Wanted: A Leopold Blake Thriller Page 15

  “He’ll call the police,” said Sophie. “We can’t go after him.”

  “He won’t,” said Leopold, weaving in and out of the slower traffic. “He’ll want to keep us quiet.”

  “He’ll use the German.”

  The consultant nodded. “Right. Which means we’re going to need a little help.”

  Chapter 41

  PRISON WARDEN JEAN Guinault’s office was smaller than Marty had expected, and messy as hell. Stacks of paper covered every available surface and the trash can looked like it hadn’t been emptied in weeks. Marty sat in a cheap plastic chair, hands cuffed together, watching the warden pace the room. The old man wore a suit, but he’d tossed the jacket somewhere and his tie was halfway undone. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing thick forearms. After a few minutes of waiting, there came a knock at the door and the warden pulled it open.

  “Allez, bring him in” said Guinault, sticking his head through the doorway. A uniformed guard entered, followed by Jerome, whose hands were cuffed behind his back.

  “Thank you. Leave us now.”

  “Sir?” The guard looked puzzled. “This man took out three Familia with his bare hands. You shouldn’t be left alone with –”

  “I can handle this myself, get out.” The warden ushered the C.O. out of the room, locking the door behind him. He turned to look at Jerome. “Please, take a seat.”

  Jerome sat down next to Marty, straining the chair.

  “That was quite a stunt you pulled in the cafeteria,” said Guinault. “It’s safe to say you have my attention.”

  “Good,” Jerome said.

  “We can speak freely here, I’ve made sure nobody will disturb us. But be very aware,” the old man stepped forward, “one wrong move, I’ll throw you back to the wolves.”

  “I’m not interested in the wolves, we’re here to talk about you. Specifically, why you ordered La Nuestra Familia to take me out.”

  If the warden was surprised, he didn’t show it. “I hear you’ve had trouble with our Spanish friends. Why is this my problem?”

  “You’ve met Dión?”

  “I’ve had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting most of the inmates here.”

  “Then you’ll know Dión isn’t exactly the sharpest shank in the cell block,” said Jerome. “And the idea of him getting ahold of stolen prisoner transfer papers doesn’t sound right to me.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “He must have had help. I’m guessing you know something about that.”

  The warden’s face twisted. “I think you’re forgetting where you are. You have no power here, no friends. I was prepared to help you out,” he leaned in close, getting right in Jerome’s face. “But you can just rot in here, for all I care.”

  Marty nearly jumped out of his chair as Jerome kicked out and hit the warden in the knee. There was a crunching sound where the warden’s kneecap and cartilage were crushed together and Guinault flopped forward onto his front with a yelp of pain. Before he could get up, Jerome was out of the chair, his legs wrapped around the warden’s neck.

  “Let’s try this another way,” said Jerome, his hands still cuffed behind his back. “I’m going to keep squeezing until you give me an answer I’m happy with.” He applied extra pressure and the warden groaned, arms thrashing at his side. “If you don’t play ball, I’ll make sure to crush your larynx before snapping your neck. Just to make sure you get my point.”

  “Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing?” said Marty, getting to his feet. “We won’t make it through the night if anything happens to him.”

  The warden’s eyes were bulging out of his head, but he appeared to be nodding.

  Jerome grinned. “Warden Guinault is going to cooperate and everything is going to work out. Aren’t you?” He squeezed a little tighter and the old man slapped a palm down on the carpet. Jerome eased off a little. “I thought so.”

  “You’re insane,” said Marty. “Jesus Christ, you’re completely insane. What exactly are you expecting him to tell you?”

  “He’s going to tell me who’s pulling the strings. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to make sure I wound up here, and the only way they could have arrange it all is to go through official channels.” He relaxed his hold a little more. “So, Monsieur, shall we start at the beginning?”

  Guinault gurgled something incomprehensible.

  “You might have to repeat that,” said Jerome.

