Marquanteur And The Letter Bombs Of Marseille: France Crime Thriller

By Alfred Bekker

Marquanteur And The Letter Bombs Of Marseille: France Crime Thriller

by Alfred Bekker

 

 

Someone sends letter bombs to police officers in the French port city of Marseille. Is it revenge for a long-ago event, or does someone have hatred for police officers in general? Who knows explosives so well that no policeman can be sure of his life? Commissioners Marquanteur and Leroc search feverishly for the letter bomber, but without a motive they are poking around in the fog.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alfred Bekker
• Release date: Jul 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215555187

Alfred Bekker

Alfred Bekker wurde am 27.9.1964 in Borghorst (heute Steinfurt) geboren und wuchs in den münsterländischen Gemeinden Ladbergen und Lengerich auf. 1984 machte er Abitur, leistete danach Zivildienst auf der Pflegestation eines Altenheims und studierte an der Universität Osnabrück für das Lehramt an Grund- und Hauptschulen. Insgesamt 13 Jahre war er danach im Schuldienst tätig, bevor er sich ausschließlich der Schriftstellerei widmete. Schon als Student veröffentlichte Bekker zahlreiche Romane und Kurzgeschichten. Er war Mitautor zugkräftiger Romanserien wie Kommissar X, Jerry Cotton, Rhen Dhark, Bad Earth und Sternenfaust und schrieb eine Reihe von Kriminalromanen. Angeregt durch seine Tätigkeit als Lehrer wandte er sich schließlich auch dem Kinder- und Jugendbuch zu, wo er Buchserien wie 'Tatort Mittelalter', 'Da Vincis Fälle', 'Elbenkinder' und 'Die wilden Orks' entwickelte. Seine Fantasy-Romane um 'Das Reich der Elben', die 'DrachenErde-Saga' und die 'Gorian'-Trilogie machten ihn einem großen Publikum bekannt. Darüber hinaus schreibt er weiterhin Krimis und gemeinsam mit seiner Frau unter dem Pseudonym Conny Walden historische Romane. Einige Gruselromane für Teenager verfasste er unter dem Namen John Devlin. Für Krimis verwendete er auch das Pseudonym Neal Chadwick. Seine Romane erschienen u.a. bei Blanvalet, BVK, Goldmann, Lyx, Schneiderbuch, Arena, dtv, Ueberreuter und Bastei Lübbe und wurden in zahlreiche Sprachen übersetzt.

Book preview

1

So this is your new digs! was the comment of my colleague François Leroc when I showed him my new apartment. A bit cramped, but it gives you a clear view of the sea and you can see the big ships sailing outside in the distance.

Why tight?, I said.

Well ...

I'm hardly ever here anyway. The shower and the bed - that's all I need. Even the kitchen is superfluous.

I know what you mean, Pierre.

My name is Pierre Marquanteur. I am a commissaire in Marseille. My colleague François Leroc and I are with a special department that deals with the fight against organized crime. Sounds interesting, doesn't it? Has a few disadvantages, too. And one of these disadvantages was that I had to change my apartment for the third time in just a few months. Our job means that every now and then you have to hurt a few big shots from the criminal networks. And the place that hurts them the most is the money. So if you ruin their business in any way, they sometimes get angry.

Well, and besides, in Les Baumettes prison there is still one or the other chief villain who dreams of nothing so much as to really get even with me.

After a few unpleasant incidents recently, I had let myself be convinced to play it safe.

Actually, I'm not someone who just gets out of the way.

But my superior, Monsieur Jean-Claude Marteau, Commissaire général de police, and my colleagues in the department were probably right.

Better to play it safe.

Have you settled in a bit, Pierre?

I did, François.

I think you can at least sleep a little more peacefully here, François said.

Don't worry, I always sleep well.

Well, then.

I had that day and the next day off. Two days off in a row, that was pretty rare for me.

Anyway, I got an unpleasant surprise when I took the mail out of the mailbox that the letter carrier had just dropped in.

Normally, I don't notice this because I'm on duty at the time.

Everyone who has ever received a reminder knows that mail is not always pleasant.

But the letter that was in my box had it all.

The contents of the meaningless envelope consisted of a computer printout with only one sentence: WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.

