Dance of the Angels (11 page)

The restaurant was located in a private house on the edge of the woods. To access it, you had to walk through a little garden, where, weather permitting, Manotti would set up a few tables in the shade of the linden trees.

The old gangster was sitting at the bar, sipping a pastis. Small and skinny, with an olive complexion beneath slicked-back black hair, and an honest smile. Tavernier held out his hand to the retired hoodlum, whose eyes, as alert as ever, lit up as he recognized his guest.

“I am very happy to see you in such good health, Commissioner.”

With a wave of his hand, the former safecracker beckoned the two cops into the restaurant dining room. A table had been laid in their honor near the fireplace. There was even a bottle of Veuve Cliquot champagne chilling in a silver ice bucket, waiting to be opened. Manotti certainly knew how to receive guests. As for the old crook’s three sons, they watched the newcomers sit down with no particular enthusiasm. They wore suits, with pronounced bulges under their breast pockets. Tavernier greeted the sons with a nod. It was clear from their forced smiles that pig had no place on the restaurant’s menu. Little Gold Hands noticed the unease.

“They’re hard-boiled those three, but you can count on them, Commissioner,” said the old robber reassuringly. “Your case is of interest to them. They can’t stand to see kids being abused.”

Honor among thieves,
thought Le Goënec philosophically.

C
HAPTER
XIII

Cécile couldn’t stop pacing back and forth across the large loft.

Time was ticking past, and she wasn’t going to arrive late for such an important evening do, not for anything in the world. Florence, her roommate, sat comfortably ensconced on a leather sofa, a few feet away, downing the last of her mint tea.

“Sure you don’t want to come with me?” Cécile asked impatiently. “All the top publicists will be there, along with elite members of the press. Maybe even Philippe Schneider! You simply must come.”

“Thanks,” said Florence, slightly irritated, “but you know how I am with cocktail parties.”

“Wow, your new squeeze is making you really paranoid. You haven’t gone out for days.”

“I don’t feel like seeing anyone. It’s my hibernation period.”

“Well, I’m heading out,” said the young woman, pulling on a bright-orange raincoat. “I need to see people. I love people!”

“Better hurry up, then. If you get there late, your VIPs will have eaten all the canapés.”

Cécile gave her a little wave with her fishnet-gloved hand, then closed the door behind her. Finally alone! As much as she liked her roommate, small talk and all that jazz was now a world away for the journalist. The clock on the wall showed seven p.m. Florence felt like taking a hot bath with lots of bubbles scented with Guerlain perfume. This was her number-one anti-stress solution.

Florence had been living with permanent anxiety ever since the attempted murder of Le Goënec and Tavernier. Hopefully, this restaurant in the middle of the countryside would be a good hiding place for her man. She would have given almost anything to be with him right now.

The jingling of the doorbell made her jump. Cécile must have forgotten something. “As ditzy as ever,” she was preparing to say as she opened the door. But the words remained stuck in her throat when she saw the stranger. The guy was around twenty-five years old, with very blond hair, and something unnerving behind his half-angel, half-devil smile.

“Florence Meyer?” he said in a soft, almost shy, voice.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“I am a friend of Inspector Le Goënec. May I come in?”

Florence was unable to think fast enough, as if she were under hypnosis. The stranger had already placed a foot in the opening of the door. His 240 pounds of muscle did the rest; Nikita slipped inside without asking permission. The door closed sharply behind him. Florence slowly backed into the living room. Quite at ease, Nikita poured himself a vodka.

“Who are you?” asked the journalist, her heart in her mouth. “What do you want from me?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen my buddy Le Goënec. I need to contact him urgently. No doubt you can tell me where I might find him?”

How had Florence allowed herself to be tricked so easily? Alarm bells were ringing in her head.

“I don’t know where he is.”

“Come on, come on,” said the man, approaching her menacingly, glass in hand, an evil glint in his eye.

It was the look of a true sadist. Florence moved behind the sofa, terrified. Her panicked eyes searched the room for an object that could serve as a weapon. Nikita seized her hair so quickly she didn’t have time to react. The young woman heard herself scream.

“Shut your trap, sweetie pie. We’re going to have a nice little chat, like we were old friends, OK?”

The voice was soft, but she sensed something dangerous about this man. Nikita pulled her roughly onto the sofa, and a wave of pure terror coursed through Florence’s whole body.

“I just need to know where your cop is hiding out. I am sure you can tell me.”

