Impure Blood (43 page)

‘If our captors do come before Darac gets here, I’m going to try to stall them, Papa.’

‘With what?’

‘Words. They’re the only weapons we have. That’s why I want to be ready with something tailor-made for the task. I know what might work on the Brosses. I know what might work on Monceau. And I’m almost certain I could talk Jacqueline Dutillieux out of… harming us. So let’s pool our resources for one last time, Papa – can you think of anyone else who might hate us enough to want to degrade and punish us like this? If we could identify them in advance, it might save our lives.’

He gazed across at her and then lowering his head, looked the other way. The face of his old friend Adam Djourescu came back to him. Adam, the golden boy of the unit. Adam who was destined for great things. Adam who bested him in everything – except keeping his wife Elena happy in bed. Adam who felt so guilty about the round-up of ’42. Adam who had shared his guilty secret with his friend. Adam the Jew.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I can think of no one.’

The Colline du Château was a wooded hump of rock that rose between the port and the old city of Nice, the Babazouk. In postcard-perfect sunshine, the Garde Républicaine officers Yves Dauresse, Roger Lascaux and David Jarret swung their vehicles on to the quayside that wound around its foot and prepared to go to work.

Designated Station 37 on their route plan, a traffic island opposite the marble war memorial, the Monument aux Morts, was their first assigned obstacle. As his two companions waved and rode on, Roger Lascaux throttled back and slowed to a pirouetting stop just in front of it. His arrival created a buzz among the crowd corralled behind crash barriers on either side of the quai – it was a signal that the riders themselves were on their way. Eyes invisible beneath his tinted visor and shades, Lascaux swung a leg over the bike and pulled it manfully back on to its stand. Someone in the crowd waved to him. He waved back.

A couple of bends further along, the Quai des États-Unis split into four lanes. Marking the start of the central reservation dividing the two carriageways, Station 38 had been assigned to Yves Dauresse. He watched David Jarret disappear into the distance as he pulled up at its broad leading edge. Dauresse’s job was to wave the riders across to the ‘wrong’ left-hand side of the carriageway. He parked without ceremony and, ignoring the crowd, immediately checked out the terrain. He saw no problem with the promenade side. But he was exercised by the Ponchette, a wide, flat-roofed terrace of converted fishermen’s houses that stood opposite. His eyes went to that flat roof. Rewarding his instinct, a familiar silhouette appeared briefly above an archway that led through to the daily street market on Cours Saleya. It looked like the stumpy muzzle of an MP5 submachine gun. It made sense to him: a couple of hundred metres long and with a parapet to hide behind, the roof made an ideal viewing platform for a SWAT team – the sort of outfit commanded by the GIPN lunatic he’d encountered at the Monaco briefing, Frédéric Anselme. Dauresse gave a false laugh. He had a nut job and an arsenal of MP5s hovering over him. Wonderful. On his open frequency, he heard an instruction go out to TV. There were to be no aerial shots of the Ponchette. That made sense. Why alert the enemy? Or alarm the viewing public? And if something were to go wrong, three-hundred and seventy million people made a lot of witnesses.

A kilometre or so further along, David Jarret was enjoying himself royally. This was the day he’d been looking forward to since the race route had been announced. To his left was the glittering perfection of the Baie des Anges. To his right was the stuccoed elegance of the Boulevard des Anglais’s finest hotels. The crowds were two and three deep as he slowed to a stop at Station 39 – a staggered-kerb turn just beyond the Negresco.

His radio crackled into life.

‘This is 35. Four-man breakaway cleared. Peloton thirty seconds behind. Over.’

Station 35 was a steep left-hander on the Corniche André de Joly, four minutes away. The message added useful detail to what Jarret could see with his own eyes. As if tethered to the leading group of riders, a helicopter marked its growing proximity. Chomping the disturbed air of its slipstream, a second helicopter was keeping pace with the peloton immediately behind. And there were others, he noticed, circling serenely above them.

Jarret felt the crowd lift as he dismounted. Here and there, foam rubber hands were donned; inflatable thunder sticks were brandished. He looked back along the road, his eye drawn between the crash barriers to a reassuringly distant vanishing point – reassuring because it meant that the riders would be in his sights for a number of seconds before he needed to act. As always, he had the best seat in the house for their arrival. A head-on shot.

