Marquanteur And The
Special Pistol: France Crime Thriller
by Alfred Bekker
Two criminal organizations fighting for their position of
power in Marseille. Only one can emerge victorious. And already one
of the bosses is murdered. Will it now come to a war between the
two criminal organizations? Or is there something else behind it
altogether, as more murders are committed. Has someone made a
decision and is living only for revenge? Investigators Pierre
Marquanteur and François Leroc follow the trail of blood that runs
through Marseille.
Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels,
thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book
successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such
as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John
Sinclair, and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the
names Neal Chadwick, Jack Raymond, Jonas Herlin, Dave Branford,
Chris Heller, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, and Janet Farell.
Copyright
A CassiopeiaPress book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books, Alfred
Bekker, Alfred Bekker presents, Cassiopeia-XXX-press, Alfredbooks,
Uksak Special Edition, Cassiopeiapress Extra Edition,
Cassiopeiapress/AlfredBooks and BEKKERpublishing are imprints
of
Alfred Bekker
© Roman by Author
© of this issue 2023 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress,
Lengerich/Westphalia
The invented persons have nothing to do with actual living
persons. Similarities in names are coincidental and not
intended.
All rights reserved.
www.AlfredBekker.de
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https://twitter.com/BekkerAlfred
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https://alfred-bekker-autor.business.site/
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1
"It may be that there is some ruthless cleaning up to be done
today," Jean Rabiot growled, "but that's nothing new for
you."
His two bodyguards acknowledged this with a brief nod. They
held their Uzi submachine guns at the ready.
The trio reached the dark teak door at the end of the hall. A
guard in a dark suit stood in front of it.
"Close your mouth, Bruno! Haven't you ever seen us before?"
asked Rabiot.
The guard stepped aside. The door opened. Jean Rabiot's
massive figure entered the room.
Even his well-built bodyguards looked slight compared to this
gray-bearded colossus in a tailored suit.
Rabiot could literally feel a breeze of ice wafting over him.
The faces of the men who had taken their seats at the table were
rigid. Their expressions would have suited a funeral. Rabiot had
been number one in this syndicate long enough to know that this was
a life-threatening moment. The mood was against him.
Rabiot had one of his bodyguards pull the chair back for him.
Then he sat down. The thick Havana in the corner of his mouth went
out. A bad omen ...
He cursed softly to himself.
The two gorillas positioned themselves behind their
boss.
The heavy teak door slammed shut.
"So what's up?" growled Rabiot, "It wasn't me who insisted on
this meeting."
Silence reigned. You could have heard a pin drop in that
second.
Rabiot did not like this mood.
His gaze went down the row of people present. They were all
people from his organization. They had all come. This meeting had
become a kind of plenary assembly. No one had told him that before.
He began to suspect what was going to happen here.
A coup!
"There have been problems lately," said one of the people
present. He had a half bald head and high cheekbones.
"So what?" hissed Rabiot, fixing his counterpart with an icy
stare.
"A lot of people here think you're out of touch."
"Oh, really," Rabiot caustically retorted. "You know what I
think, Simon? I think you overestimate yourself!"
"The fact is that the Ukrainians are giving us a hell of a
hard time," it now came from another side. "We need a change at the
top."
A murmur of approval arose. There was a rip-rip-rip as the
bodyguards of the great Rabiot loaded their Uzi submachine
guns.
And instantly the room was quiet again.
Dead quiet!
"I get the feeling that some of you haven't really thought
your minds through yet," Rabiot said. He picked up his Havana and
tossed it aside. He screwed up his face in disgust. "Really seems
like I've been a little too lenient with some of you. But mistakes
are there to be corrected."
"You said it, Rabiot," Simon said now. His voice clinked like
ice.
And Jean Rabiot's eyes widened in horror as the barrels of the
two Uzis were suddenly aimed at him.
His own people! Rabiot was frozen with shock.
"No ..." he whispered.
Fear sweat formed on the forehead of the colossus.
"Get up, Rabiot!" said Simon.
"What are you going to do?"
Simon smiled.
"It's not our way to murder one of our own. At least not
unless we absolutely have to. Although one or two of you in this
room might actually have very good reasons for breaking every bone
in your body with your own hands." Simon shrugged. "We're not
brutes, after all."
"But ..."
"There's someone who seems particularly hell-bent on sending
you over the Jordan River in person!"
Jean Rabiot started to stutter.
"Look, I ..."
"Forget it, Rabiot! It's not possible to reach an agreement.
Not anymore."
"What do you mean?" Rabiot was still gasping for air.
His own bodyguards grabbed him and took him in the
middle.
"Nice working for you, Rabiot," one of them said, grinning
wryly. "But everything comes to an end."
2
She was a beauty. The tight-fitting dress hid little of her
exciting figure.
The seduction in person, that was her!
Only something was wrong with her eyes.
They were sea green. But they did not remind of the scent of
seaweed - but of the cold facetted eyes of a snake. An icy look, in
which deadly determination stood.
The large .45-caliber automatic in her right hand gleamed
golden. A weapon whose projectiles could rip a man's skull off.
Much too big for her delicate hands. With one swift movement, she
slid the magazine into the gun. A devilish smile flitted across her
full-lipped mouth. Then she put the gun in her purse.
It couldn't be long before she would finally have the man in
front of her gun whose death she longed for like nothing
else.
