Shout in the Dark (42 page)

He felt hungry from the lack of proper
meals on the drive up from Italy. Further down the street was a
late shop that probably sold bread, cheese and fruit. He had plenty
of money from the cash machine
in Rome, but spending his cash wisely was essential because
the card might have a stop put on it at any moment. Two youths
lounging outside the shop eyed him up as he entered.

They were saying something to each other in
French and sniggering as they looked at him, but the humor was lost
on Karl. As he peeled off some money to pay for the food and a
French telephone card, the larger of the two put his hand close to
his mouth, passing information to his friend.

As Karl walked away from the shop,
unwrapping a bar of chocolate, he was aware that the boys were
following. He could look after himself. He'd been trained to show
no emotion. As the smaller boy grabbed his arm, the tall youth in
the black jeans moved round to the front, evidently preparing to
bring a knee up into his crotch.

The maneuver was pathetic. While still
allowing the smaller boy to hold his right arm he butted his head
forward sharply, before the tall one had a chance to raise his
knee. The youth reeled back with a smashed nose. A fast turn to the
surprised kid behind allowed him to raise an extended hand and
bring the side of it down on the boy's neck.

Karl stepped sideways and crashed headlong
over the bleeding and screaming teenager on the ground. He tucked
his head in as he fell, rolling over on the sidewalk, and was
quickly on his feet to move clear of both boys.

"
Dumm Hooligans
!" he shouted as he walked away, leaving the two seriously
injured would-be muggers to be collected by the
gendarmeri
e. It would obviously be some time before
either boy could give a coherent statement of what had happened,
and he'd be well away by then.

He felt pleased with his performance
because it proved that he had not lost his nerve for a fight. In
Rome he'd behaved stupidly, but he was already over Otto's death.
And over Herr Kessel's as well. But the fight had reinforced the
difficulty of running this operation alone. Coping with those
dim-witted kids outside the shop had been easy enough, but he felt
exposed. First Rome and now Paris, both of them foreign cities, and
no hope of speaking the languages. He needed help, but not from the
people at
Achtzehn Deutschland Reinigung
in London.

Common sense told him to go home and
forget about Herr Kessel's relic. But possessing it would put him
in a strong bargaining position. It might even save him if the
leaders were planning to punish him for disobedience. He decided to
phone one his ADR friends in Düsseldorf.

Karl noticed that the children had left the
sand and were running over to stare in fascination at the two
youths moaning on the ground. Other people were joining them and
probably rejoicing to see these local troublemakers get their
reward.

Feeling under his shirt he was horrified
to discover that the handle of his Göring dagger had been twisted
sideways in the fall outside the shop. The blade came from a
genuine German military knife of high grade steel, and when his
father died he had ground the shaft to a thin section so it would
go into the ivory handle. It would need to be bent back carefully
or it would break at the weakest point. He swore silently. The
dagger had been his father's, and it was now a cherished
possession.

The phone card worked in a kiosk further
down the road, out of sight of the screaming hooligans. Several ads
for massage services were tucked behind the phone. Karl took a
bright pink one showing a generously proportioned woman called
Zeta. As he kissed the clumsy line drawing his call was
answered.

"
Erich, this is Karl. Herr Kessel is dead." He wanted to
sound confident. "I'm in Paris on a special mission. Things are
dangerous and I need some backup."

"
Paris? What the hell are you doing in Paris, Karl? You told
us you were going to Rome. The leaders already know about Herr
Kessel, and have been asking lots of questions about
you."

"
Don't tell any of
them
where I am." He steadied his voice and explained what had
happened.

"
All right, I'll get as many of our gang together as I can,"
Erich agreed, obviously appreciating the difficulties. "We'll be
with you sometime tomorrow morning. I think the station in Paris is
called the Gare du Nord. Ring me later and I'll give you the time.
And you'd better be there to meet us."

Karl replaced the phone and grinned as he
retrieved the card. He had been so sensible not to withdraw any
money since leaving Rome. Certain members wouldn't want Herr
Kessel's card traced to any particular part of Europe, and nor
would he. He shrugged. He was only showing the skills of a great
leader.

It was exciting to be meeting Erich and
the old gang again. The notebook from Herr Kessel's wallet could
prove valuable -- should he need to bargain with the ADR. He patted
his pocket and laughed.

Meanwhile he
'd go back to the Italian's hotel and keep the
young
Priester
and his
two friends in sight.

GASTON MERLES was almost home from work.
For the past six months the energy needed to get to work at
Gennevilliers from his apartment in La Porte de la Chapelle
-- even on his old Peugeot
moped -- often proved too much. Only forty-three and considerably
overweight, Gaston had been told by the doctor that his heart was
overdue for an extended rest, and the first fat-free diet of its
life.

He was returning from his rotten office
job which entailed copying endless entries into registers, the
information from which would shortly be computerized anyway.
Hand-written records would then be obsolete, but everyone said he
was too old to pick up computer skills. Twenty-five years of
painstaking work seemed pointless. Life seemed pointless. Even his
wife was unfaithful. Gaston put the blame for that on the nightly
need to rest his tired heart.

IT WAS GETTING dark as Karl walked back to
the Opel. He spotted a man bending down, peering into the
silver Alfa through the
driver's window. It was the dark-haired Italian from Rome. The
Italian newspaper was on the back seat, and it had Herr Kessel's
photo on the front page. There was also a map of Paris, which could
come in useful.

