Chapter 1
It started early in the year. It was quite a sensation at first. One might have read in the local and national headlines about an eruption of violence in the suburbs of the major cities in France: Paris, Lyon, Grenoble, or Marseille. A dramatic rise in the murder rate, dead bodies were left or dumped overnight in plain view in what police suspected was a brazen intent to be found by an unfortunate morning jogger. One shocking incident was tagged with the headline
THE DEPARTED PILE UP IN PUBLIC PARKS!
Or there was the story of a victim slain just minutes after leaving a busy transport hub. The morning newspapers ran with the headline
END OF THE LINE FOR NIGHTTIME COMMUTER
All of the victims were suspected of being or known to be in various leadership roles in the major organized crime syndicates that operate in France such as the Corsican Mafia, Les Caids Des Cites, or Traveler Gangs. Forensic analysts reported nearly all of the crime scenes suggested no sign of a struggle, leading the police to believe the killers were known associates of the victims. Not a single witness ever stepped forward or was ever found by the police.
Given the complete lack of any sort of a lead to these cases, there was even a public outcry accusing the police themselves of the murders. Conspiracy theorists shouted that the police, tired of their war on organized crime being constrained by the law, had taken justice into their own hands, but an internal investigation concluded not a single police officer was ever near a scene of the crime at the estimated time of death.
Some of the victims weren’t even known to the police as members of organized crime before their deaths; the fact was only later revealed, or at least strongly suspected, after an investigation into their murder.
A small number of those killed were even under police surveillance, but the murders always occurred away from any electronic monitoring, such as wiretapping or camera installations, and in cases where there was an undercover or informant attached to the victim, they were never near the victim during the murder.
The police were baffled by the precision of the homicides, and the crime syndicates themselves never attempted any kind of retaliation because they were just as confused as the police.
This continued in the same way for three months, except for one deviation. Three of the nine division heads who worked directly under the General Directorate of France’s National Police were murdered: the Central Directorate of Judiciary Police, the Central Directorate of Border Police, and the head of the Technical International Police Cooperation Service.
Both public and law enforcement speculation was quick to jump to the conclusion that the police were now being targeted by these unknown assassins, but a thorough investigation concluded the three deceased were not targeted because of who they were. It was rather a case of what was later labeled as an unstable and disgruntled police officer who had indiscriminately gunned down the first unfortunate group of people he found at police headquarters in Paris. Interviews with friends, family, and associates as well as a search of his home lent a strong foundation to this theory.
There was never a civilian casualty, and it was always the same story. Dead criminal found, no witness. Public interest began to wane. The stories fell from the front page to page three, to page five, eventually to wherever in the back of the newspapers editors could fit them, and by the time the murders came to an end, the public interest was long over it.
Privately, most of society felt the four month episode was, if not justified, acceptable. It was only criminals who suffered in those months of violence, after all.
It’s the dead of night, in the beginning of fall, and a few months after the killings had stopped. A police car pulls up to a house in a well-off area of a Paris suburb. A policeman gets out and walks toward the front door.
Inside, the phone rings. “Yes?” a just-woke-up gruff voice answers. It’s Director General Remi Gagnon, on the force for thirty-eight years, the head of the French National Police for the past nine.
“Director General, sorry for waking you at this hour,” the voice on the line says.
Gagnon knows he’s not the one to be called except in extreme circumstances, but even then . . . “Get on with it,” Gagnon says, “What’s happening, Laurent?”
“One of my teams has made a breakthrough in the crime syndicate slayings. We’ve captured one of the assassins. I’m here at the scene. I think you should come out here yourself. This might be a little too delicate for me to handle.”
“Too what? You’re the damned general inspector. You don’t have to do me these favors anymore by bringing me in on these cases, breakthroughs. You’ll be sitting in my desk soon enough,” Gagnon says.
A brief silence fills their conversation as Laurent finds the words to explain without saying too much.
“He’s one of us,” Laurent says. “You won’t believe who if I told you, and that’s as much as I’m willing to say over the phone. Please come out here straight away, and don’t contact anyone. This one might go deeper than the National Police are prepared for.”
A sigh escapes Gagnon. Even after all these years, there are still a few things that can surprise him. “Are you suggesting one of my department heads?”
“I already sent one of my men to pick you up. He should be outside your home now. Again, no one else can know about this until we see each other.”
Gagnon ends the call. Could someone in the National Police be behind the four month wave of murders, possibly a department head no less? He can’t believe it. Laurent might be right, this could be too much to handle, especially after three of his most capable department heads were murdered just months before. Could their deaths be linked after all?
He was personally involved in the internal investigation and assured the public the police were not involved in any of the murders. He handpicked the personnel to conduct the investigation. Officers he trusted to do the job right. This can’t be true. At the end of his career, this will ruin his legacy.
He hears a knock at the door. The police officer sent by Laurent. He dresses and rushes out the door.
Laurent Allard stands outside of a small faceless building in the outskirts of Paris. He exudes an air of victory about him. He stands tall, an imposing figure complimented by an honest face. The kind of leader who’s easy to follow.
Allard says, “This is it, Moreau. Tonight is our big payoff. Two decades, half of our life, together, on the force. After all of the toiling and suffering, this is our moment. They all thought we were good before; if we play this right, we’re set.”
Jean Moreau stands next to him. Similar in features, Moreau could almost pass for his little brother. They stand shoulder to shoulder at this great moment in their lives in silence as they survey in their minds the journey they shared to reach this point. Joint enrollment into the National Police after graduating from university, they both aced the entrance exams and were accepted into the Canet-Cluse School to become inspectors.
