I Kill (47 page)

Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I know a hundred ways to kill a man, sir. The best enemy is not the one who surrenders, sir. The best enemy is a dead enemy, sir . . .

Suddenly, he recalls the imperious voice of the man who forced him to call him sir. His orders, his punishments, the iron fist he used to rule every instant of their lives. As if it were a
movie, he visualizes their humiliation, their fatigue, the rain on their bodies, trembling with cold. A closed door, a patch of light getting smaller and smaller on their faces in the dark, the
sound of a key being turned in a lock. The hunger, the thirst. And the fear, their only real companion, without the consolation of tears. They were never children, they were never boys, they were
never men: only soldiers.

He recalls the eyes and the face of that hard, inflexible man who terrorized them. But, when it all happened that blessed night, it had been fairly easy to overpower him. His young body was a
perfect fighting machine and the other man was heavy with age and disappointment. He could no longer fight the force and ferocity that he himself had created and strengthened, day after day.

He had surprised him while he was listening with closed eyes to his favourite record,
Stolen Music
by Robert Fulton. The music of his pleasure, the music of his rebellion. He had
immobilized him with a neck hold, tight as a factory clamp. He had heard his bones crunch in his grasp and had been astonished to discover that, after all, his tormentor was only aman.

He remembers his question, asked in a voice that was not fearful but simply surprised when he felt the cold barrel of the gun against his temple.

What are you doing, soldier?

He remembers his own answer, loud and clear and cold in spite of everything, at the sublime moment of his rebellion, the moment in which all wrongs are righted, all injustices overruled.

I do as you taught me. I kill sir!

When he pulled the trigger, his only regret was that he could kill him only once.

The smile leaves the face of the man who has lost a name borrowed a very long time ago and who is once again nothing more than someone and no one. Names are no longer necessary. Only men and the
roles they are forced to play: the man who flees and the man who chases, the strong man and the weak man, the man who knows and the man who is ignorant.

The man who kills and the man who dies . . .

He turns to observe the room. There is a man in uniform sitting on the couch with his back to him. He sees the nape of his neck rising above the couch, the line of his short hair on his lowered
head as he examines a pile of CDs on the coffee table.

The sound of John Hammond’s acoustic guitar is coming from the stereo. The floating sensuousness of the blues re-creates the Mississippi Delta, evoking a lazy summer afternoon, a world of
humidity and mosquitoes so far away that it might not even exist.

The man in uniform had some excuse to come into the house, overwhelmed with the boredom of a task that perhaps he finds pointless, leaving the other two cops in the street, victims of the same
boredom. He was fascinated by the number of records on the shelves and started to talk about music with a presumption of competence that his words showed to be false.

The man stands looking at the back of the defenceless neck of the man on the couch.

Just sit there and listen to the music. Music doesn’t let you down. Music is both the journey and the destination. Music is the beginning and the end of everything.

The man slowly opens the small drawer of the telephone table. Inside, there is a knife, sharp as a razor. As the man raises it and slowly moves towards the other man sitting with his back to
him, the blade reflects the light coming in the window.

The head of the sitting man is bent and he nods it slowly, following the rhythm of the music. His closed mouth hums what he thinks is an accompaniment to the voice of the blues singer.

When he covers that mouth with his hand, the hum goes up an interval and grows more acute. No longer an attempt at singing, it becomes a mute chorus of surprise and fear.

Music is the end of everything . . .

When he slits his throat, a red spurt comes out so fast that it hits the stereo. The lifeless body of the man in uniform slumps down, head to one side.

There is noise at the entrance of the house. Men are approaching stealthily, his alert, well-trained senses can
feel
them even without a sound.

As he cleans the blade of the knife on the back of the couch, the man smiles again. The blues ballad, melancholy and indifferent, continues to pour from the speakers that are now spattered with
rust and blood.

Frank and Morelli left the Rascasse at full speed, racing down Boulevard Albert Premier. Their Mégane, with its sirens blaring, had joined several cop cars coming from
Rue Suffren Raymond. There was also a blue van with tinted windows in which the crisis unit was sitting in combat fatigues. Frank had to admire the efficiency of the Monaco Sûreté
Publique. Only minutes had passed since Morelli had sent out the alarm and reinforcements were already arriving.

