the house served the drinks himself.
“Trouble?”
“Yesterday two men turned up at my place unannounced. Top-notch hit men. If it wasn’t for the intervention of my friend Le Goënec, I think you’d now be without my services.”
“We have really set the cat among the pigeons, and the response has not been long in coming.”
Tavernier knocked back a slug of whisky and said, “Now that the chief knows I’m involved, the real trouble’s going to start.”
“‘If you want peace, prepare for war.’ A Latin proverb,” said the Baron, serving himself another cup of Earl Grey. “We’re going on the offensive. I suggest you don’t go back to headquarters. You must take some leave.”
“I’ve got several weeks of vacation coming to me. I think I’ll get away for a little while.”
“You know that Hervet won’t leave you alone now. Avoid returning here until further notice. We’ll stay in touch by telephone, at the usual number.”
Tavernier nodded, lifting his heavy frame from the armchair.
“Good luck,” said the Baron, firmly shaking his hand. “You are aware that with this kind of mission, your chances of success are minimal.”
“I know, Baron. Nothing would give Paul Hervet a greater treat than delivering the eulogy at my funeral. And he is not the kind of man to refuse himself a little treat.”
C HAPTER X
Nikita woke with aching limbs. His body was covered in bruises, and his nose was so swollen it looked like it would burst. The wounded beast got up and walked, like an old man, to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror and saw his own bruised face staring back at him.
After returning to their little house in Saint-Brice-Sous-Forêt in an awful state, an unbridled hate was eating away at him. The death of his twin was the very worst thing that could happen. Nikita felt he was now only half the man he’d been.
He had left Paul Hervet a terse message on his answering machine, using his code name 021, then tended to his wounds before collapsing onto his bed, thinking of Nicolas lying there in that cop’s shabby house. Never would he be able to forget such a horrific sight. Nikita cursed himself for not having been able to do anything to save his brother. Like some bad dream, he could still see the knife stuck up to the hilt in Nicolas’s side.
“What have those bastards done with his body?”
His head was clear: revenge was inevitable. Those two motherfuckers would pay the price.
The ringing of the phone jerked Nikita out of his murderous thoughts.
“I’m listening,” Hervet said.
“It went badly. There were two of them waiting for us.”
“Two? Can you describe the other one?”
“Tall, dark hair, brown eyes, tough-looking. I recognized him from the front page of France-Soir .”
“That’s Tavernier’s deputy. I want you to get rid of those two, as quickly as possible. No mistakes this time.”
“OK.”
“But first, there’s a more urgent matter. Martin Boudon, the ballet teacher. Top priority.”
If Robert Malet had talked before dying, there was only one name he could have coughed up: Martin Boudon. The chief of police knew that the two cops were capable of getting him to talk. It would be disastrous if Boudon squealed. That documentary producer, Herman, was none other than Loïc Le Goënec. No doubt about it.
“Speed is of the essence, so you might as well split the work with your brother,” said the chief sharply.
“Your cop buddies bumped off Nicolas. Now I have no choice but to operate alone.”
“I am sorry about him. I hope you will exact an exemplary vengeance.”
“Don’t you worry. Those two are as good as dead.”
The young dancers graciously extended their legs and lifted their curving arms over their heads. The teacher struck the floor with his stick to mark the beat.
“Seven . . . eight . . . Right, that’s not bad.”
The kids looked curiously at Nikita. Hervet’s henchman was not the prettiest sight, with his nose all bandaged
“Trouble?”
“Yesterday two men turned up at my place unannounced. Top-notch hit men. If it wasn’t for the intervention of my friend Le Goënec, I think you’d now be without my services.”
“We have really set the cat among the pigeons, and the response has not been long in coming.”
Tavernier knocked back a slug of whisky and said, “Now that the chief knows I’m involved, the real trouble’s going to start.”
“‘If you want peace, prepare for war.’ A Latin proverb,” said the Baron, serving himself another cup of Earl Grey. “We’re going on the offensive. I suggest you don’t go back to headquarters. You must take some leave.”
“I’ve got several weeks of vacation coming to me. I think I’ll get away for a little while.”
“You know that Hervet won’t leave you alone now. Avoid returning here until further notice. We’ll stay in touch by telephone, at the usual number.”
Tavernier nodded, lifting his heavy frame from the armchair.
“Good luck,” said the Baron, firmly shaking his hand. “You are aware that with this kind of mission, your chances of success are minimal.”
“I know, Baron. Nothing would give Paul Hervet a greater treat than delivering the eulogy at my funeral. And he is not the kind of man to refuse himself a little treat.”
C HAPTER X
Nikita woke with aching limbs. His body was covered in bruises, and his nose was so swollen it looked like it would burst. The wounded beast got up and walked, like an old man, to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror and saw his own bruised face staring back at him.
After returning to their little house in Saint-Brice-Sous-Forêt in an awful state, an unbridled hate was eating away at him. The death of his twin was the very worst thing that could happen. Nikita felt he was now only half the man he’d been.
He had left Paul Hervet a terse message on his answering machine, using his code name 021, then tended to his wounds before collapsing onto his bed, thinking of Nicolas lying there in that cop’s shabby house. Never would he be able to forget such a horrific sight. Nikita cursed himself for not having been able to do anything to save his brother. Like some bad dream, he could still see the knife stuck up to the hilt in Nicolas’s side.
“What have those bastards done with his body?”
His head was clear: revenge was inevitable. Those two motherfuckers would pay the price.
The ringing of the phone jerked Nikita out of his murderous thoughts.
“I’m listening,” Hervet said.
“It went badly. There were two of them waiting for us.”
“Two? Can you describe the other one?”
“Tall, dark hair, brown eyes, tough-looking. I recognized him from the front page of France-Soir .”
“That’s Tavernier’s deputy. I want you to get rid of those two, as quickly as possible. No mistakes this time.”
“OK.”
“But first, there’s a more urgent matter. Martin Boudon, the ballet teacher. Top priority.”
If Robert Malet had talked before dying, there was only one name he could have coughed up: Martin Boudon. The chief of police knew that the two cops were capable of getting him to talk. It would be disastrous if Boudon squealed. That documentary producer, Herman, was none other than Loïc Le Goënec. No doubt about it.
“Speed is of the essence, so you might as well split the work with your brother,” said the chief sharply.
“Your cop buddies bumped off Nicolas. Now I have no choice but to operate alone.”
“I am sorry about him. I hope you will exact an exemplary vengeance.”
“Don’t you worry. Those two are as good as dead.”
The young dancers graciously extended their legs and lifted their curving arms over their heads. The teacher struck the floor with his stick to mark the beat.
“Seven . . . eight . . . Right, that’s not bad.”
The kids looked curiously at Nikita. Hervet’s henchman was not the prettiest sight, with his nose all bandaged
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