me.’

‘Did they say why they’d moved you from the Clos du Lac?’

Stefan shook his head. ‘Not really. But I heard one of them saying that they needed to clear the place out and start afresh … and something about getting one of the rooms ready.’

‘Ready for what?’

‘I don’t know. But I bet some other poor bastard was going to find out soon enough.’

While Rocco was questioning Stefan, a telephone call was being patched through to an extension in the depths of the Interior Ministry. It was picked up by Delombre.

‘Where are you?’ he said, when he heard the name of the caller, then listened as the man told him about keeping watch on Rocco as he’d been instructed, and how Rocco and another man had driven fast from Amiens to Pontoise. They had parked out of sight before entering a house in the Rue des Noces, Rocco via the front, the other man through the rear.

‘When was this?’

‘About thirty minutes ago.’

Damn. Delombre swore silently. There could only be one reason for Rocco to have gone anywhere at high speed. Devrye-Martin. Had to be. And he’d had more than enough time to lean on the little fat man and squeeze whatever he knew out of him. This business was fast running out of control. Levignier should have let him deal with Rocco earlier, for once and for all. ‘You should have called sooner. They’re still there?’

‘Yes. Sorry, but I’m working alone—’

‘Forget it. Did you see who they called on?’

‘No. Whoever it was kept too far back, like he was frightened to show his face. Or her. I’ll ask around.’

‘Don’t bother.’ Delombre smiled, grimly satisfied in one respect: Rocco had led them right to Devrye-Martin’s door, just as he’d hoped.

‘What do you want me to do?’ his man asked.

‘Stay on them and call me when they leave. Don’t blow your cover.’

He put down the phone and checked a wall map, then dialled an internal number. After issuing brief instructions, he opened a desk drawer and took out a semi-automatic pistol in a holster and strapped it on.

About 30 kilometres to Pontoise. Allowing for traffic, his men should be there in less than half an hour. It might be tight, depending on how much talking Devrye-Martin was doing. But even if Rocco left before they got there, there was only one road he could be taking back to Amiens. It was time to apply a bit of pressure to the country cop; to frighten him into backing off. And no matter what Levignier said, if things got a little heated in the process, and someone caught a bullet … well, too bad.

As for himself, he was in no hurry. Pontoise was a leisurely drive away. It was time to do what he was good at.

That was to make sure the little pervert Devrye-Martin never spoke to anyone ever again.

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