The Prone Gunman (7 page)

13

With his collar turned up, Terrier stepped out onto Rue de la Victoire and headed for the closest metro station without breaking his stride.

A few meters along, he crossed the street, glancing mechanically first to the left then to the right, without slowing down. People were waiting in line in front of a bakery. A guy was reading
Le Monde diplomatique
in a parked Peugeot 404; he seemed to be waiting for someone, probably his wife out shopping. A young girl in a print housecoat had just opened the shutters of a second-floor window right across from Faulques's. She closed the window again and briskly drew the curtains. Emerging from a delicatessen, a mom slapped the brat she had in tow, and he started howling. Terrier hurried on.

A few minutes later, he found a taxi and asked to be taken to Place de la Nation.

During the journey, he noticed that a 404 was following them, keeping a substantial distance between itself and the taxi. Just after turning a corner, with the 404 out of sight for an instant, Terrier took Faulques's gloves, which he had kept till now, and threw them out the open window.

“What did you throw out? You threw something out, didn't you?” asked the driver. He didn't seem too sure.

“Some wrapping paper,” said Terrier.

“A little filth makes Paris beautiful,” the driver declared sententiously, and then he burst into a gigantic laugh before calming down and adding that Paris was nothing but an enormous piece of shit, in any case. “As for me, I'm working for three more years and then I'm out of here. I have a little house near La Ferté-sous-Jouarre, and I'm out of here, what you'd call gone!” He heaved a sigh of anger. “To live a little. . . . Shit, I'm not going to wait till World War III to get a life. Tomorrow it will be too late!”

Since the man was the talkative type, Terrier uttered a few approving grunts and favorable exclamations during the journey, and the driver ranted and raved nonstop. According to him, the world was going to remain pretty much the same for five, maybe six years, except for noticeable worsening in some areas, but that was nothing compared with the fact that everything was really going to blow up later on.

“The Pakistanis, the Hindus, the Iranians, and all the rest won't have to drop bombs on us,” the man explained. “They'll come quietly on foot. We'll never be able to kill them all. They'll just swallow us up. Say, did you screw someone's wife?”

“Excuse me?”

The driver repeated the question. “Because a 404 has been on our tail for a while.” They were arriving at Place de la Nation.

“A coincidence.”

“Wouldn't you like me to take a spin around the Place to make sure?”

“No, thanks,” said Terrier, laughing. “You read too many crime novels. And I'm in a hurry.”

The driver shrugged and came to a stop. Terrier paid him off and went into the Printemps-Nation store, where he bought several items, including a suitcase. Leaving the department store with his other purchases in the suitcase, he crossed Place de la Nation at a good clip. At the Canon de la Nation café, he ordered a small beer at the counter, then went downstairs to telephone.

“Where are you?” asked Stanley.

Terrier didn't answer. He asked the black man if he had been able to find out anything about the subject they had spoken of earlier.

“No,” said Stanley. “I'm sorry.”

“Then can you say something about the general atmosphere?”

“Hard to say. Nervous, I would say. Yes, nervous.”

“Really?”

“They're getting ready for a job,” said Stanley. “That's what it seems like to me. It's only an impression, mind you. I don't share the secrets of the powers that be, you know. At the moment, I hardly do anything more than handle the mail.” Stanley worked for UNESCO; he traveled to unlikely places like Turkestan or the Philippines. “I can't really ask questions. I can only sniff the air. There's a big job in preparation.”

“Nothing about me?”

“Nothing.”

“If necessary,” asked Terrier, “can you put someone up for a little while? In your Fontainebleau place?”

“My Larchant place, you mean. Who? You? Of course. As long as you like.”

“I don't know yet,” said Terrier. “We'll see. I'll call back.” Through the door of the booth he was watching to see if anyone came down to piss or anything.

“You can count on me, in any case,” said Stanley. “You know that.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Terrier hung up.

He went back upstairs and slowly drank his beer at the counter. From the other side of the avenue a passerby was passing by, a copy of
Le Monde diplomatique
folded in four in his pocket. Terrier paid up, then headed toward the metro entrance on Place de la Nation with his suitcase. As soon as he was below ground, he began to run.

He caught a moving train. At the Châtelet station, he made a series of zigzags. In a recess, some Scandinavians were playing an excruciating arrangement of
Death and the Maiden
for flute, harmonica, and violin
.
In a corridor, six rockers were beating up another rocker and stealing his boots.

