Thirty-three

Marc Casparon, known as ‘Caspar’, had spent many years working undercover in and around the capital, running informants among the various criminal gangs, working his way in among members and becoming a part of the community. It had been dangerous work and over the years the stress had taken its toll. A breakdown had nearly blown his cover and had meant the end of his career in the police. Too well-known a face in certain areas, he’d been forced to take on a new kind of work and ease himself out of the criminal milieu, advising companies and private individuals on security matters.

Rocco had worked with him on occasion and admired him. Now, if any jobs came up where his specialist skills could be used, he had no hesitation in calling him. Caspar himself still yearned for the old excitement and, if the kind of jobs Rocco called on him to do were a far cry from his old work tunnelling deep into the lives of the criminal elite, neither man mentioned it. Rocco’s main concern was keeping him safe and not exposing him deliberately to the kind of people he used to know so well.

‘Give me the details,’ Caspar said as soon as Rocco told him what he wanted. ‘Work’s a bit slow at the moment so I could do with some excitement.’

Rocco told him everything, from Bourdelet’s death to the information he’d gleaned so far.

Caspar whistled. ‘That’s pretty heavy. I’ve heard of Serban but he wasn’t on anybody’s radar when I was out there. He was too small and we had bigger fish to go after. What are you looking for?’

‘Anything you can get. Connections, mostly. If Serban’s acting for somebody else in delivering the letters, it would help if I knew who that was.’

‘Well, he won’t know me and I’ve never heard of Peretz, so at least I’ll be able to get up close and see what he’s up to. This is urgent, you say?’

‘Very. I’ve got a couple of days before they close it down. If I can get something solid it might be enough to stop them doing that.’

‘I’ll get on it first thing.’

Caspar had tracked down Serban’s center of operations on the outskirts of Ivry-sur-Seine by calling an old colleague the night before, and was now parked nearby. It was just gone nine a.m., allowing time for the street to be populated with adequate cover, and for Serban to show himself.

The front of Serban’s base was an old two-storey redbrick block inside a courtyard, part of a former local government workshop closed down and sold off two years ago for development. Serban’s name wasn’t on the deeds, his contact had said, but he was generally considered to be the owner, having purchased the block through a third party.

Caspar did a walk-past, stepping into the courtyard and checking the entrance foyer for signs of occupancy. There were no lights on to show that anyone was inside, as the day was bright and sunny enough not to need them. A spread of posters, envelopes and newspapers lay across the tiled floor inside the glass front door, a visual deterrent to any callers hoping to make a sale. A layer of dust on an ancient reception desk and a tattered chair with the stuffing leaking out of the cushion completed the sad picture of a building unoccupied and unloved.

He made a tour of the block, which consisted of small commercial warehouses side-by-side with a spread of cheap bungalows. He came up on the rear of Serban’s building along a narrow street scattered with dustbins, a couple of ancient cars with no wheels and an accumulation of rubbish that looked many years old. A few shopfronts were boarded up and it seemed a place where time had stood still and was unlikely to get going again any day soon.

The exception to this was the rear door to Serban’s block, which had a new Opel Rekord parked outside. Tan-coloured and shiny, it probably didn’t stand out so much out in the city, where fancy cars were more the norm, but right here it screamed out not to be touched.

Caspar caught sight of his reflection in the car’s bodywork and remembered to slouch his shoulders. He was dressed in a battered cap, faded trousers and an old leather jacket that had seen better days, and carried a bag slung across his back. His general appearance was in keeping with his gaunt face and dark features, which had seen him blend in all over the city, easily overlooked and difficult to remember. In the past, he’d been described variously as an Arab, as Mediterranean, maybe Italian or Spanish. Right now, he was playing the part of a street rat, scouring bins and corners for anything he could trade for a few francs, a common-enough sight among down-and-outs and those in between jobs.

He veered close to the Opel, peering inside but not getting too close. If Serban was the kind of man described by his contact, he’d probably have someone watching the streets in the area, especially where his car was parked. Having a heavy come bursting out of the building with a baseball bat was something Caspar wanted to avoid, so he continued up the street – but not before eyeing a new lock plate on the rear door of the building and a reinforced metal strip running down both sides of the door itself. He’d seen this kind of set-up before: it meant nobody was going to batter that door in without making a lot of noise. They’d be delayed long enough for those inside to make an exit from another part of the building.

Back in his car he checked the street. On his left was a high wall covered in cracked, grey rendering, behind which he’d glimpsed a dilapidated factory. On the other side of the street, apart from Serban’s place, were a garage, two small shops and what looked like a collection of small workshops. It was the kind of area that offered good cover for the sort of operation Serban was running. Not many close neighbours and the kind of mixed spread of businesses where his comings and goings could go on without attracting the wrong kind of attention.

Caspar sat and waited, sipping water sparingly. He’d done so many stakeouts like this over the years that the routine was familiar. Find a spot to watch, settle down and wait to see what happened. Occasionally nothing did, which was unfortunate. But whoever was under observation had to move sometime, and that was when all the waiting paid off. He had no idea if he could take anything back to Rocco, but he was here to get whatever he could.

