“Thank you, Herr Merien. We may need to speak to you again.”
He called to Dupont in the outer office. “Please take Herr Merien back to his office.”
Dreher rang Conrad and arranged to meet him later that morning. He replaced the receiver and pressed a button on the intercom.
“Inspector Zinzli, please come to my office immediately.”
“Sir?” Bastien Zinzli queried, closing the door behind him.
“I’ve had some interesting information about a possible murder,” he said, relating the story. “I want you to look into it. Somewhere on a trail up to Berg, Merien saw a motorcyclist and a helicopter.” He jabbed at the wall map. “I want the whole area covered with a toothcomb. Take Acting Inspector Rast with you. She knows the area like the back of her hand.” The detective headed for the door. “And Zinzli, this is to be kept between the three of us for now.”
*
Deep in thought, both men sipped their coffee. This was the first lead they had uncovered that fell in with what Conrad had himself witnessed. There was definitely something very strange going on in the mountains. Whatever it was, they were prepared to kill to keep it under wraps. Both Foley and Macaleer had been formally identified. Both had been snooping around in Switzerland. Both bodies had turned up in England.
“What we don’t know is why they were both murdered,” Dreher mused.
“They must have discovered the microchip Foley gave them held false information.”
“I accept that, but why take him to a so-called clinic and remove his kidney? What could they possibly gain from it? Murder, yes, but an operation? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I must admit I’m as puzzled as you are,” Conrad replied. “Wallace is also investigating another weird murder victim, a young woman. He still hasn’t been able to establish her identity, but he’s hoping to have something for me by tomorrow.”
“Come to dinner tonight. If it’s all right with you I’d like to run this by Sophia. Perhaps she can compile some kind of basic psychological profile of the killer.”
“Good idea. In the meantime,” he continued, “I’m going to see Sasha. He may have found out more about Bateman.”
*
The man attacking a large steak glanced up casually when Conrad walked into the restaurant.
“Over here!” he called, wiping grease from his mouth.
Two giggling women at the next table leaned in and whispered together. Sasha raised his eyes and beckoned to the waiter serving at an adjacent table. Conrad waited until his lager arrived and looked around before speaking.
“Well, what have you found out? Anything on the clinic or helipads in the vicinity?”
“Nothing. There’s no trace of Ethan Bateman either,” Sasha replied. “Apparently, he turned up at his hotel looking very dishevelled, sporting a large bruise on his right cheek. After enquiring from the concierge about connecting flights to the States, he booked a flight from Geneva to Paris. Unfortunately, all flights in Paris were grounded,” Sasha continued. “Thick fog, so he checked into the airport hotel. He left the following morning and hasn’t been seen since.”
Bateman hadn’t caught a connecting flight from either Charles de Gaulle Airport or Orly. There was no record of him chartering a private plane from Paris-Le Bourget airport or anywhere else. Conrad had a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach. Bateman was no fool. If he was being followed, he would get back to the States where he would be safe. Perhaps he had gone to London, via Eurostar, hoping to get a flight from Heathrow.
“There’s nothing more we can do here,” he said.
“So, how about a little fun tonight? Do some of the bars, pick up a couple of girls.”
“Sounds fantastic, Sasha, but I think I’ll take a little trip to Paris.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Paris, France
Conrad emerged from Charles de Gaulle airport into bright sunlight. He squinted against the harsh light, scanning the line of travellers waiting for taxis. A maroon Bentley swept up to the curb. Silently, the rear window slid down. An elegant woman leaned forward and smiled.
“Bonjour, Jack!”
He climbed in beside her. Taking her face between both hands he planted a loud kiss on her forehead.
“That’s not how we do it in Paris,” she rebuked with a girlish giggle, “but I like it.”
Tall, willowy, auburn hair streaked with blonde, at sixty years of age Patricia Bonnet was still a very beautiful woman. Born Patricia Hemmingway, she had fallen in love and married an aristocratic French banker whilst studying at the Sorbonne.
