He turns to the darkness where the music comes from, the same darkness that is in the room and in his eyes.
‘Who is it?’
‘His name is Robert Fulton. A great musician . . .’
‘I can hear that. What does he mean to you?’
After a long, motionless silence, the deep voice comes from the darkness right beside him. ‘An old memory of mine. Now it will be yours as well.’
‘Can I ask a favour?’
‘Yes, if it’s possible.’
‘May I touch you?’
A slight swish of fabric. The man standing bends down. The man sitting feels the warmth of his breath, a man’s breath. A man who, at another time and on another occasion, he might have tried to know better.
He stretches out his hand and places it on that face, running over it with his fingertips until he touches the hair. He follows the line of the face, and explores the cheekbones and forehead with his fingertips. His hands are his eyes now, and they see for him.
The man sitting is not afraid. He is curious. Now he is only surprised.
‘So, it’s you,’he murmurs.
‘Yes,’ answers the other, straightening up.
‘Why do you do it?’
‘Because I have to.’
The man sitting is content with this answer. He, too, did what he felt he had to, in the past. He has only one last question for the other. It is not the end that frightens him, only the pain.
‘Will I suffer?’
He has no way of seeing the man take out a gun with a silencer from a canvas bag slung around his neck. He does not see the burnished metal barrel pointed at him. He does not see the menacing reflection in the weak light coming from the window.
‘No, you won’t suffer.’
He does not see the knuckles whiten as the finger squeezes the trigger. The man’s answer mixes with the smothered hiss of the bullet that pierces his heart.
THIRTY-TWO
‘I have no intention of living like a prisoner until this is over. Most of all, I refuse to be used as bait!’
Roby Stricker put down his glass of Glenmorangie and went to look out the window of his apartment. Malva Reinhart, a young American actress sitting on the couch opposite, rolled her magnificent violet eyes, the feature of many a close-up shot, and looked from him to Frank. She was bewildered by the whole thing and didn’t say a word. She seemed to be still playing one of her characters, although her glances were more direct and her cleavage lower. The aggressive attitude she had displayed when Frank and Hulot had stopped them outside Jimmy’z, the most exclusive disco in Monte Carlo, was gone.
They had been standing in the plaza next to Sporting Club d’Été, just outside the glass doors of the club, to the left of the blue neon sign. Malva and Roby were speaking to someone, but as Frank and Hulot had got out of their car and approached them, the person had left and they were alone in the glare of the headlights.
‘Roby Stricker?’ Nicolas had asked.
Stricker had looked at them dubiously.
‘Yes,’ he had said hesitantly.
‘I’m Inspector Hulot of the Sûreté Publique and this is Frank Ottobre of the FBI. We need to speak to you. Could you come with us, please?’
Their credentials seemed to make him uncomfortable. Frank had found out why later on, when he pretended not to notice the young man awkwardly disposing of a bag of cocaine. Stricker had pointed to the young woman next to him who was looking at them, astonished. They were speaking French and she didn’t understand.
‘Both of us, or just me? I mean, this is Malva Reinhart and . . .’
‘You’d better come with us. It’s in your best interest. We have reason to believe that your life is in danger. The young lady’s too, perhaps.’
They had filled him in soon afterwards, in the car. Stricker had grown deathly pale and Frank knew that if he had been standing, his legs might have collapsed. Frank had translated for Reinhart and it was her turn to go pale. They had reached Stricker’s building, Les Caravelles, a couple of blocks from police headquarters. They couldn’t help being stunned at the madman’s nerve. If he was really aiming for Stricker, the choice was a defiant, mocking challenge. He intended to strike at someone who lived just blocks away from the centre of police operations.
Frank had stayed with him and the girl while Nicolas, after inspecting the apartment, went to give instructions to Morelli and his men stationed below. There was a security net around the building that was impossible to get through. Before he left, Hulot had called Frank into the hallway, given him a walkie-talkie, and asked if he had his gun. Without a word, Frank had opened his jacket to show him the Glock hanging from his belt. He had shivered slightly as he brushed against the cold, hard weapon.
Frank stepped towards the centre of the room and responded patiently to Stricker’s objections.
‘First of all, we’re trying to guarantee your safety. You might not have noticed, but practically all the police in the Principality are stationed outside. Secondly, we have no intention of using you as bait. We simply need your cooperation to try to catch the person we’re after. You’re not running any risk, I assure you. You live in Monte Carlo, so you must know what’s been happening, don’t you?’
‘Listen,’ Roby said, as he turned towards Frank without moving from the window. ‘It’s not that I’m scared, okay? I just don’t like the whole situation. It feels . . . overblown, that’s all.’
‘I’m glad you’re not afraid, but that doesn’t mean you should underestimate the person we’re dealing with. So please get away from that window.’
Stricker tried to appear nonchalant as he stepped back to the couch. In actuality, he was quite visibly terrified. Frank had been with him for an hour now, and if he’d had any say in the matter he would have walked out of there and left the guy to his fate. Stricker fitted the stereotype of a spoiled rich boy so exactly that it was almost laughable.
