Messenger of Death (12 page)

“Right,”
Camilla agreed and turned on the television. No method has been
invented, Camilla thought, to interrupt this chirping fool, but she
was wrong. The breaking news made Shelly wipe away her tears of
sorrow.

“There was a
huge explosion tonight near the clubhouse of the notorious biker
gang, the Iron Ghosts.” The female reporter was holding a
microphone in one hand, the other pointing at a building, which
Camilla recognized at once.

“A car loaded
with explosives was parked nearby and was detonated by remote
control or a timer,” the journalist kept talking. “Surprisingly,
not much damage was inflicted on the clubhouse. Police attribute
this to the fact that the building was originally constructed as a
military bunker, with strong metal and concrete walls. The outer
wall was reinforced from inside by sandbags. Police suspect the
rival Devil’s Knights gang for arranging the explosion as
retribution for the latest killing of two of their top-ranking
members, who were assassinated in a parking lot on the outskirts of
the city.”

“Gosh,” Shelly
commented, “ . . . unbelievable.”

“Windows in
neighbouring houses were broken by the blast,” the broadcaster
said. “No casualties have been reported so far, but the
neighbourhood has been shaken by the event.”

Shelly was
quick to shower Camilla with her opinion about bikers.

“You remember
that guy, Stanley?” she asked. “Have you seen him lately?”

Camilla didn’t
answer. She was listening to the broadcaster too intently. “The
bikers were quick to react. Their lawyer prevented police and
firefighters from entering the building because no formal warrants
had been issued. In addition, no one from the club has agreed to
cooperate with the investigation.”

“You are the
only one in the whole world who understands me,” Shelly was
saying.

The phone’s
ring startled Camilla. She reached for it nervously, but instead of
“Hello,” a croaking sound escaped her throat.

“Hi. It’s
Stanley,” was the calm response. “Everything’s okay?”

“Yes. What
about you?”

“Good.” She
felt almost as if his voice physically conveyed his energy and
surprisingly good mood to her. Like a magic elixir, his voice
poured strength into her, dissolving all her fears and worries. At
that moment, Shelly got up, showing signs of impatience.

“Camilla, dear,
I’ve gotta go. I’d love to stay with you longer, but I’ve got a
date.” Shelly was speaking in an apologetic tone, sincerely
believing, it seemed, that Camilla needed her company.

Camilla had an
urge to yell, “Go to hell,” but instead nodded in understanding and
agitation.

“Bye, Camilla.
See you later.”

“Where are
you?” Camilla asked Stanley, when Shelly was out the door.

“Not far. May I
come by?”

“Yes,
please.”

A few minutes
later, Stanley came in. He was serious but calm and
self-controlled.

“Knights
planted the bomb,” he explained, kissing her on the lips. “Were you
scared?”

“Just at
first,” Camilla confessed and led him into her room. “I’ve watched
the latest news. Here, sit down.” She laughed at his impatience.
“Wait, Stanley,” she said in a mellow voice, not wanting to yield
to his passion.

“I’m too
excited,” Stanley said, unbuttoning her blouse and bra. “You’ll
soothe me.”

She agreed.

“Don’t rush,”
she whispered. “Oh, Stanley, dear.”

Danger added
spice to their physical intimacy.

Half an hour
later, with not a stitch of clothing on, Camilla brought a tray
holding two cups of coffee from the kitchen. She’d expected Stanley
to watch her admiringly, but noticed that his attention was keenly
focused on the television set.

“What’s up?”
she asked, placing the tray on the coffee table.

“Sit down,”
Stanley said with a smile. “Look what’s going on there.”

Camilla picked
up her nightgown and settled down on the bed. On the TV was another
interview, this time with a woman about fifty years old, dressed in
a conservative black jacket. With the blank, stern face of a
skilful politician, she gazed at the audience with infinite
patience.

“Our guest is
Monica Goddet, a member of parliament and a prominent figure in the
political scene of our province,” the male broadcaster said. Then,
turning to Monica, he continued.

“Monica, how
would you comment on the latest events, which our police have
labelled an escalation of the biker’s war?”

