by James Easton
Miguel repeated his question. “What are you most afraid of?”
She snapped back from thinking about the men. “Well, I had fear in the army. When you hear you are being sent to a conflict. That is scary. Before anything happens.”
She stayed away from the more concrete sources of fear she had experienced in Iraq. Those, Miguel did not need to know about.
“Right now, what are you afraid of?”
“Miguel, what a question.”
“Maybe nothing. You said you’d never told a lie or something, so maybe you are different from ninety-nine-point-seven percent of the population.”
Maybe those men were a distraction, making her careless. Whatever the reason, she heard herself say, “Well, actually, I’m worried about my English right now.”
“Why?” he said in English.
She laughed. Looked out of the window. Switched to English. “OK. Now it’s my turn to be nervous. I have a job starting in two weeks, and I have to be proficient in English. So I can work in the language, speak really good.”
“Speak well, not good.”
“Joder.”
“That’s Spanish. Joder in English is fu-.”
“Ah, Miguel!” She cut cross him, looking shocked.
“You just said it in Spanish. I just translated it.”
Carolina smiled. “You see? I can’t do this in English so well. Make jokes. I don’t even understand everything, like when Anders and you speak.” She shrugged.
“You were looking at Anders’s butt this morning in the kitchen.”
That had happened. “Time for your lunch.”
They stopped at a little chalet restaurant with checked tablecloths, half a kilometre out of town. Miguel ordered a chicken kiev. Carolina saw a tuna steak for forty euros and ordered the bean soup for twelve.
“So,” Miguel folded his hands in a manner he’d probably picked up from his parents. “What’s this problem?”
“I told you.” She sighed and tried to formulate an answer in English. “OK, I left the service six weeks ago. I thought I have two months. But they wanted me two weeks before they have first said for my new job, and I had to drive a truck for my dad when he hurt his back for two of them so he didn’t lose his job. And I lost two weeks to personal stuff. So I have now two weeks.”
“Why are you so worried? You’re mixing tenses a bit, that’s all.”
I’m worried because I faked the damn English test they asked me to do, thought Carolina. And she thought of the expensive tuna steak.
Tuna.
She placed the man with long hair. He was Spanish, connected to a Georgian mafia outfit threatening officials over restaurant licensing in Valencia and Madrid a couple of years ago. He was in the background as a financial interest. He had a legit business, farming tuna. He had been suspected of poisoning a French tuna farm. He was superficially legit but connected to all sorts of people who were not. What was he doing here in Morzine? What was his damn name?
Back at the residence, Carolina showered, got into her shorts and a hoodie. Then she called Pablo and asked him for the name of the long-haired guy, telling him she knew she wasn’t a cop any more before he reminded her.
A few minutes later, Carolina gave up on her book and went to find Miguel.
“Ok, so can you help?”
“With what?”
“My English.”
Miguel stood up with much intent and waved her through to the study. He sat in the armchair, Carolina sat on the sofa. Actually feeling younger than him for a second or two.
“Quid pro quo. Clarice.”
Carolina looked at him. “What?”
“You never saw Silence of the Lambs?
“No. Is it old, like Graham Greene?”
“You never read the book?”
“What do you think?”
Anders came in. “Hey, what about dinner? I know the owner of one of the restaurants. They’ll fit us in.”
They agreed. Carolina looked out of the window as the mid-afternoon slipped toward darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jean was busy with preparations for Robin. He had some champagne and decent food in the fridge and nice soap and shampoo in the bathroom.
Jean would be very disappointed and surprised, if Robin tried to betray him. He didn’t really think it was possible after what they’d experienced together in Cannes. But he wouldn’t be unprepared for it.
He had put the duct tape and plastic cable ties in drawers and cupboards throughout the place where he could get to them quickly if he needed to tie her up. The syringe kit he’d put in the kitchen. It left just one more thing. The bedrooms.
He straightened out the bed in the main bedroom after resting on it. He went into the spare bedroom. It was smaller, with a single bed with a lacy cover. He pulled the rug back and examined the floorboards. He had a crowbar from the toolbox he had found in the loft and he prised up one of the boards without much difficulty. These were old boards. There was a one-metre clearance down there before the concrete foundation layer. He carefully took up another four boards. It smelled damp, but it was well sealed. He checked how quickly he could replace the boards, then took them back up and leaned them against the side of the wardrobe. He covered the gap in the floor with the rug.
He went out to his car. He took a bag of quicklime, over a metre long, from the boot and carried the lime to the spare bedroom, thinking of the film he was going to make with Robin. It could be a goldmine. Some of the guys in the first joint he was in three years ago had put their own videos about life inside on YouTube and got a lot of subscribers. He put the bag of quicklime in the hole and flicked the rug back over it.
For a few seconds, he remembered Cannes. Robin’s raw, sobbing passion. Looking forward to seeing you, baby.
Jean found he was curious about his neighbour over the hill, Anders Hooper-Berg. Maybe it was all part of settling in here. He took a torch and night vision telescope from his backpack, and let himself out of the back of the house and started walking. The snow down here wasn’t so heavy anyway. It was silent, beautiful.