A cool wind blew from the sea over the industrial wasteland in
the north of Marseille. A factory building whose demolition was
about half complete. Today was Sunday, so the big machines with the
wrecking balls were on break.
A place made for murder ...
"You're taking your time," said the dark-haired curly-headed
man standing a few feet away from the young woman. He stomped out
his cigarette. An Uzi submachine gun hung over his shoulder.
"Don't worry, Cyril," she said, "it'll all work out."
"You're taking this pretty well, Juliette."
"Shouldn't I?"
"We're not killing anyone here."
"I know! I know better than anyone, Cyril!"
She smiled.
Her plan was perfect. She trusted it. Nothing could go
wrong.
At that second, the dark, extra-long Mercedes sedan came
around the corner. Rabiot's car. But he was no longer in charge of
the route.
The car approached, stopped. A door opened.
A massive figure was brutally pushed out.
Jean Rabiot was writhing on the floor, groaning. He looked up.
His pale face lost the last vestige of color.
"Juliette - you?" he muttered, stunned.
Juliette had meanwhile taken out her pistol and loaded it. She
stepped closer, grasping the gun with both hands.
The door of the Mercedes sedan was closed again. The car sped
away with screeching tires.
Rabiot looked after him for a moment.
Juliette laughed.
"Yeah, your guys did a good job, huh?"
He tried to get up. With some effort, the massive Rabiot
finally succeeded. He looked at Juliette.
"I don't understand ..." he muttered.
"No?" Her voice sounded like ice. She stepped toward him. "You
really don't know? Then you're no different now than the many whose
life light you snuffed out with a snap of your fingers, Jean!" She
laughed. "Au revoir, Rabiot!"
And then she pulled the trigger. Again and again. And her face
contorted into a grimace. The first bullet hit Rabiot in the torso.
He staggered back, while the next bullet pierced his chin. Even
before the massive figure plopped heavily to the ground, Juliette
had fired half a dozen rounds. She didn't even stop firing when the
big boss was already lying on the ground in a strangely contorted
position. Motionless. And dead.
3
"Pierre Marquanteur, FoPoCri," I introduced myself to the tall
police officer. I pointed next to me. "This is my colleague
François Leroc."
The man nodded.
"You're really fast," he said appreciatively.
François and I hadn't even been in the office that morning. I
had picked François up at the usual corner, then the call had come
from headquarters. And instead of going to La Canebière, where the
FoPoCri Marseille had its headquarters, we had gone to Mourepiane
as quickly as possible.
Members of a demolition crew had found a body when they were
about to start work. The homicide squad had started the
investigation and found that the dead man was a very familiar
face.
Jean Rabiot, a big shot in organized crime.
According to our findings, he had controlled a syndicate that
made its profits primarily from the illegal disposal of hazardous
waste. The profit margins had been as high as in the heroin trade
for some time.
That's how we got into the game. Because this was probably not
an ordinary murder case.
"Come on," the policeman said.
We stepped up to the body. The demolition crew workers stood a
little apart and watched as the coroner bent over the dead man. It
was Dr. Franc Valmont. I knew him from other assignments. We
exchanged brief greetings.
"At least six bullet holes," Dr. Valmont then commented. "Must
have been a big caliber. A .45 I'm guessing. Of course, I can't be
more specific until I get the projectiles out of the body."
"How long has this man been dead?", I asked.
"I think he was shot yesterday afternoon. However, I'm
reluctant to commit to the exact hour."
"Looks like ..."
"...executed," my friend and colleague François Leroc
completed, "Rabiot was literally riddled."
Valmont, meanwhile, continued, "The shots were fired from a
distance of no more than two and a half feet."
I bent down. Rabiot's rigid, dead face looked at me. His left
hand was clenched into a fist. From the side I could see that this
fist enclosed something.
"Can you open his hand, doctor?", I asked. "He's clutching
something."
"Might be a little difficult at this stage," Dr. Valmont said.
He still got it done.
I was surprised.
"A cigarette butt," it escaped me. "Don't touch it!" I said
before Valmont could commit a careless act.
The policeman handed me a latex glove. I took the cigarette
butt and looked at it. I held the thing up to the light.
"Why did he clutch it like that?" asked François.
That was exactly the question. Below the filter, I could read
the brand name on the white paper. Lucky Strike.
"Anyway, we'll keep this stub safe," I muttered.
4
Three hours later, we were sitting in the office of our
superior, Monsieur Jean-Claude Marteau, Commissaire général de
police. His expression was serious. And he had every reason to
be.
Besides François and me, some other colleagues were present at
this meeting. Among them were Boubou Ndonga and Stéphane Caron.
Also Commissaire Robert J. Bardonne, who had worked for a while as
an undercover investigator in Rabiot's organization.
"Rabiot's death could be the temporary culmination of this
unfortunate gangster war that has been going on for some time
between Rabiot's organization and the Ukrainians from
Marseille-Mitte," Monsieur Marteau opined.
Both groups made efforts to get the waste market under their
control.
And the methods were anything but squeamish. Several people
had been killed in armed clashes in recent weeks. Mostly small
people from both organizations. Middlemen and truck drivers. Or
people who, under false names, bought plots of land on which
hazardous waste that should have been disposed of at great expense
was simply dumped. At some point, these straw men disappeared and
the general public was left with a life-threatening sinkhole.
