Camille (24 page)

Buisson has been dreading this moment since yesterday. When he discovered – on the prison grapevine – that Verhœven had paid a visit to Mouloud Faraoui, he knew his time had come. He lay awake all night, tossing and turning, unable to believe it. His death is now a foregone conclusion. Faraoui’s gang has spies everywhere in La Centrale, there is not a cockroach that can hide from him. If Camille has found a way of paying for Faraoui’s services – by giving up the name of the man who grassed him up, for instance – then an hour from now or two days from now, Buisson will find a shiv embedded in his throat as he comes out of the dining hall or be garrotted from behind while a couple of weight-lifters hold his arms. He may be catapulted in his wheelchair from the third-floor balcony. Or be smothered by his mattress. It will depend on the order given, Verhœven may even insist on a slow, painful death; Buisson might spend a whole night choking on a gag in the fetid toilets, or bleed to death, drop by drop, in the cupboard of one of the workshops . . .

Buisson is scared of dying.

By now, he had convinced himself that Camille would not exact revenge. The fear that he put behind him years ago floods back, all the more violent and terrifying because it feels somehow less justified. The years he has spent in jail, the things he has endured, the respect he has earned, the power he has managed to acquire, instilled in him a sense of impunity that Verhœven has destroyed in a few short hours. Camille had only to visit Faraoui for everyone to realise that the reprieve has been temporary, that Buisson’s stay of execution will last only a few hours more. There has been a lot of talk in the corridors, Faraoui was quick to spread the news, part of his deal with Verhœven was to put the fear of God into Buisson. A few of the screws have heard and the inmates have begun to look at Buisson differently.

Why now? That is the question.

“I hear you’ve become a big shot . . .”

Buisson wonders if this is the answer. But no. Camille is simply stating a fact. Buisson is an exceptionally intelligent man. When he tried to make his escape, Louis lodged the bullet in his spine that put him in this wheelchair, but before that he had been running rings around the police. By the time he arrived in prison, his reputation had preceded him, in fact he became something of a star for having successfully evaded the
brigade criminelle
for so long. With considerable skill, Buisson capitalised on the prisoners’ admiration, he managed to remain aloof from the gang wars, he performed small services for other inmates – in prison, an intellectual, a man who knows things, is a rarity. Over the years, he succeeded in forging a small network of contacts, first within the prison and later outside as he continued to do small favours for paroled prisoners, making introductions, arranging meetings, securing interviews. Last year, he successfully intervened in an internecine war between rival gangs in the western suburbs, calmed the situation, proposed terms and expertly negotiated the ceasefire. Within the prison, he does not involve himself in any trafficking, but he knows all the scams. On the outside, Buisson knows all there is to know about high-profile criminals and is remarkably well connected to those who meet his exacting standards; this makes him a powerful man.

But for all that, now that Camille has made his decision, a day from now or perhaps an hour from now, he will be a dead man.

“You look worried . . .” Camille says.

“I’m waiting.”

Buisson immediately regrets the phrase which sounds like a challenge and therefore a defeat. Camille raises a hand: no problem, he understands.

“I’ll let you explain . . .”

“No,” Camille says, “there will be no explanation. I’m simply here to tell you how this is going to go down.”

Buisson is deathly pale. Even Verhœven’s calmness seems like a threat. He becomes indignant.

“I deserve an explanation!” Buisson roars.

Though physically he is a very different man, inside he has not changed, his titanic ego has survived intact. Camille fumbles in his pocket and lays a photograph on the table.

“Vincent Hafner. He’s . . .”

“I know who he is . . .” The remark is curt, as though Buisson feels insulted. But it also betrays his immense relief. In a split second, Buisson realised that he still has a chance.

Camille registers the instinctive exultation in his voice, but he makes no comment. It was to be expected. Buisson immediately goes on the defensive, attempting to confuse the issue.

“I don’t know the man personally . . . He’s not a major player, but he has his place. He has a reputation for being somewhat . . . savage. A thug.”

