I Kill (23 page)

Mosse was behind him in a flash. He immobilized Frank’s legs with his own and grabbed his neck with his right arm. A military knife suddenly glimmered in his left hand and now it was
pointed at Frank’s throat. The two of them were locked together in a grim embrace. The captain’s eyes were shining, excited by the brawl. Frank realized that he
liked
it, that
fighting was his reason for living. He was one of those people who believed that an enemy was worth his weight in gold.

‘Well, Mr Ottobre, what do you think now? Funny, they said you were good. Didn’t your scout’s instinct tell you not to play with kids who are bigger than you? Where’s
your sixth sense?’

The man holding the knife moved and Frank felt the tip enter a nostril. He was afraid Mosse might slice it. He thought of Jack Nicholson in
Chinatown
and smiled at the memory, which
annoyed his adversary even more. He felt the blade push at the cartilage of his nose.

‘That’s enough, Ryan.’

The order was barked from behind them and the tension of the blade lessened immediately. Frank recognized the voice of General Parker. Without turning, after one last thrust of his arm against
Frank’s neck, Mosse let go. That last twist meant that it was not over between them. Just postponed.

A soldier never cries. A soldier never forgets. A soldier settles the score.

The captain got up, brushing the dust off his light summer trousers. Frank lay there a moment, looking up at the two of them standing over him, one next to the other. They were so alike
physically because, in fact, they were the same. Frank remembered his Italian grandfather and his endless flow of proverbs.

Like attracts like.

It was no accident that the general and the captain stuck together. They had the same goals and probably the same means of accomplishing them. What had just happened made no difference, win or
lose. It was just for show. Mosse was pissing around to mark his territory. Frank was worried about what would happen later on.

‘You should use a different command for your Doberman, general. They say
platz
works best.’

Mosse stiffened, but Parker stopped him with a gesture. He held out his hand to Frank. Without deigning to look at him, Frank got up on his own, brushing off his clothes. He stood before the two
men, breathing heavily. He looked into Parker’s cold blue eyes, then caught the gaze of Captain Mosse, which had lost its gleam and was again a mere reflection.

A seagull circled slowly overhead. It was flying out to sea in the blue sky, its jeering cry reaching them from high above.

Parker turned to Mosse.

‘Ryan, could you go inside and make sure Helena is not planning any more foolishness? Thank you.’

Mosse shot one last glance at Frank. His eyes flashed for a moment.

A soldier never forgets.

The light faded instantly. Mosse turned and headed towards the house. He would probably walk the exact same way if his path were strewn with corpses. If Ryan Mosse found the words
I kill. .
.
written in blood, he would probably write in the same blood underneath:
So do I . . .

Mosse was a man without pity and Frank would not forget it. ‘Please forgive Captain Mosse, Mr Ottobre.’

There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice, but Frank had no illusions. In other circumstances, if necessary, he knew very well that things would end differently. There would be no command from
Parker and Ryan would not stop.

‘He’s . . . what can I say? Sometimes he worries too much about our family. Sometimes he goes overboard, but he’s reliable and trustworthy and cares for us a great
deal.’

Frank had no doubt about that. He only wondered about the limits of Mosse’s enthusiasm, which seemed to depend on the lines drawn by the general. ‘The woman you saw earlier is my
daughter Helena, Arianna’s older sister. The boy with her is Stuart, my grandson. Her son. She . . .’

Parker’s tone of voice softened. There was a hint of sadness.

‘To be quite frank, she’s suffering from a serious nervous breakdown. Very serious. Arianna’s death was the last straw. We tried to hide it from her, but it was
impossible.’

The general’s head dropped. Nonetheless, Frank found it hard to see him in the role of a broken-hearted old father. It had not escaped him that the general defined the boy first as his
grandson and then as Helena’s son. Hierarchy and discipline were probably as much a part of his private life as his public one. Cynically, perhaps, Frank saw the presence of his daughter and
grandson in Monte Carlo as a cover for his real intentions.

‘Arianna was different. She was made of steel. She was
my
daughter. Helena is like her mother, fragile. Very fragile. Sometimes she does things without realizing, like today. A few
times, she’s gotten out and wandered around for a couple of days until we find her. You can imagine her state. That’s what would have happened this time, too. She has to be watched so
that she won’t be a danger to herself or to others.’