“The death toll
has become staggering,” Monica answered, frowning. “In the last few
months, this ‘war’ has intensified on an unheard-of scale. Numerous
assassinations have been aborted by the police. Still, as it stands
now, more than forty people are dead, two of them ordinary
citizens—innocent victims who happened to be in the crossfire. A
few other bikers are missing and deemed dead. The bikers show
extreme contempt to public opinion, law and order, police, and all
our legal institutions.”

“What measures
would you suggest?” asked the interviewer.

“Some measures
have already been taken. A special unit, assembled with members of
the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, city and provincial police
personnel, and other institutions involved in public security, has
already begun working on this issue. A larger budget for police
units dealing with biker gangs is under consideration. And, I
personally feel that intensive training must be provided for police
forces to improve their efficiency.”

“The police
have suggested that the parliament should adopt a tough new law
that specifically targets biker gangs. This law is supposed to make
investigations easier. What do you think?”

“Let’s first
consider what kind of a law was suggested. The police want to
declare the outlaw biker clubs criminal organizations. The mere
membership in such an organization could be the foundation for
searches, arrests, investigations, or straightforward criminal
charges. This would make the life of the police so easy! No hard
work, no investigative skills required. If we go this way, we
could, in the future, single out any group that the police or the
government dislikes for any reason. I believe that this law, if
adopted, would be unconstitutional and challenged successfully in
the courts.”

“Is there any
government proposal?” the broadcaster asked.

“Yes, there is.
The government intends to set up a task force to recommend measures
to end the biker’s war and to deal with organized crime in general.
The magnitude of the biker’s war demonstrates how large the
criminal world has become. The public is not aware of that.”

Camilla was
listening with keen attention. A disturbed feeling, like a sudden
ocean wave, drowned her in its chilling depth. Stanley noticed her
mood and turned the set off.

“The government
is dead serious about you guys,” Camilla remarked.

“They’ll never
pass this law,” Stanley said. “They’re more afraid of the police
having power than of us having it.”

“She said that
the war had escalated noticeably in the past few months. Did you
have anything to do with that?”

Stanley
shrugged his shoulders.

“Let’s talk
about something else.”

“What if these
Knights target your relatives, wives, girlfriends?”

“That would
never happen,” Stanley said. “I am quite sure about that. That
would be too much. For sure, the government would do something
then. The police don’t care much when we kill each other. But when
someone who doesn’t do any business with us is hurt, it becomes a
different story. The Knights are not that stupid.”

“Why can’t you
leave the club for good?” Camilla asked. “You’ve mentioned that you
want to do that eventually.”

“Eventually,
but not right now.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t want
to turn money down if it’s going to be there.”

“I’m just
scared,” Camilla confessed.

“There’s
nothing to worry about,” Stanley assured her. “But some measures of
caution should be taken. We shouldn’t live together. Like I said,
I’ll find you a good apartment. For now, let’s go eat—someplace
nice. Where would you suggest?”

Chapter
3

I

The meeting
place was code number four on Marcel’s list. The restaurant, owned
by an Italian crime family, had been designed with its clientele in
mind. It was divided into three areas—two large halls, arranged
along an outer glass wall that faced the street, for ordinary
visitors, and a smaller room at the back, with only ten tables
inside, for those select patrons who needed privacy and wished to
be hidden from unwelcome attention. The food was good, inexpensive
for its quality, and served by pleasant, ever-smiling, attentive
waitresses. It was a large money-laundering outlet in which illegal
cash was converted into legitimate income, reported taxable, and
made safe for spending. When Marcel and his two bodyguards came in,
it was about 2 o’clock in the afternoon and the lunch crowd was
nearly gone. One of the waitresses greeted them with genuine
joy.

“Please, follow
me,” she said, holding large restaurant menus under her arm. In the
back room, daylight from a small window mingled with electric light
from a hanging chandelier. Reflected and multiplied by numerous
crystals, it created an instant atmosphere of comfort, quiet, and
privacy. White tablecloths; snow-white, well-ironed napkins stuffed
into wine glasses; and the refreshing chill of air conditioning
enhanced this feeling.

