At the sound of the sirens, the civilian cars pulled over and stopped obediently to let the police pass. Despite their speed, Frank felt like they were driving at a snail’s pace. He wanted to fly, he wanted to . . . The radio on the dashboard crackled and Morelli leaned over to pick up the mike. ‘Morelli.’
‘Roncaille here. Where are you?’ the radio barked.
‘Right behind you, sir. I’m with Frank Ottobre. We’re following you.’
Frank smiled at the idea that the chief of police himself was in the car ahead of them. Nothing in the world would keep that man from being present at No One’s arrest. He wondered whether Durand was with him. Probably not. Roncaille wasn’t stupid. He had no intention of sharing the glory for catching the worst killer in Europe, if he could help it.
‘Frank, can you hear me?’
‘Yes, he hears you. He’s driving but he can hear. He’s the one who figured out who No One is.’
Morelli wanted to make sure that Frank got the credit he was due. Roncaille’s voice again boomed out of the speaker.
‘Good. Excellent. The Menton police are on their way, too. I had to inform them, since Jean-Loup’s house is in France and that’s their jurisdiction. We need them to authorize the arrest. I don’t want any sleazy lawyers using any cheap tricks when this goes to trial . . . Frank, can you hear me?’
There was a sputter of static. Frank took the mike from Morelli, holding the steering wheel with one hand.
‘What is it, Roncaille?’
‘I hope for all our sakes that you know what you’re doing.’
‘Don’t worry, we have enough evidence to be sure it’s him.’
‘Another misstep after what happened would be inexcusable.’
For sure, especially since the next name to be crossed off the list is yours.
The police chief’s concern did not stop there, apparently. Frank could hear it even in the garbled sound coming through the receiver.
‘There’s one thing I can’t understand.’
Only one?
‘How was he able to commit those crimes when he was practically barricaded in his house, under the constant surveillance of our men?’
Frank had asked himself the same question and couldn’t give Roncaille an answer. ‘That’s a detail I can’t explain. He’ll have to be the one to tell us, once we get our hands on him.’
Frank took it as a bad sign that they hadn’t yet established contact with the agents in the police car outside Jean-Loup’s house. If they’d gone into action, they should have communicated what was happening. He didn’t tell Morelli of his concerns. In any case, Morelli was no fool and had probably come to the same conclusion.
They pulled up in front of the gate of Jean-Loup’s house just as the inspector from Menton was arriving. Frank noticed that there were no reporters. On any other occasion he would have burst out laughing. They’d been constantly watching the house to no avail, only to abandon the hunt right when their story would have been as juicy as a rare steak. They would probably show up again en masse, but the police cars blocking the road in both directions would stop them. There were already men further down, near Helena’s house, to prevent any attempt of escape down the steep descent to the coast.
The blue doors of the police van opened before it came to a stop. A dozen men from the crisis unit, in blue jumpsuits, helmets and Kevlar bulletproof vests and carrying M-16s, jumped out and prepared to storm the house.
The police car was parked outside, empty. Its doors were closed but not locked. Roncaille himself had gone to check. Frank had a bad feeling. Very bad.
‘Try calling them,’ he told Morelli.
The sergeant nodded as Roncaille walked towards them, with the psychiatrist Dr Cluny close behind. Roncaille was not as incompetent as he seemed, after all. Cluny’s presence would be very helpful in case of negotiations involving hostages. Morelli was calling the agents and getting no answer as Roncaille stopped in front of him.
‘What should we do?’
‘The men aren’t responding, which is not good. At this point, I’d have the crisis unit go into action.’
Roncaille turned and nodded to the head of the assault group awaiting instructions in the middle of the road. The man gave an order and everything happened in a flash. Instantaneously, the unit spread out and disappeared from view. A fairly young but prematurely bald plain-clothesman with the lanky gait of a basketball player got out of the Menton police car and walked over to them. Frank thought he had already seen him among the crowd at Hulot’s funeral. He held out his hand.
‘Hello. I’m Inspector Roberts, Homicide in Menton.’
The two men shook hands as Frank wondered where he’d heard that name. Then he remembered. Roberts was the policeman Nicolas had spoken to the evening that Roby Stricker and Gregor Yatzimin were killed. The one who had gone to check on the phone call to the radio station that had been a hoax.
‘What’s happening? Everything under control?’ Roberts asked as he turned to look at the roof of the house just visible through the cypresses.
Frank recalled the tear-streaked face of Pierrot, who at first had helped but then had destroyed everything that Frank had so laboriously constructed. At the cost of human life.
He wanted to lie to Roberts, but forced himself to tell the truth and to appear calm.
‘Afraid not. Unfortunately the suspect was alerted and the surprise was foiled. There are three men inside who haven’t answered our calls and we don’t know what’s going on.’
‘Hmm. That’s not good. But if it’s three against one—’
Roberts was interrupted by the crackling of Morelli’s two-way radio. The sergeant hurried to answer as he joined the group.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Gavin. We’re inside. We’ve searched the place from top to bottom. It’s safe now but there’s been a slaughter. Three officers are dead. Other than their bodies, there’s no one here.’