It would take electrodes attached to his head to record the astonishing speed of firing synapses.

“He disappeared last January,” Camille says. “For months, no-one – not even his criminal colleagues – knew where he was. Complete radio silence. Then, suddenly, he reappears and it’s like he’s got a new lease of life, he’s back to his old ways, back on the job, bright as a button.”

“And you find this somehow strange?”

“I’m having a little difficulty squaring his sudden disappearance with his spectacular comeback. For a career criminal so close to retirement, it’s unusual.”

“So, something is not quite right.”

Camille’s face darkens, he looks worried, almost angry with himself.

“That’s one way of putting it: something is not quite right. Something I don’t understand.”

Seeing the ghost of a smile cross Buisson’s face, Camille knows he was right to trust to the man’s overweening pride. It was arrogance that led him to kill again and again, even as it led to his arrest. This is the reason that he will die in a prison cell. And still he has learned nothing, his narcissism is like a bottomless well, ever ready to engulf him. “Something I don’t understand.” Camille’s crucial phrase was designed to appeal to that same vanity, because Buisson is convinced that
he
understands. And cannot resist letting Camille know.

“Perhaps he needs money in a hurry . . .”

Camille steels himself, determined not to show how much it pains him to have to stoop to chicanery. He is leading an investigation; the end justifies the means. So he looks up at Buisson as though intrigued.

“Word has it Hafner is seriously ill . . .” Buisson says slowly.

When you choose a stratagem, it is wise to stick with it to the end.

“Good, I hope he dies,” Camille says.

“But don’t you see?” Buisson triumphantly retorts. “The reason he is acting out of character is
because
he’s staring death in the face. He’s involved with a slip of a girl . . . A vulgar whore who had copulated with half the city by the time she was nineteen. She obviously likes turning tricks, I can think of no other explanation . . .”

Camille wonders whether Buisson is brave enough – or reckless enough – to see his thought through. And he does.

“But despite her failings, it would appear that Hafner is infatuated with this girl. Love,
commandant
, is a powerful thing, is it not? It is a subject about which you know a thing or two, as I recall . . .”

Though he does not show it, Camille is devastated. He feels utterly broken as he sits here, allowing Buisson to gloat about the murder of Irène. “Love,
commandant
. . .”

Buisson must sense something because a last flicker of self-preservation suddenly extinguishes his exultant smirk.

“If he is terminally ill,” he goes on, “perhaps Hafner wants to ensure his paramour is free of financial worries. One comes across the most generous instincts even in the blackest souls . . .”

Louis had already mentioned these rumours to Camille and, though it cost him dearly, the price he paid to confirm them has been worth it. Camille can suddenly see a light at the end of the tunnel. His palpable relief is not lost on Buisson, a man so twisted that he is already trying to work out why this matters so much to Verhœven, why Hafner is so important that the
commandant
has been reduced to coming here. His life has only just been spared and already he is calculating how he might profit from this situation.

Camille does not give him the time.

“I want Hafner, and I want him now. You’ve got twelve hours.”

“Th—that’s impossible!” the piteous wail dies in Buisson’s throat. As Camille gets to his feet, he sees his last chance of survival disappear. He feverishly pounds his fists on the armrests of his wheelchair. Camille’s face is expressionless.

“Twelve hours, not a second more. I find people do their best work when they have a deadline.”

He taps on the door. As the guard comes to open it, he turns back to Buisson.

“Even when this is over, I can still have you killed any time I want.” It is enough for him to say the words for both men to realise that he needed to say it, but it was not true. That Buisson would already be dead if it were going to happen. That for Camille Verhœven, ordering a killing is incompatible with who he is.

And now that he knows that his life is no longer in danger, that it was probably never in danger, Buisson decides to find the information Verhœven needs.

As he steps out of the prison, Camille feels both relieved and overwhelmed, like the sole survivor of a shipwreck.

*

9.00 a.m.