After a complicated journey, Terrier reached his hotel around noon. At a counter he bought
Le Journal du Dimanche.
The room was empty. On the nightstand, the radio played quietly. Anne had left a note on the bedspread to say: “I'm going for a walk.” Terrier tightened his lips a little, and they went slightly pale. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He suddenly appeared very tired. He rubbed his shoulders and other joints. He fiddled with the radio. A long-wave newscaster recited “the news headlines.” The sudden death of a Chinese government official, the saber rattling of a Persian Gulf potentate named Sheik Hakim, the position of the French in an international ski competition, and the popularity ratings of leading politicians in a recent opinion poll—that was about it. Terrier turned down the radio, stretched out on the bed, and unfolded the newspaper. An article was titled “Massacre at the Beach.” Terrier read it quickly. It recounted, with a few details, the death of Félix Schrader and three unknown persons, including a woman, and the disappearance of Anne Schrader: that's all there was. Terrier crumpled up the newspaper and threw it on the floor. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply and regularly. He seemed to doze for a while. Then his eyes opened again. He made a pout, looked at his watch, and made a pout again. He got out of bed, put the “Ne pas déranger—Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, locked up, pulled the thick double curtains, took the weapons he had collected, and laid them out on the bed.

Since the double curtains allowed a little light to filter through, the man covered his eyes with his tie. Working blindly and by touch, during the course of half an hour he disassembled and reassembled the Colt Special Agent, the CZ, and the Savage. He was very fast. He would have been even faster if his little finger had not been hurt.

And then, after putting away the weapons and opening the curtains, he went into the bathroom with his suitcase. He showered, shaved, and changed clothes, putting on a cheap, new iron-gray suit over a dark gray shirt. Coming out of the bathroom, he checked his watch again (it was one-thirty) and picked up the telephone. He remained motionless for a moment, the receiver held away from his face as he listened to the dial tone; his features expressed nothing, or else they expressed deep disturbance. Then he dialed a number. Even though it was Sunday, and lunchtime, he reached someone at the other end. Without the slightest hesitation, he dictated the text of a classified ad so that it would be typeset in advance and space reserved, and he promised to stop by to pay before five o'clock.

He had a plate of cold cuts and German beer sent up, which he consumed as he listened to the radio. For a time, he stopped chewing while, between a bit of jazz and a ditty, the set played a song by Purcell for countertenor entitled, as Terrier knew, “O Lead Me to Some Peaceful Gloom.” However, with an impatient gesture, as if he were angry at losing his concentration, he began chewing again well before the end of the song. When he had finished eating, he composed a brief message for Anne: “I'll be gone till three o'clock. Don't go out again. Don't write any checks.” He underscored the last sentence three times.

He had placed the message on the bed and slipped on his leather coat and was heading toward the door when the young woman came in with a smile.

“Where were you, for Christ's sake?” asked Terrier.

“I was taking a walk. You didn't find my note?”

Terrier nodded. Intuitively, Anne looked at the bedspread, where she had left her message and where Terrier's now lay. She picked it up and skimmed through it. She turned toward Terrier.

“Of course I wouldn't write any checks. Do you take me for an idiot?”

“Anne,” said Terrier, “perhaps it would be better if you went to the cops. You can say that I took you hostage and brought you here to Paris.”

“So you're starting that again?” she cried.

“Anne,” Terrier repeated. “Anne.” His lips moved, but he no longer seemed capable of speaking. “I'm ruined,” he said suddenly.

“What?” It was a question, but at the same time it was a nervous laugh.

“I'm ruined,” Terrier repeated. He seemed immensely serious. “I believe all my money's been lost. I can't explain it, but it's lost. I don't believe that I'll be able to get it back. So I have to work again. Don't laugh!” he shouted, because she was laughing, laughing in his face. “I have to work!” he repeated violently. “I must do my job!”

Anne twirled around the room, then sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the man. She was no longer laughing, but she was still smiling.

“Ah,” she said. “Your job. Bang-bang again.”

“You're insane,” said Terrier.

“Go on now!” Anne exclaimed. “I'll wait for you. I'm beat. I'm going to sleep a little.”

“You should go to the cops. It's better.”

“We'll see,” said Anne.

For an instant, Terrier seemed to want to talk some more, then he gave up and turned away. He left the room. Laughing, Anne lay down on the bedspread, then she cried, then she became very calm and tired, then she fell asleep, all within three minutes. Terrier had left the hotel and was walking toward the metro. At times, his lips moved. But he made no sound. Knitting his brow, he took the train and went to the main office of
Le Monde,
where he paid in cash for the ad that he had earlier dictated without hesitation on the telephone. The text would appear in the next day's public announcements section under the heading, “Movers: ”Christian A. Cox, house clearance specialist, open for business after renovation“—followed by the telephone number of the hotel and the words: ”Ask for Monsieur Walter.”

