‘Suddenly everyone’s a negotiator. Name?’
‘Choose one of three he’s given so far.’ Desmoulins looked sceptical.
‘Well, that’s not going to help him. Put him in a separate cell. I’ll speak to him later. What about Farek?’
‘Massin wants to talk to you about that. He’s waiting upstairs.’
‘Let’s go.’ Rocco led the way to Massin’s office, where they found the commissaire sitting at his desk. In front of him, nursing a cup of coffee, was an Algerian man Rocco recalled seeing before. He couldn’t recall where or in what capacity, though.
Massin did the introductions. ‘Inspector Rocco, this is Monsieur Yekhlef, until recently our janitor.’ He explained about Yekhlef’s theft of information and dismissal, adding, ‘I think it might be a reasonable assumption that Farek’s presence in the area is not unknown among the community. All we have to do is find someone who will talk. As Mr Yekhlef is most anxious not to return to Algeria…’ He didn’t finish the sentence, but gave Yekhlef a cold stare. The janitor returned the look with an air of resignation and a nod. Massin stood up and adjusted his uniform. ‘In that case, I will leave you to discuss the matter. Please don’t break any of my furniture.’
He walked out, leaving the three men staring after him. Desmoulins looked quizzically at Rocco. They were barely able to hide their surprise. Massin was giving them a free run at this man.
Yekhlef seemed focused on Rocco, eyeing the dark clothes, the splash of iodine on his face and the cuts and bruises he’d picked up from the encounter on the canal bank and his escape from the boat.
Rocco grabbed a chair and sat down facing him. ‘I don’t know about you, Monsieur Yekhlef,’ he said softly, looking directly into the other man’s eyes. ‘But it seems you have nothing to lose and a lot to gain if you help us. There are lives depending on this. Yours as well as others. One question: where will I find Samir Farek?’
Yekhlef swallowed, placed the coffee cup on the desk with extreme care and sat back. His hands were shaking. He clamped them together and nodded. ‘I do not know for sure, but I was taken to see him at a place called Cafe Emile, on the Beauvais road out of Amiens.’
Desmoulins said, ‘I know it. It’s a dump, due for demolition years ago but still in use.’
‘Why would he go there?’
Yekhlef shrugged. ‘Because it is where men from my community go… and the police do not.’ His eyes looked watery with strain, and he coughed to clear his throat. ‘I heard him saying to his men that they would use it as their base because it was safe and they have eyes to keep watch. He will not go back to Paris or anywhere else until this matter of honour is settled.’
‘Honour?’
‘He thinks you have taken his woman.’ Yekhlef spread his hands in apology, absolving himself of any input or opinion on the subject. ‘For him, it is more important than any other matter.’
‘Then he’s a fool. I never even knew his wife existed until a few days ago.’ He looked at Desmoulins. ‘Can we get a team together? Full gear.’
‘Of course. It won’t be easy, though. The place is surrounded by open ground. They’ll see us coming.’
Rocco wasn’t surprised. It was probably why they had chosen it. ‘Right. I’ll brief Massin.’ He turned to Yekhlef and thanked him, then stood up and went to get ready.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Samir Farek was in a killing mood.
He’d timed things badly. He should have been able to move freely about this rat-hole of a town, but after the loss of the man he’d sent to watch his wife and Rocco, and with the arrest of one of his brother’s men in the town, he was finding his movements savagely curtailed by the local police raids on factories in search of illegal workers. Although they had nothing on him, the last thing he wanted to risk was being picked up at a random stop. If that happened, the gang leaders in Paris would take it as a sign of weakness and he’d be finished. Lakhdar would be able to hold on for a day or two only if they didn’t know where Samir was. Until then, he was reduced to hiding like a petty crook in the Cafe Emile with Youcef, Bouhassa and the others. He badly wanted to take out his frustrations on someone but lacked a visible target. Instead, he had chosen a solution which, while solving his main problem in one way, would also send a message to anyone who doubted his reach and his capabilities, and reinforce his reputation while leaving him absolutely clean of any involvement.
It had necessitated a telephone call to his brother, Lakhdar, which he was loath to make. But sometimes compromise was a necessity, as were forceful tactics. Lakhdar had argued fiercely against this, as Farek knew he would. His brother favoured talk and resolution, which he did not. In the end Lakhdar had relented.
As if to remind him, the telephone rang on the back wall. ‘It’s your brother,’ said the owner, holding out the handset as if it might bite him.
‘I’m busy,’ growled Farek, stirring sugar into the sludge they sold as coffee. What the hell did his brother want to argue about now? Outwardly he looked calm, as he knew he must. But inwardly he was seething, his blood bubbling and his teeth clenched to a painful degree as he considered his options. Staying here was not one of them. But neither was going out, not right now. He should never have come here, he knew that. It had been impulsive and reckless and left the door wide open to anyone who cared to stab him in the back. Having so easily gained control of the gangs by a combination of his brothers’ preparatory work and the elimination of a single key protester, he should have stayed to consolidate his position and reputation. But he hadn’t; he’d gone instead for the chance to regain a position of honour by tracking down his bitch of a wife. And Rocco.
He sipped his coffee, then stood up and walked without haste to the back of the room. He snatched the telephone from the terrified owner’s hand.
‘What?’ he snapped.
‘Samir, my brother. You are wasting your time. Our time.’ Lakhdar’s voice, usually the tone of reason, of calm, was now edged with impatience. And something else. Farek felt a tinge of unease.
‘What? You’re calling to tell me this?’
‘Let the woman go. She is worthless — and the policeman can be taken at any time.’ It sounded so simple. Not for nothing had Lakhdar made a fortune in trade after they had dismantled the original gang in Constantine. The careful planner of the family, the negotiator, he had been able to capitalise on his experiences and take them into a legitimate area of operations in Paris, building a base from where he — and Samir when he’d called him — could launch their bid for control of the gangs in the city and the north of the country.
‘I don’t want to wait,’ Samir countered. ‘The policeman can be dealt with immediately. Without his protection the woman will come to me.’
‘Meanwhile, you are powerless.’
Farek swore silently and threw a vengeful glance at Lakhdar’s men, standing guard by the front window of the cafe. One of those fucks had been keeping his brother informed of what was really happening here. He’d glossed over the reality earlier, explaining that he was staying here to draw Rocco to him. Then his plan could be put into operation.
‘Not powerless,’ he argued. ‘It will soon be over.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ The words carried a needling tone of disbelief. It was one of Lakhdar’s more irritating habits, the attitude of one who thought himself intellectually superior and commercially astute.
‘I told you, yes. Then we are done here. They have nothing to hold me for. They can prove nothing.’
‘I hope you are right. Because I am already picking up signs of discontent among the families. They are impatient for change. What we — you — promised was a chance to build our position here, to amalgamate and consolidate to everyone’s advantage. You should have begun showing the lead already… but that has not happened because you are chasing your woman and this policeman. The others are becoming uneasy, saying-’