He looked all around him. The crowd was thicker on the city side of the barriers. Not much room to move. Peering through the filigreed canopy of the palms, he checked out the hotels above. As far as he could see, their balconies were scantily occupied: most of those wanting to watch the race had ventured down to the street. He turned his attention to the broad, promenade side of the boulevard. A group dispersing towards the barriers caught his eye. It looked as if some sort of meeting had just broken up. And then he saw it. For a moment, he didn’t understand what he was looking at. The sight made him shiver. Snakes. Writhing all around the girl’s head.

‘This is 36. Breakaway cleared. Peloton twenty-five seconds behind. Over.’

The riders were two minutes away. Jarret jetted a glance down the road and then back towards Medusa. He couldn’t see her. She must have taken off the headdress. He scanned the crowd for a matte-white face.

At Station 37, Lascaux had a good sight of the breakaway as they flew towards him.

A full sixty metres away, he could make out the team colours of the four leaders: the orange and white of Rabobank; the turquoise and white of Ag2r La Mondiale; Cofidis’s deep red; the blue flower petals of Française des Jeux. Lascaux had eyes like a hawk. His brain was not so acute. He knew what businesses Rabobank and the lottery-sponsored Française teams were involved in. But Cofidis? Ag2r? He had no idea. It didn’t matter to him. His contact in the crowd gave him a smile. He smiled back as he turned to face the breakaway. As always, he’d left the holster of his SIG semi-automatic unbuttoned. The safety catch was off. He’d always wondered what it would feel like. One squeeze and it was carnage. One squeeze and he would make history. One squeeze…

At Station 38, Yves Dauresse was sweating so profusely, his flag slipped from his grasp. All those eyes watching around the world. Plus the live spectators. His radio spat out Lascaux’s voice.

‘37. Breakaway cleared. Peloton at thirty. Over.’

Dauresse’s eyes were locked on the Ponchette roof as the lead riders swept around the quai towards him. He could almost hear the safety catches of the SWAT team’s weapons flicking off. A madman with a machine-gun battery at his disposal. One false move and there would be shredded flesh everywhere. The breakaway was almost on him as he put the whistle to his mouth and tried to blow.

Further along the boulevard, David Jarret’s eyes were still on the crowd. He’d lost Medusa. Where the hell was she? Concluding she might just have moved on, he relaxed a little. But then he saw white-painted hands reaching above the heads of the barrier hangers. The fingers interlocked and slowly lowered out of sight. After an age, they reached up again.

‘38. Breakaway cleared,’ Dauresse reported. ‘Peloton at twenty-five. Over.’

His mind racing, Jarret reached into his pannier and unrolled his flag, a triangle of yellow material bonded to a handle. He peered down the road. Four shapes began to emerge, indistinct at first, as if they were floating above the griddle-hot tarmac.

Thunder sticks began to bang. Foam fingers began to point. Jarret put the whistle to his mouth. Holding the flag in both hands above his head, he began to wave it to and fro.

The breakaway whooshed safely past him. The lead helicopter scudded overhead.

‘39. Breakaway cleared. Peloton following. Over,’ he said into his radio.

The top of Medusa’s head was visible now. She must have put on shoes? She began to glide towards the barriers. Skates. She was wearing skates. She was going to watch the peloton arrive. Jarret turned away.

A dab of grey smudged the vanishing point at the end of the road. And grew wider. It became a flash flood of colour. The crowd began to applaud, bang, wave. Jarret faced the flood as it broke inexorably towards him. A look to the side. Medusa had found a space at the barrier. The second helicopter roared overhead. Jarret began to whistle and wave. The peloton was almost on him. A glance to the side. Medusa was staring at
him
. The peloton was flying past. Their eyes met. Medusa’s jaw dropped. The whistle fell from his lips; the flag to the tarmac. He looked to the barriers. There was a space where Medusa had been standing. He needed to think. He flicked on his radio.

‘39. Commandant Mohr – do you copy? Over.’

He scanned the promenade as more spaces began to appear.

‘Mohr. Affirmative. Over.’

‘39. Migraine attack, sir. Visual disturbances…’ He continued searching. ‘Request stand down. Over.’

‘Mohr. Do you require assistance? Over.’

He saw her. Less than thirty metres away. Talking to a man with red pigtails. She seemed anxious to move on.

‘39. Negative. Can ride with care. Intend returning to barracks. Will transfer to tonight’s billet when recovered in few hours. Over.’

‘Mohr. Stand down. And this will go on your record, Jarret. Over.’

‘39. Thank you, sir. I’ll see it doesn’t happen again. Over.’