Often, this kind of thing only came to light when it had
devastating consequences. Last week, for example, an illegal
plastic waste dump near the harbor self-ignited, sending a cloud of
dioxin towards the city center.
"The Rabiot people probably won't let too much time pass to
retaliate against the Ukrainians," Ndonga opined. "The conflict has
entered a new stage of escalation."
"However, the perpetrators could also come from within the
Rabiot syndicate," Robert J. Bardonne now spoke up. He knew this
organization like no other. "There were groups that would
undoubtedly have taken the first opportunity to dump Jean Rabiot.
Incidentally, the old man was already showing a certain lack of
leadership at the time when I was still working undercover."
"And you think something like that will be exploited sooner or
later," Mr. Marteau said.
Bardonne nodded.
"That's how it is. I would ask a certain Simon, for example
... He's always been burning with ambition. And he's the one I'd
trust most to bring together a coalition strong enough to just dump
the big boss."
"Then ask him," suggested Monsieur Marteau.
"I'm afraid he doesn't like me very much," Bardonne opined.
"After all, I came within a hair of putting him in jail."
"Take Pierre and François with you as reinforcements!"
Monsieur Marteau then turned to Boubou and Stéphane. "They will
please try to find out if anything can be found among the
Ukrainians."
"All right, chief," said Stephane.
Monsieur Marteau continued, "We must end this war as quickly
as possible. Otherwise, the whole thing will get out of
control."
It was clear to all of us that we were very close to this
point.
"There are two things I just can't get over," I said finally,
after I had brought to my mouth my paper cup with the exquisite
coffee that Melanie, the secretary of our boss, was brewing. I
continued, "On the one hand, there's this cigarette that the dead
man was clutching as if his life depended on it ..."
"It's being tested in the lab right now to see if enough
saliva traces can be isolated to do a DNA test," Monsieur Marteau
interrupted me.
I shrugged.
"In any case, I don't think it was a coincidence that Rabiot
clutched that cigarette butt."
Monsieur Marteau, turning to Bardonne, asked, "Was Rabiot
actually a smoker?"
"Just a couple of thick Havannas now and then," Robert J.
Bardonne replied. "Actually, he couldn't have afforded even those.
His medical bulletin looked miserable."
Monsieur Marteau huffed, "No cigarettes?"
"He used to say that cigarettes were something for rednecks.
And God knows he didn't count himself among them..."
"The point can be checked, after all," François opined.
I said, "The second thing that gives me no peace is the way
Jean Rabiot was butchered. The perpetrator literally shredded him
with his .45. If you ask me, this doesn't look like a stone-cold
professional killer doing his job and for whom every cartridge
increases the operating expenses of his dirty business. There seems
to me to have been a lot of emotion involved here."
5
We drove to Rabiot's apartment. It was fantastically located
on the top floor of a high-rise building. From there, you could see
all the way to the Gulf of Marseille. Rabiot also owned a dream
villa in La Viste. His wife and children lived there. According to
Robert J. Bardonne's information, Rabiot had not lived there for
quite a while. The marriage existed more or less only on
paper.
Together with Bardonne, François and I had ourselves carried
to the top floor.
Police had the apartment sealed after forensic experts looked
around.
We were astonished when we saw that the seal had been broken.
Someone had been in the apartment!
We reached for our pistols. With one kick, François sent the
door flying to the side.
I rushed forward two steps with my Walther P 99 in both
hands.
A young woman whirled around. I saw her right hand reach for
the rather large handbag she was carrying over her shoulder.
"FoPoCri!", I shouted. "Stop right there!"
She did not move, literally froze.
We entered the apartment. The furnishings were expensive, not
necessarily tasteful. But there was a lot of space here, and in a
city as densely populated as Marseille that was the very greatest
luxury anyway.
With three long strides I had reached the young woman. Her
sea-green eyes looked at me with a cold gaze.
She smiled.
I took the handbag from her and searched it briefly.
In any case, she was not armed. And that she had hidden a
firearm somewhere else on her body, I thought very unlikely in view
of her almost skin-tight dress. I lowered the gun. In the bag was,
among other things, a driver's license made out in the name of
Juliette Lucás.
She braced her left arm on her curved hip and said, "Well, do
you know everything you wanted to know now?"
"It's a start, Madame Lucás!"
"Would you kindly show me your ID as well?"
I held my service card under her nose.
"I am Commissaire Pierre Marquanteur," I said. "You are here
in an apartment that was sealed by the police."
"Oh, really! Sorry."
"You might actually still be sorry. After all, disregarding
such a seal is punishable by law - Madame Lucás?"
She took a deep breath. Her breasts rose and fell as she did
so.
"Look, I'm sorry, I didn't see that seal," she then claimed.
The desperate expression on her face looked very convincing. Almost
perfect. If it hadn't been for those eyes ...
"I think it was very visible," I replied.
"Monsieur Marquanteur, why so petty?"
"What were you doing here?"
"Getting a few personal things."
"Did I miss your name on the door?"
"I haven't lived here," she said, "I've just been here on
occasion, at Jean's ..." She wiped her eyes and forehead with a
jittery motion, sweeping back a few stray strands of her ash-blond,
slightly curly hair. She swallowed.
I put my gun away.
"You know what happened?", I asked.
"No."
"Jean Rabiot was shot dead yesterday. This morning he was
found at a construction site in Mourepiane."
