Wanted: A Leopold Blake Thriller (18 page)

The apartment was small, but well furnished. The compact kitchen was fully stocked, and Reiniger helped himself to a bar of chocolate from the fridge, careful not to leave traces on any of the surfaces. He finished the entire bar in three bites, glad for the extra energy, and stuffed the empty wrapper into his pocket. A quiet moan from the living room made him look up.

“Are we awake?” Reiniger asked in French, making his way over.

The man stirred and opened his eyes. “Wh-what happened? Who are you?”

“I’m afraid it’s not your turn to ask questions. You and I need to have a conversation.”

“I-I’m bleeding. What’s going on?”

“I don’t think you’re listening,
Monsieur
.” Reiniger unsheathed his knife and held it up. “We’re going to have a little talk. I’m going to ask you a few questions and then you’re going to answer. Depending on how you behave, this doesn’t have to end badly for you.”

The man’s eyes bulged at the sight of the blade.

“Are you listening?”

The man nodded.

“Good. The wound in your stomach is not fatal. Assuming you don’t die of blood loss, you should be fine once you get to a hospital. Whether or not that happens will depend on how useful you are to me.” Reiniger held the KA-BAR up to the man’s face. “Now tell me, what’s the best way to get out of the building without being seen?”

“Y-you take the f-fire escape to –”

“I can’t use the fire escape and I can’t use the main elevator. Try again.”

“Th-there’s another elevator on the s-second f-floor. They use it f-for disabled access. It g-goes straight to the parking lot. You can use the m-main stairs to get there.”

“You have a car?”

The man nodded. “Th-the keys are over there.” He pointed to a bowl near the door. “Take them, take them. They’re all y-yours.”

“Very good,” said Reiniger, withdrawing the knife.

“I n-need an ambulance.”

“We made a deal. I said you could live if you answered my questions, and you held up your end. Problem is,” Reiniger leaned in closer, “I need to make sure you don’t try and follow me or raise the alarm.”

“I w-wont, I promise.”

“And I’d like to believe you, but I’m afraid I need to be sure.” The assassin thrust the KA-BAR into his host’s thigh and twisted, pressing his free hand over the man’s mouth.

“Try not to scream so loud,” said Reiniger. “The pain will fade in a few seconds.” He pulled out the knife. “You’re going to start losing more blood now, but try not to move. You’ll only make it worse.” The assassin pulled his hand away. “Well done. Now listen carefully. Once I make it outside, I’ll call for an ambulance. If I don’t make it, I’m afraid you’ll die here. Try to conserve your strength.”

The man’s eyelids flickered, his body going limp. 

“Good. And don’t worry, I always keep my word.” Wiping the blade on the sofa, Reiniger took one last look at his host and headed for the door.

Chapter 35
 
 

LEOPOLD HATED THE sensation of falling. He felt his stomach lurch as gravity took over and thrust out his hands and feet in an attempt to slow his descent. Falling from the sixth floor at full speed, even if he landed on something soft, was not part of the plan. The interior of the laundry chute was cold to the touch, but the friction quickly built up and Leopold could feel his palms burn as he slid down into the darkness. He hoped to hell he didn’t land on anyone.

The laundry chute spat him out into a dumpster full of dirty clothes and he felt two pairs of hands yank him out. On his feet, Leopold blinked hard and saw the faces of Sophie and Mary come into focus in the low light.

“You all right?” Mary asked.

“Never better.”

A soft
thump
announced Gerard’s arrival. The bodyguard rolled out of the pile of laundry and onto his feet, pulling out his handgun. “I don’t think anyone followed us,” he said. “They’ll figure it out soon enough, so let’s keep moving.”

Gerard hustled them toward the door and through into the bowels of the old building. At this time of night, the place was deserted and the only illuminations came from the dim emergency lights fixed into the ceiling. Leopold trod carefully, keeping his eyes on the silhouette of Gerard as they pressed onward. They reached the kitchens and the bodyguard held up a fist as he checked the area ahead.

“Wait here,” he said. “This is where we took the elevator up to the top floor.”

“So?” asked Sophie. “I don’t see anything.”

“Just wait here.” He crept forward, both hands on his gun. He reached the metal gate and stopped. He turned around after a few seconds and walked back.

“Nothing?”

“The car must be on another floor,” said Gerard. “We’ll be able to hear if that changes.”

“Where to now?” asked Mary.

“Back through the kitchen. Move as quietly as possible.
Bon
, stay close to me.” He set off, keeping low.

The kitchen felt smaller than before. Darker, with the dormant ovens lined up against the walls, Leopold felt closed in and vulnerable. Thanks to the galley design there was nowhere to hide, just a clear line of sight. He eyed a cluster of saucepans hanging from a wall hook and wondered briefly whether a cast iron skillet would stop a bullet.

“Up ahead,” said Gerard.

They reached the porter’s entrance and the bodyguard edged through. Leopold followed, holding the double doors open for Sophie and Mary. Ahead, just another dark corridor.

“The back door should still be open,” said Gerard. “I disabled the lock mechanism before you arrived.”

They reached the exit. The bodyguard opened the door a crack and looked out.

“Can you see anything?” Mary edged forward.

“There’s no road block, no cameras. It looks clear.”

“Why are you saying that like it’s a bad thing?” asked Sophie.

“Because if this were my show, I’d have the whole damn street locked down,” said Mary. “It means whoever’s in charge doesn’t want word getting out. And that doesn’t usually mean good things for whoever they’re chasing.”

