‘Words. They’re just words,’ Farek broke in, feeling the need to smash something, to lay waste to something tangible. ‘Let the cretins complain. What will they do, these well-fed sheep, huh? What can they do? I will be back soon. Until then, you must exercise control.’
‘How am I supposed to do that? You are the new figurehead, not me.’
‘Set an example, that’s how. Have you forgotten everything we learnt?’ He gritted his teeth in frustration. There had been a time when Lakhdar was more ruthless than himself. Now he had gone soft, but expected others to do the dirty work. ‘Did you do as I asked?’ he demanded softly. ‘Did you send someone as I requested?’
A sigh, then, ‘Yes. Of course. He will be in place by now. He’s one of the best. But, Samir, I ask you one last time to forget this madness. They will know it is you and it will lead back to us. I can still call him off-’
‘No!’ Farek slammed down the phone, cutting off his brother’s words. Always offering advice, always holding him back. He turned to the room where Lakhdar’s two remaining men, Youcef, even the normally placid Bouhassa, were all standing quite still, watching him.
‘What are you all staring at?’ Farek yelled. ‘Are you all afraid, too? Huh? Have you all lost your balls? What’s the matter with you?’
Youcef was the first to speak. He swallowed once, then gestured to the front of the cafe. ‘It’s the tall cop,’ he whispered. ‘Rocco. He’s out there. So’s half the French police force.’
‘Are we sure he’s inside?’ Rocco looked at the sous-brigadier who had spoken to him in the cafe with Alix what seemed like days ago. It now seemed a distant memory.
‘He’s there. One of my men spotted him through the curtain earlier. We’ve got eyes on the back door and unless he’s started tunnelling his way out, he’s stuck.’
‘How many with him?’
‘We think four, plus the cafe owner. Two in suits, a big man and a fat slug in a djellaba.’
Bouhassa. Rocco nodded. ‘Stuck’ was one way of putting it. He could feel the police presence behind him: Canet’s uniformed teams, the detectives like Desmoulins who wanted in on the action, and the brass like Massin and Perronnet. In reserve were the intimidating lines of tough CRS personnel spoiling for a fight. And beyond them, unseen but always present, were the eyes of the Ministry and the government, watching with drawn breath to see how this would unfold.
‘What we don’t need,’ Massin had warned Rocco earlier, when sanctioning the operation to take Farek, ‘is a massacre. We want prisoners. Alive and able to walk unsupported. Got it?’
Rocco had agreed, although he wasn’t sure if it would be quite that simple to bring off. A man like Farek wouldn’t allow himself to be taken without a fight, and he had the means and willpower to resist them. His entire structure was based on ego and violence, so why should he change now?
‘You don’t seem convinced.’ Massin was studying his face.
‘Farek’s up to something. He’s not the sort to allow himself to get cornered like this. He must have something in mind.’
‘We could lob some tear gas through the window to soften them up,’ suggested the sous-brigadier, whose name was Godard. ‘The longer he’s in there, building up a head of steam, the more desperate he’ll get. There could be collateral damage.’
Rocco agreed. There were houses nearby, and bullets fired in anger were indiscriminate in their targets. He opened his mouth to give the order.
Then the cafe door opened.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Three hundred metres beyond the police lines, a man in dark clothing lay on the top floor of the deserted sawmill, surveying the scene through binoculars. The Cafe Emile jumped sharply into view, highlighting the grubby curtains at the windows, the peeling paintwork, the general air of dilapidation of a building consigned to the slow and ignominious death of decay.
As he focused, he saw the curtain flick back, then the front door opened a crack.
Samir Farek appeared. He was calmly smoking a cigar, outwardly impassive and unconcerned by the heavy police presence surrounding the building. Just for a brief second, his eyes flicked sideways and seemed to fasten directly on the eyes behind the binoculars.
No way out of this, Samir, thought the watcher, studying the area around the cafe. The warehouse on the far side was a crumbling ruin, with no viable cover even if the gang boss managed to reach it unscathed. The sawmill was too far across open ground littered with weeds and bits of rotting wood, broken glass and tangles of wire, an obstacle course waiting to trip even the most athletic of men. And Samir Farek, tough as he talked, was no athlete.
He watched as negotiations began between Farek and the tall cop; the introductions, the opening stances, the cold stares between enemies weighing each other up. It would take time, the way these things do. The cops wouldn’t want a bloodbath and he doubted Farek’s men wanted to die an early death. In the meantime, they’d talk. And he would bide his time until he could give Farek a way out.
He put down the binoculars, turned and pulled a long canvas bag towards him, of the type used by fishermen. He opened the zip and took out a MAS 36 bolt-action rifle fitted with a telescopic sight, and a magazine holding five rounds.
He uncapped the lens, blew away a speck of dust, then set the butt comfortably into his shoulder, the rubber socket against his right eye.
Farek’s face jumped into view, framed in the cafe doorway, his head haloed by a cloud of blue cigar smoke. He studied the area around the cafe, checking for movement in the background, for unforeseen problems. Once he was satisfied, he swivelled the barrel across the empty space to the police lines, over the stony faces of the men behind the police vehicles, the immaculate uniforms of a clutch of senior officers standing near the rear. Settled on the tall man in the centre, dressed in black, a patch of orange-yellow on his forehead.
He clicked the magazine into place, then settled himself comfortably, watching Rocco and studying the man’s clothing. Made a minute alteration to the focus of the scope and clicked the sight setting a notch or two. Even from here he could tell the man was a smart dresser. For a cop, anyway. Hell of a target, that patch.
He smiled and blinked several times to clear his eyes. Settled back and waited. He didn’t really need the telescopic sight; but he liked to see the look of surprise on their faces.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
‘You cannot charge me with anything,’ said Farek, calmly wafting away smoke with a flap of his hand. Behind him inside the doorway lurked the imposing figures of his brother and the barrel shape of Bouhassa.
‘If you think that,’ replied Rocco, ‘then you’ve nothing to fear. Come out with your men, unarmed. Let’s get this done without bloodshed.’
‘Without scandal, you mean. Without pictures in your newspapers.’ Farek’s French was excellent, with no trace of an accent, only a deep contempt. ‘Why have you come with all these policemen? You think I, Samir Farek, am so dangerous… so powerful? Huh?’ He laughed, showing white teeth, and Rocco knew he was enjoying this, seeing himself as some kind of anti-hero of the masses, standing up against the forces of the state.
‘You might think that. We don’t. Neither does the janitor you had spying on us.’
Farek waved the words away. ‘Hah. One man — a nothing. Nobody.’
‘Like the man you killed in Marseilles? The one you killed in Chalon? Were they nobodies, too?’
Farek took a deep puff of his cigar, studied the burning end. ‘Where is my wife, Rocco? You have her hidden away from me. I want her back.’
‘What for? To silence her, too? She must know a hell of a lot about you. Wish I had a memory like hers.’ It was an impulsive stab in the dark, prompted by an earlier thought. But it seemed to have an effect on the gangster. He blinked. Looked momentarily shaken, then rallied fast.