"No God!" She swallowed. Maybe there was even something moist
glistening in her eyes. "Jean's dead ... That's terrible." She
looked at me. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"I can't believe it ..."
"When was the last time you saw Rabiot?"
"Sunday morning."
"On what occasion?"
"We had breakfast together."
"Here, in this apartment?"
"Yes."
"And then what?", I asked. "What happened then?"
"Jean told me he had to leave."
"Didn't he say where?"
"He couldn't stand being questioned. So I got out of the habit
of asking questions, Monsieur Marquanteur."
"How well did you know Jean Rabiot?", I asked.
"Well enough to know that all the lies that have been told
about him are not true."
"What lies?"
"That he ..." She hesitated, looking at us in turn. Then she
finally continued, "That he was a gangster. I have rarely known a
more loving person. He also gave a considerable portion of his
income to charitable foundations." She raised her head, looking me
straight in the eye. "But as I suspect, you are hardly interested
in actually finding the perpetrators. In truth, you're glad he got
caught."
"That's where you're wrong," François interjected. "A murder
is a murder for us - even if we suspect the victim had blood on his
own hands."
She screwed up her face.
"I'm glad to hear that," she said, "I wish you every success."
She turned toward the door.
"Just a minute," I said. "It doesn't happen that fast."
She raised her eyebrows, which were traced with
eyeliner.
"Oh, yeah?"
"We have a few more questions for you."
"I was Jean Rabiot's mistress for a while," she explained,
"Does that answer your questions?"
"Didn't you want to take some personal items?"
She shrugged.
"I have determined that they are not here!"
"Weird."
"Yes, how one's memory can deceive one."
"What time did Monsieur Rabiot leave the apartment on
Sunday?"
"Around 10:30 in the morning."
Now Robert J. Bardonne butted in and asked, "I assume Thionnet
and Jasnore were with him, right?"
Juliette Lucás looked at him with a dismissive look.
"I don't know who that's supposed to be."
Bardonne said, "His bodyguards!"
Juliette shrugged.
"I don't know their names."
"When did you leave this apartment, Madame Lucás?"
"I was still taking a shower. Maybe half an hour later."
"And how did you spend the day?"
"I went home and went to bed because I had a terrible migraine
attack. Can I finally go now?"
"Where can we reach you, Madame Lucás?"
"At my apartment on Pointe-Rouge. I'll write down phone number
and address for you."
"Do you smoke?" My last question seemed to irritate her. Her
eyebrows formed a serpentine line as she looked at me in wonder.
Then she finally said, "I have painstakingly kicked the habit,
Monsieur Marquanteur."
"We have something in common there."
"Oh!"
"What brand did you smoke?"
"I always thought Marlboro was pretty good. But what's with
the questions?"
"Not Lucky Strike, by any chance?"
"No, never."
6
Charles-Michel Simon looked around at the group that had
gathered in the exquisite mirrored room of Jean Lafontaine's
restaurant. Simon had a penchant for French cuisine. And besides,
he owned two-thirds of the restaurant.
"Business is going badly," Simon said. "The whole thing, in my
opinion, is solely due to the war with the Ukrainians. We're having
a hard time finding shippers to work with us, even if we're
accommodating them on price."
"What do you suggest, Simon?" asked a tall gray-haired
man.
"We have to come to an agreement with the Ukrainians. There is
no way around it, Monsieur Bérgere!"
Bérgere shrugged his shoulders.
"Nothing against it, especially since the FoPoCri will show up
at one or another of ours in the near future. But I'm afraid those
bastards from Ukraine aren't interested in that at all. They want
our destruction."
"Sooner or later, they'll realize the pie is big enough for
all of us," Simon said.
Now a tall curly-headed man came forward, whose dark
tailor-made suit had cost at least a thousand euros.
"The only question is whether sooner or later," he said
coolly. "Because if it's too late, we're done for!"
"Cyril is right," someone else commented.
"What are you suggesting, Albieux?"
"We have to hit the Ukrainians deadly! That must be possible.
I don't think anything of an agreement. It can only mean that we
have to give something and they get something, and none of us can
like that."
"If the war continues, we will be targeted by the police,"
Simon indicated.
Cyril Albieux screwed up his face. He raised his long-stemmed
wine glass.
"I'm surprised you even dared to take a swing at old Jean
Rabiot and didn't wet your pants, Simon."
Sounds could now be heard from outside. Footsteps, then a
groaning sound.
All those present fell silent.
"Hell, what's going on?" scolded Simon.
At that moment, the double doors to the Hall of Mirrors burst
open.
Heavily armed masked men rushed in. Everything happened in a
flash. Men equipped with machine guns and bulletproof vests
scattered around the room, taking up positions everywhere. At least
a dozen MPs and several automatics were pointed at the men at the
table.
Jean Lafontaine, the chef de la cuisine, was thrown into the
room. He staggered, fell to the floor, and slid a bit across the
smooth parquet. Through the open door, the guards could be seen
lying strangely contorted on the floor.
A man with a silencer weapon walked measuredly into the hall
of mirrors. Not more than the eyes could be seen of his face. He
wore a balaclava. The man with the silencer weapon stopped, looked
around ...
When someone at the table moved a little too fast, the man
with the silencer gun fired with lightning speed and without even a
fraction of a second's hesitation. The projectile hit the man in
the middle of the forehead. The force of the bullet jerked him
backwards and sent him crashing to the floor along with his
chair.
Nobody moved.
