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PARIS
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“YOUR COUSIN IS AN IDIOT. Does he think he’s Al Capone, and this is nineteen-twenties Chicago?”
Jean-Paul ignored the tone of the question. “I couldn’t begin to say what Philippe thinks of himself, but I am certain he is fully aware of what year and city he is living in.”
“Really? I wouldn’t be so sure of that. In the past month he has been responsible for the deaths of somewhere in the region of thirty people, either directly or indirectly. That’s bad enough, but he actually seems to think he can avoid going to jail for them.”
“You’re paid to do what Philippe wants, just as I am, Rene. You’re an intelligent man, you should know better than to question how he conducts his business. People who do that tend not to last long in this organisation.”
“Blind obedience is more often a failing than a virtue,” Rene Dubois, the corrupt Interpol agent who supplied Noir’s organisation with information, remarked. “Blind obedience to your cousin’s orders has resulted in more than...” He fell silent as the lift came to a stop and the doors slid open, and he was forced to remain silent when a middle-aged lady entered the lift and it descended to the ground floor.
As soon as the woman got out, Dubois pressed the button for the top floor. “More than thirty deaths if you include the massacre at Tomas Abrantes’ estate. For all those deaths, Mr Noir has failed to eliminate the witness to his original massacre.”
“You’re wrong, the witness is dead,” Jean-Paul told him.
Dubois shook his head. “The witness is alive.” He realised the news would not be received well but he couldn’t help that. He was paid to ensure Noir and his organisation received accurate information, not information Noir liked.
“Are you certain?”
The news was not good, but Jean-Paul couldn’t help feeling a measure of relief at hearing it. It had been his intention to pass on the news of Sofia Torres’ death to his cousin later that morning. It would have been embarrassing, not to mention hazardous to his health, to have to tell his cousin he had been wrong.
“Very certain. Miss Torres was alive and safe, and in a new location, as of seven this morning when I spoke to my contact, though I don’t imagine she’s very happy, given the sergeant she befriended was killed by your men yesterday,” Dubois said. “Not only is the witness still alive, but every effort your cousin has made to have her killed has made the situation worse. Yesterday’s effort has probably succeeded in ensuring that he will spend the rest of his life behind bars in a Spanish prison.”
“I think you’d better tell me everything that happened yesterday,” Jean-Paul said.
“From what I’ve been able to gather, Sergeant Cortez, who was mentioned in the file I gave you the other day, got Sofia Torres out of the house before your men got inside. He hid her in a neighbouring house and then drove away from the safehouse, making your men think he had Sofia Torres with him. While one group of your men gave chase, the rest of them continued the fight in the house and ultimately set fire to the first floor before making their escape.”
“Did they catch up with him?”
“Yes. I can only assume that when the two groups of your men met up and compared notes, they assumed Sofia Torres had been upstairs in the safehouse and had burned to death in the fire, which would explain the false report you received. I was told the local police are keeping her continued healthy status as quiet as possible in the hope of avoiding any further attempts on her life.”
“Well, thank God you heard the annoying bitch is still alive.”
“It’s what I’m paid for,” Dubois said. He didn’t care about praise, only that he was paid for the information he supplied. “I have more to tell you. Last night, the remaining men from your assault group invaded the hospital where your man Marc and the other guy caught by the Barcelona Police were being kept under guard.”
“What happened?” Jean-Paul suspected things had gone badly since he had not heard anything of the events at the hospital. It was just a question of how badly.
“I don’t know all the details. I’d guess I don’t know even half of them. But what little I do know is that your men succeeded in getting close to the room where the two men were being protected before they were discovered. At that point a gunfight broke out. When it was over, three of the officers protecting the two men were dead, as was one of the men your men were there to kill. I don’t know which one, I haven’t got that information yet.”
“What of the men I sent?”
“Three dead, one captured, and the other two escaped.”
The look on Jean-Paul’s face revealed what he thought of that. By anyone’s standards it was a bad result.
“What you should be more concerned with is the effect this attack will have on those the Spanish Police have in custody.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the decision to have the men killed to prevent them talking to the police will almost certainly backfire. The attempt is likely to convince the men in custody that they owe Mr Noir no loyalty, and that they should make a deal if they can: what they know for immunity or reduced sentences. I would if I were in their position, wouldn’t you?” Cousin or not, if he were arrested, Jean-Paul would have to be stupid not to at least explore the possibility of a deal in Dubois’ opinion. “Since any deal these men cut will most likely involve selling you out as well as Mr Noir, I believe the time has come for you to persuade your cousin to look outside his organisation for the help he needs to avoid dying in jail.”
“Say what you mean,” Jean-Paul said sharply. “I’m not in the mood to try and work out what it is you’re trying to tell me.”
“I mean it’s time for Mr Noir to hire a professional hitman, an assassin, someone who can eliminate his problems without the slaughter and failure you’ve had so far.”
“And just where do you think I’m going to find a professional hitman?” Jean-Paul stopped talking abruptly as the lift came to a stop and the doors opened. There was no cause for concern however, they had simply reached the top floor. Realising that, he pressed the button to descend again. “This isn’t a movie, you know. It’s not like professional assassins advertise openly on the internet.”
“I’m aware of that.” Bending, Dubois opened the bag at his feet and took out an envelope. “In here you’ll find three files. Each man is either a known or suspected hitman, a professional. I know nothing about any of them other than what is in their files, so I can’t advise on who to approach. I’m sure you’ll make the right decision, though.”
“You’re not able to make any kind of recommendation?”
Dubois shook his head. “The German is elderly, and it’s suspected that he’s no longer as active, so you might not want to go with him, but beyond that, no. All I can tell you is that all three men are considered extremely dangerous and are clearly very good since none of them has ever been caught by any police or intelligence agency. If I’m able to get more information on the men, or the situation in Spain, I’ll pass it along, but I can’t promise anything.”
When the lift reached the ground floor again and the doors opened, Dubois stepped out and left, his departure hurried but not incautious.
Only when he was several streets from where his meeting with Jean-Paul had taken place did he relax his search for anyone who might be either following him or conducting surveillance.