Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,92

behind. He tested the mechanism out of habit and loaded the shells, then slipped the gun in his coat pocket. If he had to use it and there was any fallout, so be it.

His phone rang. It was Santer.

‘Caspar says a criminal gang’s involved. It’s not political.’

‘A gang is mixed up in it,’ Rocco confirmed, ‘but it’s definitely political. Tell Caspar thanks. I owe him.’

‘Not as much as you owe me, you big lug. Oh, and another thing: I checked that Créteil thing you mentioned. Three men picked up at a lock-up? The security boys got a tip-off and sent in a special unit. Turns out they were planning a hit on the president, down near his place in Colombey.’

‘A tip-off.’

‘Yes. They think it was a rival group getting rid of the competition. Either way, Saint-Cloud should be happy, because that’s another threat off the list. Maybe he can relax a bit.’

‘No,’ said Rocco. ‘I don’t think so. It’s the exact opposite. That’s what everyone was meant to think.’ Another distraction move, only this time closer to home.

‘What’s going on? I can hear that tone in your voice.’

‘I’ve got to go – it’s started.’

‘Hellfire. Anything I can do?’

‘Stroke a rabbit’s foot for me.’

‘Take it easy, you hear? Don’t get yourself killed. And call me.’

Rocco put down the phone and walked out to the car.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Things began to go wrong the moment George Tasker and his men stepped through the door of the bank.

It was nine-fifteen, with snow in the air dusting the roads and pavements outside. The kind of day you were better off staying at home if you had any sense and nothing more important to do. The kind of day, he reflected, not to be relying on having to drive anywhere fast.

But some days you had no choice.

Leaving Calloway at the wheel of the black DS outside the entrance and facing towards the crossroads ready for a fast getaway, he’d led Biggs and Jarvis, each tooled up with old service revolvers, through the front door. Without pausing, he’d fired a shot from the sawn-off provided by their French contact into the ceiling, bringing down a portion of the tiling and stopping everyone dead in their tracks. Short of shooting someone, it was the single most effective method he’d come across of getting everybody’s full and undivided attention.

With the security van gone only minutes ago, Tasker had expected – indeed had been told – to find three handy metal boxes of cash waiting to be picked up. What he saw was one small box, and three men in suits staring at him and his fellow gang members as if they were creatures from outer space.

He plucked a piece of ceiling plaster from his jacket and flicked it away, then stepped over to the centre of the floor. Biggs and Jarvis stayed to cover the door and watch for anyone foolhardy enough to try anything heroic. Pointing his gun at an older man with grizzled grey hair and a hangdog expression, Tasker shouted, ‘Where’s the money, you French git?’ He fired another shot over the man’s head, breaking and reloading the gun in seconds, his hands a blur. It was a make of weapon he’d never seen before, stripped bare and filed clean, but it worked well enough and that was all he needed.

It galvanised the man into action. He muttered something at one of his colleagues, who walked over to a large metal door set in the rear wall. He swung the door back a fraction, revealing a glimpse over the counter of a small room lined with shelves.

‘Tasty,’ said Jarvis, and made to leap the counter.

‘Wait.’ Tasker stopped him. It was all too easy. Something about this set-up wasn’t right. Forget the fact that it was French; a bank was a bank was a bank. But this one didn’t feel good. The manager showing them the bank vault so readily was also odd; it stank of a distraction.

He looked around. No customers. Maybe it was too early in the day – and he hadn’t thought to ask about opening times. And most banks he’d ever seen had at least a couple of women workers. But not here.

Then he saw a coat stand in one corner. It held two coats, one red and the other a dull mauve colour, a man’s mackintosh and a couple of colourful scarves. Women’s stuff.

He pointed at the manager who was glaring at him. ‘You. Come here.’ He stabbed at a spot in front