Death on the Pont Noir Page 7

  Rocco sat and waited. This was probably one of the most powerful men in the land. But it wasn’t through any position in the chain of command, rather his close association with the president. In fact, there was rumoured to be only one man closer, and that was the main physical bodyguard himself, Paul Comiti, a man sworn to protect de Gaulle to the death.

  Saint-Cloud, however, was the organiser, the bureaucrat with quiet muscle, always behind the scenes, pulling strings, making arrangements. To him fell the task of keeping the president’s visits and sorties as minutely planned and as secure as possible. At the point of contact with the public, however, it was down to Comiti’s small team of men to catch the bullet.

  So far, they had succeeded in their job against many expectations and attempts.

  ‘You have an impressive record, Rocco,’ Saint-Cloud continued. ‘Both in the army and the police. You were in Indochina, I believe.’

  Rocco nodded. As were the 1st REP, he recalled. A tough bunch of men, they had been disbanded in 1961 following service in Algeria. It seemed Lt Colonel Saint-Cloud had moved on to better, if not bigger, things.

  ‘What can I do for you, Colonel?’ he asked. He wanted to find out what this man wanted of him, not to relive old war stories.

  ‘I want you to do your duty as a sworn police officer and help protect the president, of course.’ Saint-Cloud’s eyebrows lifted slightly, as if surprised by Rocco’s blunt approach. ‘I appreciate this is not your normal work, and I’m sure you have many pressing matters to investigate. But as the man on the ground here, I would like to seek your cooperation in ensuring that those … forces keen to confront the president with violence are not successful. You’ve heard about the latest attempt?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Badly planned, poorly executed, but a clear warning that we cannot relax our guard while the dangers still exist.’ He studied his fingernails. ‘I need you to act as our eyes and ears on the matter of security in this area. Other of your colleagues spread around the country are doing the same. It is vital that you unearth anything – any group or individual – threatening the safety of the president, and by inference, France.’

  ‘Don’t you have files on these people already?’ Rocco was puzzled. As far as he was aware, the names of the main conspirators were well documented and their movements monitored and recorded. Unless Saint-Cloud was holding something back, he wasn’t sure what new groups or individuals were out there or where they had emerged from. Many of the existing ones had originated years before, some no doubt now advancing in age and lacking in strength, numbers or organisation. It took energy and commitment to keep anti-government groups active, especially when no certain progress in their aims was being made. Other groups, younger ones, such as students, were more difficult to pin down because they were harder to infiltrate due to their age, or lacked the cohesiveness required to mount an effective attack. But even they eventually became careless, and were generally known to the authorities.

  ‘We have extensive files, of course.’ Saint-Cloud tilted his head to one side, reminding Rocco of a teacher many years ago who used a similar tactic to make his students uneasy. ‘But these organisations are not static; they gain new members all the time, often bringing with them new grievances and new agendas. Others leave, tempted by new arguments or impatient to pursue a new line of aggression. As such, their public faces change. Our job is to find the more focused activists before they can achieve their objectives.’

  ‘So when is he coming here?’

  For a moment the colonel looked as though he were about to respond. Then he shook his head. ‘That is not clear. You will, of course, be advised should a date and itinerary be decided.’ He brushed an imaginary speck of lint from his knee. ‘Be aware that, for now, we believe the main threat to his person comes from disaffected elements of the military who have joined with the OAS and … others.’

  ‘Others?’

  ‘Mercenaries. Assassins. Men who will do anything for money. This latest attempt seems to be a mix of both. The dead attacker was a former army officer who supported the OAS, and we think at least one of his colleagues may have been Corsican or Sicilian.’

  Rocco didn’t waste time thinking about it. There were always members of groups who were on the periphery, not quite as involved as the hard core, but headstrong and useful as soldiers. Expendable. To concentrate on them was to miss the main members, the heart of any organisation and usually consisting of no more than a fanatical handful. And that handful rarely, if ever, allowed their soldiers to lead back to them.

  ‘There’s one thing that puzzles me about that,’ said Rocco, echoing his comment to Massin. ‘Why were official documents being transferred in a car?’

