Daniel Silva - The English Assassin

“You picked a damned lousy spot to meet on a night like this, Pascal. What the hell took you so long?”

“I didn’t select it for the view, my friend.” He spoke patois with the accent of a southerner. With his two remaining fingers he pointed toward the three men drinking wine down the pier. “You see those boys? They work for me. And the barge that went past a moment ago? He works for me, too. We wanted to make sure you weren’t being followed.”

Debré shoved his hands into his pockets. The Englishman looked him over.

“Where’s the package?”

“At the warehouse.”

“You were supposed to bring it here.”

“The Paris police have been running spot checks all night. Something about a bomb threat. One of the Arab groups. Algerian, I think. It wasn’t safe to bring it with me now.”

The Englishman hadn’t seen any spot checks. “If there are spot checks, how am I going to get the package back into the city?”

“That’s your problem, my friend.”

“Where’s the warehouse?”

“The docks, a few miles down the river.” He cocked his head in the direction of the Latin Quarter. “I have a car.”

The Englishman didn’t like changes in plan, but he had no choice. He nodded and followed Debré up the stone steps, then across the Pont St-Louis. Above them Notre Dame burned with floodlight. Debré looked at the Englishman’s hair and turned down his lips into a very Gallic look of disapproval. “You look ridiculous, but it’s quite effective, I must say. I nearly didn’t recognize you.”

“That’s the point.”

“Nice clothes too. Very fashionable. You should be careful where you go dressed like that. Some of the boys might get the wrong idea about you.”

“Where’s the damned car?”

“Be patient, my friend.”

It stood on the Quai de Montebello, engine running. A big man sat behind the wheel smoking a cigarette. Debré said, “Sit up front. You’ll be more comfortable.”

“Actually, I prefer the backseat, and if you ask me to sit in the front again, I’ll be convinced that you’re leading me into a trap. And the last thing you want is for me to feel trapped, Pascal.”

“Suit yourself. Sit in the back if you like. I was just trying to be polite. Jesus Christ! ”

THEY drove for twenty minutes, wipers working steadily against the rain, heater roaring. The lights of central Paris faded, and soon they were in a gloomy industrial quarter bathed in yellow sodium lamps. Debré sang along with the American music on the radio. The Englishman had a headache. He lowered his window and the damp air sawed at his cheek.

He wished Debré would shut up. The Englishman knew all about Pascal Debré. He was a man who had failed to live up to his own expectations of himself. He had wanted to be an assassin, like the Englishman, but he had botched an important hit on a member of a rival criminal group. The mistake cost him two fingers and seriously impacted the course of his career. He was exiled to the extortion side of the business, where he was known for his crude but effective pitch- Give us money, or we will burn down your business. If you try to get the police involved, we’ll rape your daughter and then cut her into a hundred pieces.

They passed through a gate in a chain-link fence, then entered a soot-stained brick warehouse. The air was heavy with the stench of oil and the river. Debré led the way into a small office and switched on a light. A moment later he emerged, a large suitcase hanging from his good hand.

He swung the bag onto the hood of the car and popped the latches. “It’s a simple device,” Debré said, using his maimed hand as a pointer. “Here’s the timer. You can set it for one minute, one hour, one week. Whatever you want. Here’s the detonator, here’s the small explosive charge. These canisters contain the fuel. The bag is completely untraceable. Even if it happens to survive the fire-which is extremely unlikely-there’s nothing about it that will lead the police to you or to us.”

Debré closed the lid. The Englishman pulled out an envelope filled with francs and dropped it on the car next to the bag. He reached for the suitcase, but Debré put the two-fingered hand on his arm.

“I’m afraid the price has gone up, my friend.”

“Why?”

“Blame it on an unforeseeable market fluctuation.” Debré took out a gun and pointed it at the Englishman’s chest. The driver moved into position behind him. The Englishman assumed he had drawn his weapon too.

Debré smiled. “You know how these things go, my friend.”

“No, I don’t, actually. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

“After we spoke, I started to think.”

“That must have been a new experience for you.”

“Shut your fucking mouth!”

“Excuse me for interrupting, Pascal. Please continue.”

“I asked myself a simple question. Why does a man like my friend need a device like this? He always kills with a knife. Sometimes a pistol but usually a knife. Then the answer came to me. He needs a device like this because his employers have requested it. If I raise my price, it will make no difference to him, because he will simply pass the cost on to his employer.”

“How much do you want?”

“Two hundred.”

“We had a deal at one hundred.”

“The deal changed.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You’ll have to get your package somewhere else. If you do that, I might be tempted to call one of our friends on the police force, one of the ones we keep in wine and whores. I might tell this friend that you’re in town working.”

“Fine, I’ll pay your new price, but after I use this device, I’m going to place an anonymous call to the Paris police and tell them who gave it to me. Thanks to your stupidity, I’ll even be able to tell them where I got it. They’ll raid the place, you’ll be arrested, and your employers will take the rest of your fingers.”

Debré was nervous now, eyes wide, licking his lips, the gun trembling in his left hand. He was used to people reacting with fear when he made threats. He didn’t often deal with someone like the Englishman.

“All right, you win,” said Debré. “We go back to the original price. One hundred thousand francs. Take the damned thing and get out of here.”

The Englishman decided to push him some more. “How will I get back to Paris?”

“That’s your problem.”

“It’s a long ride. The taxi fare will be expensive.” He reached out and picked up the envelope. “Probably about one hundred thousand francs.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m taking the device and my money. If you try to stop me, I’ll tell the police about your warehouse, and this time your boss in Marseilles certainly won’t stop with your hand.”

Debré raised the gun. The Englishman had let the game go on long enough. Time to end things. His training took over. He grabbed Debré’s arm in a lightning-fast movement that caught the Frenchman off-guard. He twisted the arm violently, breaking it in several places. Debré screamed in agony, and the gun clattered to the warehouse floor.

Debré’s partner made his move. The Englishman calculated he wouldn’t fire his weapon because of Debré’s proximity, which left only one option: to try to disable the Englishman with a blow to the back of the head. The Englishman ducked, and the punch sailed over his head. Then he grabbed Debré’s gun and came up firing. Two shots struck the big man in the chest. He fell to the floor, blood pumping between his fingers. The Englishman fired two more rounds into his skull.

Debré was leaning against the hood of the car, clutching his arm, utterly defeated. “Take the damned money! Take the package! Just leave here!”