“No, I swear I—”

The resounding slap shocked the journalist.

“I don’t know anything—that’s the truth!” said Florence painfully, raising her arms to protect herself from the coming blows.

Nikita’s gaze hardened, and it froze her stiff.

“I think we are not understanding each other, you little bitch,” murmured the intruder, gripping her wrist so hard she feared it would break. “I shall have to help you think about it more effectively.”

The muscleman abruptly pinned her back against the sofa and with diabolical skill spread her right eyelid open with his fingers, preventing her from closing it. As if in a bad dream, Florence saw the glass of vodka approach dangerously close. Nikita tipped the glass a little, just enough to pour a thin stream of alcohol into her eye. Liquid fire. The scream echoed throughout the loft. Tears rushed down her face. The pain was unbearable. The pretty journalist felt as if acid was eating into her cornea. The bastard knew what he was doing.

“Well?”

“I swear I don’t know.”

“Stupid bitch,” Nikita said, stifling her screams with a firm hand over her mouth. “If I ask you where the bathroom is, you gonna tell me you don’t know?”

Like a brute, he dragged her across the loft, flinging her against the furniture.

“Let go of me!” yelled Florence, struggling as hard as she could.

The cold touch of the pistol’s silencer against her skin quieted her down immediately.

“If you make any more noise, I’ll shoot you straight off—got it?”

Coming from him, it didn’t seem like an empty threat.

What happened next prolonged Florence’s waking nightmare. Nikita hauled his victim into the bathroom and slammed her forehead against the edge of the bathtub several times. Blood splashed across the perfectly white enamel. Florence moaned, and Nikita ripped off her blouse. Florence didn’t even have time to try to protect herself before a vicious punch to the stomach bent her double. More blows struck her perfect body, hard enough to break bones. Nikita punched her blindly, with a violence that gave him a sadistic pleasure.

As he beat his prey, the image of Nicolas dying on Tavernier’s floor flashed before Nikita’s eyes. This was one severe punishment he was meting out, and Nikita lost himself in it, like one of the darker scenes in
A Clockwork Orange
. Hit from every side, Florence couldn’t hold out much longer. The room swirled about her. She was on the verge of slipping into unconsciousness.

“Le Goënec killed my brother,” said Nikita calmly. “Think hard, because otherwise you’re really going to get it in a minute. Where is your asshole boyfriend?”

“Loïc told me nothing,” panted the journalist. “Believe me . . . Nothing . . . nothing at all . . .”

Nikita twisted the nipples of her bloodstained breasts with extreme force. The pain was so acute that the young journalist collapsed onto the tiled floor. Her whole body shook with spasms.

“I’m listening,” said Nikita. “Where are Le Goënec and Tavernier?”

“At the Fourchette d’Or. It’s a restaurant,” whimpered Florence between sobs.

“Where is this place?”

“Vincennes, on the edge of the woods.”

“You see, where there’s a will, there’s a way!”

Without another word, Nikita turned on the cold tap and started filling the tub. The sound of the rushing water, usually so pleasant, became deafening. The reporter bit her lip. Her torturer was running her a final bath.

In the blink of an eye, two powerful arms hauled her over the edge of the tub and pushed her face into the water. Florence immediately began to suffocate, flailing about in vain. Nikita was simply too strong. She wouldn’t escape this. It was useless to resist further. If the man knocked her unconscious, it would all be over, forever. Florence was able to jerk her head back one last time and take in a deep lungful of air before letting herself be plunged down again into the water. Her body flopped weakly. It was not surprising that her strength was all used up after such an ordeal. Another few moments, and she stopped moving.

“Pity, she was really hot,” Nikita said to himself, taking one last look at his victim, who lay lifeless at the bottom of the tub. “Even dead, she turns me on.”

The killer left the apartment quite casually. His murderous focus was now fixed upon Le Goënec and Tavernier.

After several long seconds, the journalist slowly lifted her head from the bath and took a huge breath. If it hadn’t been for those freediving classes in Sicily, Florence would be dead now. Her record of four minutes, forty seconds saved her life. She cautiously waited for the front door to slam before standing up. She was in an awful state, but alive.

Every one of her limbs ached. Blood dribbled down her body from head to toe. Scarlet drops splashed onto the tiles, making it look like the back room of a butcher’s. With horror, the young journalist saw her swollen face in the mirror. Nikita’s fists had split open her forehead, and a visit to the dentist would be necessary to get a real smile back.

