Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-
Diamondhead (51 page)
Henri Foche was driven back to his campaign office. He retreated into his private room at the back of the operations room, and dialed the number in Marseille of Col. Raul Declerc.
The ex-Scots Guards officer saw the ID system kick up the number of the Foche campaign headquarters and picked up the phone immediately. He was, of course, delighted to hear the voice of the Gaullist candidate, because that could mean only one thing, cash. And Raul liked cash more than anything else in the world.
Foche told him he was proposing to bring Raul and his team on board for the duration of the campaign. He did not wish to relay the details of the two murders over the phone, but explained he thought it important they meet as soon as possible, in order that everything could be explained.
“Have you thought about money?” asked Raul.
“Yes. My police advisers think I should have four highly trained ex- Special Forces men, armed to the teeth, on duty twenty-four hours a day.”
“I wouldn’t dispute that, sir,” replied Raul. “And we’re looking at three months. That will cost me a minimum of five hundred thousand euros, because you’re going to need ten of them on permanent duty or standby. They’ll work shifts. I’ll come myself as team leader, and there’ll be substantial expenses. My price for the entire operation, everything included, will be one and a half million euros. Wouldn’t touch it for less, especially as someone might get killed, hopefully not you, sir.”
“I’ll pay you one million up front. But if I should die, you will not receive the last half million, because you will have failed me.”
“You want a floating commission of one-third, on a flat fee?” said Raul. “That’s a harsh bargain.”
“If I get killed, that will be somewhat harsher, for me, that is. And remember, if anything happens to me, your duties are over, and you walk off with a very large sum of money with no further expenses.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” replied Raul. “I accept the terms. But I want the full payment, and I will do everything in my power to ensure nothing happens to you. My staff will be top-of-the-line, ex-Legionnaires, ex- British SAS, two former Israeli Special Forces men.”
“Can you get up here by tonight, then travel to Saint-Nazaire with me tomorrow?”
“I could by air, sir. Marseille to Rennes. Probably a private plane.”
“No problem. On my account. Just get here. I’ll have someone meet you at the airport. Call me back with an ETA.”
Pierre’s police helicopter touched down on the beach at Val André at a quarter past eleven. It landed about twenty yards from where Mack Bedford had touched down five hours earlier. But Mack had landed on a lonely rural stretch of sand on the lovely northern coast of Brittany. Pierre found himself in something resembling a city riot. The entire population of the town seemed to be gathered, and the Saint-Malo police were fighting a losing battle trying to keep the murder site clear. The crowd kept pushing forward as if to find a better view of the action, even though there were large screens surrounding the little area where Marcel and Raymond had thumped down off the seawall, already dead.
Detective Constable Paul Ravel hurried over to meet the Brittany police chief as he stepped down from the helicopter. “Good morning, sir,” he said. “I’m very glad you’re here, because I think this is looking a bit more sinister than we first thought.”
Pierre Savary, of course, knew precisely how sinister it was. He was also damn nearly certain the perpetrator of this crime was in France specifically for one objective—to assassinate Henri Foche. The coincidences were too compelling.
He offered his hand to Paul Ravel and said above the howl of the dying rotors that were still whipping up a sandstorm on the beach, “Let’s get behind those screens and talk to the staff.”
The two men walked to where the body of Raymond was being lifted into an ambulance. Marcel was still behind the screens, and Ravel and Savary walked over to talk to the police doctor who was still examining the body.
“Sir, this is a most unusual killing,” said the doctor. “Both men died from badly broken necks, instant and terrible damage to the spinal cords. And I’ve found abrasions on the back area of the ears. All four, both men.
“If you want to take a look under that white cloth, sir, you’ll also see that this man was more or less blinded. Basically, someone rammed something into his eyes and forced the eyeballs so far back almost every working part was ripped and destroyed.”
“And then he broke his neck?”
“That’s my reading of it, sir. Because it’s doubtful he broke his neck and then bothered to blind what he must have known by then was a mere corpse.”
“Agreed,” said Pierre. “How about the other man? Tell me about his injuries.”
“Sir, he had probably the worst broken arm I’ve ever seen, and I’ve done a lot of car wrecks. It was snapped in half, right at the elbow. It’s hard to imagine the force required to break a big man’s elbow that comprehensively. I doubt he would ever have had proper use of that arm again.”
“Was it the right elbow?”
The doctor hesitated, and thought carefully. He then said, “Sorry, sir, just trying to get my bearings. Yes, it was the right elbow.”
“I imagine he was carrying that gun in his right hand,” said Pierre. “Paul, how far was the gun from the body when it was found on the beach? I think you mentioned five meters?”
“Yes, sir. It was exactly five meters. I had the kids walk back to where they picked it up, and the mark where it fell was in the sand, clear as daylight.”
