Diamondhead (50 page)
Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-
But Paul Ravel gave up everything for love, falling for a dark-haired beauty from Brittany, the daughter of a coast guard officer. He left his busy native southwestern city for the soft farmlands and spectacular coastline of the North. He never went back, and he married Louise at the age of twenty-two. They lived in a small house on the edge of Saint-Malo and had no wish to live anywhere else. Ever. Paul’s ambitions to become a detective had started swiftly but somehow stalled. He had not yet reached the point where he was resigned to his modest status, but he was close.
No one yet understood this was the most important murder investigation of his career. And right now, pending the arrival of someone very senior, he was in charge of the initial police routine. He immediately discovered that not one but both of the dead men had been armed with very powerful revolvers, same make. Marcel’s was still in its shoulder holster. The policeman searched the bodies and found driver’s licenses belonging to Marcel and Raymond. They also found in Raymond’s jacket pocket a set of car keys and a cell phone, switched on.
Since none of the local people had ever laid eyes on the two bodyguards, it was obvious they were complete strangers in the area. The policemen asked if anyone had seen a strange car arrive that morning and park somewhere in the beach location.
No one had seen it arrive, but someone had noticed a large black S-type Mercedes-Benz parked on a side street about two hundred meters away. The detective constable and one other officer went to check, and found that Raymond’s push-button keys easily unlocked the vehicle, with a little display of flashing lights, front and rear, and wing mirrors swiveling into place.
He checked inside, but there was very little in the way of possessions, just a road map and a couple of coffee cups. He wrote down the registration number of the car and walked back to the two cruisers, which were now parked diagonally, completely blocking the road from either direction.
He sat in one of the cars and punched the Mercedes registration number into the onboard police computer. Four minutes later the screen flashed up the name and address of the registered owner—Montpellier Munitions, in the Forest of Orléans. The detective had heard that name somewhere before, and quite recently. But he could not recall where and why. Nonetheless, it would be the work of moments to call Montpellier and check out precisely who was driving their car.
Meanwhile, he had the cell phone, and with little anticipation of success he pushed the redial number, and, slightly to his surprise, heard a number being connected. On the third ring a voice answered and said, crisply, “Marcel, where the fucking hell have you been?”
Paul Ravel said evenly, “This is not Marcel. May I ask who is speaking?”
“What do you mean it’s not Marcel? You’re using his damned phone! It’s showing on my caller ID. Where the hell is he?”
“Sir, this is Detective Constable Paul Ravel of the Saint-Malo Station. May I ask again to whom I am speaking?”
“Ravel, this is the private telephone of the chief of police for Brittany. My name is Pierre Savary. I’m in the Rennes headquarters. And may I ask again, where the hell is Marcel?”
“Sir, I have no way of knowing whether or not I am speaking to Monsieur Savary. I am going to call the police headquarters in Rennes and ask to be put through to you.”
Before the chief could protest, Paul Ravel had clicked off and was dialing Brittany HQ on the police cruiser phone. Paul told the officer who answered that M. Savary was awaiting the call, and moments later the same voice came back on the line.
“Sorry about that, sir,” said the Saint-Malo detective, “but I had to be certain. You see, Marcel and his colleague Raymond are both dead. They are lying on the beach here in Val André, but we’ve only been here for ten minutes. I have few details.”
The blood drained from Pierre Savary’s face. He almost went into shock, since the words of the detective contained such overwhelming ramifications that he momentarily lost the power of speech.
“Sir? Are you still there?”
“Yes, Detective Constable, I’m still here. What details can you give me?”
“Well, sir, the bodies contain several signs of physical violence. We have not conducted a proper investigation yet. But Raymond has a badly broken arm, and his body was curled up, almost in the fetal position, as if he was trying to protect himself from an attacker.”
“And Marcel?”
“Sir, he had some terrible damage to his eyes, one of them had been bleeding, and they were somehow pushed back into their sockets. You could not see the eyeballs. And I noticed both men had their heads at a strange angle, lying there on the sand. I’ve never seen anyone with their head twisted around like that.”
“Had they been killed in the place where you found them?”
“Oh, definitely not, sir. They had been thrown over the seawall. There were major indentations in the sand. I can’t imagine what kind of man did this to them. But maybe there were two, or even three. It’s hard to think this was the work of just one person. Remember, sir, both Marcel and Raymond were armed.”
“Did you check whether either of their weapons had been fired?”
“Yes, sir. Marcel’s revolver was still in its holster, fully loaded. Two shots only had been fired from Raymond’s gun, both by the kid who found the bodies.”
“Kid?”
“Yessir. A couple of eleven-year-olds found the bodies and discovered the gun lying on the sand, about five meters from the two dead men. Little devil fired it up over the seawall and knocked out someone’s bedroom window.”
“Christ, he could have killed someone.”
