Barbouze
BARBOUZE
Charles Pol Espionage Thrillers
Book One
Alan Williams
To my parents
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE: ROOM 274
PART 1: ON THE HOLY MOUNTAIN
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
PART 2: THE FAT MAN
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
PART 3: REVOLT
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
PART 4: THE KILLERS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
PART 5: THE PEACEMAKER
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
PART 6: THE FUGITIVE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
ALSO BY ALAN WILLIAMS
PROLOGUE: ROOM 274
The girl sat on the bed behind closed shutters, waiting. The only light came through a chink in the folding doors leading to the salon. Here two men sat round a polished table playing backgammon.
The apartment was high in a tall street that trapped the salt smells of the port. It was a black night, and a hot wind boomed against the shutters with a sound like the sea. When it dropped the girl could hear the rustle of dice from the salon and the thud of dance-music from a radio behind the apartment wall. The fan above her bed had shorted. She sat dressed only in a pair of pants, and her skin felt dry, and the wind and the dance-music made her head ache.
From somewhere across the city came the braying of an ambulance siren, dying into a distant suburb. She lifted her hands and scooped her black hair up from the nape of her neck; then, without lowering her hands, she stood up and stared at the spear of light between the doors into the salon. She had a bold dark face, and her body was strong and beautifully made.
The two men in the next room sat over their game in silence. Presently one of them nodded towards the bedroom: ‘Shouldn’t she be getting ready?’
The other glanced at his watch: ‘She’s got another ten minutes. Better give her a drink.’ He was a bony man with a greying crewcut and a cruel sunken face. He spoke almost in a whisper, trembling slightly, staring at the red and white backgammon counters. His companion pushed back his chair and fetched a can of beer from the side-table.
‘No, give her some brandy, Serge,’ said the bony man, nodding towards the bedroom.
The man called Serge went over to the cocktail cabinet and took out an unopened bottle of cognac fine champagne. He was big and black-haired with a bandit moustache, dressed in a chocolate-brown suit with a white handkerchief sprouting from the breast-pocket. He walked over and rapped on the folding doors: ‘Do you want a drink, Anne-Marie?’
The girl put a hand through, took the bottle and closed the doors again. Serge came back to the table where the bony man sat frowning at his hands. From the bedroom a shower hissed like rain in the tropics, making the apartment seem even hotter — cramped and stifling.
‘It’s your throw,’ said the bony man.
Serge took the dice. ‘Somebody else should do it,’ he said, shaking the wooden cup, ‘she’s too young.’
‘I have decided that Anne-Marie does it. There will be no more discussion on the matter. It is finished!’
‘Finished for us,’ murmured Serge, ‘but not for her.’
The bony man lifted his head and his lips parted as though to yell at Serge; but he controlled himself, drew in his breath and was silent. His fingers lay clasped on the table, the nails working into the palms. Serge threw the dice: a three and a two. He was losing the fourth game that evening.
At the end of the bedroom, behind the shower curtains, Anne-Marie stood smoothing her hands along her wet thighs, seizing the bellies of her breasts and pressing them upwards, throwing her head back and letting the tepid water flow across her eyelids, down her long body.
She walked back into the bedroom, dripping on the linoleum, opened the bottle of fine champagne and poured herself half a tumbler which she drank slowly, letting her skin dry in the close night air. The shutters groaned; her head throbbed with a dull pain. She put the glass down and began to dress.
In the salon the bony man won the fourth game and began rearranging the counters. Anne-Marie came out of the bedroom, her hair scraped back under a blue scarf, wearing a sea-green dress patterned with fishes. A heavy handbag was slung over her shoulder like a satchel.
Serge began to stand up.
The bony man said to her, ‘You have everything? It’s now a quarter past eleven. You must be out of there by midnight at the latest. The car will be waiting outside.’
Serge grinned at her and said, ‘Merde!’
She walked past them to the door.
‘Remember,’ said the bony man, ‘check with the receptionist first, then both bars.’
She nodded and went out, followed by Serge. When they had gone the bony man got up and bolted the outer door.
Down in the street the black Citroën DS crouched on its hydraulic springs like a long toad. Anne-Marie climbed in next to Serge who drove fast and quietly, down towards the sea. There were few sounds in the city. Most of the cafés and restaurants were closed behind wire cages. Occasional cars sped across the intersections, with lights doused, whining into the darkness. It was very hot inside the Citroën, even with the windows down and the dust blowing in their faces. They hardly spoke.
The car turned into a boulevard that ran down to the Front de Mer. Arcaded shops swept past like empty eye-sockets. Most of the street lighting here had been smashed and there were troops at every corner. They passed a cinema still livid with neon, under a pastel-coloured Frank Sinatra with arms outstretched, singing soundlessly into the night.
The car stopped along the Front de Mer twenty yards from the hotel. Anne-Marie got out. There were troops in steel helmets lounging up the street watching. A crushed cigarette carton came bouncing down the pavement towards her. The Citroën drove away. She turned and hurried past a splashing fountain, under palm-fronds that scraped together in the wind like scales.
