Dance of the Angels (18 page)

She watched the sedan slow to a halt in front of the villa gates, which opened automatically to let in these first arrivals.

“The countdown has begun,” exclaimed Manu in a crackle of radio static.

The three Manotti brothers kept watch, just a few yards from the villa, ready to intervene at the slightest sign of anything untoward.

“I hope everything’s all right with Loïc,” said the commissioner, consulting his watch with concern.

As far as Le Goënec was concerned, everything was going as planned. It wasn’t easy to remain discreet, knowing that the slightest wrong move could blow his cover. A few minutes before the arrival of the first guests, the cameraman strolled over to keep him company.

“How long have you worked for Bensoussan?”

Fortunately, Le Goënec was prepared.

“I’ve done quite a few S and M photos for him in the Netherlands, and I’ll be shooting the next issue of
Leather and Submission
in Berlin with Rolf Mathau and Dolly Lundgrebe.”

The man nodded and then began to recount some film-shoot anecdotes that would have made David Lynch quake. The tone was that of a veteran calmly doing his job, as if working for a regular Hollywood movie studio. To Le Goënec’s great relief, the technician was summoned by his sound engineer after a little while and walked off.

Le Goënec shut himself in the bathroom for a good ten minutes, his ear cocked for any strange noises. Then he slipped out of his hiding place. There was nobody in the hallway. This was his chance to sneak upstairs.

Le Goënec felt a tingle of fear at the tips of his fingers. He wasn’t confident as he hugged the walls and crept toward a door from behind which came the laughter of children. He discerned some Romanian words. If there were still somebody with them, it would be total panic. Le Goënec felt he was playing a real game of Russian roulette. Suddenly, Van Doersen’s massive frame emerged from a bathroom. Gone was the aging rocker. In his place was a true executioner. The man wore a dark suit with a mandarin collar. He looked very much like a Catholic priest, except for the silver medallion depicting a swastika, a souvenir from Bergen-Belsen.

Once again, a miracle happened. The Belgian walked straight past Le Goënec and toward the stairs. Holding his breath, Le Goënec waited a few moments before diving into the kids’ room. The spectacle that greeted him was enough to freeze him in his tracks. Six little slaves, all dressed in S and M leather, looked up at him, scared out of their minds. This was no game now. The little Romanians already looked much less like children and more like fresh meat ready to be served up to the monsters downstairs.

Le Goënec signaled for them to be quiet. Then he took a small card from his jacket, on it a message in Romanian. They recoiled at once. One of the kids started screaming. With lightning speed, Le Goënec placed his hand over the kid’s mouth, but it was too late. One of the older kids slipped out of the door and ran as far as the stairs, yelling, “Nicu! Nicu!”

It was impossible to avoid trouble now. Le Goënec was all out of options, except to kick-start the operation without further delay. He leapt to the window, whipped out his .357 Magnum from the bottom of his camera bag, and fired. The gunshot terrified the kids, who fled out of the room like startled sparrows.

“Christ almighty,” exclaimed Tavernier, hearing the blast. “I knew it. He’s in deep shit!”

That same instant, Bruno’s voice screamed over the walkie-talkie, “It’s the signal!”

“Roger that! Let’s go.”

Tavernier cocked his pistol and dove out of the Espace. Florence insisted on following him, but the commissioner objected strongly.

“I want to come with you! Loïc’s in danger!”

“You stay put, and that’s an order,” bellowed Tavernier. “I’ll tell you when the press is allowed in!”

Gun in hand, the anti-crime boss ran to the villa, a hundred yards further on. The three Manotti brothers had already climbed the wall. In a few seconds, the vengeful sons, armed with combat knives, were flat on their stomachs in the garden. The three shadowy figures crawled slowly toward the guards dressed in suits, watching their sectors. Each brother picked out the man he would take down. At a signal from Manu, they lunged at the guards, who had no time to react. A firm hand was slapped over each mouth, while a knife blade slit each throat. Vincent and Bruno then immediately slipped around the side of the house, and the two other guards joined the charter flight to death arranged by Club Manotti.