An hour later her chauffeur calmly negotiated the traffic-snarled Arc de Triomphe. Patricia owned an apartment in the 16th Arrondissment, one of the richest areas of Paris. She used it on her frequent trips into the city.
Conrad studied his surroundings while he sipped his whisky and soda. Everything about the apartment oozed good taste and old money. If it weren’t for his assignment he would be delighted to stay here for a very long time. Patricia was an old friend and colleague. Her escapades working for British Military Intelligence were legendary. She had already established that Bateman had left the airport hotel, checked into the Hotel Eiffel in the city, and paid his bill in advance. The concierge ordered a taxi to take him to Charles de Gaulle Airport the following morning.
“When he didn’t turn up, the concierge rang his room,” Patricia said. “The maid on his floor said his bed hadn’t been slept in.”
“It sounds as if he was on the run, trying to cover his tracks,” Conrad mused. “I wouldn’t have thought he’d be stupid enough to make a phone call from the hotel. Still, if he was spaced out, it’s possible. I’ll get London to check it out their end. In the meantime I’ll do some snooping around myself.”
Patricia’s chauffeur dropped him off near the Eiffel Tower. He gazed up its length. Looking at it at night from the Trocadero, bathed in golden light, it was magical. Undoubtedly, it was a feat of engineering genius, but in daylight it failed to impress him as an object of beauty. Suddenly, his mobile vibrated in his pocket shattering his reflections.
“Breakdancer,” a familiar voice intoned, “it seems Bateman made three calls from the Eiffel Hilton on his mobile. One was to his wife in Texas and another to the Pentagon. The third call was to a small boutique hotel. Hotel Parisienne on the Left Bank close to the Latin Quarter. He booked in under the name George Hayes. Proceed with caution, Regis.”
With a muted click the connection was broken. Conrad searched the oncoming traffic hoping to see a free cab. Trying to get a taxi in Paris was a nightmare. It was impossible to hail one off the street as he did in London. He decided it would be quicker to get the Metro.
A woman, pulling a small trolley suitcase, brushed past him and joined the taxi queue. Quickly, he ran down the steps into the underground and bought a ticket from the machine. He turned at the sound of clattering footsteps behind him. It was the woman with the trolley case. The train had already arrived when he hit the platform. He stood aside for her to board the train. She hauled her case down the aisle and sat down two seats in front of him.
Back above ground, he swiftly walked from St. Michelle Metro station towards the Latin Quarter. Boutique hotel is stretching it a bit, he reflected, looking up at the grimy façade. Inside he was surprised to discover an attractive foyer gleaming with glass and highly polished wood. At reception, a dark-haired girl, with the name ‘Yvette’ emblazoned on a lapel badge, sat staring at a computer screen. He noted the lift and sequence of room numbers on a brass plaque at the foot of the stairs.
“Good morning, Yvette.” Conrad smiled flirtatiously. “It’s very smart,” he commented, observing the modern prints on the walls. Playing for time he remarked, “It’s quite a surprise on the inside.”
“The new owners have spent a lot of money on improvements,” Yvette replied. “The exterior will be given a facelift in the next few weeks.”
“A friend of mine is staying here,” he con
tinued. “Mr George Hayes. We’ve arranged to have lunch. Will you ring his room and tell him Mr Bruce Foley has arrived?”
Conrad watched carefully as the girl punched the buttons on the desk phone. “I’m afraid there’s no reply, sir. Monsieur Hayes must have gone out. Shall I take a message?”
“No, it’s okay, I’ll pop around later.”
Room twenty-six. That’s all he needed to know, but he would have to wait and see if Bateman turned up. Shortly after midday Conrad returned to Hotel Parisienne. Yvette was still sitting in front of her computer.
“I’m afraid Monsieur Hayes is still out,” she said apologetically. “I’m off duty at five. If he hasn’t returned by then I’ll ask my colleague to inform him of your visit.”
Conrad exited the revolving doors and stepped onto the crowded pavement. He spotted the woman immediately; the same woman he had seen twice that morning. She had discarded her trolley and had covered her black trouser suit with a beige trench coat. She was sitting outside the restaurant next door to the hotel deep in conversation with two men.
