The Blue Ring (9 page)

"We
have a very good floor-show here at midnight," she said. "But at one
o'clock we have a more...how shall I say it? A more erotic show. In fact, a
very erotic show upstairs. Usually that's reserved for only those customers who
have hired a hostess, but since this is your first visit you'll be my personal
guests."

Jens
started to say something, but Michael cut in. "That's very kind of you.
We'd be honoured."

She
smiled and gave him a look that sent him a definite promise. She said,
"I'll come to collect you just before one o'clock."

She turned
and walked back to the recessed door. Both men watched her swaying bottom and
then Jens murmured, "Do you want to see a sex show? I did three years in
the Vice Squad in Copenhagen and I can tell you they're not very erotic."

Equally
quietly, Michael replied, "It's necessary. I need to see as much of this
building as possible, so I can draw up a plan for the 'snatch'."

The
Dane nodded, and then said, "I'm not surprised you want to take her rather
than one of the kids."

In some
respects Serge Corelli did not have the same natural instincts as Jens Jensen.
He did not realise he was being followed. He left the office late, just after
seven o'clock, driving out of the basement garage in his red Renault 19. He
never brought his Mercedes 600 to the office.

He did
not notice the rented Citroen across the road which moved out into the traffic
behind him. He drove to the O'Berry Bar on Rue de l'Eveche and parked
outside a No Parking zone. He did not bother locking it; every petty thief in
Marseille knew whose it was. A minute later he was drinking the first of his
regular vodka tonics and chatting to the heavy-breasted barmaid with whom
he'd had a brief fling some years before. He drank until nine o'clock,
then belatedly rang his wife and told her he had to stay out to dinner on
business. He drove four blocks to the Rue de Lorette and parked in the alley
beside the Chez Etienne restaurant, again leaving the car unlocked. He ate a
leisurely dinner of vegetable soup, fillet steak with truffles and potnme
souffle, followed by crepes suzettes flambees, all washed down with a bottle of
Chateau Margaux. He then had coffee and a vintage Cognac. It was an expensive
restaurant but when he rose from the table just before midnight he received no
bill. The owner merely shook him deferentially by the hand.

It was
dark in the alley and, even though he could hold his liquor well, Inspector
Serge Corelli was a little unsteady. He opened the door to the Renault and
slumped into his seat. He pulled the door shut and reached for the ignition
key. Then he felt something cold on the back of his neck and heard a quiet
voice speaking in fluent, accentless French.

"This
is a Colt 1911 with a soft-nosed forty-five shell. You do exactly what you're
told or that shell goes through your brain."

Corelli
stiffened, feeling the adrenaline surging through his blood, trying not to
panic. "Who are you?" he blurted out. "Do you know who I am, you
fool?"

From
behind him the cold voice said, "You're Inspector Serge Corelli and you'll
keep silent or you'll lose most of your head. Now start the car and drive
towards the old fish market district. Drive carefully at a normal speed. I
seriously don't care if you live or die, so if you try and pull a stunt, it'll
be the last thing you ever try to do."

Corelli
drove carefully, his mind racing, trying to think who the man behind him could
be. He had a pistol in the glove compartment but that was locked and the key
was on the same ring as the ignition key. His only chance would be when they
arrived at the destination.

When he
turned off the ignition to pull out the key the man would have to get out of
the car, and he might get a second or two to open the glove compartment.

They
approached the old fish market area, and the man gave brief directions. Finally
they arrived in a dimly-lit street behind a row of garment factories. It was
lined with dilapidated garages, some of which had For Rent signs on them. It
was about half past midnight and the street was deserted. The voice told him to
pull over and stop. Then it told him to put the car into neutral and apply the
handbrake.

As the
handbrake ratcheted tight he felt the pressure on the nape of his neck
withdraw. He tensed himself to make his move, but a split second later his brain
flashed white and then black, as the butt of the pistol smashed into it.