Panic seized the villa. The discovery of the pseudo-photographer in the children’s room gave Hervet cold sweats.

There’d been a hell of a punch-up in the bedroom. Le Goënec, who had lost his gun in the brawl, defended himself like a madman. But at four against one, it was not a fair fight. He was seriously banged up, and he didn’t last long against René Van Doersen in unarmed combat. Le Goënec collapsed on the floor, his energy spent, his forehead split open. The torturer soon realized the deception when he threw some water in his face. The fake beard immediately peeled away.

“Gentlemen, we have an additional guest, and quite a guest at that,” said the police chief.

Hervet found it hard to disguise his satisfaction, despite being behind schedule. With the assistance of the Belgian, it would be child’s play to obtain all the useful information they needed and finally lay their hands on Tavernier. In return for an increased fee, the evil executioner was more than willing to conduct the interrogation. The Belgian knew the limits of human resistance, and nothing excited him more than taking a victim to the threshold of the unbearable. After that, it was up to Death to choose whether or not to accept the package.

“Tie him to this chair. He needs to be comfortably seated for what I intend to do to him,” said Van Doersen.

Popescu and the two video technicians lifted Le Goënec and dropped him into the rattan chair.

“Take off his shoes and his pants.”

The two men chucked his sneakers onto the floor. His jeans went flying across the room. The Antwerp Torturer approached Le Goënec slowly and calmly. To commence the foreplay, he would bind the cop’s ankles together, but in his own particular way. For it was no piece of rope that Van Doersen held in his hand, but a length of barbed wire.

Le Goënec’s scream echoed throughout every room in the villa. He had nearly tipped over the chair with his writhing when the sharp points pierced the flesh of his calves. The master of pain, as placid as Lake Geneva, completed his task by wrapping the barbed wire around Le Goënec’s legs up to his knees. The blood dripped onto the carpet in fine droplets. For Le Goënec, with dozens of metal points sticking into his legs, the pain was atrocious. The sadist had taken care to press each one in with extreme diligence. This was highly skilled craftsmanship.

“Bunch of degenerates! Fucking freaks!” said Le Goënec between gasps. “You all deserve a bullet in the head . . . Oh, God! Oh, fuck!”

Van Doersen opened his brown leather briefcase. It contained an extensive collection of razors, knives, syringes, and all sorts of surgical instruments sufficient to transform a human being into steak tartare.

“Let us see if you are capable of withstanding the first circle of pain,” said the monster gravely.

These words did not bode well for Le Goënec. He was in perfect physical condition, but getting sliced up was something else again. He had no idea how long his heart would hold out against the insane hell Van Doersen had in store for him.

“Hold him tight!”

The torturer gently held Le Goënec’s hand. It seemed to radiate a kind of heat, like that of a hypnotist. His skin was very soft, and the feel was almost pleasant. Le Goënec gritted his teeth, thinking they would shatter. Suddenly a searing pain ripped through his whole body. Van Doersen had just pushed a slim needle under his nail. It was so unbearable that Le Goënec screamed with all his might. Next, the torturer took out a cigarette lighter, flicked the flame into life, and held it under the protruding metal shaft until it glowed orange. The now-burning-hot needle produced another scream. Somehow, despite being ravaged by pain, Le Goënec managed to remain conscious.

“If I were you, Le Goënec, I would talk,” said Hervet. “This is nothing next to what our friend has planned for you. Just tell me where Tavernier is.”

Le Goënec tried to breathe between unbearable waves of agony.

“If you cooperate, I’ll stop all this immediately. You have my word.”

Under different circumstances, Le Goënec would have burst out laughing. But nothing came from the cop’s mouth except a thin stream of saliva. In the face of the fear that paralyzed him, he was unable to utter a word.

“He’s a hardy guy,” commented Van Doersen, “but now I am going to go much further, trust me.”