Inside the hotel the silver-haired receptionist paused over a ledger, his eyes pale as glass. She spoke to him, and he murmured something without expression. Behind him an elderly policeman sat under the key-rack with a machine-pistol over his knees.
She walked across the foyer to the downstairs bar. From the ceilings fans moved sluggishly as though churning water. The bar was almost empty. She stood in the doorway looking round, then turned and walked back across the foyer to the lifts.
A Moslem in a blue uniform bowed and pulled back the gates, grinning at her with gold teeth: ‘Quel étage, m’dame?’
‘Salon de jeu.’
The lift began to click up the well of the marble staircase, past the first floor — rooms 1 to 100. The casino, with its restaurant and bar, was on the second floor. The Moslem bowed her out, still grinning, murmuring, ‘Bin’soir m’dame!’ She strode past him, the heavy bag swinging from her shoulder.
Just beyond the lifts she almost collided with two men coming from the salon de jeu. They were both very drunk. One of them giggled and tried to clutch her arm. He looked like a rabbit, small and white-faced w
ith floppy ears. She pushed past him and he called after her, in a wheedling voice, ‘Salut coco!’
She walked briskly down the passage, across a deserted hall the size of a tennis-court lined with blown-up photographs of French film stars. In the corner an old woman with blue hair sat outside the toilets, knitting behind a saucer of coins. As Anne-Marie reached her she heard the two drunks turn and come up behind her, laughing.
She went into the toilet, put her handbag on the floor and stared into the mirror. Her eyes were huge and black, her face hollow in the bleak lighting above the basin. She realized that her heart was beating hard. She looked at her hands: they were quite still. She ran her fingers down her cheeks and dabbed cold water to her temples. She could hear the two drunks jabbering outside the door. She felt angry and nervous; but whatever happened she must avoid causing a scene. Somehow she would have to get rid of them. She picked up her handbag and turned to the door.
They were outside waiting for her. The rabbit-faced one came squirming up to her, calling her ‘Ma p’tite coco!’ She tried to pass, but they stood across the passage leading into the casino. She looked helplessly at the old woman who went on knitting behind her saucer of coins.
The rabbit-faced one plucked at her sleeve; she flinched away and cried, ‘Fous le camp!’ The old woman looked up and stared at them. The little drunk simpered at Anne-Marie, shaking his head and saying, ‘Pas poli, mademoiselle!’
She thrust her way between them, shook off the little man’s hand and hurried down the passage into the salon de jeu. There was another policeman inside the door near the caisse. He stood with a blunt-muzzled machine-pistol strapped to his hip, looking down the long room where about a dozen Europeans crowded round one roulette table. The rest of the room was empty, its chandeliers hanging in darkness high above tables shrouded with dust-sheets.
To the left, behind the balcony that looked across the gaming-tables, lay the restaurant and bar. Here was a frenzied gaiety: men in tuxedos and women in cocktail dresses laughing and yelling at the overworked Moslem waiters, and Army officers in biscuit-coloured uniforms talking noisily over champagne. On the far side of the room great uncurtained windows looked out across the darkened bay.
Anne-Marie examined the people round the roulette table. The man she was looking for was not there. She turned towards the restaurant and the two drunks appeared at her side, laughing and winking at each other. The policeman looked at them all without interest. A fat-necked man with a silver-topped cane was being paid out 100 Nouveaux-Franc notes at the caisse. The little drunk was trying to talk to Anne-Marie, to grab her by the arm and pull her back. She thought quickly, with anger turning to alarm: I mustn’t do anything to attract attention. I must keep calm. I must go to the bar, order a drink, ignore them.
The man she was looking for was not in the restaurant. She went over to the bar. The two drunks stayed behind her, the little one giggling and mewing, ‘Ah, elle est bien, elle est jolie, la coco!’
The barman flashed an enamel smile at her and asked what she wanted. There was a lot of drinking going on at the bar. She hesitated, glancing down the row of faces. Beside her a journalist had his head down, one hand over his ear, bawling into a telephone. The man she was looking for was not here either. She said to the barman, ‘Un Scotch!’
‘Blackanvite, mademoiselle?’
She nodded.
‘Trois blackanvite!’ a voice called behind her. It was the rabbit-faced drunk. He was smiling up at her with a look of malevolent, cock-eyed cunning. The barman turned to pour the drinks. The second drunk pressed beside her against the bar. He was a large man with curly hair and a flushed, damp face; he grinned at her, showing teeth the colour of dirty wax. She could smell his breath, and tried to draw back, but the rabbit-faced man was behind, wedging her in.
She looked at the barman, who stood with his back to them, measuring out the whiskies. She looked at her watch. It was 11.37. She had barely twenty minutes left. There was a pocket of cold air deep in her stomach near the base of her spine. The rabbit-faced man suddenly leant out and grabbed her by the wrist. She reacted without thought, swinging the handbag off her shoulder and striking him in the face. He gave a squeal and lurched back, both hands over his nose.