The
policeman came around, lying in a heap in the corner, his arms pulled behind
him, his hands locked into handcuffs. Painfully, he pushed himself into a
sitting position against the wall and focused his eyes. The garage was lit by a
single, shadeless lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. He saw an old wooden
table with a chair on each side and a big man dressed in black looking at him.
The man reached forward and picked up the heavy black pistol. It was fitted
with a silencer. Without seeming to aim, the man pulled the trigger. The bullet
entered the wall six inches above Corelli's head, showering him with plaster.
With a moan he scrambled away on his knees. Another bullet smashed into the
wall just in front of him. Corelli froze in terror. The man's voice was quiet.
He pointed to a chair.

"Stand
up, and sit there."

Corelli
did not move for several seconds. He crouched, looking at the oil-stained,
concrete floor.

"Do
it now and do not ask questions. Do not open your mouth until I tell you."

Corelli
pushed himself to his feet. The pain in his head was intense.

Carefully
he moved across the room and sat on the edge of the chair. His eyes focused
again on the man across the table. He noticed the cropped grey hair and the
scars on the face and the cold, slate-grey eyes. He looked down at the table.
There were several objects on it which he did not recognise: two round,
recessed metal discs with bevelled edges, a lump of what looked like
Plasticine, a small metal tube with two wires attached, and a small metal box
with two buttons on it.

"Do
you know what those are?" the man asked.

"No,"
Corelli murmured.

"They're
the components for a small, but very powerful bomb."

The man
leaned forward and pointed at the larger metal disc. It had a diameter of about
six inches. "That's the back casing." The man pointed to a smaller
disc, which had a diameter of about four inches. "That's
the front casing." He pointed to the small grey lump. "That's plastic
explosive." The finger moved again to the small black metal box.
"That's the remote control."

The voice took on a conversational tone.
"Now that bomb is not big enough to blow up a house, but when it's
assembled and strapped at the base of your spine, and when it explodes, it will
definitely blow you in half."

Corelli's
eyes were fixed on the objects, mesmerised.

The man
went on, "You and I are going to spend some hours together. You are going
to answer some questions and, based on your answers, we'll be making a little
trip. You'll have the bomb at the base of your spine. I will have the detonator
in my pocket and a finger on the button. Just pray that I don't bump into
something, or that something or someone doesn't bump into me."

The
Frenchman lifted his head and looked again into the man's cold eyes. His
question came out as a croak: "Who are you?"

"For
you I'm life or death. It will be your choice."

"What
do you want?"

The man
leaned forward and started to assemble the bomb. The policeman watched in
dreadful fascination and heard the words: "You had a visit from a Danish
policeman called Jens Jensen, probably this morning. He would have asked you
questions about certain criminals in the city and maybe asked to see your
files."

He
looked up from his work and again Corelli asked, "Who are you?"

The man
put the components on the table, stood up, walked around, grabbed the Frenchman
by the hair, pulled him upright and in a blur of speed hit him three times to
the body with a stiff-fingered hand, each blow to a different nerve, each nerve
sending an agonised signal to Corelli's already agonised brain. He was dumped
back in the chair and Creasy moved back around the table, sat down and
continued working on the bomb.

He said
quietly, "If you don't answer my questions, I'm going to do that
again...and again...and again. Only harder. If you don't answer then I'll shoot
your fingers off one by one. Then your toes."

Corelli
was slumped over the table, his whole body wracked with pain. Slowly he lifted
his head and looked into the man's eyes and knew for certain that he meant it.
In an almost inaudible voice he said, "Yes, this morning with another
man...a young man. He said he was his assistant but I didn't believe it. Too
young and he wasn't Danish."

Creasy
had finished packing the plastic explosive into the recess of the larger disc.
He unscrewed the small metal tube and checked the cadmium cell battery, then
connected the two wires and carefully pushed the detonator into the plastic
explosive.

"Did
you show them any files?" he asked without looking up.

"Yes."

"What
files in particular?"

"Vice
and drugs."

"What
gang in particular?"

