Nobeca

by Lloyd Nesling

  In a small trolley case, propped at the foot of the bed, they found some soiled clothes, a partially eaten sandwich still in its plastic container, two pairs of shoes and some solid walking boots. Wallace turned his attention to the bedside cabinet drawers. Nothing unusual for a travel agent. A passport in the name of Joanne Howard, two hundred Swiss francs, three hundred pounds in travellers’ cheques and a return plane ticket from Heathrow to Geneva. Why the Swiss francs and ticket to Geneva if she was supposed to have gone to Eastern Europe? Wallace shrugged. Maybe she changed her mind and went off to Switzerland instead.

  Her neighbour had seen Howard running up the path to the cottage with someone. They were bent over against the wind and rain. She couldn’t be certain if the other person was a man or a woman. It was too dark. There was no evidence of a struggle or of anyone else who may have been in the cottage. Everything was neat and tidy; too tidy. He pulled an expensive trouser suit from the wardrobe and handed it to the SOCO.

  “Bag this with the rest,” he instructed. “Hang on!” He patted the jacket then turned it inside out and ran his hand over the glossy lining. “What’s this?” His hand rested on a concealed zipper. “There’s something inside.” He pulled out a silver band. “It looks like an embroidered garter.”

  “Perhaps she was into some kinky sex, sir,” his DI said.

  “It’s too big for a wristband. Maybe it’s an armband.” Wallace dangled it in front of Butler. “Why hide it away in a hidden pocket?”

  “Do you know, sir, those bits of embroidery look exactly like snow crystals. No two are identical. They’re so intricate. That’s why a lot of people are sceptical about some of those crop circles. It’s hard to believe that anyone could fake something like that overnight,” he continued, warming to the subject.

  “Very interesting,” Wallace replied sarcastically. “Come on, let’s get going. I intend to get to the bottom of this, but first we’ll call into that little pub near Shrewsbury on the way back. You can wax lyrical about snow crystals over a meat pie.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Bayston Hill, Shropshire, England

  Wallace swung his Audi through the gates and scrunched to a halt in front of the garage. Head down, collar turned up against the driving rain, he ran towards the front door. A sudden gust of wind sent a pile of shrivelled leaves scurrying across his path. Overhead, lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating everything in white light. It was soon followed by a low rumble of thunder.

  He stripped off his wet coat in the kitchen, towelled his hair, and brewed some coffee. He needed caffeine to stay as alert as possible. After pouring a mug of steaming coffee, he went into his study where IMIC had installed a secure line.

  He paced to and fro watching the rain lashing against the patio doors. Suddenly, a bright flash of lightning cracked overhead followed by a loud clap of thunder. It almost deafened him, exploding above the house like a bomb. A woman gazing through the window of the house opposite hurriedly drew the curtains. When the telephone shrilled he picked up the receiver and dropped onto the sofa. Conrad’s voice came on the line loud and clear.

  “Where are you?” Wallace asked.

  “Still in Geneva, but I’m off to Dreher’s place in Thun tomorrow. I have to get up into the Alps before the weather deteriorates. I found Bateman in Paris. He’s been murdered – potassium cyanide in his favourite tipple. Our GCHQ ‘sleeper’ has also been knocked off. He had his throat cut from ear to ear by his own people. MI6 had his house bugged for quite some time. It picked up a voice with a Russian accent.”

  “But why would they exterminate one of their own?”

  “As I told you before, he was suspected of taking money from another organisation. The security services ransacked the house. Nothing; not a scrap of anything that could link him with the Russians or anyone else. Whoever killed him swept the place clean. His clothes had been torn apart as if they were looking for something specific.”

  “Strange, especially as Foley had already taken the microchip to hand over in Switzerland.”

  “Even a fluffy toy dog, wearing a baseball cap and a silver collar, had been ripped open.”

  “They were probably looking for the microchip to… ” Wallace stopped mid-sentence. No, it wasn’t possible. His heart thumped painfully in his chest. “Did you say a silver collar?”