“Who would have the authority?”

“Rousseau,” said Leopold. “He’s leading the case. He’s the one with the reputation on the line. But I don’t understand why he wouldn’t call in the cavalry. We would have been rounded up by now.” He glanced at Gerard. “No offense.”

“None taken. We can talk about Rousseau later, but let’s get to the car and find somewhere safe first.” He stepped out into the courtyard and made his way toward the gate, checking the road outside.

“Anything?”

“No. Either someone overestimated the GIPN’s abilities or this operation was deliberately under-resourced. Either way, I don’t want to stick around long enough to find out which.
Allons-y
.” He waved them forward.

The air outside was warmer than before and it smelled a little damp. It was lighter too, getting close to dawn. They found the car easily enough, parked discreetly near one of the bistros on the Rue Lord Byron, a dusty back road that ran parallel to the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. Gerard waited for them to clamber inside before settling into the driver’s seat next to Leopold and starting the engine.

“The target address is a few miles away, south of the river,” Gerard said. “If we beat the traffic, we’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Leopold felt his body forced into the seat as Gerard put his foot down. The Mercedes rocketed forward with a low growl from the engine. They hit fifty miles per hour within a couple of seconds. The bodyguard slowed to take a corner and merged with the traffic on the main road back to the river, eventually settling into a moderate cruise between two taxis.  

“We can access the roof via the fire escape,” said Gerard. “And from there, hopefully we can disable the alarm in time. Where is the gallery located?” He aimed the question at Sophie.

“Top floor. You should see it once we get inside,” she said.

“Good.” Gerard turned his attention back to Leopold. “This might be our only chance. Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“That will have to do.”

Leopold felt the car accelerate again, Gerard guiding the sleek sedan between the cars in front. As they crossed the river, Leopold looked out across the water, black and cold. In a brief moment of weakness he wondered whether or not he’d be able to make a swim for it – then quickly pushed the thought from his mind. Whatever happened now, for better or worse, he would see it through to the end.

Chapter 36
 
 

MARTY JACKSON, PRISONER number 1537, shuffled down the corridor toward the dining hall. The other inmates from his block were lined up at the serving stations, helping themselves to Portuguese knock-off cereals and powdered milk. A few of the junkies were stocking up on bread. In a few minutes the screws would let the other blocks through, once the others got settled. There was less chance of a riot when everyone’s belly was full. The big black guy the guards brought in last night was loitering at the back of the line holding an empty tray. He looked over as Marty approached but didn’t say anything.

“You took off pretty fast,” said Marty.

“Jerome,” he replied. “You can call me Jerome.”

“You’re a little less uptight this morning.”

“Get some breakfast.” Jerome picked out a bowl and filled it with a portion of Cuétara Flakes, some kind of Portuguese cereal. “This is fresh milk?”

“The dispenser says so, but I can tell you it ain’t. You wanna come down here on Thursdays. Thursdays is powdered eggs and bacon day. You get more people show up Thursdays.”

“I need you to show me who runs this place. They come down for breakfast?”

Marty took a tray and filled his own bowl. “I got a good idea who you mean. Most of them are over in Block B. Should be here in a few minutes.”

“I’ll need an introduction.”

“Not gonna happen,” said Marty, helping himself to milk. “Those guys are
La Nuestra Familia
. They call the shots. If they wanna speak to you, you’ll know about it.”

“If someone wanted a hit carried out on the inside, they’d use those guys?”

“Why you wanna know?” Marty picked out a plastic spork and a cup of orange juice.

“Just answer the question.”

“Yeah, yeah, they’d know about it,” he said. “Between them and the Aryan Brotherhood, not much goes on that don’t get official approval. The white boys handle the outside stuff – drugs, contraband, that sorta thing. The Spaniards handle the protection.”

“Good. Where do they usually sit?”

Marty pointed at a table in the middle of the dining hall. “That one.”

“Follow me.”

Marty hesitated, watching his new cell mate head straight for the
Familia
’s favorite dining spot. The guy just walked over, took a seat, and started eating his cereal.

“Jesus, what are you doing?” Marty scurried over. “You wanna get us killed?”

“Relax. Sit down and eat your breakfast.”

“Are you freakin’ kidding me? They’re letting Block B in here any second, they’re gonna ask why you’re sitting at their table. You got a good answer for that?”

“Sit down.”

Marty did as he was told. Something in the new guy’s voice forced his muscles to comply.

“Eat your breakfast,” said Jerome. “Look busy. Here they come.”

Looking up from his bowl, Marty saw the inmates of Block B stream into the dining hall. Like most mornings, three of the high level
Nuestra Familia
boys had shown up. They walked with swagger, displaying tattoos and muscle. The tallest, Dión, stopped dead when he saw Jerome and Marty. He pointed and muttered something in Spanish.

“C’mon, we need to get the hell out of here,” said Marty.

“Just let me do the talking.”

“Jesus Christ, you can’t be serious.”

“Be quiet.”

Dión strode over, his two lieutenants close behind him, and stood at the head of the table. They looked at Jerome, then at Marty. Nobody spoke. Jerome kept crunching on his Cuétara flakes, ignoring them. Eventually, Dión slapped both palms down on the table and leaned in.

“
Amigo
, you’re new here,” he said. “But that don’t mean you get to disrespect me and my boys in public. You need to move.”