'That's another reason for the list. He's there, sixth name down. You probably know him: Tomas Jaumard.'
Brossard's eyes flickered more rapidly. Hopefully he'd disguised his initial flinch. Tomas Jaumard, alias Chapeau. One of the old reliable milieu die hards. It wouldn't be the first time someone had tried to have Jaumard killed. Of the last two hired guns sent, one died instantly with a bullet through the head, the other was shot in the stomach and groin and spent four hours with surgeons piecing together what was left of his manhood. Jaumard escaped from the fray with only a shoulder wound. ‘Jaumard is a high risk target. For that type of hit, it will cost more. It's not worth doing under F150,000.'
Duclos stared back. 'Is that because of allegiances, possibly upsetting others within the milieu.'
'No. I take work from the milieu strictly as an independent — I owe no allegiances on any side. It's because of the extra risk. Jaumard is one of the few men on this list I have some professional respect for. It will take more to set up.'
Duclos nodded. Strong allegiances with the milieu had been the one remaining area to concern him. Brossard asked where and when.
'Two months, give some time for your name to come off this list,' said Duclos. 'So you're not quite so hot. The where is up to you. Set it up the way you want.'
They made the final arrangements and set the time for their next meeting. By then Brossard would have the outline of a plan and Duclos would give him the first payment. Brossard left the room first and asked Duclos not to leave for at least a few minutes after. Duclos assumed it was part of Brossard's obsession with protecting his identity, but Brossard offered no explanation.
Walking down the corridor, Brossard thought: a total of F200,000 to drop Jaumard including the payment to Vacharet, and the client had hardly blinked. Almost twice what he'd been paid to hit the Nice city planner. Jaumard had obviously stepped on some important toes. Poor old Chapeau. A sly smile crossed Brossard's face after a moment. At least it was nice to know people in his profession were so highly valued. More than a City Planner. He could think of worse tombstone epitaphs.
Alone in the dank room, Duclos started to feel uncomfortable after only a minute. A sudden shiver of desolation that reminded him just how far he'd sunk to be rid of Chapeau. He packed up the tape recorder and left the room.
Marseille. 10th January, 1979
'We're jamming… we're jammin' till the jammin's through… wer' jammin'. To think that jammin' was a thing of the past… wer' jammin'. And I hope this jammin's goin' to last…'
The motorbike messenger bopped with the rhythm of the music on his walkman as he got off his bike, kicked it on its stand and entered the cafe. The package he was carrying was his arm’s length and half as wide. The cafe was almost an exact ten metre square. There were about fourteen or fifteen people inside, four at the bar and the rest scattered at tables. The messenger's eyes behind dark motorcycle goggles scanned the room quickly. He could see the two people he expected in the far corner, but didn't dwell — his attention shifted quickly to the approaching barman. He lifted out his earpiece.
'Monsieur Charot?'
The barman pulled a face and shrugged.
The messenger tilted the package and read from the label. 'Monsieur Charot. Thirty-eight, Rue Baussenque.'
Puzzlement from the barman. 'The address is right, but I don't know a Charot. Let me check with my wife.' The barman disappeared behind a bead curtain at the end of the bar.
Brossard put back the earpiece. Behind the motorcycle goggles, he let his eyes scan slowly across again. He was interested only in one position — the table in the corner with Chapeau and Marichel, the local pimp he'd paid to set things up. He wanted it to look like a casual surveillance. The bored messenger waiting to see if he had the right address, head bobbing lightly to the rhythm on his walkman, fingers tapping on the package.
'… We all defend the right that your children must unite… life is worth much more than gold. Wer jammin'… jammin'…'
The barman was back by the bead curtain, now with his wife. The barman pointed, his wife shrugged and returned to the back. As the barman returned, in the corner of his eye Brossard could tell that Marichel was looking over briefly. Don't look! Brossard silently screamed. Just let me blend in, don't bring Chapeau's attention to me.
He'd made the arrangements with Marichel just the week before. Ten thousand francs to set up the meeting with Chapeau, act as if he was a go-between for a hit contract. Brossard had given Marichel all the details, had practically written the script for him. With a contract on offer, what better way to guarantee Chapeau's attention. But Marichel was probably watching for the timing of the package being opened, the moment he would have to suddenly jump aside.
Brossard swivelled back the earpiece until it rested on his neck. The barman was explaining that his wife didn't know the name either. Brossard pointed to the corner and asked if he could use the phone. 'Check back with my office to see what happened.'
The barman nodded, turned to the end of the bar by the door to serve another customer.
With the package under his arm, Brossard went towards the pay phone on the wall. It was almost directly opposite Chapeau and Marichel's table. He noticed Chapeau look up as he started across, but he couldn't tell if Chapeau's gaze had stayed with him as he approached the phone — couldn't risk turning or glancing back to see.
He started to worry: was there something in his disguise that didn't fit? Some small detail that Chapeau might have picked up on. He'd tried on several long curly wigs, but most were too bushy to fit comfortably under a crash helmet. Finally he found one that was slightly flatter on top with ringlet curls starting further down, spilling out of the base of the helmet and onto his shoulders. Just another rockin' messenger with some sounds to blot out the drone of city traffic.
Brossard's fingers tapped on the package as he set it down by the phone. The tone was tinnier pulled away from his ear. '… The love that now exists is the love I can't resist, so… jam by my side. Wer' jammin'… jammin', jammin'…'
He reached for the receiver, his hand slightly damp as he imagined Chapeau's eyes still burning into his back. He started dialling, fluffing the first numbers so that only the last three counted: the speaking clock. As it rang, he turned and casually surveyed the room. Chapeau was looking back at Marichel, deep in conversation. Marichel drew hard on a cigarette, exhaling smoke in staccato bursts as he talked.
It was then that Brossard noticed the girl directly in line behind Chapeau, and cursed. He'd told Marichel to choose seats by a wall. The wall was behind them from the bar view, but not from this angle. The girl was fully obscured only when Chapeau leant forward.
Bob Marley pulsed against his neck, two inches below his earlobe as he listened to the talking clock. '…It will be nine-twelve and twenty…'
With the sweep of the gun, it was going to be difficult not to hit her at the same time. Brossard wanted the hit to be clean. For a moment, Brossard tensed, a quick window of opportunity appearing as Chapeau leant forward — then just as quickly it was gone. Chapeau relaxed back again. It was a tease. Brossard considered the possibility of stepping to one side as he fired, sharpening the angle so that the wall was behind. But would that split second delay make him more vulnerable?
Chapeau was listening intently to Marichel explain the hit. It appeared straightforward enough, but some of the details from Marichel were becoming repetitive and he seemed slightly nervous. He'd noticed Marichel look up at the motorcycle messenger at the bar, and had glanced up briefly himself as the messenger had crossed to the phone — before bringing his attention back to the business at hand. But now he noticed that at intervals Marichel would give the messenger a sideways glance, as if trying to judge his position without staring overtly. And he was suddenly conscious of the messenger looking across, his attention shifting between them and the table behind.