  “It was more like one of those stretchy armbands that kids wear – silver and red with four black motifs embroidered on it.”

  “Wallace’s breath caught in his throat. “Think hard, Jack. How would you describe them? Geometric? Senseless doodles?”

  “Actually, they looked rather like snow crystals. Reminded me of our Christmas tree when I was a kid.”

  “You’re not going to believe this, Jack. I found something similar in Joanne Howard’s cottage in Oswestry. A silver armband emblazoned with three black snow crystals.”

  Conrad fell silent on the other end of the line. Wallace could almost hear his brain clicking into gear.

  “It may be just a coincidence, but what if Lynes and Howard were working for the same organisation? They were both Russians. She could have been another ‘sleeper’. That would extend the link to include all the murder victims, the Russian Security Services, GCHQ and the Generalissimo.”

  “I’m going back to the cottage tomorrow to take another look,” Wallace said. “In the meantime I’ll put out a bulletin for any sightings of Howard in the days leading up to her murder.”

  “See what you can find out about the armbands, Ben; what company produces them. It could turn out to be just another kids’ accessory like the wristbands they collect.”

  “I’ll get someone on it straight away.”

  Wallace replaced the receiver and chewed over what he had heard. He picked up his mobile phone and quickly dialled a number. He wanted every last bit of information concerning Joanne Howard on his desk first thing in the morning. A press conference would ensure the media exploited it as much as possible. He wanted her photograph on the front pages and television news channels. His gut instinct told him that Colin Lynes and Joanne Howard were both members of the same organisation. A chill ran through him when he thought about what could happen if genuine top-secret papers got into the wrong hands. Lynes had passed on volatile information before he was rumbled.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Police HQ, Shropshire

  Wallace studied his notes for the second time. Joanne Howard had been briefly married to a university professor. Originally from Moscow, she and her family moved to St. Petersburg when her father took up a post at the university. She studied Russian literature and several languages including French and German. Two years after gaining her degree she obtained a visa to study English at Oxford. That’s where she met Peter Howard, a computer scientist, with an interest in cryptography.

  Occasionally, she travelled abroad to check out holiday resorts. Her husband thought it strange that she never discussed her trips. She seemed bored with their lifestyle and claimed she needed a break now and then. It all came to a head when she tried to persuade him to work in Switzerland. When he asked her what kind of work she was very evasive… mentioned something vague about an organisation. If he pressed the question she clammed up. It seemed the victim wasn’t all she pretended to be.

  Brandishing a fax, Butler walked into the office, a broad smile on his face.

  “Well, out with it. You look like you’ve won the bloody lottery!” Wallace barked impatiently.

  “When I was talking to Howard’s ‘ex’, he mentioned that he had hoped a child would bring them closer. Apparently, she went for an abortion without him knowing she was pregnant. They had a terrible row. He only found out after complications set in. She haemorrhaged after the operation. They had to rush her into hospital for a blood transfusion.”

  “Where is all this leading, Butler?”

  “Joanne Howard has a very rare blood group… the same blood group as our murder victim.”

  “Bingo! I could ki
ss you, Butler, if I wasn’t so fussy. That’s a real breakthrough.”

  They would have to bring in the ex-husband to identify her. Wallace yawned loudly and rubbed his hand over his face. He couldn’t remember when he had last enjoyed a good night’s sleep.

  “Good work, Butler. Haul him in tomorrow morning, but warn him it won’t be pretty.”

  The ‘ex’ had a strong motive for the murder, but they didn’t have sufficient evidence to support it. Questioning him would have to wait. Wallace clicked on the e-mail attachment from Dreher.

  Joanne Howard, real name Anya Sharapova, born in Moscow in 1979. Her father, Piotr, is a physicist. The mother, Martina, was a linguist like her daughter. Both her mother and brother, Anatoly, are dead: killed in a car crash. Anya and the boy were involved in some kind of radical organisation. Their father disapproved of their involvement. He claimed it had something to do with the death of his wife and son. Apparently, Anya cut herself off from her father when she went to live in the United Kingdom. She changed her name to Joanne Sharpe. Howard is her married name.