Roberto Stricker, ‘Roby’ in the society pages, was Italian, from Bolzano to be precise, but his last name was German and he could pass for English if he wanted. He was just over thirty and very good-looking. Tall, athletic, great hair, great face, total prick. His father was the wealthy owner of, among other things, a chain of discos in Italy, France and Spain called No Nukes, whose symbol was an environmentalist sun. That was what had struck Barbara when she heard the name ‘Nuclear Sun’, the Roland Brant dance track that the killer had played on the radio. Roby Stricker lived in Monte Carlo, doing whatever he wanted with his time and his father’s money – that is to say, absolutely nothing. The tabloids were full of his love affairs and vacations, skiing at St Moritz with the hottest top models or playing tennis at Marbella with Björn Borg. As far as work was concerned, his father probably gave him money just to keep him out of the family business, reckoning that whatever his son cost him was the lesser of two evils.
‘What are you going to do?’ Stricker picked up his glass but put it down again when he saw that the ice had melted.
‘Actually, there’s really very little we can do in cases like this. We just take the right precautions and wait.’
‘What does this nutcase have against me, anyway? Do I know him?’
If he decided to kill you, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did know you. And probably pretty well you little shit. Frank sat down in an armchair.
‘I have no idea. Quite frankly, aside from what we told you, we don’t have much more information on this murderer, except for the criteria he uses to select his victims and what he does after he kills them.’
Frank spoke in Italian, emphasizing the harshness of the word ‘assassino’ for Roby Stricker’s benefit. He didn’t think it was a good idea to frighten the girl sitting on the couch any more. She was gnawing on her finger in fear. Although . . .
Like attracts like.
The two of them were together for a reason. Like Nicolas and Céline Hulot, like Nathan Parker and Ryan Mosse. And like Bikjalo and Jean-Loup Verdier. Out of love. Out of hate.
Out of self-interest. As for Roby Stricker and Malva Reinhart, however, it could be just simple physical attraction between two very shallow human beings.
Frank’s walkie-talkie started to buzz. Strange. They had decided to observe strict radio silence. No precautions seemed excessive with this criminal, who could tap phone lines so easily that he might very well be able to listen in on any police frequency. Frank went into the foyer before answering. He didn’t want Stricker and the girl to hear.
‘Frank Ottobre.’
‘Frank, it’s Nicolas. We may have caught him.’
Frank felt as though a cannon had just fired next to his ear.
‘Where?’
‘Here, down in the basement, by the boiler. One of my men caught a suspicious character who was sneaking down the stairs to the basement and stopped him. They’re still there. I’m on my way over.’
‘I’ll be right there.’ He ran back into the room. ‘Stay here and don’t move. Don’t let anyone in but me.’
He left them to be shocked and scared on their own, and rushed down the stairs two at a time. He reached the lobby just as Hulot was coming in from the street with Morelli behind him. A uniformed cop was guarding the door to the basement.
They went downstairs, guided by the dim light of a series of bulbs set in the wall, protected by grating. All the buildings in Monte Carlo looked alike to Frank. Beautiful exteriors but shoddy on the inside, where most people couldn’t see. It was hot down there and it reeked of dustbins.
The agent led the way. A policeman crouched beside a man sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall with his hands tied behind him. The policeman had a pair of infrared glasses for night vision on top of his head.
‘Everything okay, Thierry?’
‘Here he is, inspector, I—’
‘Christ!’
Frank’s shout interrupted the policeman.
The man sitting on the ground was the redheaded reporter, the one he had seen outside police headquarters when Yoshida’s body had been discovered. The same one who had been standing in front of Jean-Loup’s house that morning.
‘This guy’s a reporter, damn it!’
The journalist took advantage of the moment to make his voice heard.
‘You’re damn right, I’m a reporter. René Coletti of France Soir. I’ve been telling this blockhead that for the last ten minutes. If he had let me get my press card out of my pocket, we could have avoided all this aggravation.’
Hulot was fuming. He crouched down beside Coletti. Frank was afraid he would punch him in the face. If he had, Frank would have defended him before any court.
‘This wouldn’t have happened if you’d stayed out of police business, you stupid jerk. And by the way, you’re in deep shit.’
‘Oh, really? And what’s the charge?’
‘For now, obstruction of a police investigation. We’ll find something else in time. We’re already busting a gut here without you media people making things worse.’ Hulot stood up. He nodded to the two cops. ‘Get him up and take him away.’
They picked Coletti off the floor. Muttering to himself about the power of the press, the reporter managed to stand. He had a graze on his forehead from when he had scraped the wall. The lens had fallen off the camera around his neck.
Frank grasped Hulot’s arm.
‘Nicolas, I’m going back up.’
‘Go on. I’ll deal with this idiot.’
Frank went back upstairs. He felt disappointment grinding in his stomach. All their work – waiting at the radio studio, struggling to decipher the message, all the men stationed there – was useless because of that stupid reporter with his camera. It was his fault if their presence was revealed. If the killer really had meant to get Roby Stricker, he must have changed his mind by now. Okay, they had avoided another murder, but they had also lost any chance of catching him.
When the lift door slid open at the fifth floor, Frank knocked at Stricker’s door.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me. Frank.’