He liked how they were set up. There was Max, what he was doing with the kit Jean has sourced for him. There was Rafa, in support. Plenty of troops with him, having a rocking time by the sound of it. All of them unconnected. He wouldn’t see Max here except for the money if it all went well. And Robin. His personal project. He’d get to spend longer than a day with her this time.
The pull up the hill was strong. So much better than the gym, in this air. The uneven ground added to it. There was a ridge running around to the west, and he walked behind it, then used the night-vision scope to pick his way down the hill toward the house. It wasn’t much more than a few lights behind the blinds in the gloom. But he could see into one room. He zoomed in. The night vision resolution wasn’t perfect, but he thought it was the woman he’d bumped into today with her legs folded under her on the sofa, talking. She had long hair. It had been under her headgear on the slope. She was looking after that kid. He thought of how she’d moved across him again. The way cold calculation, assessment, washed over her face. It meant something that they were here over the hill from his place, and Jean wanted to know all about them.
Henri was playing chess with Max Rokos. Max was a good player. He had presence. And it came across the board at you. Henri liked Max’s insistence on playing two hours each for forty moves. Henri had time to think, and Max had time to leave the table for cigarette breaks and phone calls.
Henri had adjusted, partially at least, to hosting a couple of criminals. In a way, he quite liked them.
This was their life, what they did all the time, and their relaxed mood rubbed off on him. And they weren’t stupid. Eric was unquestionably sharp, and Max seemed quite thoughtful. That was the bigger surprise because he was so physically menacing. Partly this was his built body, the shoulders, his thighs, his neck. Partly it was the way he carried his head, a little sunk into his shoulders, and how watchful he seemed.
Even talking to you, he looked at you for a second before answering.
The menace didn’t seem directed at Henri, but it coloured his general manner. Max would be swearing on the phone on the patio, smoking, tense, and impatient. Then he’d come in for his move, and while he thought about it would say to Henri, “What I love about chess is that, after the initial conflict between you, you are creating the game together.” Then he’d make another phone call outside and say something unrepeatable about his interlocutor’s mother.
OK, so there was a piece of black-market merchandise hidden in Henri’s wine cellar. But the situation wasn’t too bad, and Henri thought more and more about the financial break he was getting from Eric.
Max came back in now, assessed the board, and made a move so quickly Henri started comprehensively reviewing the position for what he’d missed. Instead of going back outside this time, Max sat down. “This is a nice place. You come here with your family, huh?”
Henri looked up. “Yes.”
“Kids? Boys or girls?”
“One of each.”
“Nice. Do they fight much?”
Henri laughed. “They quarrel. I think boys alone fight more.”
Max nodded. “Boys are more aggressive. Girls are more cruel. In my opinion.”
Ah. Henri realised he had a weak pawn on his queen’s side. There was kind of a hole there. But if he advanced the pawn, he’d get pressure on the knight it supported. And, if Max used the bishop to apply that pressure, he’d open the file for the rook behind it, and ultimately pressure the pawn Henri was trying to strengthen by moving it.
“You have girls?” he asked.
“I don’t have kids.” Max shook his head. “This is just my impression. You know, from life.”
Max then grunted. He was looking at the board, and Henri could not tell if it was a chess thing or something on the board confirmed Max’s impression from life. He considered whether he could just attack from another part of the board and forget about the weak pawn. Let that crumble and strike at Max’s king.
After another while, Max said, “Maybe a person like me could get a place like this. Not here, in Morzine, but a quiet place. And I could still do some business. Nothing too big. Just keep the money coming a bit.”
Had Max got the rook across to the C-file because of this weak pawn? If he had moved it because of the weak pawn, it probably meant he was even better at chess than Henri had first thought.
Max interrupted Henri’s analysis. “Your wine cellar, you don’t have much wine in there.”
Henri shook his head.
“Maybe you could put a Jacuzzi there. If you’re not using it. It’s got a nice view, that room.” Max smiled. “Sit in the tub, beer, cigar. Your wife. Sorry, excuse me.” He held up a hand to apologise for saying the words ‘your wife’ as if it were an intrusion, and Henri jumped when he saw the missing half third finger. He coughed to cover up his reaction. Max probably knew a lot of people with missing fingers and noticing such details might not be what you did in his circle.
“Yeah, maybe I’ll think about that,” Henri said, “Some people say Jacuzzis are stale, but, you know, I rather like them.”
“What do you mean, stale?”
“Like they’re old fashioned. Stylistically. Kind of not cool anymore.”
Max scratched his chin. “I don’t understand that. Jacuzzi isn’t about being cool. It feels good. Relax, talk...”
“Talk?”
“To the other people in the Jacuzzi with you.” He wagged a finger from side to side in a wide arc.
Henri wondered if Max might be confusing a sauna or thermal spa with Jacuzzi, simultaneously imagining all manner of shady deals being made in voices hushed below the sound of coursing bubbles.
“Do you have a big Jacuzzi, then?”
“No. I don’t have one. But if I had a place like this, I’d get one.” Max smiled. “Maybe if I get some money I will, eh?”
Eric came in from walking. The snow had reached up to his shins.
“I went down to the town, bought some things.”