  Russian and involved with some sort of subversive organisation. This put a whole new slant on the Howard case. Especially, as her husband was completely in the dark about her activities during her trips abroad. His thoughts were interrupted by his mobile vibrating in his pocket.

  “Conrad here. Anything new?”

  Wallace related everything he knew about Joanne Howard then he repeated what Dreher had told him.

  “My gut feeling tells me there could be a connection between Foley, Macaleer and Joanne Howard, alias Anya Sharapova,” Wallace said.

  “That’s feasible. I’m flying to Geneva this afternoon. Keep me posted with developments your end.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Light snowflakes hit the window as the plane descended towards the runway in Geneva. Below, a channel of lights twinkled into view, appearing and disappearing as they descended through patchy cloud cover. A slight bump and they were on the tarmac hurtling down the runway. Buffeted by high winds the plane lurched from side to side causing a corporate gasp of fear to ripple through the cabin. Eyes tightly closed, a brassy-looking blonde across the aisle gripped the arms of her seat until the plane gradually slowed down and taxied towards the buildings.

  Taking advantage of the lull while passengers composed themselves, Conrad unfastened his seat belt as soon as the warning signs turned green. He retrieved his holdall from the overhead locker and made for the exit. Giving a quick smile of acknowledgement to the stewardess he walked down the tunnel, through customs, into the arrivals hall. People scurried out towards the taxi rank dragging suitcases behind them. A bitterly cold wind cut through his thick overcoat when he stepped out onto the pavement.

  Dreher’s car was waiting outside. The usual plain-clothes officer jumped out and opened the door when he spotted Conrad.

  “Good evening, sir. Chief Inspector Dreher has instructed me to take you to his apartment in Cologny. He will join you later this evening.”

  “Thanks,” Conrad replied, sliding into the roomy Mercedes.

  A couple of minutes later they exited the Rue de Chantepoulet and turned right onto Rue de Mont Blanc towards the Quai Gustave Ador and the Rampe de Cologny. Evidence of Cologny’s exclusivity was all round in the expensive detached houses and apartments. Only fifteen minutes from the city, Conrad thought, but such a striking contrast. Narrow country lanes, open fields, vineyards, a proliferation of trees and stunning views of white-capped Mont Blanc.

  It was here that Byron had been inspired to write Childe Harold. It was also the headquarters of the World Economic Forum. He could almost smell wealth and prestige.

  He glanced up at the sky as the car swung into the drive. Ominous clouds, hurried along by an icy wind, swept in overhead. The last thing he wanted was more snow. I’ll have to get up into the mountains before the really bad weather kicks in, he thought, otherwise it will be impossible.

  Nursing a large whisky, Conrad settled in a comfortable armchair in the library, pondering on recent events. His thoughts were interrupted by Henri greeting Dreher at the door.

  “Jack, so good to see you,” Dreher said. While Henri poured him a generous brandy he settled into his favourite armchair. “Have you got anything new?”

  “I’ve been digging deeper into Joanne Howard’s life. She was well known in Kiev for being a radical. Rumour suggested the Russian Secret Service, formed after the dissolution of the KGB, tried to ferret out her involvement, but they failed to penetrate the organisation.”

  “We know that Joanne Howard is Anya Sharapova,” Dreher observed, “but the rest is speculation. Who would be powerful enough to fool the Russian Secret Service?”

  “Only four people would fit the profile and one of them, a guy named Plushenko, is dead. He was killed in East Berlin in a boating accident a few days before the fall of the Berlin Wall.”

  “Do you know the names of the others?” Dreher asked.

