The Nostradamus File

CHAPTER FIVE

Marcel Sarti stepped out of his favorite restaurant into the Marseilles evening, lit a Gitane and gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. Blue smoke from the cigarette curled upward in lazy spirals in the still air. From here Marcel was heading to one of his clubs, where there were discrepancies in the finances. Sarti didn't like discrepancies. He'd found out who was responsible and now intended to send a graphic message to anyone else who might have creative accounting ideas. For the moment, he was enjoying the night air and the afterglow of an excellent meal. The unpleasantness to come would keep a little longer. A bodyguard stood by the open door of Sarti's black Mercedes.

Down the street, two men sat on a dark blue BMW motorcycle. The bike idled with a soft rumble. The passenger held a MAC-10 machine pistol concealed under his jacket. Both men wore full face black helmets with smoked visors. The man at the controls was named Eric. The man with the gun was called Peter.

They watched Sarti emerge from the restaurant and light his cigarette.

"There he is."

Peter slipped the gun from under the jacket. Eric put the BMW in gear and pulled away from the curb.

Sarti glanced over at the motorcycle as it came alongside the Mercedes. Peter raised the gun and fired a long burst. The sound ripped a hole through the night. A bright red pattern appeared on Sarti's elegant yellow silk shirt. The cigarette fell from his fingers. He pitched forward onto the sidewalk.

The bodyguard fired as the bike went past, the shots echoing off the apartment buildings lining the street. The bike swerved. Peter grunted and let off another burst. The guard stumbled and fell. Eric twisted the throttle and the bike roared away.

Half an hour later, the BMW was parked in a rented garage on the outskirts of the city. The space was lit by a single, fly-specked bulb hanging from the ceiling. Peter lay on the oil-stained cement floor, his jacket slick with blood. The round had gone in low on the side. He'd managed to stay on the bike until they'd reached the garage. Now he was in shock, half conscious. His face looked white and pinched in the weak light. Blood leaked out from under him. Eric took out a cell phone and called.

"It's done," he said. "There was trouble."

"What trouble?"

"Peter is badly wounded. He needs a hospital."

"That's not possible."

"I know."

"You know what to do. Get back to the Embassy." The call ended.

Eric turned off his phone and knelt down next to the man on the floor. It was too bad, he'd started to like him.

"I'm sorry," he said. His voice was soft.

The knife was a silver flash in his hand. He drove it up under the sternum and twisted. Blood gushed from Peter's mouth. His eyes went wide, shocked. The body went rigid, then settled into stillness. A sewer stench filled the room.

Eric stood. He wiped off the knife on Peter's shirt and put it back in his pocket. He left the garage by a side door and walked to a car parked nearby. In six or seven hours he would be in Paris. By the time the police found the bike and the body he would be out of the country. The authorities would assume Sarti's death was part of a struggle for control of L'Union Corse. They would assume the dead man had been killed to keep him silent.

They would be right about that part, but they would never know the real reason behind the night's work.