Florence had just had another lesson in morbid reality. Chris, an international correspondent and her best friend, had been killed by a sniper in Bosnia. That hadn’t been make-believe, either. The Grim Reaper had visited, but she wasn’t on his list today, thanks to a friendly little wink from destiny. But she’d caught a glimpse of the afterlife. Gathering her remaining strength, Florence managed to drag herself to the telephone.

“I would like to speak to Loïc,” she said, her voice trembling. “Quick, it’s urgent.”

The stranger on the other end of the line put her on hold, and a saccharine cover version of
Penny Lane
piped through the earpiece. It would almost have been funny if her vision wasn’t still cloudy from all the blood.

Finally, Le Goënec’s warm, reassuring voice came on the line, “It’s me, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know how they found me,” whispered Florence, her voice cracking as the reality of what had just happened set in. “I nearly died.”

“What did they do to you, for God’s sake?” screamed Le Goënec.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be OK. I’m a real dolphin. I’ll explain later.”

“Who came? What did he look like?”

“A tall guy in a tracksuit. A Slavic type, blond.”

“That’s the other half of the twins who nearly did us in at the commissioner’s. But how did you . . . ? Are you hurt?”

“It’ll be OK. My doctor and dentist should be able to sort me out.”

“I’m coming right away, baby. We’re gonna have to—”

“No, stay where you are. I’ll manage. But I talked. Now that son of a bitch knows where to find you.”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll welcome him like a head of state! But don’t open your door to anyone. I have to go.”

Le Goënec hung up the phone.

“A problem, Loïc?” asked Tavernier.

“The other twin went to see Florence. I think he roughed her up a bit.”

“Shit!”

“Now Blondie is coming to pay us a courtesy call. I’d like to take care of him personally.”

At the wheel of his 4x4, Nikita cast a glance at the sawn-off pump-action shotgun on the passenger seat, a weapon capable of cutting several men in two with a single slug. The ammunition was stored with the grenades in a little crate in the foot well on the passenger side. The Colt .45 with jacketed rounds, a gift from Nicolas, was nestled in its holster. All in all, he had the means to single-handedly withstand a siege from a SWAT team.

Reassured by his heavy arsenal, Nikita drove on toward La Fourchette d’Or, taking care to obey the speed limit. This wasn’t the moment to get nabbed by the fuzz for a silly traffic violation. Riffs of distorted guitar boomed from the speakers. Super-raw Sepultura, the kind of death metal Nikita loved to listen to full blast, warming him up for the kill. The sign at the side of the road indicated that he didn’t have much farther to go.

The restaurant sat a little back from the main road. A large arrow pointed gourmet diners in the direction of La Fourchette d’Or. The day the Michelin guide awarded Manotti’s place a third star, the old gangster blubbered like a kid. A sentimental old guy, Manotti.

In the oak-paneled dining room, the white tablecloths had been removed and the tables pushed against the walls. The regulars would have been quite surprised to find their “exclusive setting,” as the restaurant brochure read, turned into an improvised fort. Manotti’s gangland boss reflexes were very quick to return. His old P38 pistol, stuffed at the back of a drawer for years, was still in working order.

“Bruno,” he said to his middle son, “go guard the entrance to the parking lot and nab him in the event of a problem!”

Bruno nodded. The young Manotti never smiled, except when he held his trusty Colt .45. He was a pretty sporty fellow. A Latin lover type who’d make German tourists swoon on the shores of the Adriatic. His hair was as dark as his eyes—and his heart. Pasolini would have used him in a film.

“Manu, go hide at the other end of the parking lot, opposite your brother.”

The youngest clutched a magnificent Škorpion submachine gun, capable of stopping a truck at a hundred yards. With his heavy, dark eyebrows and a piercing gaze, Manu lacked his brother’s Italian grace. An excellent shot, Manu was also an expert Greco-Roman wrestler. He could snap an opponent’s spine like a matchstick.

“Vincent,” continued Manotti, “you stay with the commissioner and his friend in the lobby. I’ll go take up position in the little outbuilding that looks onto the parking lot.”

Vincent was the intellectual of the family. Slim and elegant, the eldest Manotti son’s favorite weapon was seduction. But the young crook could be particularly cruel toward his enemies. A tactful diplomat, Vincent was always first to volunteer to settle a dispute, with a razor blade if need be.