The Accident Man

45

Papin stood at the foot of the steps in front of the ancient cathedral. It was four minutes past five. No one had arrived. Or perhaps they had. Perhaps he’d been set up and they were watching him now, waiting to see where he went next, trying to get their hands on the goods for free.

He gazed across the square. He didn’t see the man with the shaven head, holding a metal briefcase, walk out of the cathedral’s main door and head down toward him. He didn’t know the man was there until he felt the crushing weight of a hand on his shoulder and heard a voice behind him growl, “Charlie sends regards,” in a Russian accent that made it sound like, “Chully syends rigards.”

Papin gave a twitch of surprise and turned around to face his contact. He had been expecting an Englishman, or perhaps a Swiss, at any rate someone with whom he could conduct business in a civilized fashion. But this Russian just stood there, massive and brutish, gazing at Papin with blank implacability.

A few seconds passed in silence, then the Russian said, “Okay, wrong man,” and took a step back up the steps.

“No! No! Right man!” Papin exclaimed, suddenly panicked. “I hope Charlie is well!”

Grigori Kursk looked at him, shook his head, spat on the ground, then grunted, “Yeah, is better now.”

Papin glanced down at the case. “Do you have the money?”

Kursk gave a single nod.

“Give me the first installment.”

“Don’t understand.”

“The money, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Give it to me.”

“Not here. Everyone see. In car. We go to car.”

Kursk walked away. Papin waited a couple of seconds, then followed him over to a black BMW parked on the uphill side of the square. There were three men inside, crammed into the backseat.

“I said no backup. Just me and you. No one else,” Papin insisted.

Kursk opened the passenger door. “In!” he commanded.

The Frenchman knew that it had all gone wrong. There would be no money in the case. The only issue now was his own survival. If he tried to run, he had no doubt the Russian would follow him and kill him. But he still had the information they needed. As long as he could keep it from them, that would be his edge.

Kursk glared at him. “Okay. Now where to go?”

Papin said nothing.

Kursk kept his left hand draped on the wheel. But the right reached out, gripped Papin around the neck, and started squeezing. Papin writhed in his seat, trying to escape the Russian’s grasp. But it made no difference. He could not break free and the effort just made him suffocate even faster. Surely the man had to stop. Surely he wouldn’t kill him now. Papin was desperate for breath, the blood pounding in his ears, his eyes popping, vision blurring. Still the fist closed around his neck. He could feel his vocal cards being crushed by the pressure. When his resistance finally gave way, he could only croak, “Okay… okay… I’ll tell you.”

At last the hand relaxed. Papin’s chest heaved as he dragged air into his lungs, each breath burning like poison gas as it passed through his ravaged throat. “Go to the end of the road, turn right.” He gestured feebly to show what he meant. Kursk started the car and began to drive.

They turned right across a small square and weaved their way along a series of narrow, intersecting cobblestoned streets. Finally, Papin pointed to the side of the road. There was a parking space. “Pull up behind that red car,” he said. The BMW came to a halt alongside the curb.

Papin turned his head toward Kursk. The Russian regarded him with the cloudy, dead-fish stare of a man incapable of remorse.

“Across the road,” Papin said. “You see the alley? It’s through there. He has the top apartment.”

“Are they in apartment?”

“No.”

“They come back?”

“Yes, I think so. Tonight, maybe.”

“Is only one way in?”

“I think so.”

Papin slumped back in his seat. The exhaustion that had weighed on him all day seemed to be dragging him down, robbing him of any energy or will. When Kursk reached out again, both hands this time, Pierre Papin hardly moved a muscle as his life ebbed away.

When it was over, Kursk got out of the car. He stood on the cobblestones, leaning on the BMW as he lit a cigarette and looked up and down the street. It was deserted. He gazed up at the buildings around him. There were no faces at any windows, no sign that he was being observed, just some kids playing in front of a café down the street.

He knocked on the rear window and waited as it rolled down.

“Okay,” he said to the men in the backseat. “Time you did some work.”

In the passenger seat of a car parked at the end of the little side street, a man was looking through the hefty telephoto lens of a high-res digital camera. His finger was pressed to the shutter. The camera was on a sports setting, the shutter whirring, firing off several shots a second. Next to him a woman spoke into a mobile phone. “Two of them have crossed the street. They’re going up to an apartment building. I think they just forced the front door. I can see the Frenchman in the front seat of the car, but he’s not moving. I’m pretty sure they’ve killed him.”

Grantham sighed. “That stupid, greedy bastard. Well, he can’t say he wasn’t told.”

“What do you want us to do, sir?”

“Nothing. Just keep watching. We offered Papin our help, and he wouldn’t take it. That’s his problem. Our priority remains what it always was. We keep watching.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Good. Keep me informed of any further developments.”

“Absolutely.”

Jennifer Stock hung up and put the phone back in her handbag.

“Just spoken to the boss,” she said to the photographer. “He says forget the Frenchman. Get those shots through to London. Then carry on as you were. Wait and watch.”

Stock wriggled in discomfort. It was hot inside the car. Her blouse and skirt were getting creased against the seat. She cursed under her breath. If she’d known she was going to spend half the day on a stakeout, she’d have worn a T-shirt and trousers.