“I’d guess it came from up there by the seawall. Both the bodies and the gun made big indentations, correct?”
“Very much, sir. The bodies definitely fell off the top of the wall, and the gun flew down onto the beach from a similar height.”
Pierre turned to the doctor. “I suppose there’s no way of knowing which of the men died first?”
“Not really. But the bodies landed almost together, and I noticed the left leg of Raymond was under Marcel’s hand. Which suggested that the man who had held the gun was first over the wall.”
Pierre nodded and turned to Paul. “We should remember,” he said, “there were two Frenchmen here, and I know they were both trained bodyguards detailed to protect Monsieur Foche. We know why they were here, and what they may have been doing. Either helping the police, for which they would not be thanked, or perhaps to ensure the threat to the life of their boss was . . . er . . . well, eliminated.”
Paul looked extremely thoughtful. “Sir,” he said, “you know a great deal more about this than I do. And I accept what you say is the gospel truth. Don’t you think it’s looking like the two bodyguards found themselves in some kind of a confrontation and came off worse?”
“That is precisely how it’s looking,” replied the chief of Brittany’s police. “I already have a vision of a big black-bearded defendant standing in a French courtroom and explaining how these two men jumped him, and that he was in fear for his life, and was forced to fight them off.”
Detective Constable Ravel looked quizzical. “Black-bearded?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean black-bearded like a pantomime villain. But the man the coast guard was seeking, the guy who stole the fishing boat and threw the crew members overboard, was officially described as a man with a big black beard.”
“I just haven’t had time to get into the details about the killer,” replied Paul. “I think there’s a briefing on the computer, and I’ll get to it as soon as I can.”
“That’s probably a good plan,” said Pierre Savary. “Because if we don’t move fast, this character is going to be out of our area, and on the loose somewhere in France in search of the next president. Paul, we’ve got to find him. Soon as the second body is cleared out, put every available man into a search of Val André. Remember, we think the killer had no transportation, and he may still be here, hiding out, under someone’s protection.”
“Sir, I do not have the authority to instigate such a huge police action. I’m just a detective constable.”
“Not now you’re not. I’m making you up into a detective inspector right now. And I’m putting you in command of this case, with immediate effect. From this moment on, you answer only to me.”
“Well, thank you, sir. I’ll do the very best I can.”
“Leave the formalities to me. I’ll inform Saint-Malo personally.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pierre grinned at him. “Paul,” he said, “I may not be the greatest police chief who ever lived, but I know about people. And this morning I have developed some very definitive opinions about two of them. You and this bastard who’s after Henri Foche. We must find him, whatever the cost. Because if I’m any judge, this man is dangerous, skilled, smart, and determined.”
“Sir,” said Paul Ravel, “just one thing before you go. It looks to me as if this guy is a professional trained killer, very possibly military, maybe even Special Forces. I’d like to get a couple of experts to take a look at the bodies, check out the killing method, see if it rings any bells.”
“Good idea. You have my permission. Go right ahead. Anything for a lead. Just don’t take your eye off the ball. We have to find him.”
“Okay, sir. And what do you want to do about Monsieur Foche’s car?”
“Have someone drive it back to police HQ in Rennes. I’m sure I can count on you.”
Pierre Savary was, of course, confirming that the Toulouse rugby scouts were not the only people who recognized a safe pair of hands when they saw them.
Upon the departure of the police chief, Detective Inspector Paul Ravel, suddenly commissioned in the field, as it were, headed immediately to one of the cruisers. He picked up the open line to Saint-Malo and asked for two numbers to be located and then connected.
The first was to Direction Generale de la Securité Exterieure (DGSE), France’s successor to the former internationally feared SDECE, the counterespionage service. DGSE was located in a bleak ten-story building over in the twentieth
arrondissement,
which is about as far west as you can go and still be in Paris. The second call was to one of the most secret compounds in the whole of Europe, the Commandement des Opérations Speciales (COS)
,
the joint service establishment that controlled special ops conducted by all three of France’s armed forces. COS was located in the outer suburb of Taverny, and is generally regarded as the home of the French equivalent to Great Britain’s SAS, or the United States’ Navy SEALs.
arrondissement,
which is about as far west as you can go and still be in Paris. The second call was to one of the most secret compounds in the whole of Europe, the Commandement des Opérations Speciales (COS)
,
the joint service establishment that controlled special ops conducted by all three of France’s armed forces. COS was located in the outer suburb of Taverny, and is generally regarded as the home of the French equivalent to Great Britain’s SAS, or the United States’ Navy SEALs.
Ravel spoke to DGSE first, and immediately the duty officer went on high alert. This was clearly important. “We’ll have someone come over to Saint-Malo right away. Are you also contacting COS?”
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