‘I’m sorry about your daughters, general. Helena, but especially Arianna. However, that doesn’t change my opinion of you and what you’re doing. Maybe I’d do the
same thing in your place, I don’t know. I’ve been put on this case and I’ll do everything I can to catch this killer, you can count on that. But I will also do everything I can to
keep you from whatever road you’re planning to take.’

Parker did not react angrily, like the night before. Frank’s refusal to collaborate was probably filed away as ‘tactically irrelevant’.

‘I’ll remember that. You’ve got character, Frank, but then so do I. So I would suggest you be very careful when you cross that road, if I’m on it,
Mr
Ottobre
.’

This time, the sarcasm leaked out and Frank noticed. He smiled.
Like Ryan, like Parker.

‘I’ll keep your advice in mind, general. But I hope you won’t hold it against me if I continue the investigation my way. But thanks,
Mr Parker. .
.’

Irony for irony, an eye for an eye, like the jeering cry of the seagull overhead, like a killer torn between justice and revenge.

Frank turned and walked slowly back to the main road. He could feel the general staring at his back. To his right, over the bushes, he could make out the roof of Jean-Loup’s house. As he
crossed the road to get to the waiting car, Frank wondered whether the fact that Parker had rented a house so close to the deejay’s was coincidental.

From the balcony of his Parc Saint-Roman apartment, Frank watched the car that had brought him home turn right on to Rue des Giroflées, then on to Boulevard
d’Italie. The guys had probably started their wisecracks about the situation, about him in particular. He was aware of the general opinion of his role in the
affaire,
as they called
it. The bigshot FBI man, come to show them how it’s done. Except for Nicolas and Morelli, there was a dose of understandable chauvinism where he was concerned. Not that anyone at police
headquarters was against him. Basically, they all had the same goal. But there were definitely some misgivings. His friendship with Hulot and his FBI qualifications were enough to earn
everyone’s cooperation, but not necessarily their camaraderie. The doors were only half open to their American cousin.

Too bad. He wasn’t there for show, but to get a killer. It was a job, and he didn’t need any pats on the back.

Frank looked at the clock. It was two thirty in the afternoon. Realizing that he was hungry, he went back inside to the tiny kitchen. He’d asked Amélie, the housekeeper who came
with the apartment, to do a little shopping. He used whatever was in the fridge to make himself a sandwich, opened a Heineken, and went back to the terrace to eat his lunch in the sun. He removed
his shirt and sat bare-chested. For once, he didn’t worry about his scars. It was different now. He had other things to think about.

Frank looked up at the cloudless sky. The seagulls circled high above, white specks in the clear blue sky. It was a beautiful day. Ever since this whole thing had started, the weather had
decided not to reflect human misery and had headed instead towards summer. Not a single cloud had covered the sun, not for an instant. Someone, somewhere, had decided to leave the handling of light
and darkness to human beings, the lords and masters of their own eclipse.

He let his eyes run along the coast.

Monte Carlo under the sun was a small, elegant hive with too many queen bees, and even more who just played the part. They propped up a flimsy image of elegance, like phony buildings on a movie
set. The only thing behind them was the faraway line of the horizon. But the killer, in a long dark coat, was opening the doors, one by one, with a scornful bow, pointing to the void behind them
with a black-gloved hand.

Frank finished his sandwich and took the last sip of beer from the bottle. He looked at his watch again. Three o’clock. If Cooper wasn’t out on another case, he would be at the
office in that huge stone building that was FBI headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington. He picked up his cordless phone and punched in the number.

‘Cooper Danton,’ he answered at the third ring in his usual dry tone.

‘Hi, Cooper. Frank again.’

‘Hey, man. Getting a tan on the Côte d’Azur?’

‘No sun on this Côte d’Azur. Our friend has us living the nightlife. I’m white as snow.’

‘Yeah, right. Any progress?’

‘Totally in the dark. The few lightbulbs we had are blowing out, one by one. And if that wasn’t enough, this General Parker and his sidekick are complicating things. I know I’m
being a pain in the ass, but have you found anything on them?’