The Italian unlocked the doors. Karl
stayed in the shadows. The man turned before getting into the car,
as though to make sure no one was watching. Karl knew
he
would never have acted this
foolishly. His training had taught him how to get into a vehicle
without hesitating without attracting attention.

This was the man who had tried to knife
him at the Colosseum, and it was time to pay him back. But if he
tried to walk over he'd be seen, and the man would get away. He
felt for his Makarov and his knife. Whichever weapon he chose,
cunning was essential.

GASTON MERLES paused for breath. The moped
seemed exceptionally heavy as he struggled to get it onto the high
sidewalk outside his apartment. The large scruffy youth with the
shaved head looked helpful as he indicated his willingness to park
it for him off the street.

Whether his death was caused by a fall
resulting from the shock of seeing the moped taken, or whether
Monsieur Merles had been struck a blow, Karl thought that the
coroner would probably be unable to say. But it was ironic that
Gaston became more valuable at his death than he had ever been
while working, thanks to a generous life insurance
payout.

Not only had Gaston's life been pointless,
but even his wife would be unlikely to grieve. Her lover would move
into the apartment immediately to stake his share in the instant
wealth. And she would be glad never to find that old bike blocking
the hallway again.

KARL REVVED THE moped, checked the
brakes,
and rode past
the Italian and back again, wondering whether to use the dagger.
No, the blade was bent at too much of an angle to go into the man's
back. When practicing in Rome with the English tourist it had been
simple, but there would be no second chance here so close to the
hotel.

This might be a good time to use the
handgun. The Makarov 9-millimeter automatic was for emergencies
only. Borrowed without permission from the ADR in Düsseldorf, one
thing was for sure: no one could ever trace it back to him. There
was no serial number. But he would have to ditch it immediately,
because to be caught carrying the automatic after killing the
Italian would mean trouble. The police would be able to match the
bullet with the barrel of this gun.

In spite of his caution he felt excited. A
gun was an efficient way of killing, and this was the right
occasion to use it. His victim was walking away slowly in the dusk,
reading a large map by the streetlight. The hunter should be
allowed to relish the thrill of the chase -- but the Italian was
making it too easy.

MARCO
was standing in Laura's small hotel room, and they both
jumped when they heard the shot. At first they thought it was a
backfire from the traffic, but the screams from people walking by
quickly brought them to the hotel window. Within two minutes they
reached Riccardo, to find him writhing in agony on the sidewalk
surrounded by nervous Parisians. The bullet had entered the right
side of Riccardo's chest and blood was spreading across his shirt
in unremitting spurts.

"
It's that young German -- the bastard." Blood poured from
the corner of Riccardo's mouth.

Laura went to bend over him, but reared
back as Riccardo's mouth disappeared under a mass of red
froth.

"
Kill that German, Laura." Riccardo started to choke.
"You've got to kill him."

Laura shook her head and screamed. Then
without another look at her boyfriend she grabbed Marco's arm, her
eyes wide in panic. "
For God's sake, Marco, I'm scared. Take me
somewhere safe.
"

Chapter
37

"
DON'T GO TO the
police." Laura's voice shook as she pleaded with Marco when they
were back in her hotel room. "Promise me you won't."

Below in the darkened street, a barrier of
yellow tape marked the site of the killing. Marco felt a strong
desire to protect Laura, even though he had been appalled by her
lack of concern for Riccardo. Perhaps she was right to leave the
scene quickly. Riccardo was obviously dead.

"
The
gendarmes
are
still down there." He stood well back from the window. "We can't
hide up here forever."

"
Don't let them see you, Marco. I don't trust the
French
gendarmes
. I
don't want them to know we came here with Riccardo. He and Bruno
were killers; I can see that now." Laura pulled him away from the
sight of people in the street.

Marco put his hand on her shoulder,
feeling her hot skin. "You weren't involved were you?" He tried not
to shiver. That sense of evil was back.

"
You surely don't think I could do anything like
that."

The violence sickened him. "How should I
know what to think? You wanted Riccardo to come with us to Paris.
I
told
you he was
involved in something bad."

"
I'm so frightened. Someone wants to kill us, and you don't
even trust me." Laura's protests turned to tears.

In the presence of tears Marco always felt
powerless. "You've been mixed up in something terrible."

Laura wiped her eyes with a crumpled pink
tissue from her sleeve, smudging the dark eyeliner. She fell back
onto her bed and made no attempt to halt the flow of
tears.

Marco sat by her side. "I don't think
you've been telling me the whole truth." He said the words
gently.

Laura was staring past the open curtains
to the blackness of the night, and her eyes suddenly lit up with
hostility. "What do you mean? Do you know something?"

Marco realized it was time to face up to
his discovery. A close relationship could never succeed if there
was a lack of trust. "You told me you're a freelance journalist.
You're not. You work full time for TV Roma. Why did you lie to me,
Laura?"

She looked so helpless and vulnerable on
her bed, but he had to know. If only he could tell the innocent
from the guilty. He felt ashamed for asking.

"
I'm sorry, Marco." She lay back with her head on the
pillow. "My producer thought you'd lead me to the relic. He heard
you telling your story in the Newsroom interview at the studios. He
told me what to say to you. You're the 'confidential source' that
TV Roma boasted about. I didn't want to deceive you; I wanted to
tell you the truth when we first met in your apartment. Honestly I
did, but I knew you wouldn't see me again if I explained
everything."

"
I'm not bothered about TV Roma. I'm more worried about
the
gendarmes
down
there, and your involvement with Bruno Bastiani and Riccardo
Fermi."