14

“Well, it was only dislocated,” said the doctor on duty, whose address Terrier had found on a list in the window of a closed pharmacy. “You straightened it out yourself? Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Bravo. You're a pretty stoic fellow.”

According to the doctor, there was no call to put it in a cast. He showed Terrier how to use an elastic bandage so that the swollen finger would stay completely immobilized.

“I know,” said Terrier.

He left with his X-ray and a prescription for an anti-inflammatory cream and some painkillers; he threw the X-ray into a sewer opening, bought the medicine in an on-duty pharmacy, and returned to the hotel via the metro. Anne was sleeping. She was crying in her sleep. Terrier studied her. He had an anxious, perplexed expression. Since the young woman continued to moan in a miserable, infantile way, he took her by the shoulders. She was naked in the bed. He gently shook her. She opened her eyes and stared at him with a lost look, then she rubbed her eyes with her fists, stared at him again, and smiled mischievously.

“Bedtime,” she said. “Get into bed.”

Terrier spotted a half-empty bottle of Hennessy cognac between the bed and the wall. Anne's speech was slurred. The man straightened up and turned his back on her.

“Try to listen carefully,” he ordered. “We're going to have to separate temporarily. By tomorrow afternoon, my employers will know that they can find me here. I would rather keep you out of all this.”

“Keep me out of it?” Anne repeated. “That's a good one!”

“Seriously.”

“I'm a big girl, you know.”

“Yes, I know. But if they know where you are, that gives them a way to pressure me.”

“Oh,” Anne said disdainfully. “And where am I supposed to go?”

“Near Larchant. It's south of the Fontainebleau forest. I have a friend who has a house there. I believe I can count on him.”

“You're well organized.”

“Unfortunately not.” Terrier glanced at Anne over his shoulder. “You'll have to remain on your own for quite a while. But a friend spends his weekends there. You don't have anything against blacks?”

“What?”

Anne seemed dumbfounded. Terrier repeated the question.

“Because that's what he is,” he explained. “My pal is black.”

“But what do you take me for?”

“I don't know. I know very little about you,” Terrier said softly.

“Come to bed.”

“I don't know.” Terrier's tone was indecisive at first, then firmed up. “First, we have to take care of practicalities.”

Anne sat up in bed, exposing her breasts, which were still beautiful, though heavy and just beginning to sag. She grabbed the bottle of cognac.

“How many people have you killed?”

“Don't drink any more! We have to take care of practicalities! Practicalities!” Terrier repeated nervously. With his hands in his pockets, he was facing Anne and rocking impatiently on his heels. The young woman took a swig from the bottle.

“You're on the blink,” she declared in a neutral tone. She might as well have been pronouncing a diagnosis concerning a broken clock. “On the blink. Come to bed, then.” She threw herself violently back down, with her eyes hermetically sealed, without letting go of the bottle. Her whole face was red, and a flush spread across her throat and breasts. “Let's fuck.” She opened her eyes. “That's what you wanted,” she said decisively.

“Shit, Anne, wait a second!” Terrier shouted uselessly. The door of the room, which Terrier had neglected to lock, opened behind him, and two guys came in. One of them quietly closed the door, and the other put the barrel of an S&W Bodyguard Airweight revolver to Terrier's head.

“The company sent us,” explained the man with the revolver. “Don't do anything stupid.”

“Anne, stay calm,” said Terrier.

“Who are these faggots?” asked the young woman. She was still flat on her back, bare-breasted, red-faced, bottle in hand.

Without moving his head, Terrier turned his eyes toward the weaponless man as he was crossing the room. It was the short guy with black eyes that Terrier had already seen on the balcony in the apartment in Rue de Varenne; he was wearing the same gray overcoat.

“If you knock me off,” said Terrier, “compromising information will be made known to the public.”

“No one's getting knocked off. We've come to fetch you. Who's the naked lady?”

“You can let her go,” said Terrier. “She won't say anything.”

“Anne Schrader, huh? Get dressed.”

“Quick work,” said Terrier.

“I'm not going to repeat it a hundred times,” the short guy cautioned Anne.

Anne put the bottle down, threw back the bedclothes, and began dressing with swift motions.

