Paul Christopher: The Templar Cross

"Bien," murmured Japrisot. He flipped yet another cigarette butt into the greasy water, nodded pleasantly to the young lady on the deck of the Dirty Girl and turned away. "Attendez-moi," he instructed. He climbed into an angle-parked, dark blue Peugeot 607 four-door sedan, probably the most ubiquitous car on the highways of France. This one was almost ten years old and looked like a well-used taxi, which was probably the point.

Rafi got into the back and Holliday slid in beside Japrisot. He wrinkled his nose. The inside of the car smelled like an ashtray and the windshield was fogged with a slightly yellow film of old nicotine. Japrisot lit another Gitane and switched on the ignition. The car chugged to life. The French cop watched as Valador finished loading the fish boxes into the rattletrap van and then had a brief conversation with Kerim Zituni. Conversation over, Zituni climbed back onto La Fougueux while Valador started up the Citroen and drove off. Japrisot followed the square-nosed little truck. They headed east, staying well behind the van, moving steadily away from the center of town.

"He's not going on the Autoroute," commented Rafi. On their right hand the Mediterranean glowed like an immense blue jewel, bright light bursting off the sun-dazzled facets of the waves sweeping in to crash against the base of the craggy limestone cliffs.

"No," answered Japrisot, "he's following the coast."

"You've done this before," said Holliday.

"Bien sur," answered Japrisot. "Several times."

They spent the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening tracking the Citroen along the length of the Cote d'Azur, stopping to make deliveries in the towns of Cassis and La Ciotat, then bypassing the larger city of Toulon before stopping again in Hyeres, Bregancon, Le Rayol and Frejus.

In Cassis the van stopped in front of Chez Nino's on the harbor front, delivered a box of fish and then moved on. It was the same each time they stopped. In Ciotat it was Kitch and Cook; in Hyeres it was the Hotel Ceinturon. Bregancon was a motel-style place called Les Palmiers; in Le Rayol it was a rustic-looking old winery called l'Huitre et la Vigne-the Oyster and the Vine. In Frejus it was a gaudy Moroccan dining room called La Medina. In none of these places did he leave more than three of the boxes and usually only one. By the time the sun was beginning to set they had reached suburban Cannes and the huge Florida white slab of the Royal Casino Hotel in Mandelieu-la-Napoule, complete with a six-story-high blue and yellow flashing neon image of a slot machine on the side of the building. A little bit of Vegas on the French Riviera.

The Casino Hotel was part of a complex of interconnected buildings right on the beach beside a river estuary that led back to the Cannes Marina and the Mandelieu Golf Course. Japrisot parked the Peugeot in the fifteen-minute lot in front of the hotel and they watched as Felix Valador took a dolly loaded with two boxes of fish around to a side entrance. Presumably he was going to the hotel kitchen.

At the main entrance a good-looking, well-dressed European with a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard climbed out of a blue Audi Quattro with his beautiful companion and slipped one of the car jockeys a folded bill. The valet parker looked at the bill, saluted the bearded man and climbed into the Audi.

"He paid him not to park the car in the big lot under the overpass," explained the French cop, nodding toward the busy Avenue General de Gaulle behind them. "It's blackmail, really. Local boys sneak into the parking lot and sometimes roll cars right into the water. P'tit loubards! Little hooligans. Worse than the English football yobs sometimes."

The elegant couple strolled into the hotel and the car jockey drove the Audi a hundred feet up the driveway. A few minutes later Valador reappeared with the empty dolly.

"That's eighteen boxes of fish spread over almost a hundred miles," said Rafi from the backseat. "He can't be making much money."

"It's the last stop that's the important one," said Japrisot obscurely.

Valador climbed wearily up into the Citroen and drove off. He headed for the service road that led to the parking lot on the other side of the overpass. The little truck disappeared.

"Where the hell is he going?" Holliday asked.

"Watch," murmured Japrisot.

A few minutes later the van reappeared. The gold lettering on the side of the truck had been covered by a magnetic sign that read Camille Guimard-Antiquaire, 28, rue Felix Faure Le Suquet, Cannes.

"Who's Camille Guimard?" Rafi asked from the "Who's Camille Guimard?" Rafi asked from the backseat.

"Felix is," said the French policeman. "In Marseille Valador is a smelly fisherman. In Cannes he is a sophisticated antique dealer named Guimard. Une grandes blague, n'est-ce pas? A neat trick, yes?"

"And Le Suquet?" Holliday asked.

"Like El Souk in the Kasbah of Marrakech," explained Japrisot as Valador's transformed Citroen rattled by. "The old quarter of the city, up on the hill." He put the Peugeot in Drive and followed the van at a discreet distance. Ten minutes later, driving along the Boulevard du Midi at the water's edge, they reached Cannes and Le Suquet, a rabbit warren of narrow, twisting streets that rose up from the stone quays of the Old Port to the formidable square tower of the eleventh-century castle built by the Cistercian monks of Lerins.

"Cistercians again," said Rafi after Japrisot explained the geography. "They're everywhere."

"Pardon?" the Frenchman asked, frowning.

"A private joke," said Holliday.

They followed the Citroen around the harbor then turned up the lush treelined boulevard of rue Louis Pasteur and started to climb the hill. Valador turned right onto rue Meynadier. They crossed the wider rue Louis Blanc, then turned abruptly into an alley that seemed to take them down the hill again. It was fully dark now but Japrisot was driving with only his parking lights.

"I'm lost," said Holliday.

"I'm not," said Japrisot.

"We're going around in circles."

"It's the one-way streets," said Japrisot, cocking one bushy eyebrow. "They're everywhere."

The policeman slowed and they watched Valador turn right and disappear from view.

"He's getting away," said Rafi.

"No, he's not," answered Japrisot, his voice calm. He cracked his window, flipped out his cigarette butt and lit another. Holliday had long ago lost track of how many the burly man had smoked, but strangely enough he found himself enjoying the rich earthy scent of the tabac noir. They waited in the alley for almost ten minutes. Holliday could hear Rafi fidgeting in the backseat. The French cop smoked. Finally Japrisot glanced at the illuminated dial of his wristwatch.

"Bien," he said and nodded. "On y va." Let's go. He eased the shift back and they rolled slowly out of the alley. According to the sign they were now on the rue Felix Faure, another one-way street, this one lined with small shops. Japrisot slid the Peugeot into a parking space on the far side of the street. At the end of the block Valador was unloading the van. He was parked in front of a narrow shuttered storefront, unloading the last of the fish boxes. Beside the store, taking up the entire corner, was the awning-covered facade of a restaurant with a brightly lit green and yellow sign that read Huitres Astoux amp; Brun.

"An oyster bar," said Holliday, realizing that they hadn't eaten since lunch in Marseille.

There were a dozen or so plastic tables under the white fabric awning, all empty. A fat man in a long white apron was chaining plastic stacking chairs. The restaurant was closing.

"What now?" Rafi asked.

Japrisot shrugged.

"We wait. We smoke. Perhaps we talk about women." He paused and smiled. "Who knows? The night is long."

Valador finished his unloading, locked up the van and disappeared inside the store. A few seconds later a light could be seen behind the shutters. Almost half an hour passed. Then the light in the shop went out, and after a few moments another light went on, this time in the apartment above the store.