  Saint-Cloud scowled before replying. ‘A grave mistake, in my opinion. I have already raised it with my superiors. It was felt the car would go untouched because the president was known to be at his country retreat and not on the move. Clearly, however, the people mounting the attack didn’t share that knowledge. There is, on the other hand,’ he continued, seemingly choosing his words with care, ‘an element, shall we say, who believe that drawing out attackers might show the direction any future effort will be coming from; that such an assault would reveal their hand.’

  ‘An element?’

  ‘Internal Security.’

  Jesus. Rocco was amazed. ‘An ordinary government car? No armour-proofing and just two outriders?’

  ‘Correct.’ The colonel had his eyes half shut, effectively screening his thoughts.

  ‘But that was putting the driver and passenger in harm’s way.’

  ‘We have no basis for assuming that.’ Saint-Cloud’s answer was non-committal, but as good as a yes in Rocco’s mind. He wondered at the kind of people employed in the upper echelons of authority, the kind of men who decided these things.

  ‘Who the hell thought of that bright idea?’ The words were out before he could stop them. A planned ruse to draw out an attacker was one thing, usually involving backup forces and a calculated degree of safety for those being used as bait – in this case the car and occupants. But an ad hoc affair like this one, if true, was madness.

  Saint-Cloud shrugged, the universal sloughing of responsibility for actions sane men did not wish to contemplate. ‘Undoubtedly it was a committee decision,’ he suggested dryly. ‘It usually is.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’ Rocco sought to bring the discussion back on track. ‘I have no information on these groups. I hope you do?’

  ‘Of course. I will make available to you any names we have in this area. It will be a start point. At this stage we merely need to check their movements without alerting them to that fact.’

  A lot of footwork, in other words, Rocco thought. He’d need some help if there were many names, preferably someone unknown who could go unnoticed in the area. ‘Can I use any resources?’

  ‘You have someone in mind – someone outside this force?’ Saint-Cloud was ahead of him.

  ‘I do. But he might not agree.’ Caspar, he thought … if he wasn’t too far gone. A former undercover cop who had operated too close to the shadows for too long, Marc Casparon had been placed on permanent sick leave, deemed no longer effective. Rocco had used him since, but it had been a close-run thing and he’d nearly come to grief. He’d check with Michel Santer first. If anyone knew Caspar’s present state, his former boss in Clichy would.

  ‘If you can trust this person without revealing too much, go ahead.’ Saint-Cloud paused, eyes on Rocco’s face. ‘There is one other thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You have been assigned to work with me, which has been cleared by the Interior Ministry. As such, bearing in mind the, ah … delicacy of the situation, you are not to discuss these matters with anyone else in this station.’

  ‘You mean apart from Commissaire Massin?’

  A slow shake of the head. ‘I mean anyone.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘So. You lost the car and the tr
uck. You smashed up a bar. Then you got tossed out of the country. All within forty-eight hours. Nice going, George.’ The words dripped into the room with a total lack of emotion, and George Tasker felt the skin go cold across his shoulders. The ‘nice going’ was not a term of praise. Not around this man. ‘Nice’ wasn’t good enough; ‘nice’ was for jobs half done and therefore unsatisfactory. Especially when delivered in this half-dead tone of voice.

  As soon as he and the other men had got back to London, Tasker had been summoned to this upstairs room at the rear of a club called The Old Bourbon, in Stepney, and told to let the others go until they were needed. One of several properties spread across the city, it was more an occasional meeting point than a regular office, and owned – on paper, at least – by a friend of the man sitting in front of him. For that reason alone, Tasker was beginning to wonder if there wasn’t a more sinister reason for him being called here.

  When displeased with anyone, it was common practice to make their final meeting at a location which couldn’t be linked directly back, should anything go wrong.

  By ‘wrong’, read ‘dead’.

  His throat had gone suddenly dry. He coughed. ‘That’s right, boss. But we figured since the car was going to be cut up and the truck torched, it was no problem.’ He shifted uneasily on the hardback chair, trying to find the words to deflect attention away from what was clearly being seen as a failure on his part.