‘Lots, if the big time doesn’t scare you. I was about to send you an e-mail with a file attached. You beat me to it.’

‘Send it anyway but tell me a little first.’

‘Okay. Just a summary. General Parker, Nathan James, born in Montpelier, Vermont, in ’thirty-seven. Family not incredibly wealthy, but very well-to-do. Left home at seventeen and
forged papers to get into the army. First in his class at the Academy. Brilliant officer with a fast-track career. Decorated in Vietnam. Brilliant operations in Nicaragua and Panama. Wherever they
needed to flex muscles, use some fists and some brains, that’s where he’d be. He was Army Chief of Staff very early on. Secret mastermind of Desert Storm and the war in Kosovo. A couple
of presidents later, and he’s still there. Which means that when he talks, people listen. And his opinion counts in Afghanistan now, too. He’s got money, power and credibility. He can
wet the bed and say he was sweating. He’s tough, Frank. Real tough.’

Cooper stopped to take a breath and let him process the information.

‘What about the other one?’

‘Who? Mosse?’

Frank remembered the knife against his nostril. He scratched his nose to banish the memory.

‘Yeah. Did you get anything on him?’

‘Sure did. Captain Mosse, Ryan Wilbur. Born 2nd March ’63, in Austin, Texas. There’s less on him. And a lot more.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘At a certain point, Mosse became Parker’s shadow. If you got one, you got the other. Mosse would give his life for the general.’

‘Any special reason, or is it just Parker’s charm?’

‘Mosse’s loyalty is tied to the reason that Parker was decorated in Vietnam. One of the things he did was cross the Charlie line with a wounded soldier on his back, saving his
life.’

‘Now you’re going to give me a name.’

‘Right. The soldier was Willy Mosse, Ryan’s father.’

‘Perfect.’

After that, they became friends. Or rather Mosse’s father became a subordinate of Nathan Parker. And Parker took care of the sergeant’s son. He helped him get into military academy,
had him promoted, and covered his ass when necessary.’

‘Meaning?’

‘In short, Frank, Mosse is a bit of a psycho. He goes in for meaningless violence and gets himself in trouble. At the Academy, he once almost killed a classmate with his fists and later
stabbed a soldier over a woman at an amy party in Arizona. During the Gulf War, a soldier was tried for threatening him with an M-16 to stop him from going ballistic on a group of defenceless
prisoners.’

‘Quite a guy!’

‘A creep is more like it. But things were smoothed over every time. Thanks to guess who?’

‘General Nathan Parker, I presume.’

‘Correct. That’s why I told you to be careful, Frank. Those two are the Devil squared. Mosse is Parker’s henchman. And I’m sure he wouldn’t think twice about using
him.’

‘I know, Coop. Thanks. I’ll be expecting your e-mail.’

‘It’s already sent. Take care, my friend.’

Frank hung up and stood in the middle of the room, his head leaning to one side. The information from Cooper added only names, dates and facts to what he already thought about those two. They
were bad enough in broad daylight. They would be vicious at night.

The intercom buzzed. He got up, turned off the radio and went to answer.

‘Mr Ottobre, there’s someone coming up to see you.’ The doorman was speaking English and sounded embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you
earlier but . . . please understand . . . I . . .’

‘Don’t worry, Pascal. It’s okay.’

Who could it be that had so upset the doorman?. Someone knocked just then. He wondered why they didn’t ring the bell. Frank went to open the door.

He found himself in front of a middle-aged man, about his height, clearly American. He bore a vague resemblance to Robert Redford, with darker hair. He was tanned and elegant but not
pretentious. The man was wearing a blue suit and his shirt was open with no tie. He wore a Rolex but the strap was leather, not one of those massive blocks of gold so common in Monaco. The man
flashed him a natural grin. He was a real person, not a celebrity. No PR at any price. Frank liked him on sight.

‘Frank Ottobre?’

‘Yes?’

‘Glad to meet you, Mr Ottobre. I’m Dwight Bolton, United States Consul in Marseilles.’

Frank stopped a second in surprise, then shook the outstretched hand. This was an unexpected visit. His face probably betrayed his thoughts, because the envoy’s eyes lit up in amusement.
And his grin shot up on one side, creasing his face.