Mario Reading - The Nostradamus prophecies

Yola was standing on a three-legged stool. A bread sack covered her head and a noose had been slipped around her neck. Sabir was certain that it was Yola by her clothes and by the timbre of her voice. She was talking to someone and this person was answering her – a deeper, more dominant timbre. Not up and down, like a woman, but fl at – all on one note. Like a priest intoning the liturgy.

It didn’t take a genius to realise that the eye-man had staked Yola out as bait to catch him and Alexi. Nor to realise that the minute that they showed themselves, or came within range, they would be dead meat – and Yola with them. The fact that the eye-man would thereby inadvertently lose the best chance he had ever had to discover the location of the prophecies was yet another of life’s tender little ironies.

Sabir made up his mind. He squirrelled himself backwards through the undergrowth towards Alexi. This time he would not blunder in and risk everybody’s lives. This time he would use his head.

When Macron’s cellphone rang, he was interviewing three reluctant gitans, who had only just crossed the Catalonian border that morning, near Perpignan. They had obviously never heard of Sabir, Alexi or Yola and didn’t object to making this clear. One of them, sensing Macron’s ill-concealed hostility, even pretended to fend him off with the fl at of his forearm – just as if he had the ‘evil eye’. Macron might have ignored the insult in the normal run of things. Now he responded angrily, the concentrated memory banks of his mother’s ingrained superstitious beliefs erupting, uncalled for, through the habitually dormant surface of his own sensibilities.

The truth was that he felt disheartened and bone-weary. All his injuries seemed to have compounded themselves into one all-encompassing ache and, to cap it all, Calque seemed to be favouring one of the new detectives to make the real running in the investigation. Macron felt humiliated and isolated – all the more so as he considered himself a local lad, whilst the six pandores Calque had seconded from Marseille – his home town, for Christ’s sake! – still insisted on treating him like a pariah. Like a sailor who has abandoned ship and is busily swimming towards the enemy, hoping to give himself up in exchange for preferential treatment. Like a Parisian.

‘Yes?’

Five hundred metres from the Maset Sabir nodded gratefully to the motorist who had lent him the phone.

Five minutes earlier he had leapt in front of the man’s car, waving dramatically. Even then the man hadn’t halted, but had veered over on to the hard shoulder, missing Sabir by inches. Fifty metres further up the road he had changed his mind and stopped the car, doubtless imagining that there had been an accident somewhere in amongst the marshes. Sabir couldn’t blame him. In his panic, he had forgotten all about his shirt, which was still wrapped around the gelding’s nose – he must have presented a disturbing sight, lurching out of the undergrowth on a minor country road, half naked and in the pitch darkness.

‘This is Sabir.’

‘You’ve got to be joking.’

‘Who is this?’

‘Lieutenant Macron. Captain Calque’s assistant. We haven’t met, unfortunately, but I know all about you. You’ve been running us a merry little dance across most of France. You and your two Magi.’

‘Pass me Calque. I have to talk to him. Urgently.’

‘Captain Calque is conducting interviews. Tell me where you are and we’ll send a stretch limousine out to collect you. How’s that for starters?’

‘I know where the eye-man is.’

‘What?’

‘He’s holed up in a house, about five hundred metres from where I am speaking to you. He is holding a hostage, Yola Samana. He has her standing on a stool, with a noose around her neck. She’s lit up like a son et lumiere. The eye-man is presumably hiding in the shadows with a pistol, waiting for Alexi and me to show ourselves. As far as armament is concerned, Alexi and I have got exactly one knife between us. We don’t stand a chance in Hell. If your precious Captain Calque can get some paramilitaries in place and if he can guarantee me that he will prioritise Yola’s safety – and not the capture of the eye-man – I’ll tell you where I am. If not, you can both go and piss against a drystone wall. I’ll go in myself.’

‘Stop. Stop. Wait. Are you still in the Camargue?’

‘Yes. That much I’ll tell you. Is it agreed? Otherwise I’ll switch this phone off right now.’

‘It’s agreed. I’ll go and fetch Calque. There are CRS paramilitaries on permanent standby in Marseille. They can be deployed straight away. By helicopter, if necessary. It will take no more than an hour.’

‘Too long.’

‘Less. Less than an hour. If you can be accurate about the location. Give me an exact map reference. The CRS will have to work out where to land the helicopter without giving away their presence. And then approach by foot.’

‘The man I borrowed the cellphone from may have a map. Go get Calque. I’ll stay online.’

‘No. No. We can’t risk your battery running out. I have your number. When I’ve reached Calque I will call you back. Get me that map reference.’

As Macron ran to where he knew Calque was conducting his interviews, he was already scrolling down for the code to their Paris headquarters. ‘Andre. It’s Paul. I have a cellphone number for you. We need an instant GPS. It’s urgent. Code One.’

‘Code One? You’re joking.’

‘This is a hostage situation. The man holding the hostage killed the security guard in Rocamadour. Get me that GPS. We’re in the Camargue. If any other part of France comes up on your gizmo, you’ve got interference or a malfunction. Get me the exact position of that cellphone. To within five metres. And inside five minutes. I can’t afford to blow this.’

Within thirty seconds of Macron explaining the situation to him, Calque was on the phone to Marseille.

‘This is a Code One priority. I will identify myself.’ He read out the number on his identity card. ‘You will see a ten letter cipher when you type in my name on the computer. It is this. HKL481GYP7. Do you have that? Does it match the code on the national database? It does? Good. Hand me over to your supervisor immediately.’

Calque spent an intense five minutes talking down the phone. Then he turned to Macron.

‘Have Paris come back to you with Sabir’s GPS?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Now phone him. Compare it with the map reference he gives you.’

Macron got back on the phone to Sabir. ‘Do you have a map reference for us? Yes? Give it to me.’ He marked it down in his notebook, then ran across and showed it to Calque.

‘It matches. Tell him to wait exactly where he is until you arrive. Then get into place yourself and call the situation in to me at this number.’ He scribbled down a number on Macron’s pad. ‘It is the number of the local Gendarmerie. I will base myself there, coordinating the operation between Paris, Marseille and Les Saintes-Maries. I have been reliably informed that it will take at least fifty minutes to get the paramilitaries in place. You can be at the Maset in thirty. Twenty-five, even. Stop Sabir and the gypsy from panicking into any precipitate action. If it looks as though the girl is being imminently threatened, intervene. If not, keep your head down. Do you have your pistol?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Take any of the detectives that you can find with you. If you can’t find any, go alone. I will send them on behind you.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And Macron?

‘Yes, Sir?’

‘No unnecessary heroics. There are lives at stake here.’