"Anyone who moves is as dead as those incompetent gorillas you
posted out there!" hissed the man with the silencer weapon from
under his balaclava. He spoke slurredly and was barely
intelligible. He let the barrel of his gun circle around. None of
those present dared to even breathe too hard.
"There's a bonus for anyone who retires from the business,"
said the man with the silencer gun. "The second option is to keep
going for us. Everyone else, this is what awaits ..."
He made a quick movement with his gun. Two masked men carried
in a package. It was roughly the shape of a human body, wrapped in
a thick, opaque plastic sheet. The two masked men threw the package
on the floor. Then they unwrapped it.
Simon turned his gaze to the side. He felt sick at the sight.
He gagged and could only with difficulty prevent himself from
vomiting.
"I hope that was a warning to you morons and you finally
realize you're no match for us," the man with the silencer gun
hissed.
He signaled to his gorillas.
The MPs rattled off. And within seconds, the hall of mirrors
turned into a pile of shards. The large mirrors were shattered by
the dozens of projectiles and rained to the floor in many thousands
of small pieces.
The masked men then disappeared as quickly as they had
appeared.
For seconds, no one on the board said a word.
Finally, it was Cyril Albieux who rose first. He walked toward
the gruesome package that the masked men had left behind. His brow
furrowed as he looked at the terrible contents.
He knelt down in front of it.
"My God," he whispered. "That's Tom Brunnot!"
"One of our people, anyway, that's for sure," Simon said
coldly.
Cyril Albieux whispered, "What have those dogs done to him?
Horrible!"
Silence reigned.
Albieux rose again. He turned to the others, whose pale faces
were completely dismayed.
"We have to see that we make the dead disappear. And we have
to do it fast! They may be our own people, and we didn't kill them
either, but the cops will be pestering us with questions otherwise.
And right now we can't afford a war on two fronts - against the
Ukrainians and the FoPoCri!"
No one said a word. Not even Simon.
You'll need better nerves to become number one, Simon, thought
Cyril Albieux as he eyed the balding man appraisingly.
"You're not telling me that any of you are going to accept the
offer of those bastards," Albieux then said into the awkward
silence. "If anyone dares, I'll kill him myself!"
7
François and I would have loved to talk to Simon, who,
according to Commissaire Bardonne, had the best chance of becoming
the new number one in the garbage syndicate. But Simon allowed
himself to be denied. Together with Bardonne, we drove to both his
home address and the offices of his import/export company. He was
nowhere to be found and his employees pretended to have no idea
where their boss was.
So we drove to La Viste to the villa of Jean Rabiot's
widow.
François and I in my red sports car, Bardonne in a gray Ford
belonging to our motor pool.
The villas in La Viste were often secluded, and the
celebrities of the moneyed aristocracy were as concentrated here as
perhaps only in Cannes.
Jean Rabiot's estate resembled a fortress. One felt as if one
were at a border crossing into a totalitarian country. Barbed wire
and electric fences shielded the actual villa for a radius of
almost a kilometer. Supposedly, the villa had once belonged to a
well-known actor for a short time - but that was just a
rumor.
We stopped in front of the lattice gate.
Armed guards with walkie-talkies and man-sharp German shepherd
dogs patrolled around there. Their sunglassed faces looked at us
disparagingly. Machine guns were loaded through.
We got out of the car.
"Anything but a warm welcome, huh?" opined François.
"Rabiot was prepared for an unfriendly visit," I said.
"Apparently not good enough," Bardonne noted.
I turned to the man who had been on undercover assignment in
the Rabiot organization.
"Does Madame Rabiot know you?"
"It's possible," Bardonne agreed. "If you remember me ... I
think we met once at a business dinner."
At the time, Bardonne had disguised himself as a real estate
agent who was supposed to procure properties for Rabiot's
organization. Unfortunately, he had not succeeded in trapping the
big boss himself, but only one of his subordinates. Rabiot himself
had been far too slick. And too cautious. He had Bardonne shadowed
and bugged. And so the undercover man had finally been exposed, and
the FoPoCri had had to withdraw him.
"I suppose they're still pretty mad at you in this house,"
François commented.
"Maybe," Bardonne replied. "But maybe not ..."
François asked, "How am I to understand that?"
"I had the impression at the time that Rabiot deliberately let
the guy we caught walk into the knife to get rid of him. Eric
Gardon was from the middle level of the hierarchy. He had an offer
from the Ukrainians, so it was rumored... And he couldn't be
dangerous for Jean Rabiot, Gardon knew too little for that!"
"You mean Rabiot used you for his own purposes?"
"I think Rabiot knew about our action against Gardon. Now
Gardon is serving time in Les Baumettes ..."
"... and Rabiot got it even worse," François finished.
We went to the gate. One of the gorillas let go of his dog and
also took off his muzzle. The animal jumped against the gate and
bared its teeth. Threateningly, the dog growled at us.
I held up my ID card.
"FoPoCri! We're here to see Madame Rabiot! Open the
gate!"
The guards looked at each other indecisively. One of them
approached us, his machine pistol at the ready.
"Let's see it!" he growled between the immaculately white
flashing teeth, reached his hand through the grating and took the
ID card. He looked at it closely. Then he signaled to one of his
colleagues and handed the ID back to me.
"Seems genuine," he commented.
"What you can count on!"
He grinned wryly.