Henri thought about the distance and the snow. Eric was fit.
“Kir Royale?” Eric asked them.
Max looked like a big kid as he laughed. “Why not?”
Eric popped a champagne cork and swore as it fizzed everywhere, shaken up from his walk back from town. Henri joined Max in his laughter. Eric cleaned up before he brought the drinks over. He looked at the board.
“You have a problem there, Henri.”
Max looked up at him. “Eric, leave Henri alone, please. He’s dealing with it.”
“Sure.” Eric held up his glass. “Santé.”
Max drained his glass in one gulp and burped. “I prefer Martini, but it’s good. You see, Henri, this is the kind of drink a woman would like. This drink, the view. You see?”
“In the Jacuzzi?”
“Yes. Strong.” He laughed and his palm crashed down on his knee. God knew what Max meant, but Henri laughed too. He was now thinking about resigning the chess game. He had no attacks, and that pawn was a major liability. Like losing the leg on a table. Max could just lean on him.
Eric brought over another Kir Royale for Max. “Shall we go out for dinner this evening?”
Max said, “Do they have Kir Royale?”
Eric said, “I haven’t reserved anywhere yet, but I’d imagine they do.”
Henri said, “Maybe we can drink Kir Royale in a Jacuzzi together, Max?”
Max looked at him for five seconds with no expression whatsoever. Then he said, “No. Excuse me. But non.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Robin and Julian were shown to their table in Restaurant La Tante Audrey, on Route de la Plange. They were seated in a booth near the bar. The place was all wood with a few splashes of brightly coloured velvet upholstery, and it was filling up. A group of ten men, opulent, loud, rumbled past them to the conservatory at the back as Julian picked up the wine list.
“So, how does it work?” he asked.
“Not sure. I’ve never been kidnapped by an armed robber before.”
He looked at her. “Pretty kinky, if you think about it.”
“That’s why it might sell. The steak looks good.”
Julian looked around. “You had steak last night. Have you got backup power and batteries for the camera?”
She reached over and put her hand over his. “Yes. And yes to all the other ‘have I got’ questions. You saw me pack my bag. Now, I’m hungry.”
Julian ordered a bottle of Échezeaux. He smiled into her eyes. “Something red and decent in case they only feed you crusts when you’re chained up in the cellar. Is that sort of thing on the agenda?”
Robin’s smile died. “It would be if you were doing it. Can we leave it alone?”
He put his phone on the table and put his hands over his face. “Sorry, Robin, I’m just worried. I don’t think you should be doing this. For all sorts of reasons.”
The restaurant was humming by the time they arrived. Miguel sat next to the wall, beside Berg, Carolina opposite. Berg seemed on good terms with all the staff.
Carolina didn’t feel right.
If this had been a straight protection job, with a client facing a specific threat, this place would have been a no-no. But Miguel wasn’t facing a specific threat. And Carolina had a kind of entertainment budget for him from his parents. So places like this were part of the job.
At the same time, she had been chosen because she could protect him. Which was difficult in a place like this. Take the big, thick-set guys lumbering between the bar and the conservatory, ordering trays of drinks. They were rowdy. Some of them looked rough. Out of place here, despite their plush sweaters and expensive watches. Some had broken off from their table and were sitting on the bar stools, talking and drinking. It blocked off the whole rear section of the restaurant from her view. Protection was about seeing things coming. And she could not see much from here.
On top of the job i
ssue, was the Berg issue. He’d glanced at her hips as she snaked into the little banquette seat of the booth. A subconscious thing. But she’d had this flash of self-consciousness like they were on a date, and it lingered. Which probably meant she liked the idea. This was no place to examine one’s feelings.
And there was her English. The place was busy, with a throb of wine-fuelled conversation, as tired ski people refuelled on hearty, rich food. Carolina reckoned she was down to sub-seventy-percent understanding in this noise. Berg and Miguel were, in contrast, talking comfortably.
Berg said, “What do you feel like eating?”
Carolina watched a T-bone float past.
“Steak,” she said. “Miguel que quieres comer?” What do you want to eat?
“No hablo español.” I don’t speak Spanish.
Both of them smiling at her. Miguel’s smile was cheeky. Berg’s smile was kind. Which was irritating. But she pretended to laugh.
Eric was sitting with his back to the restaurant, wearing a baseball cap. He’d been outside in the snow again and was almost glowing.
“Where is Max?” asked Henri.
“He had something to do. He’ll be along.” Eric poured some wine.
They clinked and drank.
“So, Henri, I was thinking about this woman. You fell for her? I mean, that’s why you spent all the money on her?”
Henri didn’t want to think about how he got where he was. He just wanted to get out of it. And right now, Eric was how he’d get out of it. So he had to humour him.
“Something like that. She fell for me too.”
Eric nodded. “I see that. If she’s an actress then maybe she has money. Am I correct?”
“She’s successful. Yes. Don’t ask for her name. But we understood each other.”
Eric nodded. “Wow. How did that work?”
“We didn’t put a name on what was happening. We liked spending time together. I paid for places we stayed, dinners. I rented an apartment for a week in Boulevard de la Tour-Maubourg. Just, you know.”