A silver razor gleamed in the sadist’s right hand, as Van Doersen held Le Goënec’s head tight with his left arm. The Antwerp Torturer was poised to slice off one of his ears. With a strength born of desperation, Le Goënec twisted his head this way and that, dreading the moment when he could no longer avoid the blade.

“Hold him tight,” intoned Van Doersen, as he pressed the sharp steel against the skin.

Le Goënec’s screams made Tavernier’s blood run cold. Thank God he was still alive, but in what state? The three Manotti brothers ran up the stairs and smashed in the door of the torture chamber. It was like a scene from a nightmarish movie. A blaze of gunfire from Bruno and Manu ripped to pieces the man who was clutching Le Goënec. Van Doersen’s corpse crumpled at their feet, unrecognizable.

“Sons of bitches,” shouted Tavernier, bursting into the room.

Popescu had no time to seize his gun. Beside him, Hervet and the video technicians just stood there, petrified.

“It’s over, son,” said Tavernier, kneeling at Le Goënec’s side. “We’ll get you out of here.”

With the help of Bruno, the commissioner slowly and carefully pulled out the barbed wire ensnaring Le Goënec’s legs. The pain was again unbearable. Le Goënec gripped the sides of the chair with all his strength, yelling a string of curses obscene enough to make the Manottis blush.

“I’ll be OK, boss,” panted the bleeding cop, shaking from head to toe. “It’s no worse than that damn dentist I went to on Rue d’Alésia.”

Tavernier grabbed the chief of police by the collar, repressing a burning desire to give him a bullet between the eyes, and banged his head against the wall with all his might.

“Fucking scumbag! I guarantee you that all of France will know what you’ve done!”

Hervet made no sound. Two submachine guns were trained on him. The cold stares that bored into him through the eyeholes of the tactical face masks sent shivers up and down his spine. The trap had snapped shut on him.

“Take them next door,” Tavernier ordered the Manotti brothers, “and watch them closely.”

The commissioner returned to Le Goënec and opened a first aid kit. The wounds were not a pretty sight. A delicate task awaited the white coats at Val-de-Grâce hospital, but in the meantime, the most urgent was to disinfect. When he heard this word, Le Goënec suggested that amputation might be the most expedient option.

A thin smile played across Tavernier’s face.
What a guy, this Breton!

There was a clatter of heels across the parquet floor, and Florence entered. The smell of ether and death made her retch. The bloodstains on the wall reminded her of the numerous images of military assaults she’d seen in the newsroom. But this time, it wasn’t Afghanistan, but a leafy outer Paris suburb.

“Loïc! What have those bastards done to you?”

In spite of the burning pain from the alcohol, which made him scream again, Le Goënec took her hand, clutching it with all his strength.

The journalist knelt down and kissed him.

“I think this treatment will make things a lot better,” said Le Goënec with a smile, and he began to haul himself out of the chair.

“Be reasonable,” said Florence. “You need urgent hospital treatment.”

“Vacation can wait. I don’t want to miss the end of the film. I’ve been dreaming for weeks of seeing Mr. Hervet in a pair of handcuffs provided by the taxpayer.”

In the large living room downstairs, the ballet of arrests continued under the stunned gaze of the children, who felt like they were in a Western. Florence had given them back their clothes. She couldn’t stand to see them disguised as sexual playthings in those expensive costumes. After a series of photographs to be used as evidence, Florence helped them change, one by one. It made all the difference. Bruno took them into the kitchen, and the kids set to happily devouring the VIP buffet. Bruno spooned some caviar onto a canapé, then turned up his nose. It couldn’t compete with the quality of La Fourchette d’Or. Stingy old Hervet must have laid on the cheap stuff instead of beluga.

When Scheller rang the doorbell a few minutes later, he found himself staring down the business end of a submachine gun.

“Pity we didn’t manage to keep Van Doersen alive,” said the Celt with some regret as he lay stretched out on a white velvet banquette. “He was a mine of information.”

“You were lucky that the Manotti brothers didn’t arrive ten seconds later.”