His colleague reached for the walkie-talkie. A minute later,
the gate was opened for us.
8
We parked our cars in a spacious parking lot in front of the
villa. Several limousines were parked there, including a red sports
car.
One of the scowling bodyguards led us to a gorgeous terrace
overlooking the water of the nearby park. Glass panes intercepted
the wind.
A slender woman in her mid-fifties with dyed red hair sat in a
comfortable armchair. She eyed us through sunglasses. A butler had
just brought her a drink.
"Madame Rabiot?", I asked.
"Yes?"
I held out the ID card to her.
"Commissaire Pierre Marquanteur, FoPoCri," I introduced
myself.
A cool smile slid across Madame Rabiot's full lips. She took
off her sunglasses. She had brown eyes.
No one knew how big a role Madame Rabiot had played in her
husband's business. There were persistent rumors that she had
pulled the strings from behind the scenes in recent years. To the
outside world, however, she only ever appeared as the caring mother
of her children, who spent most of the year in good European
boarding schools.
Madame Rabiot rose. She looked at me disparagingly.
"What do you want?" she asked, "I assume you're here to patch
up some of my husband's stuff even after he's dead."
"You're wrong," I said.
"I know your kind ..." Her voice expressed deep contempt. She
looked past me. Straight at Bardonne.
"How the vultures are you ..."
"Aren't you interested in seeing your husband's murderers
punished?", I asked.
She laughed out.
"Oh, don't tell me you're interested!"
"Madame Rabiot, we need to ask you a few questions."
"Please!"
"When was the last time you saw your husband?"
"That was a long time ago."
"How long?"
"Weeks. Jean, unfortunately, lacked the necessary sense of
family in recent years."
"He lived in Meynier."
"...and made a fool of himself with women half his age. That's
what you're getting at, isn't it?"
"Well ..."
She pointed to the butler and the bodyguards surrounding her.
"These people here will give me any alibi at any time,
Monsieur Marquanteur. By the way, may I assure you that I am not a
Sicilian who throws plates with jealousy. The relationship between
Jean and me has been more businesslike lately. But we respected
each other. And that's something, too."
Now Robert Bardonne spoke up.
"Do the names Eric Thionnet and Hervé Jasnore mean anything to
you, Madame Rabiot?"
"Who would that be?"
"Your husband's bodyguards."
"I'm sorry, there are so many people working for my
husband."
"We are not only looking for the two bodyguards, but also for
your husband's limousine. You knew him better than we did. Isn't
there anything you can do to help us?"
A cold smile slid across Madame Rabiot's fine-cut face. She
turned to Bardonne.
"I am convinced that you in particular knew my husband at
least as well as I did."
A whirring engine noise caught my attention. It sounded like a
motorized airplane, only a little shriller. Instinctively, my eyes
searched the light blue sky. But I could not see anything at
first.
François, meanwhile, said, "We'd like to examine your
husband's personal effects."
"Do you have a warrant?"
"We assume that you are willing to cooperate, Madame Rabiot,"
François replied. "If this should not be present, we are naturally
concerned. You would then come into a strange light."
"And you would assume that there was imminent danger and blow
the whistle on a search warrant?"
"We would hand it in later, not whistle for it," François
corrected. "Such are the laws, Madame Rabiot!"
I was barely listening to the conversation.
The engine noise became louder. A dark dot appeared in the
sky, growing larger.
"One of those damned sport fliers," commented Madame Rabiot.
"Lately, you can't even get a break from these mosquitoes
here."
The thing came closer.
Some of the guards had also noticed it by now.
The men looked up suspiciously. They were undecided about what
to do. The thing looked like an old-fashioned biplane. The
propeller rattled.
It lowered the trajectory, coming towards the terrace.
And then I noticed that the machine had no occupant.
A model airplane!, it flashed through me.
One of the bodyguards raised his MP and fired. One wing of the
small biplane was shredded. The model went down. It landed at the
far end of the terrace.
"Careful!", I shouted and yanked Madame Rabiot to the ground.
The others also threw themselves down. There was a tremendous
detonation. The heat was murderous.
The flame flickered red high up. A hail of splinters shredded
the facade of the house. The windows cracked under the pressure of
the explosion. A deafening noise.
The butler cried out.
He had obviously been hit by something. His legs were
red.
François was with him, grabbed the injured man under the arms.
He pulled him along with him.
I rushed over and helped him. A few moments later, we were all
out of the danger zone. The flames were soaring high and had caught
some trees and bushes. Since many of the window panes were broken,
curtains had caught fire. The flames spread to the house.
François turned to one of the bodyguards.
"Call an ambulance and the fire department if you want to
prevent more than a pile of ashes from remaining here!"
The bodyguard looked at François in consternation. Taking
orders from a commissaire was a new experience for him.
"Go on!" shouted François.
Meanwhile, I let my eyes wander. The martial bodyguards, who
had had the task of securing this property, were buzzing around
like a bunch of startled chickens. All order had been lost. No one
seemed to have expected such a brazen attack.
A bomb transported by a model airplane!
There were some top-class professional killers who had
developed a certain fondness for this method. It seemed as if
someone wanted to make it cost quite a lot to get rid of the widow
of the great Jean Rabiot.
I exchanged a glance with François.
"To the park!", I said.
François nodded.
He had had the same thought as I had.
9
It was impossible to get close enough to the Rabiots' estate
to not only remotely control such an aircraft, but also to observe
where the bomb hit.