They turned right on Sainte-Dévote and drove along the harbour towards the tunnel, more or less the route of the Grand Prix in reverse. No racing car had ever driven down that road as
urgently.

They emerged from the tunnel at great speed, leaving behind the beaches of Larvotto and heading towards the road that passed the Country Club and continued on to Beausoleil.

Frank had indistinct glimpses of curious onlookers turning their heads as the cars passed. The sight of so many emergency vehicles racing together through the streets of Monte Carlo was rare
indeed. In the entire history of the city, the crimes that required so many police could be counted on one hand. The layout of the city was such that there was only one road that entered Monte
Carlo and one road that exited, which made it easy to seal one side or the other. No one with half a brain would let himself get caught in that kind of trap.

At the sound of the sirens, the civilian cars pulled over and stopped obediently to let the police pass. Despite their speed, Frank felt like they were driving at a snail’s pace. He wanted
to fly, he wanted to . . . The radio on the dashboard crackled and Morelli leaned over to pick up the mike. ‘Morelli.’

‘Roncaille here. Where are you?’ the radio barked.

‘Right behind you, sir. I’m with Frank Ottobre. We’re following you.’

Frank smiled at the idea that the chief of police himself was in the car ahead of them. Nothing in the world would keep that man from being present at No One’s arrest. He wondered whether
Durand was with him. Probably not. Roncaille wasn’t stupid. He had no intention of sharing the glory for catching the worst killer in Europe, if he could help it.

‘Frank, can you hear me?’

‘Yes, he hears you. He’s driving but he can hear. He’s the one who figured out who No One is.’

Morelli wanted to make sure that Frank got the credit he was due. Roncaille’s voice again boomed out of the speaker.

‘Good. Excellent. The Menton police are on their way, too. I had to inform them, since Jean-Loup’s house is in France and that’s their jurisdiction. We need them to authorize
the arrest. I don’t want any sleazy lawyers using any cheap tricks when this goes to trial . . . Frank, can you hear me?’

There was a sputter of static. Frank took the mike from Morelli, holding the steering wheel with one hand.

‘What is it, Roncaille?’

‘I hope for all our sakes that you know what you’re doing.’

‘Don’t worry, we have enough evidence to be sure it’s him.’

‘Another misstep after what happened would be inexcusable.’

For sure, especially since the next name to be crossed off the list is yours.

The police chief’s concern did not stop there, apparently. Frank could hear it even in the garbled sound coming through the receiver.

‘There’s one thing I can’t understand.’

Only one?

‘How was he able to commit those crimes when he was practically barricaded in his house, under the constant surveillance of our men?’

Frank had asked himself the same question and couldn’t give Roncaille an answer. ‘That’s a detail I can’t explain. He’ll have to be the one to tell us, once we get
our hands on him.’

Frank took it as a bad sign that they hadn’t yet established contact with the agents in the police car outside Jean-Loup’s house. If they’d gone into action, they should have
communicated what was happening. He didn’t tell Morelli of his concerns. In any case, Morelli was no fool and had probably come to the same conclusion.

They pulled up in front of the gate of Jean-Loup’s house just as the inspector from Menton was arriving. Frank noticed that there were no reporters. On any other occasion he would have
burst out laughing. They’d been constantly watching the house to no avail, only to abandon the hunt right when their story would have been as juicy as a rare steak. They would probably show
up again en masse, but the police cars blocking the road in both directions would stop them. There were already men further down, near Helena’s house, to prevent any attempt of escape down
the steep descent to the coast.

The blue doors of the police van opened before it came to a stop. A dozen men from the crisis unit, in blue jumpsuits, helmets and Kevlar bulletproof vests and carrying M-16s, jumped out and
prepared to storm the house.

The police car was parked outside, empty. Its doors were closed but not locked. Roncaille himself had gone to check. Frank had a bad feeling. Very bad.

‘Try calling them,’ he told Morelli.

The sergeant nodded as Roncaille walked towards them, with the psychiatrist Dr Cluny close behind. Roncaille was not as incompetent as he seemed, after all. Cluny’s presence would be very
helpful in case of negotiations involving hostages. Morelli was calling the agents and getting no answer as Roncaille stopped in front of him.