The door opened and Frank walked in. Roby Stricker would have to spend many hours on the beach or at a tanning salon to get rid of his pallor. Malva Reinhart didn’t look any better. She was sitting on the couch and her eyes seemed even bigger and more violet against her ashen skin.
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Did you arrest anyone?’
‘Yes, but not the one we’re looking for.’
Just then the walkie-talkie buzzed. Frank took it off his belt. After his rush down the stairs he was surprised he still even had it.
‘Yeah?’
He heard Hulot’s voice and did not like the sound of it at all.
‘It’s Nicolas. I’ve got some bad news.’
‘How bad?’
‘Very bad. No One screwed us, Frank. All the way. Roby Stricker wasn’t his target at all.’ Frank knew this would be harsh. ‘They just found the body of Gregor Yatzimin, the ballet dancer. Same condition as the other three.’
‘Shit! I’ll be downstairs in a minute.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Frank gripped his walkie-talkie and for a moment he was tempted to hurl it at the wall. He felt the fury well up in him like volcanic lava. Stricker approached him at the front door. He was so nervous that he didn’t even notice the state Frank was in.
‘What’s happening?’
‘I have to go.’
The young man looked at him, stunned.
‘Again? What about us?’
‘You’re not in any danger. You weren’t the target.’
‘What? I wasn’t the target?’ Relief cut the strings of his tension and he slumped against the wall.
‘No. There has been another victim.’
The certainty that he had escaped from death helped Stricker’s transition from fear to indignation.
‘Are you telling me that you practically gave us heart failure by mistake? While you were hanging around here showing off how great you are, that guy was going around killing someone else? You fucking incompetent idiots. When my father hears about this he’ll . . .’
Frank listened in silence to the beginning of his outburst. He was right. There was an element of truth in what Stricker was saying. No One had made fools of them all over again. But they were being duped by someone who took risks, who went out and fought his battles, evil as he was. Frank couldn’t let that good-for-nothing tell him off, after all they had done to try to save his miserable existence. The ice inside Frank suddenly turned to steam and he exploded with all his might. He grabbed Stricker by the balls and squeezed hard.
‘Listen, you piece of shit . . .’ Stricker paled and fell back against the wall, turning his head to one side to avoid Frank’s flaming eyes. ‘If you don’t shut your fucking mouth, I’ll make you see your own teeth without your having to look in the mirror.’ He squeezed Stricker’s testicles harder and the young man grimaced in pain. Frank went on in the same hissing voice. ‘If I had anything to say about it, I’d be glad to hand you over to that butcher, you toerag. Fate’s been too good to you. Don’t flaunt it and go looking for trouble.’
He let go. Stricker’s face slowly returned to its normal colour. Frank saw that there were tears in his eyes.
‘I’m going now. I’ve got more important things to do. Get rid of that whore you’ve got in there and wait right here for me. We’ve got some stuff to talk about, you and I. You’ll have to clear up a few things about the people you hang out with here in Monte Carlo.’ Frank backed away from Stricker who slowly slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. He put his head in his hands and started to cry. ‘And if you want to call Daddy in the meantime, go right ahead.’
Frank turned and opened the door. As he waited for the lift, he regretted the fact that he hadn’t been able to ask Stricker about one person in particular. He was about to do so when Nicolas had called.
He’d be back later on. He wanted to find out th
e person Roby and Malva had been talking to when they had stopped them in front of Jimmy’z, the man who had melted into the night when he saw them drive up. Frank wanted to know why Roby Stricker had been talking to Captain Ryan Mosse, US Army.
THIRTY-THREE
The trip to Gregor Yatzimin’s home seemed to take for ever, yet no time at all. Frank sat in the passenger seat staring straight ahead, listening to what Hulot was telling him. His face was a mask of silent fury.
‘You know who Gregor Yatzimin is, I suppose.’ Frank’s silence showed that he did. ‘He lives – lived – here in Monte Carlo and was the artistic director of the ballet company. He was having problems with his eyesight recently.’
Frank suddenly exploded, interrupting as if he had not heard what Hulot had just said.
‘I realized how stupid we were as soon as I heard the name. We should’ve anticipated that the bastard would step it up. The first clue, A Man and a Woman, was relatively easy because it was the first one. He had to give us a method. “Samba Pa Ti” was more complicated. The third one obviously had to be harder still, but he even told us that much, too.’
Hulot could not follow the American’s line of reasoning. ‘What do you mean, he told us?’
‘The loop, Nicolas. The loop that goes round and round and round. The dog chasing its tail. He did it on purpose.’
‘Did what on purpose?’
‘He gave us a clue with a double meaning so it could be misunderstood. He made us spin around on our asses. He knew we’d get Roby Stricker from the deejay’s English name and the No Nukes disco. And while we had every cop in the Principality falling over themselves to protect that little creep, we gave the killer complete freedom to strike his next victim.’
Hulot took up the baton.
‘Gregor Yatzimin, the Russian ballet dancer who was going blind from radiation he was exposed to in Chernobyl in 1986. “Dance” didn’t mean discos, it meant ballet. And “Nuclear Sun” was the radioactivity in Ukraine.’