The terrain was very easy to overlook. Any stranger there
would undoubtedly have attracted the attention of the guards.
Only the park side remained.
I sprinted off. François followed me.
I ran forward with all my might, sometimes sinking up to my
ankles in the soft sand. I was glad when the ground became harder.
The wind rustled. The water glistened in the sun. I saw a dark spot
in the distance that might have been an inflatable boat, the
artificial lake was big enough.
From the beach, a wide jetty led out into the sea. Some
smaller boats were moored to it. Shortly decided, we ran to the
jetty.
The wood was slippery. Again and again it happened that the
water splashed up here.
I jumped into the first boat that came along. I chose it
because, unlike the others, it had a free outboard. You didn't need
a key, just some power to get it going. Indeed, there was no time
to ask Madame Rabiot for an ignition key for any of the other
boats, nor to hot-wire any of the engines.
I tore at the cord of the outboard motor while François
loosened the lines and jumped into the boat with me. It swayed in
the process.
Inwardly, I prayed that there was also gasoline in the
tank.
The engine started on the second try. And then we roared over
the waves. The bow lifted out of the water.
It was not a racing boat that we had chosen.
More like a vessel for anglers. The boat bounced over the
waves, toward the dark something that I had mistaken for an
inflatable.
It was actually one. It was moving away from us.
From the boat, the model airplane must have been launched and
remotely controlled. Nobody had expected it. And by a hair's
breadth, the plan would have worked.
"Hopefully there's enough fuel for a car chase!" commented
François.
I could only agree with him on that.
However, neither we nor the dinghy could get too far out on
the open lake.
"Our model pilot will want to land somewhere nearby," I
surmised. I could well imagine how the unknown killer had
proceeded. Somewhere not too far away he had parked his car and
launched the boat. In a wide arc he had then approached the Rabiot
estate.
"There must be a traitor among Madame Rabiot's people," I
suddenly said. Or rather, I literally shouted it to François,
because the outboard motor was making a hell of a racket.
François looked at me questioningly.
"What makes you think that?"
"He was quite far out! He couldn't possibly observe whether
Madame Rabiot was actually on the terrace!"
"Assuming he really had it in for her," François mused.
"Anyway, we're going to scrutinize everyone who's been walking
around here today!"
We were catching up.
I refrained from giving full throttle. Both the dinghy and our
vehicle were water displacement devices, not gliders. That meant,
among other things, that you couldn't get above a certain speed, no
matter how much engine power you used. Instead, it was perhaps more
important to save fuel.
Our counterpart on the dinghy seemed to know nothing about it.
He turned on full blast.
The dinghy plowed through the waves. The spray splashed up
high.
The hunt dragged on.
The dinghy continued to move toward the opposite shore.
The gap became smaller.
The driver pointed an Uzi-type automatic rifle at us with one
hand and fired wildly. We ducked down. The bullets whistled over
us. Accurate aiming was very difficult in a swaying boat. And an
Uzi was anything but a weapon for snipers anyway.
The distance between the two boats decreased visibly.
Meanwhile, the killer had emptied his magazine.
And he couldn't push a new one into the gun at the moment.
After all, he had to constantly hold the outboard's handle with one
hand to keep from losing course. Besides, his boat was swaying
quite a bit.
François pulled his Walther P 99 from his belt holster. He
moved cautiously in the direction of the bow.
And then he took aim.
We were close enough, but with the fluctuations it was hard to
hit.
François fired.
He had it in for the boat. Twice in quick succession, he let
the P 99 crash away. The sound of the gunshot was almost masked by
the sound of the engine.
François' second bullet hit.
The left main air chamber of the inflatable boat burst.
There was a bang louder than a gunshot. The air escaped within
seconds. The boat capsized at full speed. The killer went
overboard. He was swimming in the lake. We pulled up to him. It
took only moments to reach him.
François pointed the gun at the swimmer.
"FoPoCri!" he shouted. "You're under arrest ..."
The man in the water had short-cropped gray hair and was very
gaunt. His eyes were blue. He looked at us with a hateful
look.
But he had no choice but to join us in the boat, because it
was impossible to escape swimming here.
10
We returned to the house of Madame Rabiot. The fire had been
extinguished in the meantime.
We loaded the prisoner into the gray Ford in which Commissaire
Bardonne had driven here. The gray-haired, gaunt man was
handcuffed, and one of us was always with him to keep an eye on
him.
We had searched him. But he was not carrying any clues to his
identity. The serial number of his Uzi had been filed off, the
label of his leather jacket had been cut out. All this indicated
that we were dealing with a real professional. We had not been able
to salvage the inflatable boat with the shredded main air chamber.
After all, François and I didn't want to take the risk of capsizing
ourselves, nor did we want to give the arrested man a chance to
resist after all.
We had only fished the remote control for the model airplane
out of the water. The killer had tied it to the dinghy for safety's
sake.
By cell phone, we asked for assistance from the responsible
police department, whose officers now searched the area for a
vehicle that must have been parked somewhere near the shore.
Perhaps there we would have closer clues to the identity of
the killer.
The gray-haired man did not say a single word. He only twisted
his thin-lipped face into a cynical grimace.
"It remains to be seen how long he can keep his silence,"
François opined. "He really has nothing left to lose."
"Unfortunately, that doesn't mean he's going to tell us who
he's working for," I pointed out.