They paid no attention when he strode briskly past them. He had harboured a vague suspicion when she trailed behind him after leaving the Metro. Now he was certain he was being followed. After walking two blocks there was no sign of her or the two men. No doubt they would be waiting for him to return to Hotel Parisienne.
Back at the apartment he discussed his plans with Patricia.
“I need to get into Bateman’s room. It’s just a small boutique hotel. One staircase leads to all the floors. All I want you to do is create a little diversionary tactic to give me time to get up to his room.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” she replied with a wicked grin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Paris, France
The chauffeur edged out onto the Champs Élysées and filtered into the flow of traffic. Lights blazed in Restaurant Le Fouquet. It was crowded with people enjoying pre-dinner drinks. The chauffeur turned his head slightly and grimaced.
“Traffic is heavy tonight, Madame. It will probably be quicker if I go back around the Arc de Triomphe and drive down the Rue de Courcelles.”
Conrad never ceased to wonder at the driving skills of the French. Bathed in golden light, the Arch de Triomphe looked magnificent. It was lost on Parisians negotiating the various exists. Honking impatiently they weaved and dodged, totally oblivious of other vehicles. A Renault screeched to a halt a fraction of an inch from a large Citroen. Both drivers opened their windows gesticulating and shouting in Gallic fashion.
Eventually, the traffic thinned out, but progress was still relatively slow. Even in November the streets were crowded with tourists. Pierre, the chauffeur, dropped them off close to a smart restaurant in the Latin Quarter.
“It’s only seven-thirty; far too early to be going to a party in Paris. Let’s have a glass of champagne first,” Patricia suggested. “After all we’re supposed to be celebrating my birthday.”
An hour later they walked into the foyer of the Hotel Parisienne giggling like a pair of teenagers. A different girl was sitting in front of the computer. She looked up when they stopped at the desk.
“We’ve arranged to meet one of your guests here at eight-thirty… a Mr Hayes.”
Conrad leaned over the counter letting the whisky on his breath waft over the girl. “Will you ring his room and tell him that we’re waiting to take him to the party.”
“Of course, he arrived back about five o’clock, just after I came on duty.”
She picked up the telephone and punched in a number. Conrad flashed his most disarming smile causing a deep red flush to creep up her neck.
“Strange, there’s no reply. He definitely went up to his room and I haven’t seen him go back out. He’s probably on his way down. Perhaps you would like to wait in the bar?”
Conrad and Patricia strolled into the smart bar that led off from the foyer. They took a seat to the side of the entrance and observed the receptionist still absorbed with the computer.
“She’s chatting online,” Conrad commented, “to someone called Michel. We’ll wait until she’s completely absorbed.”
Five minutes later Patricia stood up and walked towards the door. Suddenly, she turned on her ankle and lurched forward. Conrad rushed to her aid and caught her under her arm.
“Are you all right?” he asked solicitously.
“It’s my damn shoe!” she replied. “The heel’s come off.”
The girl at reception looked up and stared at Patricia, obviously annoyed at having her online conversation interrupted. Patricia hobbled over to her, brandishing the shoe in one hand and the heel in the other.
“What am I going to do? It’s supposed to be my birthday party. Now it will be ruined,” she complained. “I don’t suppose you have anything, some glue, anything I could use to repair it?”
Sighing, the receptionist examined the shoe. Finally, she picked up the telephone and dialled a number.
“I’ll see what the porter can do,” she said irritably. “If you’ll stay in the bar, Madame, I’ll take it over to him.”
With that she produced a laminated card stating, ‘Back in five minutes’, before vanishing through a door at the side of the stairs.
Immediately she disappeared, Conrad launched up the stairs towards Bateman’s room on the second floor. He hesitated outside room twenty-six before knocking gently on the door. There was no sound of movement from inside. Extracting a key ring from his pocket, he selected a small tool with a grooved edge. He inserted it into the lock and turned it. It wouldn’t budge. He selected another and tried again. This time it clicked open.