  “And you think he’s just going to let us walk out of here?” said Marty.

  “Of course.”

  “Why the hell would he do that?”

  “Because once the other prison staff get involved, this whole mess goes public. He can’t tell anyone, or else he’ll implicate himself.”

  “What about La Nuestra Familia?”

  Jerome smiled. “I’ll be out of here soon enough. In the meantime, my recent bad behavior has gotten me a stretch in solitary. A few days in the SHU ought to keep me out of trouble.”

  Marty rubbed his temples. “You make it sound like you had this planned all along.”

  “Maybe I did.”

  The warden slapped his palm on the carpet again and mumbled something Marty couldn’t quite make out.

  “Ready to talk?” asked Jerome.

  The warden nodded.

  “Good. Let’s get started, shall we?”

  Chapter 42

  THERE WAS BLOOD everywhere. Captain Rousseau studied the scene, stepping over the tiny orange markers the forensics team had dotted around the floor. The room was some kind of private art gallery, although some of the paintings now sat at odd angles. One or two of them had broken frames, the glass splintered and cracked. More troubling than that, the body of a man dressed in an expensive suit was leaking blood all over the floor. The attempted extraction at the penthouse had been a monumental failure, but at least they’d caught up with Blake before he’d had a chance to wipe the computers. Unfortunately, the commissioner was unlikely to see the silver lining, especially now there was yet another dead body to account for. This latest murder brought the body count up to seven – that he knew about.

  “Cause of death was a gunshot wound to the chest,” said the medical examiner, standing over the body. “Massive internal hemorrhaging soon followed. Nothing anybody could have done.”

  “Any prints?”

  “Defensive wounds to the face and arms. We might be able to pull some DNA, but I doubt it. Whoever took this guy out must have been a professional.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “There’s a second bullet wound, a non-fatal injury. Somehow, this man kept on fighting even though he had been shot. Just looking at him I can tell he has combat training.”

  “Meaning whoever killed him had better training,” said Rousseau. “Bon, find what you can. Get me an ID on the victim and how he links up with this whole mess. I’ll be outside.”

  The medical examiner nodded and Rousseau left the room, heading for the stairs. He reached the ground floor and stopped to catch his breath.

  “Capitaine! Ici!” The rookie’s shouts came from outside.

  Rousseau scowled and made his way over.

  “Capitaine, I found something,” the cop said, pointing at the floor.

  Rousseau paused. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and got to his knees. Lying on the sidewalk, a cell phone. “Anything else?”

  “Witnesses say there was a black Mercedes parked here earlier, not a car they recognized. Maybe they dropped this.”

  Or maybe not, thought Rousseau, picking the device up with a gloved hand. “Dismissed,” he said. The rookie shuffled off.

  The captain unlocked the screen and checked the call history. The last call was made less than thirty minutes ago. He dropped the phone into a Ziploc bag and waved one of the forensic technicians over.

  “Oui, Capitaine?”

  “Here, take this,” he handed the bag over. “Get me a trace on the last number dialed. I also want you to clone this handset and f
orward all incoming messages and calls to me. Understand?”

  The tech nodded.

  “Good. You’ve got twenty minutes.” He waved with the back of his palm. “Get moving, please.”

  The tech walked off back to the apartment block and handed the Ziploc bag to one of the juniors working the front door. Rousseau headed back to his car and climbed in, shutting out the noise from the street. He started the engine and rolled the car out onto the main road, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel as he made his way back to the station.

  Chapter 43

  REINIGER RESTED HIS hand on his gun and tried to resist the temptation to use it. Harris looked angry, and that was hardly unexpected, but the assassin knew that raised tempers weren’t going to solve anything. If the man would only take a break and put things into perspective… The assassin abandoned that line of thinking. By now, his own chances of a favorable outcome were dwindling by the second, but maybe Harris had a point. Maybe Blake really was dumb enough to force a confrontation.