“Don’t I know it. I’ve got one of the young officers giving them a right bollixing about handling loaded firearms. Explaining how dangerous they are.”
“Well, Detective Constable, I cannot explain to you how serious this is. Get a full murder investigation team over from Saint-Malo: forensics, ambulance, police doctors, pathologist, photographers, and the most senior detective they have. Even though you seem to be doing a very thorough job yourself.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Meanwhile, I’m coming up to Val André myself, by helicopter. And there is something you should know, because I do not wish anything to get out to the media, certainly for a few hours: Marcel and Raymond were the private bodyguards to Henri Foche.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Paul Ravel.
Pierre Savary dialed the private cell phone of Henri Foche, and he spoke in his most measured tones. “Henri,” he said, “I want you to drop everything you are doing immediately. And come over to my office on a matter of extreme urgency. Now.”
The Gaullist leader knew a major problem when he heard one and asked Mirabel, his secretary, to drive him to the police headquarters. There, in his large but plain office, Pierre Savary told Henri Foche precisely what had happened, right from the beginning. He outlined the story of the bearded Swiss hijacker who had hurled two English fishermen over the side of their own trawler. He described the chase across the Channel, during which all the resources of English and French law enforcement were brought to bear on this elusive, murderously strong international criminal. He told Henri how the fishing boat
Eagle
had eluded the French coast guard, and how the man had somehow vanished. In Pierre’s opinion, the boat had been scuttled. He told Foche how he, Pierre, had been sitting here through the night with Marcel before advising him to go to Val André and be on station when the Bearded One landed. And then he outlined how the bodies of the two security men had been discovered dead on the beach, having both been murdered, by “someone with the strength of a fucking grizzly bear.”
Eagle
had eluded the French coast guard, and how the man had somehow vanished. In Pierre’s opinion, the boat had been scuttled. He told Foche how he, Pierre, had been sitting here through the night with Marcel before advising him to go to Val André and be on station when the Bearded One landed. And then he outlined how the bodies of the two security men had been discovered dead on the beach, having both been murdered, by “someone with the strength of a fucking grizzly bear.”
Henri Foche was visibly shocked. The loss of his friend and most reliable confidant, Marcel, was a terrible blow to him, because he valued the hit man a lot more highly than he did his wife. He’d traveled miles and miles with Marcel, to all corners of France. He’d laughed with him, had dinner with him, and above all had relied on him 100 percent. And now he was gone, and by Christ someone was going to pay for that.
“Do we know yet whether this Swiss character actually did land at Val André?”
“Not yet. But I have a murder investigation team in there combing the entire town for clues. Sounds like he’s a very ostentatious kind of a guy. People must have seen him.”
“And if he got off a boat he would not have had transportation, eh?”
“Not unless someone was there to meet him,” said Pierre.
“Let me ask you something, old friend,” said Foche. “Do you think this guy has really come to kill me?”
“Well, we don’t have anything in the way of hard evidence. But the coincidences are beginning to stack up in a rather unpleasant way. We get a very dependable warning that a high-priced assassin is being hired, another warning that he’s liable to come from England. Then we get this desperado on the fishing boat, crossing the Channel, trying and succeeding to break into France with no passport or records. And then he proceeds to murder both of your personal bodyguards within about ten minutes of his arrival.”
“I agree,
mon ami
,” replied Foche. “You certainly couldn’t love it.”
mon ami
,” replied Foche. “You certainly couldn’t love it.”
“Especially as the fucker now seems to be on the loose, right here in France,” said Pierre, “where he is able to read newspaper reports that pinpoint every move you make on a day-to-day basis.”
“There was no sign that he either shot or stabbed my men, was there, no sign of a weapon?”
“Absolutely not. The only weapons were the revolvers belonging to Marcel and Raymond. And now it is obvious you must increase your personal security.”
“I already had, as soon as we heard there may be an attempt on my life.”
“But now Marcel and Raymond are dead, you must do something else.”
“I already know what I’m going to do. I’m going to hire a private security firm. Because I cannot restrict my own movements. With this election coming up I have to address the people of this country—and no fourth-rate killer is going to prevent me from doing that.”
“Actually, Henri, I have to correct you there. So far, we know of only four direct opponents this man has faced. Two of them he hurled into the middle of the English Channel, and the other two he took out with some kind of deadly unarmed combat. I’d put him at first rate, not fourth. Let’s not start by underestimating him.”
Foche nodded. “What strength of security do you think I need?”
“Four armed men to accompany you at all times. And you need men in the house, on duty outside your bedroom, inside and outside the front door. And your car, is it bulletproof?”
“Yes, it is. And would you get someone to drive it back for me, from Val André, that is?”
“No problem. Meanwhile, I’m going up to Val André right now. If I see anything of interest, I’ll call you right away. I might even drive the car back myself.”
“Thanks, Pierre. I’d appreciate that.”
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