“Nice ass,” the short guy commented. “A beautiful woman.” He turned back to Terrier. “My compliments.” He searched Terrier, then the room; he pocketed the weapons. “We're going downstairs. You'll pay the bill. Here's some cash.” He stuffed a wad into Terrier's pocket. “A car is waiting for us. If you screw around, my friend here will blow your head off, and I'll plug your whore in the belly. Got it?”

Terrier nodded. The short guy picked up their stuff and put it under his arm. Anne had finished dressing, so they got going. Terrier could see the face of the man with the revolver. He had seen him before: a copy of
Le Monde diplomatique
folded in four was still sticking out of his pocket.

Downstairs, Anne and the man with the revolver stayed in the middle of the lobby while the short guy accompanied Terrier to the reception desk, where the bill was drawn up and paid. The HK4, the Savage, the CZ, and the Colt Special Agent caused the pockets of the gray overcoat to bulge. They went out into the glacial night. A Renault 16 was waiting, a mixed-race Indochinese man at the wheel. Terrier sat next to the driver while the other two flanked Anne in the back. The Renault crossed the Seine and headed toward Saint-Augustin. The roads were oily and slippery, vaguely reflecting the illuminated signs, the lighted shopwindows, and the headlights and taillights of moving vehicles. There was a risk of ice forming in the coming hours.

“Listen, Christian,” the short guy said to Martin Terrier. “I hope there's no misunderstanding. We're bringing you to see Cox. We didn't take any chances, and that's normal. But it's all nice and friendly—don't think otherwise.”

“Okay.”

They parked in Rue La Boétie and went into an office building, where they took a broken-down elevator. Without knocking, they went through a door bearing a sign that read “IMPEX FILMS INTERNATIONAL.”

“There's an annex of the Ministry of the Interior across the way,” said the short guy as he smiled and pointed a finger at the windowpanes, which were opaque with filth. “The day you want to raise the level of tension in France, just take a bazooka and boom!” He laughed.

Terrier and Anne stood waiting in the empty office with the man with the revolver and the Eurasian driver. The short guy had slipped out through a communicating door. He reappeared and signaled to Terrier.

“Come in. The girl stays here.”

“If something goes wrong, shout,” Terrier said to Anne.

He went into the next room. Seated at a metal desk, Cox was eating fries with his fingers from a paper plate. He was wearing a gray flannel three-piece suit and hadn't taken off his camel's hair overcoat, which was hanging open around him. He had a spot of grease on his double chin. He seemed tired.

“Would you like some coffee?” he asked. “There's a coffee maker. Would you like some fries? I don't have anything else to offer you.” Martin shook his head. “I'm glad you changed your mind,” Cox said, affecting great conviction.

“You've read my ad already?”

“Of course.”

“In tomorrow's paper?”

“Of course,” Cox repeated. “We don't use a hundred different press outlets for our correspondence. It's not hard to pay the odd employee for advance knowledge of a small section of the classified ads. Pure routine, Christian.” He smiled. “Martin Terrier, I should say.”

“Did you know that from the beginning?”

“We like to be well acquainted with our employees. You've screwed things up in a big way.” Cox was still smiling. “You have this Anne Schrader with you, it seems.”

Terrier nodded. Cox shrugged.

“Is it important to you? Does she matter to you?” Terrier didn't answer. Cox smiled at him again. “Are we still in agreement on one hundred and fifty thousand francs?”

“Two hundred thousand,” said Terrier. “You talked about two hundred thousand.”

“That was before you were run to ground. Now it's one hundred and fifty, and that's still a good price. And there are some in-kind benefits: you and this woman, papers, passports, all the necessaries. The target in two weeks. Until then, you'll be taken care of, naturally.”

“I don't want the girl taken care of. I want you to let her go.”

“Of course that's what you want,” said Cox. “It's impossible, of course.” He glanced wearily at Terrier. “Do you want to argue? Do you want to waste our time?”

“No. Where will the target be?”

“Here. In Paris.”

“I want to spend the two-week wait in the South Sea Islands,” said Terrier.

“Why?” asked Cox with genuine surprise.

“Because I can't think of anything better. Where would you go, in my position?”

“I wouldn't budge.”

“That's not surprising.”

“You're stupid, Christian,” said Cox with a kind of anger. “You're an idiot. I wouldn't make a move from here or any other place where I happened to be, because there's not one place that's any different from any other anymore, except for the communist countries, which are even worse. There's no place good anymore, don't you understand? No, I wouldn't budge! There's nowhere to go.”

“I want to go to the South Sea Islands,” Terrier said again.

“You will go to the Tronçais forest,” Cox said firmly.