  “I want that asshole strung up by his neck,” said Harris. “I want to watch him die. You know how long I’ve put up with his bullshit?”

  “Twenty years,” said Reiniger.

  “That’s damn right. Twenty years of service and he gives me, what, fucking Chemworks? What the hell else was I supposed to do?”

  The assassin didn’t reply.

  “There was nothing else to do. And if a few people have to suffer along the way, then… screw ’em! It’s about time I got what’s coming to me. And who’s really getting hurt here? Blake? He’s no angel, you know.”

  Reiniger nodded, his patience wearing thin.

  “And you never met his father. Talk about fruit falling from the tree. If you ask me, the world’s better off with both of them dead. They deserve worse.”

  “Do you have orders.” Reiniger didn’t phrase it as a question.

  Harris looked up. “The deal is done. There’s nothing Blake can do to stop that now. But there’s no point me making all this money if Blake gets the police on his side – I can’t enjoy it from prison, can I?”

  The assassin didn’t reply.

  “Blake will make his way to us. He’s too damn proud to run, and that’ll be his downfall. He’ll charge in here just like always, expecting to get his own way. And we’ll be waiting.”

  “We should clear the building.”

  “Nonsense. This is the company’s busiest European office. We can’t just close it down without drawing attention.”

  “I can’t do my job with this many people around,” said Reiniger.

  “Sure you can. You’re a resourceful guy, find a way.”

  The assassin grunted. “There will be witnesses.”

  “Then be careful. This is your last chance to fix this. If the police get to Blake first we’re all dead men. I wasn’t kidding when I said this was a one-way ticket – retirement can mean two things in this line of work, remember that.”

  Reiniger bit his tongue. “Make sure the security teams are alerted.”

  “Already have. The front desk and surveillance teams have been briefed. Every square inch of this place is covered by security cameras, except this office, of course. If Blake, or any of the others, get within fifty feet of here, we’ll know about it.”

  “The only points of entry are on the ground floor,” said Reiniger, turning to leave. “I’ll wait for them there. Have the security team patch me in to their radio.”

  Harris nodded and the assassin left the room, closing the door firmly behind him. The top floor of the office building, where Harris kept his office, was used largely by the finance teams that kept this particular division of Blake Investments in the black. The area was busy; dozens of young interns carried stacks of paper between offices, while older executives barked orders from behind their desks. All around, the floor-to-ceiling glass offered views of La Defense from twenty stories high.

  His head down, Reiniger made his way to the stairwell and began the long descent to the ground floor. Taking the steps two at a time, his pulse rate barely elevated, he fitted the custom sound suppressor to his firearm and tucked the weapon back into its holster. He buttoned up his suit jacket, trying to conceal the bulge, and slipped a transparent communication bud into his ear canal.

  After a few seconds of static the signal cleared and he was synced in to the building’s security chatter. With over three hundred security cameras throughout the building acting as his eyes and a dozen security officers as his ears, Reiniger knew how to press his advantage.

  Blake would have nowhere to hide.

  Chapter 44

  THE TRUNK OF Gerard’s car was fully stocked. Leopold picked out a customized Taser unit that acted as both a flashlight and stunner. The device looked like a regular flashlight, but, according to the reference manual, packed enough punch to knock a two-hundred pound adult to the floor in less than a second. Leopold also selected a change of clothes from the suitcase that Gerard had provided; a dark blue suit, white shirt, and black loafers. With the trunk lid raised, he quickly changed and tossed his old outfit onto the back seat. Just in case he picked out one of the smaller knives that Gerard had hidden in the lining of the suitcase and slipped it into his inside pocket.

  “You look very nice,” said Mary. “But I’m not sure how that helps. You still look like you.”

  “I only need to get to the security office without setting off any alarms,” said Leopold. “If I use the service entrance, there are fewer cameras. Once I disable the surveillance circuits, I should be able to blend in with the other office workers. So long as I keep away from the security guards, nobody should recognize me.” He fastened his jacket button. “A well-tailored suit is the perfect camouflage in a place like this.”