Corelli
was feeling waves of nausea sweeping over him. He swallowed deeply several
times and then shook his head. "I don't know, I wasn't there. I don't
know. I gave them an office."

Creasy
was screwing the front casing onto the bomb. He looked up and said, "Who
is the leading gangster in vice and drugs?" There was a silence and then
Corelli answered, "A half-Arab called Jahmed...Raoul Jahmed."

Carefully
Creasy put the bomb on the table, stood up and walked around, grabbed the
Frenchman by the hair again and hammered blows into his body. Two minutes
passed before Corelli could sit upright again. His face was a picture of pain
and he began to beg.

"Why?...Why
did you hit me?...I'm answering your questions."

"You
lied," Creasy answered curtly. "You're trying to protect your friend
Yves Boutin. He's the biggest in the city by far. He pays you big money. If you
lie again you'll regret it. Keep it in your head that I know most of the
answers to the questions, and I know when you lie. When was the last time
you spoke to Yves Boutin?"

Corelli
was looking down at the table again, not knowing who his tormentor was or how
much he knew. But he did know the pain and that he had reached his limit.

"This
afternoon," he said, "about three o'clock, on the telephone."

"What
did you tell him?"

Another
silence and then Corelli raised his head and said, "I told him that a
Danish policeman from the Missing Persons Bureau was asking questions about
him. Asking where his children went to school."

"Where
do they go to school?"

"Privately.
In a Swiss boarding school."

"Are
they there now?"

"Yes."

"Is
Boutin close to his wife?"

Corelli
began to offer information. "No, he's closer to his mistress. Denise
Defors. He keeps her in an apartment in the city. She fronts up his top club,
The Pink Panther."

Silence
while Creasy thought. While he put himself into Michael's mind. It was not
difficult. He had partly created that mind. Michael's strategy would have been
to snatch someone close to Boutin. If the children were away in boarding
school then the obvious person would be his mistress. Michael would have gone
to the club on a recce. He glanced at his watch. It was just after one a.m. He
asked, "Presumably you gave Boutin a description of Jensen and the young
man?"

"Yes,
a detailed one."

Again
Creasy was silent while he thought. Then he pointed and said, "Kneel down
there."

The
fear showed vividly in Corelli's face. "Why?"

Creasy
stood up, leaned across the table and said, "Do it now or I'll hit you
again."

Slowly
Corelli got up, moved to the spot in the centre of the garage and went down on
his knees. Creasy picked up the bomb and the roll of masking tape. He straddled
the Frenchman from behind, pulled up the back of his jacket and with his elbow
forced the Frenchman's head forward until it almost touched the floor. He tore
off a four-foot strip of masking tape and laid it, sticky side up, beside the
Frenchman. Then he placed the saucer-shaped bomb into the centre of the masking
tape, the front casing facing up. Very carefully he positioned the bomb at the
base of Corelli's spine and then reached round with the masking tape to secure
it. Corelli was moaning deep in his throat. Creasy ignored it. He picked up the
roll of masking tape and wound it round the policeman's body many times,
securing the bomb tightly. Then he grabbed Corelli by the back of his collar,
pulled him upright and adjusted his jacket. He walked around the Frenchman and
said, "No one would notice you're a walking bomb. Sit down again very
carefully on the edge of the chair."

Corelli
did as he was told, moving as though he was walking on thin ice and sitting
down very, very slowly. Creasy walked to a leather bag in the corner, unzipped
it and pulled out a mobile telephone. He placed it on the table in front of
Corelli, then he carried the other chair around next to Corelli. He sat down,
reached across the table and pulled the detonator across in front of him. He
put his index finger very close to the red button and said, "That's what I
push if I decide that you're showing the slightest lack of cooperation."

Corelli's
eyes flickered to the button with the finger hovering over it. He noticed the
burn marks on the back of the thick hand and guessed how they had been caused.
At one time his tormentor had been the tortured himself.

"I'll
co-operate," he said harshly. "Just be fucking careful with that
thing."