I’m finding the cold almost as tough to cope with as the tiredness. You hardly notice it at first, but unless you keep moving, it seeps into your bones until you’re frozen to the marrow. It’s not going to make it easy to get a shot. But at least this place is quiet. The studio is a broad, squat building with a high roof, but there’s only one storey. There’s an unobstructed line of sight in front. I station myself in a tiny lean-to at the far end of the yard that looks like it was once a rabbit hutch or similar.

I stow the sniper rifle, take the Walther and the hunting knife and brave the great outdoors to do a little reconnaissance. It’s crucial to know the terrain. Cause only as much collateral damage as necessary. Go for a clean hit. Precise. What do they call it? Oh, yeah, a “surgical strike”. Using the Mossberg here would be like using a roller to paint a miniature. Surgical entails making precise holes in very precise places. And since the vast picture window seems resistant to most things, I’m glad I settled on an M40A3 with telescopic sights; it’s a very accurate piece of kit. And it takes armour-piercing bullets.

Just to the right of the house there is a sort of hillock. The soil has been partly washed away by the rain, revealing a heap of building rubble, plaster, breeze blocks that builders were probably supposed to clear away but never did. It’s not an ideal position for a sniper, but it’s the only one I’ve got. From here, I have a view of most of the main room, though only at an angle. I’ll have to stand up at the last minute before I fire.

I’ve already seen her a couple of times, but she was walking past too quickly. I’m not bothered, no sense rushing things. Better to do it right.

*

As soon as she got up, Anne went to the door to make sure Camille had double-locked it. The house has been burgled more than once, which is hardly surprising given the isolated location, so he installed reinforced doors. The double-glazed bay window is fitted with toughened glass which could probably take a hammer blow without so much as cracking.

“This is the code for the alarm,” Camille had said, handing her a page torn from a notepad. “Press hash, then this number, then hash again. That’ll set off the alarm. It’s not connected to the local police station and it only lasts a minute, but take my word for it, it’s a powerful deterrent.”

The numbers are 29091571; Anne did not want to ask what they meant.

“Caravaggio’s date of birth . . .” Camille said apologetically. “It seemed like a good idea for a security code. Not many people know it. But as I said, I guarantee you won’t need it.”

Anne also checked the rear of the building. There is a laundry and a bathroom. The only external door is reinforced with steel, locked and bolted.

Then she went and showered as best she could. It was impossible to wash her hair properly; she considered removing the splints but decided it would be too painful, she had to stop herself crying out merely touching her fingers. She will simply have to make do. Picking up the slightest thing with these bear paws has become a feat. She does most of the work with her right thumb since the left is sprained.

The shower is a blessed relief after having spent all night feeling grubby and smelling of hospital disinfectant. She allowed the scalding water to enfold her gently for a long moment, then opened a window to feel the delicious, invigorating chill.

Her face seems unchanged. In the mirror, it looks just as it did the previous night, perhaps even uglier, more swollen, the motley blue and yellow bruises, the broken teeth . . .

*

Camille drives carefully. Too carefully. Too slowly, especially since this stretch of autoroute is short and drivers tend to ignore the speed limits. His mind is elsewhere, he is so preoccupied that even on automatic pilot he slows to a crawl: the car limps towards the Périphérique, dropping from seventy kilometres per hour to sixty, to fifty trailed by the howl of car horns, shouted insults, flashing headlights. His confusion was triggered by a single thought: he has just spent the night with this woman in the most hallowed place in his life, but what does he know about her? What do he and Anne truly know about each other?

He quickly assesses what Anne knows about him. He has told her the most important things: Irène, his mother, his father. His life is a simple one. With Irène’s death, he suffered one more tragedy than most people suffer.

He knows little more about Anne: work, marriage, a brother, a divorce, a child.

As he comes to this conclusion, the car veers into the middle lane as Camille takes out his mobile, connects the charger to the dashboard power socket and opens a browser. The screen on the mobile is tiny, and the device slips from his hands as he fumbles for his reading glasses, and he finds himself rummaging for it under the passenger seat – no easy feat for a man who is four foot eleven.