The barman spun round holding a glass of whisky. An officer at a nearby table stood up. Somebody laughed. The journalist went on yelling into the telephone. Anne-Marie did not move. The second drunk had gone over to the rabbit-faced man who had begun to straighten up, his eyes filling with tears, screeching, ‘Salope! P’tite salope!’
The barman moved swiftly round, laid a hand across the little man’s chest, and said to Annie-Marie, ‘What happened?’
‘They’re drunk. They’re annoying me. Get rid of them.’
‘Salope!’ said the little man again, wiping his nose on his sleeve. The barman ignored him; he said to Anne-Marie, ‘Do you wish to make a complaint, mademoiselle?’
From across the room she saw the policeman making his way between the tables towards them. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to cause any trouble.’
The barman turned to the drunks: ‘Get out of here!’
The little one began to whimper in protest, but the other took him by the arm and hustled him off, just as the policeman came up. The barman said something to him. The man turned, his machine-pistol swinging round with him, and looked at Anne-Marie: ‘We don’t want any trouble here, mademoiselle.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘they were just drunks.’ She put up her hand to arrange some hair that had fallen loose from under her scarf. The policeman nodded and turned away. The two drunks had reached the end of the restaurant. The barman said, ‘Do you still want the Scotch?’
She looked up, and realized she was shaking all over. She put out a hand and gripped the edge of the bar. ‘Yes please,’ she murmured, and the barman pushed the glass over to her. The time was now 11.41. She swallowed the whisky neat and started to take some money from inside her dress; she did not touch the bag.
The barman waved a hand: ‘Ca va, c’est payé!’
She tried to smile, and said, ‘Merci’, then turned and walked hurriedly across the restaurant, past the woman in the blue hair, back to the lifts. The whisky had steadied her nerves; but her heart still beat hard and her face felt hot and throbbing. None of the lifts were at the floor. She started up the marble stairs. Room 274 was down to the left. There was no one in sight. She began to walk at a controlled pace along the dim carpeted corridor.
She reached the corner and turned. Behind her she heard a door close; a typewriter tapped in one of the rooms. She counted the decimal numbers set in the dark-varnished wood: — 68 — 70 — 72 — 74. She stopped, steadied herself, then lifted the handbag. None of the doors had handles, they locked automatically from the inside. She snapped open the bag and took out the pass-key; inserted it, twisted it to the left, pushed the door open and walked in.
It was dark inside. A passage led past the bathroom and toilet to the bedroom door, which stood ajar. She left the outer door open a couple of inches. There was no sound from the bedroom. She moved quickly, throwing the door wide-open. The shutters were closed across French windows and there was the metallic smell of air-conditioning. Through the darkness she could just make out the shape of a man lying under a sheet on the double bed. The wind roared outside and she could not hear him breathing. Her hand dropped the pass-key back into the bag and came out holding a revolver with the barrel wrapped in a bandage. She held it up level with her right breast and fired.
The bandage reduced the explosion to a loud thump, followed by a cracking sound. An arm moved out from under the sheet. She stepped forward and fired again. The first bullet had torn a white splinter out of the bed-top; the second thudded into the pillow.
The man’s head came up and began shouting. His voice was high and cracked, and she tried not to listen to it as she took aim again and fired. The man was half out of bed now, dragging the sheet with him. Sh
e stood gripping the gun with both hands, watching him come round the bed towards her, still pulling the sheet and screaming at her.
She fired again, and a bottle of mineral water shattered on a table by the bed. He lunged at her, tripping in the tangled sheet. With the next shot she aimed lower and heard him choke. She fired twice more; he stumbled and half his face disappeared.
He was kneeling on the floor now, and the room was full of his choking screams and the burnt smell of the gun. She watched as the upper half of his body grew dark; and he sank forward on to the carpet and died.
She stepped back and collided with the wardrobe, groped round it and bumped into the open door. She was shuddering, stumbling past the bathroom into the passage. She looked both ways, then started to run. Behind her a door slammed. She turned the corner and almost ran into a pot-bellied man in a dressing gown who stood gaping up and down the corridor. He called to her as she passed, ‘What’s happened? Is somebody hurt?’
She ran on without answering. Somewhere her mind began to register door-numbers: 307, 305, 303. She reached the stairs and started down three steps at a time. The lift passed her on its way up. From above she heard shouting. She came to the next landing and read quickly the gilt letters on the mirror opposite: ‘Troisième étage.’ The floor with rooms 200 to 300. The floor with Room 274. She did not stop: the handbag swung wildly as she leapt on down the marble stairs. The realization was coming to her that she had been on the fourth floor. She had killed the wrong man. As she ran across the foyer towards the hotel entrance she could see him clearly, kneeling in the dark with half his face gone.
Her body felt like water, and when she reached the doors and saw the Citroën parked without lights across the street she was weeping.
PART 1: ON THE HOLY MOUNTAIN
CHAPTER 1
The Dutchman, Pieter Van Loon, stopped under the monastery wall and sat lighting his meerschaum pipe, waiting for Neil Ingleby to reach him. The Englishman was a good fifty yards below, plodding up the slope under the weight of a small rucksack and portable typewriter.