Solo

He turned and went down the steps to his hire car.

He had a rehearsal with the London Symphony that afternoon. The conductor was on top form and he and Mikali clicked into place with each other immediately. However, he did ask for a further rehearsal the following afternoon between two and four as the concert was at seven-thirty in the evening. Mikali agreed.

At five-thirty that evening, he waited in an old Citroën in a lay-by on the Versailles road not far from the palace itself. Jarrot was at the wheel.

‘If you’d only tell me what this is all about?’ he grumbled.

‘Later.’ Mikali offered him a cigarette. ‘You said if I ever wanted anything to come to you, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but…’

At that moment the black Mercedes with the Greek pennant cruised by and Mikali said urgently, ‘Get after that car. No need to rush. He’s not doing more than forty.’

‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Jarrot said as he drove off. ‘Not in a heap like that.’

‘It’s simple really,’ Mikali said. ‘The Colonel likes the scenery.’

‘The Colonel?’

‘Just shut up and keep driving.’

The Mercedes took the road across the Bois de Meudon, the park at that time in the evening quiet and deserted. It started to draw away. At that moment, a motorcyclist swept past them at speed, flashers going, a sinister figure in crash helmet and goggles and dark, caped coat, a submachine-carbine slung across his back.

He disappeared down the road passing the Mercedes. ‘Bastard,’ Jarrot spat out of the window. ‘There’s been a lot of these CRS swine riding around on those flash motorbikes recently. I thought they were only supposed to be riot police.’

Mikali smiled softly, lit another cigarette. ‘You can slow down. I know how to do it now.’

‘Do what, for Christ’s sake?’

So Mikali told him. The Citroën swerved violently as Jarrot braked hard and pulled it in to the side of the road.

‘You’re crazy. You must be. You’ll never get away with it.’

‘Oh, yes, I will with your help. You can supply me with everything I need.’

‘Like hell I will. Listen, you madman, a voice on the phone is all the Sûreté would need.’

‘What a fat, stupid man you are,’ Mikali said calmly. ‘I’m John Mikali. I play in Rome, London, Paris, New York. Does it make any kind of sense that I could be contemplating such a crazy idea? Why would I do such a thing? My grandfather fell to his death from that balcony by accident. The court said so.’

‘No!’ Jarrot said wildly.

‘Whereas you, old stick, are not only a cheap crook, as became painfully clear when you showed me all that loot at your garage that night. You were also heavily involved with the OAS.’

‘No one can prove that,’ Jarrot said wildly.

‘Oh, yes they can. Just your name and even a hint of an OAS connection and it’s Service Five, isn’t that what they call the strong-arm squad – the barbouzes? Half of them old mates of yours from Algiers, so you know what to expect. They’ll spread you on the table, wire up your privates, then press the switch. You’ll be telling them everything down to the finest detail within half an hour, only they won’t believe you. They’ll keep on, just to see if they’ve got it all. In the end you’ll be dead or a drooling idiot.’

‘All right,’ Jarrot groaned. ‘Don’t go on. I’ll do it.’

‘But of course. You see, Claude, all you have to do is live right. Now let’s get out of here.’

He wound down the window and let the evening air cool his face. He hadn’t felt so truly alive in years, every nerve in him strung to perfect tune. It was like that last final moment in the wings before walking out into the light towards the piano and then the applause rising, lifting in great waves…

It was just after six o’clock on the following evening as Paros, the Embassy chauffeur at the wheel of the Mercedes, turned, Versailles on his left, and entered the Bois de Meudon. Sergeant Aleko sat beside him. Petrakis was in the back on the occasional seat, facing Colonel Vassilikos who was studying a file. The glass panel was closed.

It had rained heavily all afternoon and the park was deserted. Paros was taking his time as usual and became aware, in the rapidly falling dusk, of lights close behind him. A CRS man in dark uniform raincoat and helmet pulled alongside and waved him down. With the collar turned up against the rain, the dark goggles, Paros could see nothing of his face at all.

‘CRS,’ Aleko said.

The glass panel opened. Colonel Vassilikos said, ‘Find out what he wants.’

As the Mercedes braked to a halt, the CRS man pulled in front, got off his heavy BMW machine and pushed it on its stand. He walked towards them. His raincoat was very wet and he carried a MAT 49 machine-carbine across his chest.

Aleko opened the door and got out. ‘What’s the trouble?’ he demanded in bad French.

The CRS man’s hand came out of his pocket holding a .45 Colt automatic of the type issued to the American Army during the Second World War.

He shot Aleko in the heart, slamming the sergeant back against the Mercedes. He bounced off and fell into the gutter on his face.

Petrakis, sitting in the occasional seat, his back to the glass panel, took the second bullet in the base of his skull. He fell forward, dead instantly, bowed as if in prayer on the seat beside the Colonel who cowered back, frozen in shock, his uniform spattered with blood.

Paros gripped the wheel tightly, his entire body trembling as the barrel of the Colt swung towards him. ‘No – please no!’

Over the years Mikali had learned to speak Greek of a kind to meet even the most exacting demands of Athenian society, but now he reverted to the accent of the Cretan peasant as taught to him by Katina so many years ago.

He pulled Paros from behind the wheel. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, keeping his eyes on Vassilikos.

‘Paros – Dimitri Paros. I’m just an Embassy driver. A married man with children.’

‘You should choose a better class of employment instead of working for fascist bastards like these,’ Mikali said. ‘Now run like hell across the park.’

Paros stumbled away and Vassilikos croaked, ‘For God’s sake.’

‘What’s He got to do with it?’ Mikali dropped the Cretan accent and pushed up his goggles. An expression of total astonishment appeared on the Colonel’s face. ‘You? But it isn’t possible.’

‘For my grandfather,’ Mikali said. ‘I wish I could make it slower, but there isn’t time. At least you’ll go to hell knowing who it’s from.’

As Vassilikos opened his mouth to speak again, Mikali leaned in and shot him between the eyes, the heavy bullet killing him instantly.

A second later he was pushing the BMW off its stand and riding away. A car passed him, going towards Versailles. In his mirror he saw it slow as it approached the Mercedes, then stop. Not that it mattered now. He turned off the road into one of the footpaths and vanished into the trees.

In a secluded lay-by on the other side of the park, deserted at that time of the evening, Jarrot waited fearfully beside the old Citroën truck. The tailgate was down forming a ramp and he was pretending to tinker with one of the rear wheels.

There was the sound of the BMW approaching through the trees. Mikali appeared and took the motorcycle straight up the ramp into the back of the truck. Jarrot quickly raised the tailgate, then rushed round to the cab, climbed behind the wheel. As he drove away, he could hear police klaxons over to his left in the far distance.

Mikali stood at the open furnace door at the garage and fed the CRS uniform in, piece by piece, even the plastic helmet. The BMW stood in the corner beside the Citroën truck, stripped of the false police signs and number plates which, being mainly plastic, burned quite nicely too.

When he went upstairs he found Jarrot sitting at the table, a bottle of the Napoleon in front of him and a glass.