killer walked behind the sofa and, in a flash, slipped a length of piano wire around Boudon’s neck. He had no time to get free. It was too late. Nikita had a perfect grip on the piano wire, and did not let go until it had cut deeply into Boudon’s fleshy neck.
Boudon’s legs shook for a few seconds before going still with a last flop, and his head, half severed, hung grotesquely from his body, fixed in a death mask of pure terror.
Nikita calmly retrieved his garrote and picked up the telephone with his bloody hand.
“Please leave a message,” said the answering machine’s impersonal voice.
“021 reporting. Call me back.”
The chief of police panted with pleasure over the seventeen-year-old boy moaning luxuriantly beneath him on the rumpled sheets of the double bed.
Not for anything in the world would Hervet deprive himself of his twice-weekly assignations with Stéphan, a boy from a good family, who prostituted himself for easy money.
Hervet loved returning to this supple body. Despite his youth, Stéphan already had much experience with vice. The chief of police grunted heavily, and the thrusting of his pelvis accelerated. A light trembling shook his body, and he rolled over on his side, fully satisfied.
“Right. Time to go, Stéphan. I’ve got a private view of a new exhibition in two hours.”
Hervet took a few notes from his wallet and laid them on the young man’s leather pants. After a quick trip to the bathroom, he dressed, then perused his agenda for the day. There was enough time to go check out the villa he intended to hire for the shoot, a few miles from the suburb of Rambouillet, before going to a private viewing at the Musée du Luxembourg of “mystic” paintings by one of Charlotte’s friends. He would give Nikita a ring back after the party.
The Mercedes 500 drove along a small country lane. The villa, which was situated on the edge of the forest, would be perfect both for keeping the children and as a location for the film. The interior was all luxury and refinement. Venetian-glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling, while the eighteenth-century cabinets and tables were covered in precious objects. It was exactly what Hervet wanted for his client. The car’s speakers were playing Wagner’s Das Rheingold . Yet this music that he loved so much couldn’t make him forget his cares. François, his chauffeur, watched him in the rearview mirror.
“You look as if something’s bothering you, sir.”
“I don’t know what to do about the kids. Le Goënec and Tavernier have taken three of them. It’s getting risky. I don’t want to take any chances. We must find some other children—orphans. If only Malet were still alive!”
“If you ask me, sir,” said François after a moment of thought, “the answer would be to bring in some kids from abroad.”
“I do have a few friends in Holland.”
“Nikita has a good contact in Romania, a very successful pimp. This guy could do the rounds of the orphanages, if you’re prepared to pay enough. The whole country is full of abandoned children.”
“Excellent idea. I will talk to him about it tonight.”
The sedan turned onto the freeway, which was already choked with traffic. Hervet closed his eyes. Bit by bit, he let himself be soothed by Wagner’s music. The idea of bringing over some Romanian orphans was simply perfect. François never ceased to amaze him; a man like that was a rare luxury these days. With a brain like his, he never saw problems, only solutions, and juicy ones at that. Hervet fell asleep, lulled by the purring of the engine and the delights of Wagner. The next few days were looking most auspicious.
C HAPTER XI
Nine p.m., according to the kitchen clock. Nikita was grilling himself a fat steak. Exercise always gave him an appetite. The hit man laid the table for two, out of habit, and sat down to eat opposite his brother’s empty place. A dull rage throbbed in his head. Tavernier and Le Goënec were going to pay a
Boudon’s legs shook for a few seconds before going still with a last flop, and his head, half severed, hung grotesquely from his body, fixed in a death mask of pure terror.
Nikita calmly retrieved his garrote and picked up the telephone with his bloody hand.
“Please leave a message,” said the answering machine’s impersonal voice.
“021 reporting. Call me back.”
The chief of police panted with pleasure over the seventeen-year-old boy moaning luxuriantly beneath him on the rumpled sheets of the double bed.
Not for anything in the world would Hervet deprive himself of his twice-weekly assignations with Stéphan, a boy from a good family, who prostituted himself for easy money.
Hervet loved returning to this supple body. Despite his youth, Stéphan already had much experience with vice. The chief of police grunted heavily, and the thrusting of his pelvis accelerated. A light trembling shook his body, and he rolled over on his side, fully satisfied.
“Right. Time to go, Stéphan. I’ve got a private view of a new exhibition in two hours.”
Hervet took a few notes from his wallet and laid them on the young man’s leather pants. After a quick trip to the bathroom, he dressed, then perused his agenda for the day. There was enough time to go check out the villa he intended to hire for the shoot, a few miles from the suburb of Rambouillet, before going to a private viewing at the Musée du Luxembourg of “mystic” paintings by one of Charlotte’s friends. He would give Nikita a ring back after the party.
The Mercedes 500 drove along a small country lane. The villa, which was situated on the edge of the forest, would be perfect both for keeping the children and as a location for the film. The interior was all luxury and refinement. Venetian-glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling, while the eighteenth-century cabinets and tables were covered in precious objects. It was exactly what Hervet wanted for his client. The car’s speakers were playing Wagner’s Das Rheingold . Yet this music that he loved so much couldn’t make him forget his cares. François, his chauffeur, watched him in the rearview mirror.
“You look as if something’s bothering you, sir.”
“I don’t know what to do about the kids. Le Goënec and Tavernier have taken three of them. It’s getting risky. I don’t want to take any chances. We must find some other children—orphans. If only Malet were still alive!”
“If you ask me, sir,” said François after a moment of thought, “the answer would be to bring in some kids from abroad.”
“I do have a few friends in Holland.”
“Nikita has a good contact in Romania, a very successful pimp. This guy could do the rounds of the orphanages, if you’re prepared to pay enough. The whole country is full of abandoned children.”
“Excellent idea. I will talk to him about it tonight.”
The sedan turned onto the freeway, which was already choked with traffic. Hervet closed his eyes. Bit by bit, he let himself be soothed by Wagner’s music. The idea of bringing over some Romanian orphans was simply perfect. François never ceased to amaze him; a man like that was a rare luxury these days. With a brain like his, he never saw problems, only solutions, and juicy ones at that. Hervet fell asleep, lulled by the purring of the engine and the delights of Wagner. The next few days were looking most auspicious.
C HAPTER XI
Nine p.m., according to the kitchen clock. Nikita was grilling himself a fat steak. Exercise always gave him an appetite. The hit man laid the table for two, out of habit, and sat down to eat opposite his brother’s empty place. A dull rage throbbed in his head. Tavernier and Le Goënec were going to pay a
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