‘What should we do?’

‘The men aren’t responding, which is not good. At this point, I’d have the crisis unit go into action.’

Roncaille turned and nodded to the head of the assault group awaiting instructions in the middle of the road. The man gave an order and everything happened in a flash. Instantaneously, the unit
spread out and disappeared from view. A fairly young but prematurely bald plain-clothesman with the lanky gait of a basketball player got out of the Menton police car and walked over to them. Frank
thought he had already seen him among the crowd at Hulot’s funeral. He held out his hand.

‘Hello. I’m Inspector Roberts, Homicide in Menton.’

The two men shook hands as Frank wondered where he’d heard that name. Then he remembered. Roberts was the policeman Nicolas had spoken to the evening that Roby Stricker and Gregor Yatzimin
were killed. The one who had gone to check on the phone call to the radio station that had been a hoax.

‘What’s happening? Everything under control?’ Roberts asked as he turned to look at the roof of the house just visible through the cypresses.

Frank recalled the tear-streaked face of Pierrot, who at first had helped but then had destroyed everything that Frank had so laboriously constructed. At the cost of human life.

He wanted to lie to Roberts, but forced himself to tell the truth and to appear calm.

‘Afraid not. Unfortunately the suspect was alerted and the surprise was foiled. There are three men inside who haven’t answered our calls and we don’t know what’s going
on.’

‘Hmm. That’s not good. But if it’s three against one—’

Roberts was interrupted by the crackling of Morelli’s two-way radio. The sergeant hurried to answer as he joined the group.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Gavin. We’re inside. We’ve searched the place from top to bottom. It’s safe now but there’s been a slaughter. Three officers are dead. Other than their
bodies, there’s no one here.’

The press conference was completely packed. Because they were expecting so many of the media, they had decided to hold it in the auditorium at the Centre Congrès. The
hall at headquarters on Rue Notari simply wasn’t big enough.

Durand, Roncaille, Dr Cluny and Frank were sitting before microphones at a long table covered with a green tablecloth. Everybody involved in the investigation was present. In front of them,
representatives from the newspapers, radio and television sat in rows of plastic chairs. Frank found the spectacle ridiculous, but the prestige of the Principality of Monaco and of the United
States, which he represented as an FBI agent, made it necessary.

It didn’t matter that No One, a.k.a. Jean-Loup Verdier, was still at large. It didn’t matter that when they had entered the house after the attack by the assault unit, they had found
it empty and Agent Sorel’s throat cut like a sacrificial lamb. The other two, Gambetta and Megéne, had been shot with the same gun used in the murder of Gregor Yatzimin.

Ubi major, minor cessat
– the weak capitulates before the strong
.

Certain embarrassing facts could not be revealed and were kept hidden behind the convenient screen of confidentiality. What was being emphasized was the success of the investigation. The
identification of the killer, the brilliant joint operation of the Monaco police and the FBI, the criminal’s diabolical mind and the unwavering determination of the investigators, etc., etc.,
etc.

Camouflaged by that series of etceteras was the killer’s escape, due to unforeseeable events, and his current unknown whereabouts. But it would only be a matter of hours until the man
responsible for those horrible murders was captured. All the police forces of Europe were alerted and news of the arrest was expected at any moment.

Frank admired the skill with which Roncaille and Durand steered the tumult of questions. They were both adept at taking centre stage whenever they possibly could and at changing the focus
whenever they found themselves on the sidelines.

Neither of them even mentioned Inspector Nicolas Hulot. Frank recalled the photos of the accident, the smashed car, his friend’s body slumped over the steering wheel with his face covered
in blood. He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and felt the piece of paper inside. Searching every inch of Jean-Loup Verdier’s house for a clue that would explain his escape, he had found
an ordinary speeding ticket. The licence plate was that of a rented car. It was dated the day of Nicolas’s death and the location was not far from the scene of the accident. Frank had been
led back to Jean-Loup by this simple proof and by the words of someone who had turned out to be an unknowing but effective accomplice: Pierrot.