Equal parts confused and enraged, Chapel pushed her away and stood. It wasn’t a seduction; it was a slaughter. “You should go,” he said.
Sarah gazed up at him. Reaching out, she ran a hand up his leg.
He felt dizzy, his resistance waning. “No, Sarah.”
“I can see it in your eyes, Adam. You need someone.”
“Maybe I do,” he said. “But I’ll be the one to choose who it is.”
She stood and kissed him again, moving her lips against his. “We need each other.”
Firmly, he grasped her arms and stepped away. “Go,” he said, and opened the door to the hall.
“You won’t last a minute out there,” she said breathlessly, pausing in the doorway.
“Why’s that?”
“You’re too honest. Don’t you see? You’re the last good man.”
Sarah didn’t look back as she walked down the hall.
Chapter 24
In the grand salon of NO. 6, Rue de la Victoire, Rafi Boubilas, proprietor of Royal Joailliers, was celebrating his release from Mortier Caserne. A gathering of his best friends stood round him, drinking champagne, sampling canapés, delivering hearty pats on the back. Lit by a magnificent crystal chandelier, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows, they might have been actors on a stage. Crouching next to the wall at the rear of the enclosed garden, Leclerc had a perfect view of the eighteenth-century hotel de ville.
The terrace doors opened. A man and woman stepped outside, accompanied by the snappy rhythms of a Brazilian samba. A joint was produced, a match lit, and the sour-sweet smell of marijuana drifted into the night.
Leclerc waited until the two returned inside the house, then snapped his fingers. A moment later, a black-clad figure dropped to the ground next to him, then another. Guillo and Schmid.
“Six of them,” he said. “The lawyer, too. It’s time they went home.”
Guillo opened a cell phone and dialed the Boubilas home. A young woman strolled across the salon and picked up the telephone. “Madam, this is the police. We have had some complaints from your neighbors about the noise. This is not the first time. Maybe it is time your party ends. Or would you prefer us to send a patrol?”
The woman answered the polite request with a not-so-polite instruction. Dutifully, she delivered the message to Boubilas along, it appeared, with an animated recounting of how she told “les flics” to fuck off. It was clear, even from a distance of twenty meters, that Boubilas did not share her sense of humor. Setting down his glass, he walked to his attorney and whispered a word in her ear. A few minutes later, the guests began to depart. As the bells of the St.-Michel cathedral tolled the midnight hour, the lawyer adjusted her beret, offered Boubilas her cheek, and left. Only Boubilas and his companion, a young woman, remained in the house.
“Showtime,” said Leclerc grimly.
Pulling a balaclava over his face, he set out across the lawn. The three moved silently, shadows in a shadowless night. Reaching the terrace, they dropped to the grass and rolled to the wall. Leclerc lifted his head, eyes making a quicksilver scan of the salon. Glasses littered the tables. Ashtrays brimmed to overflowing. A miniature mountain of cocaine adorned a mirror on the coffee table. But he saw no one.
With index and middle finger, he motioned to the next room, then commando-crawled beside the wall until he reached the second window. Again he popped up his head. It was Boubilas’s study, and the party boy himself entered as if on cue. Walking directly to a sturdy desk of polished oak, he picked up a silver straw and availed himself of a line of cocaine, throwing his head back and grunting like a sated pig as he finished.
The woman entered the room. She was too young, too blond, and too good-looking for an overweight lounge lizard like Boubilas. Her eyes spotted the coke, and a plastic smile stretched her cheeks. Joylessly, she followed his example, wiping the residue on her finger, and rubbing it into her gums. Sashaying to Boubilas, she pressed herself against him.
Leclerc led the men back to the terrace. Vaulting the stone railing, he crossed to the door and tried the handle. Locked. Withdrawing a folding knife from his pants, he threw open the blade and worked it into the doorjamb. The lock was as old as the home. A flick of the wrist and it gave.
Inside, they moved like wraiths. Silenced Beretta in hand, Leclerc navigated the hall, secretly hoping to be discovered so that he might be forced to use it. Moans issued from the dimly lit study. A last step delivered him to the doorway. The woman was on her knees, her head bobbing like a jackhammer, but to no avail. “It is okay?” she asked, after each bout.
Leclerc raised a hand and counted down on outstretched fingers. Three… two… one.
They were on him before Boubilas could react. The girl was pushed to the ground, hands bounds with plastic ties, a wad of cotton cloth inserted into her mouth, a strip of duct tape to seal it.
“Take her out,” Leclerc said.
Boubilas kept still as a rock, the snout of the Beretta pressed into the folds of his jaw. His pants had sunk to the floor and were bunched at his ankles. Leclerc glanced down. “I knew coke made it hard to get it up. I didn’t know it could make it disappear altogether.” And then he slugged Boubilas in the gut. Because he wanted to. Because he needed to get rid of his hate. Because it might prevent him from killing the worm later on.
“Bonsoir, Rafi. Know who this is?”
“Yes. Good evening, Captain.”
Boubilas sat on the leather couch. Guillo stood behind him, an encouraging hand laid on the jeweler’s shoulder.
“Time for a heart-to-heart,” Leclerc said, taking a knee so that he faced Boubilas directly. “I’ll tell you up front that I don’t give a shit about a trial, about proper statements. I’m not here for justice. Just for answers. I am here to stop something from happening. Okay? Something bad. You give me what I want, and my friends and I will go. Everyone chums. If you decide to be the tough guy, then things will go badly. First off, there’s that coke in there. What is it-an ounce? Not to mention your private stash on the table. What happened, the guests didn’t deserve the good stuff? Tell me, if I look around, think I’ll find some more?” When Boubilas didn’t answer, Leclerc patted his cheek twice. “All right, then, we start with something easy. What do you say? Yes? No?”
Still no answer.
Boubilas was fifty and sallow, a pudgy, pear-shaped man with the dissolute scowl of a lifelong substance abuser. The few strands of hair left to him he kept long and tied into a ponytail. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. He stank of fear.
“How much did you hand over to Taleel yesterday?”
“Five thousand dollars,” answered Boubilas.
“That right?” Standing, Leclerc wandered to the desk and picked up an open bottle of Taittinger champagne. He took a sip, pronounced it “not bad,” then returned to his place in front of Boubilas. He wanted to give him a few moments to think about his answer, to reflect upon this last stretch of sanity. “That’s your first and last lie tonight, okay? Look, just think of me as an old friend. No secrets. Let’s start again. How much?”
“Fifty thousand.” The eyes moved down and to the left. It was a rapid movement, quick as a blink, but Leclerc was trained to notice such things. It was a lie.
Swiftly, and with great skill, he acted. One hand flew to Boubilas’s forehead and forced it back so it hit the couch. The other shook the bottle of Taittinger violently, a thumb over its mouth, bringing the bottle to Boubilas’s upturned nose, where he released a stream of the agitated wine into his nasal cavity. As Boubilas began to scream, Guillo stuffed a towel into his mouth, and his body bucked as he sucked the liquid into his lungs. Leclerc had been made to understand that the process of drowning in plain air was most uncomfortable.