An hour ticked by with grinding slowness, the street scene barely changing. Pedestrians came and went, delivery vehicles drove along and parked or passed through. Lives were being lived and people followed their routines, the same as always.

Then a man in a suit stepped out of the courtyard. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, heavily-built, with swarthy skin. He wore heavy shoes and his head swung left and right, checking the street, eyes flicking quickly over faces, vehicles and windows. Despite this, he seemed relaxed. His suit was cheap and creased as if he’d slept in it and, as he turned, the jacket opened slightly, revealing the butt of a pistol in a holster under one arm.

Caspar stayed where he was, breathing easily, motionless. If the man was any good at his job he would already have a picture in his mind of the surroundings. To move now would be bound to attract attention.

The watcher took a last look around before turning his head and giving a nod. Moments later a second man stepped out from the courtyard and turned immediately right, walking along the narrow pavement with the watcher following closely behind, off to one side and close enough to intercept any threat from passing traffic.

Serban was bulky across the shoulders, with the lumbering gait of a wrestler who’d spent too many hours in the gym and was carrying muscle that he didn’t need. Soon that weight would turn soft and the belly would spread. His hair was thick and dark on the top, cut short at the sides, and his heavy chin bore a rash of dark stubble above a startlingly white shirt and blue tie. His suit looked expensive and hung easily about his frame.

Made to measure, thought Caspar, but worn by a thug. A rich one, too, whose sole goal in life was to scare people and make himself even richer. He was willing to bet that both men spoke Romanian along with most of Serban’s close retinue. Keeping it in the family, like the Turkish, Algerian and African gangs. Protective. Intimidating. Deadly when threatened. Outsiders were rarely admitted to the inner ranks, suspicion quick to close against them like the jaws of a vice.

Caspar was in a dilemma: he could follow the two men and see where they were going, or he could slip inside Serban’s place and have a quick shuffle through to see what he could come up with. He decided to stick with what he had; the office wasn’t going anywhere but it might be useful to see who Serban met up with.

After a quick change of clothes, he climbed out of his car and set off along the street. He’d done away with the cap and now wore a differently-coloured jacket and smart but unremarkable trousers taken from his shoulder bag. The down-and-out was gone and he now carried a briefcase, the leather worn with use, a newspaper held by a strap on one side. Office pen-pusher said the image, running errands for a boss and enjoying the brief outing in the fresh air before he had to go back inside his cubicle.

Up ahead of him Serban slowed and turned right into a short street populated by shops, cafes and neighbourhood eating places. He entered one of these while his watcher stood against the building with his hands folded in front of him, eyes scanning the street. Caspar crossed the street to get a better view of the door Serban had gone through. It was the entrance to a restaurant named Bacau, its name embellished with two flags: the Italian on one side and what Caspar guessed was a Romanian flag on the other.

Caspar walked on down the street for fifty metres, then re-crossed and came back. He walked past the watcher without making eye contact and pushed through the door of the restaurant as if he did it every day. A scattering of tables ran down the middle with a long counter down one side and the other wall covered in mirrors. It was simple, colourful without being flashy, and the clientele looked as if they had been born there.

Serban was taking a seat at a rear table. A waiter was fussing about him and giving the table top a quick wipe with a cloth. Personal service for an important customer. Serban sat with his back to the room, an unusual position in Caspar’s experience of gang leaders, who liked to see everything that was going on around them while feeding their paranoia about possible threats from rivals or cops. But a mirror on the wall in front of him served to give him a view of the rest of the room and the entrance, and he undoubtedly felt comfortable there and safe from harm.

Caspar caught the eye of the man behind the counter and made a sign for coffee and pointed at a pastry behind the glass front. Then he indicated a table near the rear but along the side wall, and the man nodded.

Serban was alone, drinking coffee and sipping occasionally at a glass of water while flicking through a newspaper. Every now and then he’d glance in the mirror but seemed relaxed. If he was waiting for someone he was in no hurry.

A man entered and walked straight down the room to the rear. He was young, thin, unshaven and pale, with the poorly-fed look of the street. He wore green trousers and a mismatched blue jacket, and his shoulders were hunched as if the weight of the world was beating down on him. He bent to Serban’s side and spoke softly for several seconds. He wasn’t invited to sit and made no move to do so. Moments later he straightened and moved away, leaving the restaurant without buying anything.

A runner, thought Caspar, recognising the type. Not what the gangs called soldiers, who were generally younger, fitter and more assertive, but the lowest rung on the gang ladder. The runner’s job was to carry messages or packages, act as a spotter or lookout, even play decoy and take a fall if that was required.

Three more similar men followed in quick succession, speaking to Serban for a few moments before leaving. Like the first man, they were in their twenties, servile and unremarkable. This was Serban conducting his daily business: receiving news, sending messages, spreading instructions this way because like a lot of his kind he didn’t trust the telephones. Caspar had observed too many meetings like this not to be aware that, although they all had their own formats and procedures, in the end they followed a pattern, no matter how big or small the gang. The main man held the reins and everyone else who came near him had a part to play. Gangland democracy in action, thought Caspar ironically.