Well, great, I thought.

But this letter was nothing compared to the letters François and I would have to deal with a few days later ...

*

Go! said François.

With a mighty kick I let the door of the apartment burst open. I held the handle of my weapon in both hands and let my gaze wander around the room in a matter of seconds.

Nothing.

A dresser with a phone on it, a coat rack with two jackets on it, and a stained carpet where someone must have spilled half a bottle of red wine at some point.

A door led into an adjoining room.

It was half open.

Be careful, murmured my friend and colleague François Leroc. He, too, held the gun at the ready.

With one leap I was next to the door and pressed myself against the wall. At the same time, a shot barked in my direction.

It was the tremendous firepower of a magnum revolver. The shooter simply fired through the door of the neighboring room. The projectile tore a fist-sized hole in the door before sending a mirror on the other side of the room flying to pieces.

With wide sentences François crossed the room and pulled open the door to the bathroom.

He looked in my direction and shook his head.

This is FoPoCri!, I shouted loudly in the meantime. That's the name of our department and stands for Force spéciale de la police criminelle. Choraque, we know you're in there! Give yourself up! The house is surrounded! You can't get out of here!

No answer.

On the other side of the shot-up door, there didn't seem to be any movement, and the silence that reigned there seemed unreal.

I took a deep breath.

François stood on the other side of the door.

We exchanged a quick glance.

Our opponent was trapped - and he knew it. He didn't stand a chance of leaving this house in any other way than in handcuffs.

Anyone else would probably have given up under the circumstances, preferring to rely on the art of lawyers rather than their own shooting skills.

But Choraque was a very special case ...

The man we were dealing with was a living fighting machine. A man who was perfectly trained to kill and had chosen murder as his profession.

In Toulon, he had killed a man with a rolled-up magazine with which he had crushed his opponent's Adam's apple. Choraque was a man to be wary of - just like those who had secured his services.

No one knew how many people had been killed by this guy, who had once been born under the name Gabriel Choraque and had since lived under dozens of identities. Most recently, he had held a position as a bartender.

A cover, both for himself and for the man whose dirty work Choraque had presumably done last: a certain Mario Rossi.

Choraque was a kind of mixture of chameleon and bloodhound. As a chameleon he behaved towards us - the bloodhound he played for his clients.

Choraque had nothing to lose.

And that made him unpredictable.

He would literally walk over dead bodies. In Paris two years ago, he had shot his way out of four colleagues who wanted to arrest him. He knew no consideration - neither for himself nor for others.

I gripped my gun tighter when I heard a noise from the other side of the door. Something was being pushed.

Then I heard footsteps ...

I looked at François.

My friend nodded.

Now, I hissed.

A kick opened the door. I rushed forward. Seconds between life and death, in which anything could happen.

A figure climbed through the window.

Wide-open, determined eyes looked at me. His hair fell low on his forehead. He bared two rows of flawless teeth like a predator.

And in his right hand he held the massive Magnum revolver, whose .45 caliber could blow half your head off.

Choraque was already halfway out of the window. He was still hanging on the windowsill with the back of his right leg.

His muscles and tendons tensed. He probably wanted to escape via the fire escape.

Put the gun down, Choraque!, I yelled.

For fractions of a second, everything hung in the balance.

But Choraque was a professional in every respect.

He knew he wouldn't be able to yank his gun up and fire it before I put a fatal bullet in his torso.

He knew it, and that's why the tension in his arm muscles relaxed a little. His face contorted into an ugly grin.

And then Choraque actually dropped his gun. It hit the parquet floor with a hard sound.

Satisfied? he growled.

His facial expression looked wolfish. They were not the features of a man who had just given up and was coming to terms with the idea of soon having to answer to a court.

Come back in very slowly!, I demanded.

François was next to me and took the walkie-talkie out of his coat pocket.

This is colleague Leroc. We have him.

I took a step forward and said, You are under arrest, Choraque. You have the right to remain silent. If you waive that right, anything you say from now on can be tried in court ...

Save the litany! he grunted.

Something is wrong, it went through my head. I racked my brain in those seconds about what it might be ... My instincts were sounding the alarm and I had always done well