As partners they shared in each other’s almost prolific careers. They held a nearly perfect file of an almost impossibly swift and clean arrest record. It was sometimes joked they understood the minds of criminals even better than the criminals did themselves, but while Allard moved into the rank of inspector general, Moreau strangely opted to stay at the rank of inspector citing his love of his work in the field.
Allard spots a lone car on the road. “Go inside and tell the men he’s here.” Moreau walks inside the building. The car pulls in front. Gagnon steps out. Allard rushes over to meet Gagnon halfway with a huge smile and an embrace.
It’s no secret in the National Police Gagnon has an almost paternalistic relationship with Allard. The two have worked closely together for the past ten years, starting when Gagnon was the inspector general. They shared in each other’s success, although it was Allard, the young new blood, always giving more than receiving. “You come to claim my case and you’re not even dressed in full uniform, for shame,” Allard says to Gagnon. The two share a laugh as Allard leads Gagnon to the small building.
“You must forgive me, old friend,” Gagnon says.
As they approach the door, Gagnon hesitates. “Allard, whoever is in there, whoever you caught, how bad will this turn out for us? For me? I’m too old, too late in my career to amend any colossal mistakes.” Allard puts his hands up to pacify his boss. “Was there something I missed, something I should have seen?” Gagnon asks.
“Yes.”
Gagnon is stunned. “How can you say that to me? So candid.”
“But it’s not what you think,” Allard says. He opens the door. “After you.”
Gagnon walks into the building. It’s pitch black; he can’t see a thing. “Allard?” The lights flash on. Gagnon shields his eyes from the blinding light. Before him stand six men. Tall, close cropped hair, smart suits, and each with strikingly similar faces; they could easily pass for businessmen, very in shape businessmen, except for the HK MP5 submachine guns slung around their necks pointed at him.
A second surprise in a night for an old man who thought he was too jaded for such things, fear and wonder seize Gagnon. “Allard?” The butt of Allard’s handgun pushes the back of Gagnon’s head forward to make him walk farther inside.
“Don’t worry about them. They’re just backup, in case you brought anyone with you,” Allard says.
Gagnon stammers. He can’t process what Allard is doing. He’s almost a son to him. He’s known him for over a decade, met his wife, his children. This isn’t Allard. This is not the man he knows. “What have they done to you? What do they have on you, Allard? These men, who are they?”
Allard gestures to the men in suits. “These men? They work for me, and Moreau.”
For the first time Gagnon notices Jean Moreau is standing in the room, too, looking down on him, with a mocking smile.
All Gagnon can squeak out is a soft, “Why?”
“Why?” Allard asks. “So many ways I could answer that question; money, power, revenge, but all I want you to know is this. I was born in Chlef, not Montpellier. It’s far too easy to forge a birth certificate in this country, but that suits me well, don’t you think?”
Allard throws Gagnon to the ground. His old body hits the floor hard. “I hate the French for what you’ve done to my people. You raped my country.” He kneels beside his old friend, no remorse, only a mad elation in his eyes. He puts his gun to Gagnon’s forehead. “And tomorrow, I, an Algerian, will take over for you and become the Director of the Active Services for the French National Police, and I have you to thank for it,” Allard says with a smile.
A bit of his old self comes back to him, the fear washes away from Gagnon’s eyes. He won’t die a coward. He looks around the room at the six men and Moreau.
For the first time he realizes how similar the six mystery men look to each other. Not that they could pass for Algerian; they all have a quality of blandness that one would only notice by them standing next to each other. The kind of man you don’t look twice at in the street. Odd, he thinks, but no matter. He spits at them. “Maghrebi, Algerians, all of you!” he says as an accusation.
“Yes.”
Gagnon shoots his hands up for Allard’s gun, but he’s too old, too slow.
Allard pulls the trigger. Straight through the head.
Allard stands. No reaction from the men in suits, except for one who throws a garbage bag at him. They all may be the same height, but the six men manage to look down on Allard. He disassembles his handgun completely, puts all the parts into the bag, and hands the bag back. Moreau gives him his standard issue gun back. Another of the six pushes a cellphone into Allard’s hands. “He wants confirmation from you.”
Allard takes the phone, visibly stiffens, anxious. “Sir? Yes, it’s done. Of course not. I will.” The conversation over, he hands the phone back to the suit who gave it to him. Six pairs of domineering eyes stare hard at him. They know what the voice on the other end of that call had to say. These men aren’t here as backup for Allard. They’re here to make sure he follows through with his assignment–-all of it.
With a trembling hand Allard bends down to pick up the pistol strapped to Gagnon’s side. He stands with a heavy back, raises the gun at Moreau, and asks, “A bit of cold feet, old friend?”
Moreau takes a step back and raises his hands. Hope and disbelief cross his face. He asks, “What is this?”
“You thought you could stop what’s about to happen, but too many of his pieces have already been set in motion. His reach is too deep.” Allard wipes sweat from his brow, fear and trepidation in his eyes. “Our secrets you’ve been leaking, this government man you’ve been talking to; he is,” he trails off.
“No.”
“They’re watching us, all of us, constantly. You’ve been talking to one of us.”
Waves of shock wash over Moreau. “That’s not true.”
Allard takes a step closer to his oldest friend and steadies the gun sight on his forehead, finger on the trigger. “This was supposed to be our greatest night.”