  ‘Of course they were. Not the point, though, is it? It was meant to go on longer, wasn’t it? That was the plan.’ The man behind the desk played a slow drum tattoo on his thumbnail with a gold pen, the tap-tap loud and ominous in the quiet room. Heavily inscribed and crowned with a dark-red ruby, a nod of admiration to the man holding it, the pen was rumoured to have been a gift from an admirer named ‘Topper’ Harris. Harris, the wealthy owner of a string of betting shops across the South East, was now dead and buried after an ostentatious funeral cortège complete with carriage and black horses down the Mile End Road, East London.

  It had been Gerald ‘Ruby’ Ketch who had arranged the hit, just as he’d subsequently arranged the flashy send-off funeral. But everyone knew that the orders had come from his employers, known only as the Twins. Ketch was a frontman, but wielded considerable power. His was the day-to-day running of the Firm, as the gang was known, but every move was monitored by his bosses, who reigned supreme in their manor but discreetly out of the picture.

  Following several close calls with the police, and excessive interest from the Metropolitan Police Flying Squad, they had taken an apparent back seat, leaving Ketch to take over operations. It left him more exposed than them, but he was well paid for the risk and took his job seriously.

  And he didn’t want to end up in the ground like some others in the past, enemies real or imagined.

  The funeral had been no more than a cynical East End stunt, a warning to anyone else who fancied changing sides. Seen allegedly talking to the Richardson gang who operated in South London, the dead man had been scooped up and shot dead with little hesitation. Rivals in crime, the Richardsons operated slots, protection rackets and the large-scale handling of stolen goods. Even being seen on their manor was viewed as a betrayal with only one outcome.

  Unfortunately late for the dead man, it had emerged that he was innocent, and had been set up by another gang member. He had died vainly protesting his innocence, closely followed by his accuser, who was now rumoured to be holding up part of a new council car park in Basildon.

  ‘You see, George, we came to an arrangement with certain parties across the water,’ Ketch continued. ‘That arrangement was for you and the boys to go through a—’ He snapped his fingers and looked past Tasker. ‘What was it called, Brayne?’

  ‘A scenario.’ The answer came from a man sitting near the door.

  ‘That’s it. A scenario.’ Ruby Ketch smiled, pleased with his choice of word, and ran a hand over his Brylcreemed hair. He had similar dark good looks to those of his bosses, slightly spoilt by a broken nose, the result of an opponent’s headbutt in the boxing ring. Tasker didn’t like to think about what had happened to the other fighter. ‘To go through a scenario. But you cut it short, didn’t you? You came out early. Now, how am I supposed to explain that to our associates over there, eh? It’s embarrassing, is what it is. And I don’t like being embarrassed.’

  Tasker felt his blood running cold. Ketch wasn’t really bothered by what the French thought; he’d be more wary of the Twins and their reaction. They were closer, for one thing – and unpredictable.

  ‘Sorry, boss.’ Christ, was this it? He’d never imagined getting himself in this sort of crack. Cock-ups were inevitable every now and then, no matter what precautions you took; timings got screwed, plans went out the window, people didn’t do what they were supposed to, someone got lucky. Fucking Calloway. He wondered who the poncey driver had phoned from the French cop shop. He’d never thought to ask him, only relieved at the time that they’d got out before the Froggies got really pissed off and threw them all in the Bastille.

  History wasn’t Tasker’s strong point.

  As if reading his mind earlier, Ketch said, ‘How did Calloway perform? Do the business, did he?’

  There was a discreet cough and Tasker glanced at the other man, whose name was Leslie Brayne. A bluff, well-fed individual in an expensive suit, he had sleek grey hair and a silk handkerchief tucked in his top pocket. Trying to look like the accountant he used to be, thought Tasker, who knew the man’s history. Now he just looked like the crooked numbers man he really was. He was nursing a glass of whisky, his favoured tipple and, as Ketch’s trusted advisor, was never far from his side.