FORTY-EIGHT
The press conference was completely packed. Because they were expecting so many of the media, they had decided to hold it in the auditorium at the Centre Congrès. The hall at headquarters on Rue Notari simply wasn’t big enough.
Durand, Roncaille, Dr Cluny and Frank were sitting before microphones at a long table covered with a green tablecloth. Everybody involved in the investigation was present. In front of them, representatives from the newspapers, radio and television sat in rows of plastic chairs. Frank found the spectacle ridiculous, but the prestige of the Principality of Monaco and of the United States, which he represented as an FBI agent, made it necessary.
It didn’t matter that No One, a.k.a. Jean-Loup Verdier, was still at large. It didn’t matter that when they had entered the house after the attack by the assault unit, they had found it empty and Agent Sorel’s throat cut like a sacrificial lamb. The other two, Gambetta and Megéne, had been shot with the same gun used in the murder of Gregor Yatzimin.
Ubi major, minor cessat – the weak capitulates before the strong.
Certain embarrassing facts could not be revealed and were kept hidden behind the convenient screen of confidentiality. What was being emphasized was the success of the investigation. The identification of the killer, the brilliant joint operation of the Monaco police and the FBI, the criminal’s diabolical mind and the unwavering determination of the investigators, etc., etc., etc.
Camouflaged by that series of etceteras was the killer’s escape, due to unforeseeable events, and his current unknown whereabouts. But it would only be a matter of hours until the man responsible for those horrible murders was captured. All the police forces of Europe were alerted and news of the arrest was expected at any moment.
Frank admired the skill with which Roncaille and Durand steered the tumult of questions. They were both adept at taking centre stage whenever they possibly could and at changing the focus whenever they found themselves on the sidelines.
Neither of them even mentioned Inspector Nicolas Hulot. Frank recalled
the photos of the accident, the smashed car, his friend’s body slumped over the steering wheel with his face covered in blood. He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and felt the piece of paper inside. Searching every inch of Jean-Loup Verdier’s house for a clue that would explain his escape, he had found an ordinary speeding ticket. The licence plate was that of a rented car. It was dated the day of Nicolas’s death and the location was not far from the scene of the accident. Frank had been led back to Jean-Loup by this simple proof and by the words of someone who had turned out to be an unknowing but effective accomplice: Pierrot.
The secret Frank had asked him to keep as an honourable policeman apparently did not include his dear friend Jean-Loup. Ironically, it was to him and to him alone that Pierrot had confided Frank’s question about the Robert Fulton record. That was how Jean-Loup had realized he’d made a mistake, and then No One had taken off after Nicolas Hulot who was on his quest to find out what he could about the record.
Frank had retraced the inspector’s steps one by one and had learned everything that he had learned. Hulot had discovered the identity of the killer long before they had. And that’s why he was dead. Roncaille’s voice roused Frank from his thoughts.
‘. . . I will now turn the floor over to the man who succeeded in giving the serial killer known as No One a name and a face: FBI Special Agent Frank Ottobre.’
There was no applause, just a forest of raised hands. Roncaille pointed to a reporter with red hair sitting in the first row. Frank recognized him and prepared himself for a fusillade of questions. Coletti stood up and identified himself.
‘René Coletti, France Soir. Agent Ottobre, have you been able to come up with any motive for why Jean-Loup Verdier mutilates his victims’ faces so horribly?’
Frank tried not to smile.
Two can play at that game.
Frank leaned back in his chair. ‘That’s a question that Dr Cluny is more qualified to answer than I am. I can say that, as of today, we are unable to give a satisfactory motivation behind the methods used in the killings. As Chief Roncaille has already stated, there are still a number of details under investigation. However, there are several elements that we know for certain and can share with you.’ Frank paused for effect. Dr Cluny would have been proud. ‘This certainty comes from the work done previously by Inspector Nicolas Hulot, which I then used to help identify No One. Thanks to an oversight on the part of the killer during the homicide of Allen Yoshida, Inspector Hulot managed to trace him back to an obscure case that happened years ago in Cassis, Provence. It was a violent crime and an entire family was killed. The case was filed away fairly quickly as a homicide-suicide. That judgement will now probably be up for review. I can tell you that the face of one of the victims was disfigured in exactly the same manner as those of No One’s victims.’
The room was abuzz. Other hands shot in the air. A young, vigilant-looking reporter stood up before anyone else. ‘Laura Schubert, Le Figaro.’
Frank gave her the floor with a nod.
‘But wasn’t Inspector Hulot removed from the case?’
Out of the corner of his eye Frank could see Roncaille and Durand stiffen. He smiled at the young woman who was about to hear a different story, the real one.
Up yours, assholes.
‘That’s actually not quite true. It was a misinterpretation by the press of certain declarations, which never mentioned that possibility. Inspector Hulot was simply detached from the inquiry here in Monte Carlo, to be able to follow his lead with the utmost discretion. As you can imagine, this detail was not revealed to the public for a number of reasons. It is with great sorrow that I have to announce that his investigative ability was itself the cause of his death, which did not occur in a simple car accident. Instead, it was yet another murder by No One who, realizing his identity had been discovered, came out in the open to kill again. I repeat, the credit for identifying the person responsible for these murders goes to Commissioner Nicolas Hulot, who paid for it with his life.’