  “Boris Oblensky, Vasily Zhukov and Leonid Morozov, all senior KGB officers during the cold war. Oblensky would have been a strong candidate, but he’s out of the frame. He’s in a nursing home in Omsk after suffering a series of strokes two years ago. That leaves Zhukov and Morozov.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Zukhov is living with his daughter in Novosibirk. He’s in his late seventies now. Morozov, the youngest, is in his late fifties, still in the Russian Security Services. I don’t think it’s him. He’s right at the top of the tree… secret service through and through. Our contact in Moscow heard he’s in line for a big promotion. Still, he remains a possibility. Pearce is also liaising with Langley with regard to Bateman.”

  “Does Langley know about IMIC?”

  “No, the CIA don’t know that IMIC exists. As far as they are concerned he’s just fulfilling his normal role as General Pearce of military intelligence, heading up the investigation into Macaleer and Foley. It appears Bateman was working for the Pentagon. All they told Pearce was that he was involved with computer security systems. Apparently, the area around Bateman’s facility in Nevada is heavily guarded twenty-four seven. Whatever is going on there is highly secretive.”

  “Don’t you think it’s rather odd they didn’t have him under surveillance out here?” Dreher asked.

  “Not really. He’s a prominent businessman – travels all the time. Most of his designs have been under wraps, because of industrial espionage, hence the high security. Often a company designs a prototype. A rival firm gets wind of it, covertly procures copies of the blueprints and gets it on the market first. There was no reason to believe that this was anything different. Besides, he had direct access to the Pentagon.”

  “Have you briefed Wallace about this?”

  “I couldn’t be sure his line was secure. That’s something we need to get sorted. I’ll speak to Pearce about it. Ben’s CC and ACC know very little about the body on the beach except that it’s highly sensitive. We don’t want them gumming up the works.”

  Dreher leaned over and threw another log onto the crackling fire. He waited until the flames took hold then prodded the middle of the orange glow. Conrad sat back luxuriating in the warmth. Suddenly, his eyelids felt heavy; too heavy to stay open. There was something about the air in Switzerland that lulled him into deep relaxation. Sleep came easily to him here. Dreher rose and prodded Conrad awake.

  “Go to bed, Jack. You look exhausted.”

  Conrad stretched, turning his neck from side to side. His whole body suddenly felt limp as though his life force was being sucked out through a straw. Rising to his feet, he tried to stifle a yawn.

  “Ernst, will you contact Wallace first thing tomorrow morning and bring him up to date. I’m going up into the mountains again.”

  In his room he plumped up the outsize pillows and lay, hands under his head, trying to fathom out everything he had seen. Grazing goats, a lush patch of grass, a path obliterated by a mini avalanche.
Something wasn’t right about it. There was an obvious link between Bateman, Macaleer, Foley and Lynes, but where did Anya Sharapova, aka Joanne Howard, fit in with all this? Why had she been murdered and why had her face been mutilated? Like Wallace, he was convinced the victim was connected to the other murders, but they had no proof. His gut instinct told him that he could find that proof up in the Alps.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Swiss Alps, Bernese Oberland

  Heavy rain had washed away most of the early snows in the valleys below, but at this altitude it was deep, hampering progress. Conrad laboured up the steep slope using his ice pick to secure a hold on the frozen snow. The sky was an unbroken blanket of white cloud tinged with silver. The glare hurt his eyes even through the snow glasses he was wearing. Overhead, a dazzling white sun threw its rays onto the snow, temporarily blinding him in its intensity. An icy cold wind knifed through his salopettes and padded jacket.

  He climbed at a steady pace, stopping at intervals to rest. The air was thinner up here. The last thing he wanted was a dizzy spell. It was vital to keep a clear head. He took out his binoculars and scanned the area above him. Piles of rubble littered the obliterated path. He could just make out the skeleton of a chalet-style hotel above the trail. The closer he got to it, the more evident it became that the landslide had been deliberately created, but for what purpose?

  Reaching the foot of the avalanche, he stopped to assess the situation. There were no signs of life, just the moan of the wind and an occasional alpine chuff wheeling overhead. Slipping and sliding, he scrambled over the rocks until he reached the top and came up against a sheer wall of stone. He couldn’t climb any higher. Nothing but a bloody wild goose chase!