  Tasker considered dropping Calloway in it, then decided against it. ‘He did all right. Good enough wheel man … for a nancy boy.’

  He realised his mistake the moment the words had left his mouth. Ketch went very still, his eyes hooded. Tasker felt sick. It was rumoured that one of the Twins, whom nobody saw much, had once taken against an associate who’d made a joke about homosexuals. The associate had disappeared shortly afterwards. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What do you reckon, Brayne?’ Ketch started playing with his pen again. Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

  Brayne looked up at the ceiling, then at Tasker, before replying. ‘Well, no harm done, was there? They got a result, according to their man. No foul, no penalty.’

  ‘Their man?’ Tasker wondered what that meant.

  Ketch didn’t answer. He dropped the pen onto the blotter and sat back, tugging at the sleeves of his pinstripe suit to reveal cufflinks glittering with stones. Nudged his large tie knot into place.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose.’ He leant forward and stared hard at Tasker, his eyes as cold as night. A thin bead of perspiration was showing on his brow. ‘Only thing is, I’m not sure what the result was. Are you, Brayne?’

  ‘A try-out, wasn’t that what they said? Testing the water.’

  ‘Yeah, but what for?’ Ketch was still looking at Tasker. ‘What do you reckon, George? What were they really looking for over there?’

  ‘No idea, boss. We did what you said, that’s all.’ He was puzzled. What the hell was Ketch talking about? How did he know what the point of it all had been? It was a job, that was all he knew. A bloody weird one, but just a job. Set it up, create the crash and away.

  ‘Yeah, so you did.’ He sat back. More tapping with the pen. ‘Okay. What about Fletcher?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I hear he overdid things. Buggered the truck and bent the car. Could have been messy, getting stranded out there miles from home … especially if the cops had got involved. Not part of the plan, see, getting caught with the vehicles.’

  ‘That’s right.’ There was nothing more to say. Tasker was damned if he was going to defend the man. He was likely to end up going down with him if he did that, and he didn’t owe Fletcher a thing.

  ‘I reckon,’ Ketch murmured, ‘we might have to rethink Fletch’s terms of employment. Pity, though; he’
s been with the Firm a long time. Knows a lot of stuff. And he’s got friends.’

  Tasker waited, not sure if he was expected to make a contribution. If the ‘friends’ Ketch was referring to were the Twins, he was better off saying nothing. Let the man who was paid the money make the running with that one.

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘You got lucky this time, George,’ Ketch murmured softly, and the temperature in the room suddenly seemed a few degrees colder. ‘Dead lucky. They had a watcher on you, see. Checking out how you and the boys did.’ He smiled without a trace of humour. ‘I bet you never saw him, did you?’

  A watcher. Christ, where? Tasker had checked out the scenery before and after the crash. There had been nobody within miles, he was certain of it. Yet if Ketch said there was …

  ‘No, boss. Can’t say I did.’ He felt his ears redden at the admission.

  ‘Damn right, you can’t. Good job for you it went well, all I can say. They reckon it was just what they needed; they learnt a lot … whatever that was. Did you get rid of the wheels? Be a shame if they turned up and the cops got evidence. Did you know they still use the guillotine over there?’ His eyes were blank, and Tasker couldn’t make out whether he was out of the woods or not. This mad fucker could change at the snap of a finger. ‘Chop-chop. No coming back from the big blade, is there? No appeal, no further statements possible.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Mind you, no more headaches, either.’ Ketch was rumoured to suffer from regular debilitating migraines.

  ‘Yeah. I heard.’ His voice was hoarse. Jesus, how long was this going to last?

  Then Brayne pitched in with a question. He stood up and moved into Tasker’s line of sight and said, ‘I hear you had a spot of bother in Amiens nick.’

  ‘Nothing worth talking about.’ Tasker fought to keep his voice and temper level. This was taking the piss. What bloody right did this number-cruncher have to ask him questions? Then he realised Ketch was looking at him, waiting for an answer. ‘The cops got a bit heavy,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Pushed us around a bit. Nothing we couldn’t handle.’