'But it's the other hit planned which was the main reason for Courchon's call,' his lieutenant said. He shuffled nervously, looked down slightly as he told Girouves who it was.
Girouves' eyes closed for a moment. He rubbed his forehead with one hand. Courchon was right to have warned them. A Chief Inspector's wife! The repercussions could be enormous.
Part of the strength of the crime empire Girouves had built up along the coast the past two decades had been stability. A departure from the muddied dividing lines and power-vacuum struggles of the seventies. And part of that stability had been gained through not crossing certain lines with the police. No more Bar du Telephon massacres.
Even amongst their own was the strict rule of never involving family in hits. A Chief Inspector's wife hit by a regular milieu freelancer? Favours would be cancelled, clubs and bars raided, licences revoked, all suspected milieu businesses would come under brutal scrutiny. The clock could be set back years.
Brossard? If it had been practically anyone else, he could have just picked up the phone and said 'don't go ahead.' But Brossard prided himself on fierce independence, wouldn't swear allegiance to either side. No gang war hits, only internal enforcement or external contracts — Brossard worked all sides with equal ease. A true independent professional.
Girouves asked a few questions about the hit, but his lieutenant knew little beyond what he'd already passed on. 'Okay. Phone Courchon straight back. Try and pump him for more information.'
Girouves took a quick slug of pastis as his lieutenant dialled out on his mobile. If they didn't learn more from Courchon, he'd have to get a few men busy phoning around. Monique Fornier? Shouldn't be too hard to find out where she was. Then he would probably have to call Tomi. The only person he knew that would stand any chance against Brossard.
… In a world full of people, there's only some want to fly because they're not crazy… they're not crazy… crazy… Ohooho. Now we're never gonna survive, unlesss…
Brossard rapped his hands on the steering wheel to the pounding beat. He particularly liked the organ backbeat, the way it seemed to slip away… his finger tensing on the trigger, shadows of figures falling back as he fired… slipping away. But he could never picture any of their faces. Probably best. No ghosts.
Dented and rusty Citroen Dianne which had seen better days. Nobody would pay him any attention. He'd chosen a blue workman's overall which was worn and slightly stained from field work. He'd used it for a hit six years ago, though this time he chose a white cap instead of a beret, turning the peak so that it covered the back of his neck. Favoured uniform of so many fieldworkers. He planned to stay low in the fields, but if by chance somebody saw him, he would blend in.
Brossard pulled the Dianne into a track in the woodland that bordered the back of the field. To anyone passing, a farmer or someone having a woodland picnic. He turned off the cassette player, took a knapsack out of the car and headed deeper into the woods. Instead of sandwiches, inside the knapsack was a Llama.357 Magnum with silencer, binoculars and infra red night goggles. After eighty metres the woods cleared and the field lay ahead.
To one side were a few olive and carob trees, but most of the field was long grass, now starting to yellow with the summer heat. At the end of the field, two hundred metres away, was a short stone wall, and beyond that the farmhouse.
Brossard walked ten paces into the long grass and sat down with his knapsack. As soon as it was dark, he would move in. The sun was already low, threatening to fall behind the westerly ridge beyond the farmhouse. It would be dark soon.
Vacharet watched the gentle surf lapping against the beach. Half pebble, half sand, it was no more than fifteen metres wide, nestled under the sheer rock face above.
Vacharet sat inside the boat shelter at the back of the beach. Cut in under a heavy rock overhang, he was completely concealed from the road above.
Lap, swish. Lap, swish. Soothing at first, now after more than half an hour, the sound was driving him mad. What could have happened with Courchon? Fifteen minutes after Courchon had first come down to give him the all clear, the same police car was snaking its way back up the road again.
What was Courchon doing — letting them camp the night? Or perhaps they'd taken him down to the station for questioning. Vacharet sighed heavily. The first grey and red wisps of sunset were showing on the horizon. He could end up on the beach half the night without knowing what had happened.
He pictured the police pacing around, firing question after question at Courchon… at the villa or down at the station? It was immaterial. The police were obviously determined, and in the end would catch up with him. Courchon might have cleared the slate with the milieu, but with the police it would be a different matter. He would have to stay away for months, longer if…
The realization suddenly hit him like a hammer. At first, he'd clung to the hope that Brossard would head first for Monique Fornier. That might at least give him a bit more breathing space. But now it hit him that he could be implicated. He'd recommended Duclos to Brossard! Being involved with the ruse with Aurillet was one thing — but conspiring to murder a Chief Inspector's wife? They would throw away the key.
Perhaps if he helped them, warned them in some way. But what if Brossard had already made the hit, and his call merely confirmed his knowledge of it, his involvement?
Vacharet came out from his hideaway below the rocks and looked thoughtfully at the steps winding up to the road above.
'What time was he there?' Lepoille asked.
'Got there about ten in the morning. Normally the time they might show to do some shopping — if they're going to come out at all. Which has been rare.'
Third on Lepoille's list: Gaston Contarge, Pictures Editor at Le Figaro. He'd already crossed out Le Monde and Le Matin. 'So he was there when Duclos made his break?'
'Yep. Got the whole thing. It'll be front page of tomorrow's edition.'
A tingle of anticipation ran down Lepoille's spine. He told Contarge what he wanted, and why.
Contarge was quick to mirror Lepoille's excitement. Breathless, slightly hoarse: 'Amazing. Look, I'll check with the editor — but I'm sure we'll help. The only thing he might ask is an exclusive for our part in all this. Any objections?'
'No. Not as far as I can see. I've got three more newspapers on my list. Whoever comes up with the photo first, gets the story. Seems fair enough.'
Lepoille smiled as he hung up. He knew that Contarge would be sprinting for the darkroom.
He phoned Dominic straightaway with the news. 'Three more to phone, but at least we've got one hopeful already.'
Dominic was on the motorway just approaching Gardanne, fifteen minutes out from Marseille. He'd stayed at the airport bar with Moudeux for a coffee and brandy while waiting on news, then decided to head back to Vidauban. With Duclos and Vacharet by now anywhere in France, it was as good a command centre as any. 'That's great news. Let me know the minute anything comes up. I'm heading back to Vidauban, but you can ring at any time. I'll be up till late waiting on news.'
Eight minutes later when his mobile rang again, he thought it might be Lepoille with an update. But it was Bennacer. His voice was urgent, frantic.
'Dominic! We just had a call seconds ago from Corsica. We now know the hit man's second target. And brace yourself, Dominic. It's Monique. Your wife, Monique. She's the other target!'