A little later, I spoke to Madame Rabiot again. She was
standing on the terrace, looking at the aftermath of the
explosion.
"Please don't touch anything, Madame Rabiot! Some of our
colleagues are on their way here, including forensic specialists.
Every detail can be important."
Madame Rabiot laughed hoarsely.
"Do you have any idea," she murmured.
One of her bodyguards was standing nearby.
"I would like to speak with you privately," I said.
She glanced toward her bodyguard and then said, "Fati doesn't
have ears."
"Look, I'd like to save myself the trouble of bringing you
into our presidency."
She shrugged.
"Okay, Fati," she then said. The bodyguard moved away,
nervously fiddling with the temple of his pitch-black
sunglasses.
I stepped a little closer. Madame Rabiot avoided my gaze. She
tried to maintain an outward demeanor. But it was impossible not to
notice that she was under the shock of what had happened.
"Madame Rabiot, I assume you are quite aware of who could have
commissioned this assassination."
"Can't you care?"
"No. It's our case."
"So what?"
"Her husband, according to our findings, headed a
syndicate-like organization that made its money from illegal toxic
waste disposal ..."
"Have you or your colleagues in the judiciary ever been able
to produce any evidence that could be used in court?" she
interrupted me. "As far as I remember, there has never been a
conviction. So what's the point of these allegations?"
"Knowing something and being able to prove something so
airtight that you can convince prosecutors are two different
things, Madame Rabiot."
"You don't say."
"In any case, in the industry in which your husband - and
presumably you - worked, there has been considerable competition
lately."
"I wouldn't know what you're talking about."
"From the Ukrainians!"
She swallowed. Her hands had involuntarily clenched into
fists.
I continued, "But there are also people in your own
organization who may be out to get you - and who may have your
husband on their conscience."
"Be quiet," she said.
"One of your employees here worked for the man on the
dinghy."
"This is nonsense, Monsieur Marquanteur!"
"It's the only logical explanation." I pointed in the
direction of the water. "The killer had to make sure you were
really here. Because you can't see that from out there."
"Your theory?"
"One of your people tipped him off."
"And how?"
"With a mini transmitter, for example. Now there's really the
simplest thing you can imagine. The attack was precisely timed,
there's no doubt in my mind about that."
She looked at me a little surprised. Then she shook her head.
"I don't think so."
"It could be anyone who overheard that you were on the
terrace. I would rule out the butler as the only one with a fairly
high degree of certainty. After all, he himself was seriously
injured. If he'd had anything to do with it, he probably would have
run for safety."
She looked thoughtful. Then she lifted her chin.
"Those are your conclusions, Monsieur Marquanteur. Not
mine."
"You don't want to help us?"
"I have no reason to."
"Is your interest in staying alive not a reason? We can no
longer arrest your husband. And you can no longer harm him, no
matter what you tell us."
"Good afternoon, Monsieur Marquanteur."
11
Our reinforcements arrived. We scrutinized everyone who had
been on the property at the time of the attack, searched them, and
took statements and personal data. The mini-transmitter was
discovered by one of our forensic experts in a trash can. It also
turned out that one of the bodyguards was missing.
One of his colleagues admitted this after we put a bit of
pressure on him and made it clear that he himself could get
involved.
The name of the missing person was Martin Jasson.
Presumably he had slipped away unnoticed while François and I
had chased the man in the dinghy.
Martin Jasson was almost certainly our man. If we found him,
it might lead us to the person who ordered this attack.
François and I returned to headquarters very late. The man
from the rubber dinghy had been transported there hours earlier and
questioned by our interrogators. He had not said a word to them
either. He remained a stone-cold professional. Even now, in this
hopeless situation.
"It could also be that he knows exactly how long his client's
arm is," François surmised. "He wouldn't be the first inmate to die
mysteriously in custody before he could open his mouth in
court."
12
Juliette Lucás felt the cold grip of her pistol as she reached
into the wide pockets of her thin coat. Next to her stood Cyril
Albieux, who brushed back his dark curls with an agitated
movement.
It was late. Almost midnight.
They were in a gloomy backyard, somewhere among condemned
ruins waiting for someone to finally make the effort to tear them
down.
Footsteps made Juliette sit up and take notice.
Cyril's posture also became somewhat tense. Cyril Albieux
carried an MP on a strap over his shoulder. He gripped the weapon
with both hands.
To Juliette's left was a small briefcase on the floor.
Juliette smiled.
The moon was high in the sky. This part of the city was so
poorly lit that it was easy to see. In other parts of Marseilles,
it was more difficult. Two figures peeled out of the
darkness.
The light of the full moon shone on them.
Juliette knew all too well who they were. Their names were
Thionnet and Jasnore and they had previously worked as bodyguards
for the great Jean Rabiot. Until that memorable Sunday, when they
delivered him to the knife.
Yes, that's how it can happen, it went through Juliette's
head. That's why you can't trust anyone.
That was her personal credo.
"There you are," said one of them. It was Thionnet. The two
approached, greeting with a curt nod.
Thionnet turned to Albieux. He looked at the MP in
amazement.
"Armed that well?"
"This is not a fine neighborhood here," Cyril replied
coolly.
Thionnet shrugged his shoulders.
"I assume you have some people posted in the area." Cyril
Albieux lowered his gun. "I thought we were on the same side,
Cyril!"
"You can never be too careful."