“Which table do
you wish to take?” the waitress asked.

“The one in the
left corner is for me,” Marcel said. “That one—near the entrance—is
for my friends.”

“Certainly.”
The waitress responded with an energetic nod to emphasize her
understanding.

“I’m waiting
for another guest,” Marcel told her, as he sat down where he could
observe the entrance to the room. “He should be here any
minute.”

“Certainly,”
the waitress repeated in the same tone. “Here is the wine
list.”

“A bottle of my
favourite,” Marcel requested, not looking at the paper. “You know .
. .”

“Of course,
sir,” she said seriously, as if on an important mission, before
going to serve the bodyguards.

Raymond
appeared at a quarter past two, as arranged. Settling in across the
table, he asked with a smile, “Who are those two?”

“My people,”
Marcel responded with pressed lips.

“I don’t
welcome any attention other than yours.” Raymond adjusted his phony
eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose and started studying the
menu.

“They are
reliable people,” Marcel growled.

“I know. But
they are outside the list of the two people I trust the most.”

“And who would
that be?”

“You and
me.”

“Listen.”
Marcel frowned. “It’s not peace and quiet now. You know as much as
I do that we live in troubled times. It’s not cheap to keep
bodyguards these days. Besides, these guys are for your safety as
well as mine.”

“I know, I
know.” Raymond sighed, his way of expressing appreciation for
Marcel’s consideration. “What can I do for you?” He removed his
napkin from the glass.

“Some wine?”
Marcel asked, taking the bottle.

“Please.”

Raymond looked
in silence at the stream of red liquid pouring from the bottle.

“I need
information on someone as soon as possible,” Marcel said while
Raymond was sipping his wine. “Stanley Mathews is his name. We know
that he has a muffler shop, but we don’t know what name it’s
registered under. The bastard is shifty like mercury; he is
everywhere and nowhere. We don’t know where he lives or where he
hides. Besides the usual pay, I’ll give you an extra two grand when
we’re done with him.”

“I don’t need
the last detail,” Raymond said. “Do you want me to find out where
his muffler shop is?”

“Yes. Any other
information about him would be a bonus.”

“I’ll try.
Anything else?”

“I need to know
the address of Serge Gorte. He’s the one responsible for
investigating bikers.”

Raymond didn’t
blink. He was looking into Marcel’s eyes in silence, in expectation
of some explanation. The tension at the table was growing.

“Three grand,”
Raymond broke the silence in a low voice. “I have to share with
others . . .”

Marcel smiled
through tight lips, his eyes grim. In response, Raymond raised his
glass and said, “Cheers.”

“Something
else,” Marcel said.

“Sure.” Raymond
drank his wine in small, slow sips.

“The government
is going to assemble a task force that is supposed to work on ways
to deal with bikers.”

Now, a genuine
smile appeared on Marcel’s lips. Raymond took too big a swig, made
a choking sound, and coughed.

“Excuse me,” he
said, lifting the napkin to his lips.

“We need their
addresses—if not for all the task force members, then at least for
the major players.”

Raymond
recovered quickly. A look of respect flitted across his face, only
to yield to his customary unemotional mask.

“I’ll do my
best,” he mumbled. “As far as I know, the task force has already
been assembled, but the members have not been announced yet.”

The rest of the
lunch passed by in meaningless small talk, with each thinking his
own thoughts. Marcel pulled up his left sleeve and glanced at his
watch.

“Five minutes
to three,” he said.

“Time to
depart?” Raymond asked.

“I’m expecting
someone else at three,” Marcel said. Raymond produced his wallet,
but Marcel stopped him with a gesture.

“On the
house.”

“Thank you.”
Having said that, Raymond left.

In a short
while, another visitor came in. This was a tall, very fat man in
his late forties, with short, neatly groomed hair. His round blue
eyes were fixed above puffy cheeks and appeared to observe
everything with constant surprise. He was dressed in a seemingly
expensive dark blue suit and walked with the self-assurance and
composure of someone who knew his worth and power.