‘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 café 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 Café 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 café. 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 café doorway, his head haloed by a cloud of blue cigar smoke. He studied the area around the café, 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.

‘Silence her? For what? She knows nothing.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ He gave a twist of the knife, prompted by Nicole’s words now flooding back to him. ‘I have always been able to remember everything I hear.’

‘You think I would take a woman into my confidence? Hah!’

‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?’ Rocco waited, wondering where this was going but content to play it through. The more unsettled Farek became, the easier this would be. For now Farek would be assessing his chances, happy to play the brigand at bay until he saw a way out.

If he didn’t, it could get very messy.

‘So. What are you offering me? A deal? Free passage back home?’ Farek stabbed the end of his cigar in Rocco’s direction, suddenly angry. Rocco’s taunting seemed to be working. ‘I have a right to be here! It is written in law!’

Behind the gangster, Youcef and Bouhassa shuffled their feet. Rocco tensed. They were like guard dogs, picking up signals from their leader and getting ready to attack. One wrong move and this was all going to hell.

And Farek was playing controller.

‘You can have passage back to Algeria,’ Rocco said calmly. But an Algerian jail, he thought. On charges of murder, with your wife as a witness. He didn’t voice the thought, much as he wanted to; he decided it might be a bit too provocative.

Farek nodded, lips pursed as he considered the situation. ‘Very well.’ He turned his head and spoke briefly. Moments later, a man in an apron and two men in dark suits stepped outside, hands held high. A rattle of weaponry came from behind Rocco, and he held up a warning hand to stop anyone opening fire.

‘Step five paces forward and down on the ground,’ he ordered, and saw a flicker of movement as armed officers moved forward alongside him to cover the three men.

Seconds later they were being hustled away. There were no signs of weapons.

Then a brief argument broke out at the café door, and Youcef was standing outside, looking flustered. Bouhassa had virtually lifted him out with apparent ease on the orders of Farek, then moved to stand alongside his boss.

‘My brother,’ explained Farek. ‘He is nothing in all this.’ He waved Youcef away with a brief word, and the huge figure turned and did as he was told.

‘What the hell’s he playing at?’ It was Godard, moving in to stand close to Rocco. He motioned three of his men forward to take Youcef away. One of them patted down the big man, then shook his head. ‘They were all unarmed. They must have left their weapons inside.’