  “And how do you plan on getting in?”

  “Leave that to me. Just remember your part of the plan.”

  “We remember,” said Sophie. “We just don’t think it’s going to work.”

  “That never stopped us before,” said Mary. “How will we know when to make our move? You’ve got the only cell phone.”

  “Wait until I’ve killed the cameras. You’ll see the little red lights go out. Then you move.”

  “No problem.”

  “Just one last thing.” Leopold moved closer. “Be careful. If this works, the German will be coming for you. Don’t try to confront him. Just run and hide. You understand?”

  “Same goes for you,” said Mary. “I reckon I can hold my own, but I’m not so sure about you.” She jabbed him in the shoulder. It hurt more than Leopold expected.

  “Okay, I get the point.” He rubbed his arm. “Same goes for you, Sophie. Keep with Mary at all times. She knows what she’s doing.”

  “I’m sure she does,” said Sophie, looking the police sergeant up and down. “Just be careful.”

  Leopold slipped the Taser flashlight up his jacket sleeve and nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Mary and Sophie walked off toward the main entrance, just around the corner from where were parked. Heading off in the opposite direction, Leopold aimed for the delivery yard, where he could see a handful of trucks parked up behind an iron gate. A security booth blocked the entrance, requiring all visitors without a key card to sign in.

  With a curt wave, Leopold jogged up to the office door and knocked on the glass. The guard waved him inside. Glancing around, Leopold noticed there weren’t any security cameras inside the tiny office. The guard was sat on a swivel chair behind a cramped desk.

  “Comment puis-je vous aider?”

  “Bonjour, I’m sorry, do you speak English?”

  “Yes. How can I help?”

  “I’m here to visit Monsieur Harris. Can you let me through?”

  “Let me check the visitor log.”

  Leopold stepped forward. “Sorry about this, by the way.”

  The guard looked up. Leopold leaned across the desk, letting the Taser slip down into his hand. He held down the switch and jabbed the end into
the man’s neck. After a moment of convulsing, Leopold pulled away and the gatekeeper flopped onto his front, his face slapping hard against the wood.

  Acting quickly, the consultant unhooked the guard’s key card and removed his jacket. Slipping it over his own, Leopold zipped it up and fastened the key card to his belt. He dropped the Taser to the floor, its batteries depleted. Leopold took the back door and stepped out into the delivery yard, heading straight for the loading bay.

  Ahead, past the dormant delivery trucks, stood a set of double doors. Leopold pushed through keeping his head down and prayed that nobody noticed his peculiar combination of puffer jacket and tailored trousers. The employees inside, many of whom were enjoying a late breakfast around the vending machines, paid him no notice as he slipped through the busy common room.

  He found the door that led through to the service corridors and followed the signs toward the surveillance office. From his previous visits under less drastic circumstances, Leopold knew all the support facilities were housed on the ground floor, with the upper stories dedicated to office space and server storage. His target was just around the corner.

  He passed a handful of people in the corridors, most of whom glanced at the ‘Securitas’ logo stitched into his jacket before looking away. Nobody stopped to speak to him. He avoided looking at the cameras. A few feet ahead, a locked door marked with the words “Danger d’Électrocution” and a yellow triangular sign showing a stick figure getting struck by lightning. Leopold swiped the security guard’s key card over the magnetic reader and heard the lock click open.

  Stepping through, Leopold found himself in a gloomy hallway and closed the door behind him. An untidy mass of multicolored wires ran in bunches along the wall, providing power to different areas of the building. He followed the cables through to a heavily air-conditioned room that was cold enough to make him shiver through both jackets. In the center of the room stood a wall of circuit breaker panels, mounted against a central support bracket. Each locked cabinet contained several dozen breakers, designed to shut down a particular circuit if it became overloaded.