The story didn’t hold water, but it made the journalists sit up and take notice. It was something for the media to tell, which was all Frank wanted. Durand and Roncaille were beside themselves but they tried with all their might to grin and bear it. Morelli, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, sneaked Frank a thumbs-up from under his elbow.
A reporter who spoke French with a heavy Italian accent stood up. ‘Marco Franti. Corriere della Sera, Milan. Can you tell us something more about what Inspector Hulot found out in Cassis?’
‘I repeat, that investigation is still under way and it will be some time before it is concluded. There is only one thing that I can tell you with certainty. We are trying to find out No One’s real name, since we believe that even Jean-Loup Verdier is an alias. Investigations at the Cassis cemetery based on Inspector Hulot’s lead have uncovered the fact that Jean-Loup Verdier is the name of a boy who drowned at sea many years ago while diving, around the time that the violent episode I mentioned earlier took place. The coincidence is suspicious, considering that the boy’s grave is just a few feet from that of the family.’
Another reporter raised his hand and shouted out his question without even standing, miraculously managing to make his voice heard over the uproar.
‘What can you tell us about the incident with Captain Ryan Mosse?’
A sudden silence fell over the room at the mention of one of the affair’s most stinging questions. Frank looked carefully at the reporter and then ran his gaze over all those present.
‘The arrest of Captain Ryan Mosse, who has already been released, was a mistake on my part. I am not looking for excuses or circumstantial evidence, which seemed enough to suspect Mosse of the murder of Roby Stricker at the time. Unfortunately, innocent people can sometimes get entangled in a very complicated investigation. This, however, is not and can never be a justification. I repeat, it was a mistake for which I am solely responsible and ready to face the consequences. Nobody else is to blame. Now, if you will excuse me –’ Frank stood up. ‘Unfortunately, I am still working with the police to capture a very dangerous killer. I am sure that Attorney General Durand, Chief Roncaille and Dr Cluny will be happy to answer the rest of your questions.’
Frank left the table, walked towards where Morelli was standing by the wall and disappeared through a side door. He found himself in a wide, circular hallway adjacent to the conference room. The sergeant joined him moments later.
‘You were terrific, Frank. I’d pay anything for a photo of Roncaille and Durand’s faces when you said that about Inspector Hulot. I’d show them to my grandchildren as proof that there is a God. Now—’
Steps approaching behind them interrupted Morelli. He stared at a point behind Frank.
‘So, we meet again, Mr Ottobre.’
Frank immediately recognized the voice. He turned and found himself face-to-face with the lifeless eyes of Ryan Mosse and the damned soul of General Nathan Parker. Morelli was immediately by his side. Frank sensed his presence and was grateful.
‘Is there a problem here, Frank?’
‘No, Claude, no problem. I think you can go. Right, general?’
‘Of course. No problem. If you will excuse us, sergeant.’ Parker’s voice was cold as ice.
Morelli walked away, not wholly convinced. Frank heard his steps on the marble floor. Nathan Parker and Ryan Mosse stood in silence until he turned the corner and disappeared. Then, Parker spoke first.
‘So you did it, Frank. You found your killer. You’re a man with a great deal of initiative.’
‘I might say the same of you, general, although yours are not always initiatives to be proud of. Helena told me everything, in case you’re interested.’
The old soldier didn’t blink an eye.
‘She told me everything about you, too. She told me all about your masculinity, when it comes to taking advantage of a woman who is not in her right mind. You made a big mistake by playing the knight in shining armour. If I remember correctl
y, I advised you not to get in my way. But you didn’t listen.’
‘You’re a contemptible man, General Parker, and I will destroy you.’
Ryan Mosse stepped forward but the general stopped him with a gesture. He smiled with the duplicity of a serpent.
‘You’re a failure, and like all failures, you’re a romantic, Mr Ottobre. You’re not a man, but only the remnants of one. I can crush you with my bare hand. Now you listen to what I have to say.’ He came so close that Frank could feel the heat of his breath and the slight spray of saliva as he hissed his fury in Frank’s face. ‘Keep away from my daughter, Frank. I can reduce you to a state where you’ll beg me to kill you. If you care nothing for your own safety, then think of Helena’s. I can lock her away in a mental institution and throw away the key, whenever I feel like it.’
The general started circling around him as he continued speaking. ‘Of course, you can join forces and try to defeat me together. Try to spit your poison at me. But remember. On one side, there’s a US Army general, a war hero, military adviser to the President. On the other side, there’s a woman known to be unstable and a man who spent months recovering in a mental institution, after practically forcing his wife to commit suicide. Tell me, Frank, who would they believe? Besides the fact that anything that you two might invent about me would affect Stuart, which is the last thing Helena would want. My daughter already understands that, and promises not to see you or have anything more to do with you. Ever again. I expect the same from you, Mr Ottobre. Do you understand? Never again!’
The old soldier took a step back with the light of triumph in his eyes. ‘However this ends, you’re finished, Mr Ottobre.’