He switched his radio on to an open frequency and turned over the engine. As Mohr radioed out the reassigned points to the squadron, Lascaux and Dauresse washed up in the wake of back-up vehicles.

‘Migraine?’ Dauresse said, pulling alongside Jarret. ‘Good skive.’

‘Haven’t had it in years.’ Jarret’s eyes were locked on Medusa and her outsized companion. ‘Off back to the barracks. I’ll be alright.’

Lascaux looked up and down the race route.

‘Where are you going to get out of the rat run?’

Jarret indicated an opposed pair of slant-boarded barriers. A uniform stood in front of each.

‘One of those gentlemen will do the business.’ Medusa still hadn’t moved. Jarret told himself to keep acting naturally. ‘Well, no explosions or machine-gun bursts to report.’

‘I gave the peloton a good strafing.’ Lascaux grinned. ‘Just to keep them on their toes.’

‘Maybe the Sons and Daughters will strike further along.’ Dauresse was his easy, swaggering self once more. ‘Custard pies or stink bombs is my guess.’

‘Could be.’

Medusa appeared to be drawing things to a close.

‘Listen, my head’s really thumping now, guys. See you down at Brignoles, later.’

Dauresse and Lascaux took their leave, filtering into the convoy before accelerating away towards the peloton. On the promenade, Medusa high-fived her companion, picked up her backpack and began to skate away. She hadn’t yet raised her mobile to her ear. That made Jarret’s decision for him.

Darac ran his head under a cold tap before making for the squad room. He found Granot on the phone.

‘You’re not serious?’ He mouthed ‘Paris’ to Darac. ‘You
are
serious. When then?’ Granot listened for a second. ‘Thank you.’ He slammed down the phone.

‘That was the Clinique Rendflore near Porte de Montreuil. It’s where Jean Florian has been residing for the past three months. In Intensive Care.’

‘So he’s out of the picture on the ground. Could have planned it, though. Or at least known all about it. Can he talk on the phone?’

‘He can blink yes or no.’

Exhaling deeply, Darac ran a hand through his hair.

‘Jesus Christ… We could send in a local, I guess. Feed them questions and get them to relay his answer. Frankie – you up for that?’

She interrupted her Evian mid-sip.

‘Certainly.’

‘I think we’d better do it,’ Granot said. ‘It’ll be at least a couple of hours before he’ll be able to speak without impediment, they reckon.’

‘Agreed. We can’t wait that long.’

Darac’s mobile rang.

‘Captain Darac? It’s Astrid – the mime—’

‘Yes, Astrid, if you’ll forgive me, we’re really—’

‘I’ve seen him. The bearded man…’

Darac smothered the mouthpiece. ‘Hey, hey,’ he shouted, holding up his free hand. As the squad room fell silent, he put the phone on speaker.

‘You’ve seen the bearded man?’

The room held its breath.

‘Yes I have.’

‘Can you talk any louder? I can hardly hear you for the… traffic noise?’

‘I’m on Boulevard des Anglais – the Tour riders have just gone by and now it’s all the team cars and shit. Yes I’ve seen him but he doesn’t have a beard any more.’

‘You sure it was him?’

‘Absolutely certain.’

‘Fantastic – where did you see him?’

‘Here. Seconds ago – at the traffic island near the Negresco…’

‘Astrid? Astrid, come in.’ The phone went dead. ‘Shit!’ He called her back immediately. No reply. He needed help fast. He checked his address book and dialled another number. ‘Santoor? Darac. You know all those DCRI resources you offered to hurl at us?’

‘Uh… within reason, Captain, yes.’

‘Have you got a chopper over Boulevard des Anglais right now?’ Santoor made no reply. ‘Don’t fuck around. Have you?’

‘I’m flying in it as we speak.’

‘Good. This is what you do.’

* * *

The needle had pierced the soft flesh of Astrid’s arm in full view of a hundred people. The drug was the paralytic lancuronium. This time, it contained no delaying agent. Playing his part as theatrically as he could, Jarret took off Astrid’s skates, set up her plinth and stood her upon it. A non-living statue. The punters clucked their appreciation at the novel twist in the routine. Jarret unpacked her headdress and put it in place. Astrid stared blindly ahead. He made a show of whispering something in her ear.

‘I am truly sorry to have made you a victim, also. But I have something to accomplish that must not be stopped. You died for a just cause, Mademoiselle. The most just cause in history.’