David Dun - Overfall

“They are afraid of Jason being arrested for the rocket launcher so they’re saying nothing. They acted like a couple of rich tourists that lost another yacht. No big deal.”

“Did you get the picture of the man?”

“No. He’s smart and tough.”

“For that you deserve a gravestone.”

“We did the best we could. Oh, and we heard her call him ‘Sam.’ ”

“So exactly what did happen?”

Roberto told them the whole story and Chellis vented his anger by hanging up abruptly.

“Can you tell me in a few words why this Jason is worth the dough?” Gaudet asked.

“All you need to know is that he’s valuable.”

“Why is he crazy?”

“I don’t know. Paranoid schizophrenia. Rare form.”

“What about this man that is with Anna?”

“He just picked her up in his boat. Had to be a coincidence. How bad can that be?”

“Usually it is a coincidence that kills people like you and me. You don’t know the name of the boat?”

“They never got it. Roberto couldn’t see the stern when it picked her up.”

“You need Jason all to yourself, the CD returned, and you need Anna Wade to forget about it.”

“And her new friend or whatever he is. Someone took a rocket launcher to his boat. How would you respond? Plus we have one more problem.”

“Another problem?”

“Jason has a daughter. Grady. She’s a well-paid stripper. We have a handle on her, and we know she hates her father. Likewise her Aunt Anna. But if she turned and joined forces with Anna, a French court might give custody of Jason’s person and estate to Anna or the daughter. It’s not likely, but I can’t risk it.”

Chellis went on to give Gaudet everything they had on the girl.

“All right, the five percent interest will do. As for the fee, one million if it requires wet work. And if this man with the boat has to be killed, that’s another million. Another half million if I have to kill Grady Wade.”

“That’s outrageous,” Chellis said.

“Those are my terms.”

“How hard can it be to kill some sailor?”

“You want to kill him, you go ahead. I do it as part of this package and it’s a million dollars U.S. Period. Any other incidental kills are covered by the five percent; plus you get one unrelated noncelebrity kill.”

“Fine. Fine. Maybe Anna will buy off the yachtie to protect her brother. Or charm him. Or something.”

“I have a feeling about this. It isn’t a good feeling. But I will take care of it. Tell Roberto and all your men that they will be contacted by Trotsky for instructions.”

“We’ll tell them.”

“I will need men this time. Many of them. How many do you have over there?”

“Five or six. More on the way.”

“Trotsky will coordinate your men. Now they are my men.”

“Okay.”

Gaudet rose and didn’t shake hands or say goodbye, but simply turned and walked out.

On the street he called his right-hand man, Trotsky, on his cell phone.

“You have to get me guns in the States and in Canada. Mac Tens. At least six. Some sniper stuff. Three of those. I’ll need three good Frenchmen with passports and no history.”

“Expensive.”

“When was that a problem? Then I need information and fast. Everything you can get on Anna Wade-the actress. You got a notepad? I’m gonna tell you about a guy who calls himself Sam.”

The minute Gaudet left, Benoit began kissing Chellis.

“There is just enough time before brunch,” she said.

He hesitated, remembering that he and Marie always took a “nap” after brunch.

“Don’t worry. She is on her period.”

He broke away. “How do you know that?”

“Sisters know these things. I’m surprised you have to ask.”

Benoit’s hands on his body felt good.

“She must never know. About us.”

“Oh, of course not. No one will ever know.”

The phone rang. For a moment she slid down the couch and glanced at the screen. He was impatient to resume.

“Data processing.”

“Answer it.”

She listened for a moment.

“You better tell him yourself.”

Chellis clicked on the speaker.

“There’s a problem with the BC backup.”

“What about the backup?”

“Jason’s automated backup program has been re-programmed. It shows it’s backing up when it’s not. We have what looks like a bunch of old formulas. Jason left an encoded message. It says, ‘DuShane is hiding on the back roads, in the rivers of my memory, never gentle, but always on my mind.’ ”

“How could this happen? You’re supposed to be checking!”

“We do check-”

“You don’t,” he shouted. “If you did you would have known the minute it happened.”

“Nobody can follow Jason’s stuff. We wouldn’t know if it was the real-”

“Don’t give me that line… you just told me it was phony… old, you said… so you knew. Don’t make up stupid excuses for your moronic breach of your duty.”

“There is one more thing. A worse thing. He took a backup file of Jacques Boudreaux. A Kuching file.”

“When?”

“Recently.”

“What was on it?”

“We’re not sure.”

“You are an idiot. I want a full report.”

Chellis slammed down the phone and began to fasten his pants until Benoit stopped him.

“Relax,” she said, pushing him back down.

“If Jason gave a CD to Anna it may have had Kuching files on it.”

“There is nothing for us to do now but attend to each other.”

After brunch with Marie, after he had given her flowers and yet another diamond pin, they were back in the apartment and Marie held his head in her lap and stroked his temples the way he liked.

“Those bankers have worn you out.” She smiled a knowing smile and for just a second it pissed him off.

Gaudet proceeded immediately to Benoit’s apartment and removed the beard while he waited, transforming himself into the clean-shaven man who was Dahrr Moujed, his given name at birth.

Gaudet in his natural state was not a bad-looking man, but primarily it was the confidence in the eyes that made the passable appearance. He was just shy of six feet, had small even teeth, relatively thin lips, a very flat pursed expression in natural repose, a small aquiline nose, and the darkest of brown eyes. His hair was very short and very black and pointed up in all sorts of odd directions as if he wanted to be a punk rocker. In reality, the plastics and wigs made long hair or orderly hair a near impossibility.

Benoit’s apartment had panache. Simple straightforward designs, with yellows, creamy browns, and a few soft accents. She liked glass and brass, nothing frilly, very clean lines, nearly antiseptic in places, but there was an original Picasso on the wall, one of the lopsided-faced ladies, that DuShane had given her, and works by several other lesser but noteworthy painters, all contemporary, but no abstract work. Benoit said she liked to have a rough idea, at least, of what the artist might have been thinking.

As to the lady portrayed, she might have shared a similar soul to Benoit’s. Even Benoit admitted that, what with all the fracturing and displacement in the lines.

If she wanted to know only what an artist was feeling, Benoit was fond of saying, she’d read a poem.

When at last Benoit came home, she wore her disapproval rather plainly.

“I’m sorry,” Gaudet said without emotion. “I can’t resist baiting your boss. He’s so easy, so American.”

“He is a French citizen.”

“In his head he’s an American capitalist, born a farmer and come to the wicked city.”

“You were being crazy, talking like that, accusing DuShane Chellis and me of having an affair.”