He pushed into the cafe and stepped up to the bar. He couldn’t see Saoula, but that didn’t bother him. He couldn’t very well come in and leave without buying a drink, as that would look suspicious. Better to take his time and see if Saoula came to him.
The place was crowded, a smoke-filled hovel with yellow lights barely managing to cut through the haze. Groups of men were in huddled conversation at the bar or sat around tables spread with glasses and overflowing ashtrays. A few turned to check him out, sensing the movement of cold air at their backs, then went back to their talk. One or two who knew him nodded, but didn’t rush to invite him over.
He was used to that.
The barman slid a glass of pastis and a jug of water towards him, and he poured a generous amount, turning the aniseed-flavoured liquid a milky yellow. He’d have preferred a good malt whisky, but that would have marked him out immediately. In this kind of company only the known players threw that kind of money around without drawing unwanted attention.
He sipped the drink, swishing it across his gums and watching the reflection of the room in the mirror behind the bar. He’d give it ten minutes. If Saoula hadn’t put in an appearance by then, he’d be able to leave without causing comment.
One man in the cafe wasn’t so interested in his drink or his conversation that he could ignore the gaunt, intense individual who had just walked in and now stood at the bar, sipping at a glass of pastis. To the observer, he appeared to be relaxing like any working man at the end of a long day. But it soon became clear that the newcomer was using the mirror to survey the room. No working man, then.
An outsider. Or a cop.
The observer stood and went through to the corridor at the rear of the cafe, and picked up the public telephone. He dialled a number and spoke briefly, one eye on a small mirror on the wall. It was angled in such a way as to give a discreet view of the room and the front door — a necessary caution for many of the men using this establishment. As he watched, another man entered the cafe and joined the pastis drinker. They got into conversation, shoulders touching, and the observer voiced a name into the phone before replacing it and returning to his seat.
The pastis drinker had disappeared, leaving the man the observer knew as Saoula alone at the bar.
Outside, Caspar walked away quickly, his heart pounding. He’d noticed the man who’d stood up and walked through to the back of the cafe moments before Saoula arrived. At first he’d been unsure; customers were up and down using the phone all the time, placing bets, calling wives or girlfriends — sometimes one immediately after the other — setting up meetings and deals, even this late at night. Hell, especially this late at night. Why should this man be any different? Then Saoula walked in and Caspar caught a flicker of movement from the corridor. He remembered the spy mirror on the wall. He’d used it himself a few times and knew he’d been spotted by a watcher. These were gang members employed to keep an eye on everyone who came and went in their assigned territory. Their skills were confined to identifying known cops, suspicious strangers or dubious friends, and passing on that information.
Caspar stepped over a battered moped lying across the pavement and tried to recall where he had come across the man before. But the recollection was hazy, like an image swimming up slowly from a dark and murky pond. It didn’t matter. He’d been clumsy, got himself made the moment he walked in. Most likely a face from his past; someone he’d crossed in some way. Whatever. It had been enough. He’d drained Saoula of everything he knew, which wasn’t much, then left, advising his contact to do the same and stay out of sight for a few days. If he had any sense, he’d already be on his way.
Caspar reached the end of the street and glanced back. A lone figure was standing outside the cafe, looking his way. Caspar began to breathe easier, then felt a flicker of dread.
It wasn’t Saoula.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Karim Saoula wasn’t much given to jumping at shadows. In fact he rarely jumped at anything once he’d had a few drinks. After his brief meeting with the cop known as Caspar, and the exchange of folded notes, he’d decided to ignore Caspar’s warning and stay where he was. What the hell did a washed-out flic know, anyway? He’d had a lousy day and needed to get loaded. Not too much, just a little to take the edge off things. One of his best girls — the best girl, in fact — had gone down with something nasty, and a good deal on some hash had fallen through when a rich kid from the other side of the city had developed cold feet at the last minute. As if that wasn’t enough, he was feeling like death after a plateful of bad shellfish.
Now, helped by a couple of drinks and some money from Caspar, he was feeling mellow and at peace with the world. He was even considering sending his best girl a nice bunch of flowers. That would soon have her back on her feet… or better still, on her back. He giggled at the thought and finished his drink before waving goodnight to the barman and walking out into the cold night air.
All in all, a good ending to a bad day.
He was nearing the corner of the street where he had a tiny third-floor apartment, and carefully stepping around a pile of dog turds in the middle of the pavement, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and felt a hand reach out and grab his shoulder. The drink had wrapped his reactions in treacle. Before he could attempt to fight back or flee, he was being dragged into a doorway and slammed back against the brickwork.
As he lost consciousness, a black car purred to a stop at the kerb and he was bundled inside.
‘ Wake up!’ Saoula dimly heard the shouted command, accompanied by a stinging slap to the side of his head. He came round slowly, aware of a musty, mildewed smell and remembering his hurried meeting with the undercover cop, Caspar, followed by his drinking away the money he’d paid him and staggering up the street much later. The rest was a blur, although he vaguely remembered the dog turd on the ground for some reason. Now he had a bitch of a headache and wanted to be sick.
A rush of icy cold water snapped him into full consciousness. He sat up choking, his nose filled and his throat going into spasm against the sudden inrush of fluid. Whoever had thrown it had waited for him to open his mouth before hurling it into his face for maximum effect.
He shook away water droplets, catching a glimpse of a yellowed ceiling light and a wall covered with peeling, bubbled paper showing birds against a cane background. An old restaurant, maybe. Deserted, and therefore a waste of time shouting. Nobody would answer.
A powerful hand grasped his face, and Saoula winced as he felt his jaw constricted and one of his molars became dislodged. He’d been meaning to have the tooth, which was rotten, pulled out, but had lacked the funds.
He spat it out and received another slap, this time accompanied by a tirade of abuse about soiled clothing. He opened his eyes wider.
Three men were in the small room with him, which he guessed was somewhere he was unlikely to ever see from the outside. The man immediately in front of him, who’d probably thrown the water and slapped him, he recognised immediately by his enormous height: Youcef Farek. Overweight and dumb-looking, like a giant soft toy, he was ten years older than his brother Samir and too stupid to bother pleading with. Youcef was a gofer for their half-brother, Lakhdar, at the food distribution warehouse he owned out near Bagnolet. Youcef was the bastard product, it was rumoured, of two dumb cousins with no sense of taste and too much time on their hands. Not that knowing this was going to help him right now.
The other two men were soldiers, styled after the American Mafia, and little more than hired muscle. Whatever they were told, they would do. Without question or feeling.