A few minutes ticked by and Caspar was beginning to think business was over, when two more men entered the restaurant, seconds apart. The first was tall, fleshy, with grey hair and dressed in a smart suit, as different from the runners as it was possible to get. He couldn’t see the man’s face from this angle, though. Business type, thought Caspar, upper salary bracket, probably on his way to a meeting but with time to stop for a quick shot of caffeine. The man stepped over to a spare table in the centre and made a sign to the man behind the counter.

The second man entered moments later. He walked down the centre of the room and stopped alongside Serban, waiting with his hands down by his side. This time there was a nod of the head from Serban and the man sat down.

Better clothes than the runners, Caspar noted, and an air of confidence the others had lacked. Probably a trusted worker bee because he’d been invited to sit. Otherwise unremarkable to look at. Whatever they were talking about created a low-level buzz. Caspar had long ago learned the art of lip-reading but it needed two mouths to make a conversation, and the newcomer’s lips barely moved. Probably a former convict, he would have picked up the habit during exercise yard conversations where discretion was an absolute must. Moments later, the newcomer stood up and left the restaurant without looking left or right.

Caspar’s coffee and pastry arrived and he took the newspaper from the straps on his briefcase and pretended to read. To his surprise, the smartly-dressed business type stood up and moved down the restaurant, stopping at Serban’s table. This time there was no waiting for permission, no sign of servility. The two men shook hands and the newcomer took the seat across from Serban.

As the man turned to face back up the restaurant, Caspar’s gut went cold. He lifted the paper, blocking out a direct view of his face. He swore silently. Christ, of all the people to run into: Laurent tête de merde Vauquelin, cop-hater extraordinaire and lawyer to the criminal elite. Too late, Caspar realised his face was visible in the wall mirror, and that Vauquelin was looking at him. The lawyer had a faint frown etched on his handsome features. Was it a frown of recognition or a response to something Serban had just said?

Caspar took a sip of coffee with his free hand and focussed on the paper, trying to breathe evenly, while seeing flashbacks of his life before leaving the police. He’d been forced to surface from a deep undercover assignment to give evidence on a case from several months earlier. A prostitute had been slashed by a pimp and drug dealer in a row over money. She’d been courageous enough to bring a complaint against her attacker. But the investigation hadn’t stopped at the violence; by chance it had revealed a network of dealers operating across the city, and two of the leading organisers had been charged with offences ranging from drug importation to intimidation, arson and murder. Caspar had been watching both men.

It had been a tough time for him, forced into the daylight under a court order, the stress adding to his already fragile state of mind. He’d been allowed to appear in court in disguise to avoid compromising other ongoing investigations, but the one person who had been permitted to see him out of the shadows had been the counsel for the defence, Maître Laurent Vauquelin.

Like most of his colleagues, he’d already known of Vauquelin’s intense antipathy towards the police and had been very careful with his testimony. But it had been a gruelling time being constantly on guard against the lawyer’s attempts to prove that he and his colleagues had acted unlawfully. Later, long after the trial, the lawyer had been suspected of becoming just a little too close to some of the criminal clients he had defended, to the extent that he’d been accused of manufacturing evidence against the police to get them off the charges on a technicality and, likely, to bring the justice system into disrepute.

Caspar’s hand was shaking, threatening to slop coffee on the table. He clamped his fingers tightly together and forced it to be still, hoping Vauquelin hadn’t noticed.

In the wake of the trial and his subsequent decision to leave the police, he’d managed to wipe Vauquelin’s face and supercilious smile from his mind, safe in the knowledge that he would never have to see the man again. And now here he was within a few metres of him.

He finished his coffee and risked a quick glance in the mirror. The two men were deep in conversation and Vauquelin was no longer staring at him. Whatever Serban was saying had got his full attention, but the words were too muffled to make out.

Not for the first time in his life, Caspar wished he could have been a fly on the wall. He couldn’t see Serban’s face but Vauquelin was suddenly very tight-lipped, as if he’d discovered something unpleasant taking a swim in his coffee cup.

Whatever they were discussing was going to remain a mystery. No words heard meant nothing to report, save that once again the maître with the dubious reputation was mixing with a well-known crook. By itself it wasn’t a crime; defence lawyers represented criminals, it was what they did, all legal and above board. They could be discussing property deeds for all Caspar knew.

He stood up and picked up his briefcase, turning his back as he did so. He stepped across to the counter and deposited some coins in a dish. The man behind the counter nodded and Caspar moved towards the door.

‘Monsieur? One moment.’

He froze, a familiar cold grip of alarm taking hold of the back of his neck. He turned slowly, and found a waiter holding out a newspaper.

‘You forgot your paper, sir.’

Thanking the man and not daring to look towards the rear of the room, Caspar took the newspaper and made his exit, feeling Vauquelin’s eyes drilling into his back all the way.