Cautiously, he pushed the door ajar. The suite was in complete darkness except for the glow of a flashing neon sign outside. Everything looked perfectly normal. The dregs of a drink sat on an ornate coffee table next to a laptop. He sniffed the glass. Bourbon and a strong smell of almonds. Slowly, he crept towards the bedroom and eased open the door. The bed hadn’t been slept in; not even a crease in the covers. Nothing except a single shirt hanging in the wardrobe.
Making his way back into the sitting area he paused studying the laptop. It was still hibernating. Suddenly, the neon sign flashed lighting up the room in a surreal, greenish glow. Beside the sofa terrified eyes stared sightlessly, partially opened mouth frozen into a scream. There was no mistaking the big gap in the front teeth of the jowly face that stared back at him, hideous now instead of comic. Ethan Bateman!
There was obviously nothing he could do for the Texan. Searching around for clues the laptop caught his attention again. He tapped a key and the e-mail page appeared. Bateman had been trying to send an e-mail with an attachment, but to whom? Conrad felt his heart quicken as he read the page. It was very disjointed as though Bateman couldn’t coordinate his thoughts. The names Foley, Macaleer and bogus clinic jumped from the page. The writing stopped abruptly after his own name… ‘Jack… help!’
He pressed the attachment icon and waited. On the screen a coloured picture appeared.
“What the hell!”
Swiftly, he enlarged the image. Three men, all of them clothed in black, their faces concealed by balaclavas. Arms outstretched, fists clenched in a salute, staring at something outside the frame.
A muffled noise from the corridor brought him up short. Looking at his watch he realised he had been in the room for almost six minutes. He had to get back downstairs before the receptionist came back to her station. He tapped print and waited impatiently for the portable printer to spew out the page. Grabbing the sheet of paper, he sloped into the corridor and raced downstairs into the bar. Patricia was still sitting there nursing a drink when he dropped down beside her.
“Well?” she queried.
“Bateman’s dead. Cyanide poisoning. There was a distinct smell of almonds. We’ve got to get out of here… fast!”
“Madame,” said the receptionist. She approached their table, shoe in hand. “This is the best the porter could do, but it
probably won’t last long. You’ll need to get it properly repaired.”
“It looks as if Mr Hayes may have gone out after all,” Conrad said, nonchalantly leaning against the reception desk. “I’d be grateful if you tell him we called.”
Taking care not to rush, they sauntered out onto the pavement. They hurried into the side street where the chauffeur was waiting for them. They spoke very little during the drive back to Patricia’s apartment.
“Tell me everything,” she demanded.
Conrad sat back in the chair and blew out his cheeks. Taking a large gulp of whisky, he launched into the details of his first encounter with Ethan Bateman and what he had already found out about the connection between Foley and Macaleer.
“Wallace is working with Ernst Dreher, his counterpart in Switzerland. There’s something more here than meets the eye, Patricia. Now we’ve got two army intelligence men and a US senator dead. The Russian ‘sleeper’ who recruited Foley has also been knocked off. We’ve got a good idea who recruited Foley. We’ve got a good idea why they were eliminated, but Bateman. Why? That lead has reached a dead end – literally.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I’ll get a flight back to Switzerland in the morning.”
Bateman was trying to tell him something before he was murdered. It was obvious the man had been terrified of something, but what? Why was he sending him a photograph of men in what appeared to be fascist uniforms?
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Oswestry, England
A SOCO bagged a hairbrush, items of clothing, a used lipstick, a dirty mug from the sink and a few stray hairs from the back of the sofa. DNA tests would establish if the murder victim and Joanne Howard were one and the same person. Wallace rummaged in a drawer. Just underwear, rolled-up tights and other bits and pieces. Smart clothes sporting designer labels hung in the wardrobe, along with some sweaters neatly folded on a shelf. Wallace fingered a black evening dress. “Very expensive tastes, Butler. This must have cost a pretty penny.” On the bedside table were a folded newspaper and a few travel magazines. Nothing to indicate that the victim was anything other than what she claimed to be.
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