by Davis Bunn
Her suite came with its own personal butler, a fact she discovered when she tried to order dinner and the operator told her to press the button beside the phone. She ate on the balcony and watched the stars and the lake and the people below. Music drifted up from the restaurant. Lovers strolled and the wind sang.
She discovered a painful sort of pleasure in accepting Marc’s coldness. In a sense it was right, very logical, and correct from every angle except the heart. Which could not be helped. By the time she finished dinner, she had decided there was nothing she could do except throw herself into the moment. She undressed and slipped into the hotel robe and slept and did not dream.
Chapter Eight
Rhana left her home before dawn. She had not slept well, as the previous day’s events had caused her past to rear its vile head and shatter her sleep. She could hear the fatigue in her voice as she phoned ahead and alerted the gallery’s night guard of her arrival. There was nothing she could do about either her weariness or her dreams. If she was right, the past was about to become her future.
Westerners dismissed revenge with a few short quips, as though they could ignore the need to settle ancient wrongs. And perhaps they could. Americans in particular seemed to give little importance to the past. But Persians of Rhana’s generation held a very different perspective. The past and the present were one. The future was often viewed as dark and burdensome, because so many of their actions and emotions were fated by what had already come before. Just like now, when she had very little chance of surviving, and knew there was no other way forward but to finish what she had started, all those long years ago. When she had sworn revenge on those who had destroyed everything and everyone she had once held dear.
She climbed from her Bentley and told the guard he was done for the night. She locked herself in the gallery and went to the storage unit. She turned off the cameras and opened the rear doors. The bonded transporters were there waiting, the truck pulled up to the loading platform. She opened the cage and instructed them to wrap each item, no need to box anything. She had worked with this particular group for years. They did their work swiftly and silently. She stood at the cage’s outer door, where she could observe both the packing and the loading. When they were done, she signed the documents and saw them off. She waited for her staff to arrive, gathered them in her office, explained that she was working on a big new project and her movements might be unpredictable over the coming days. They accepted this in silence. It had happened before. She assigned them their duties and departed the way she had arrived.
She had scarcely begun her journey when her cell rang. She answered, and the deadly familiar voice said, “I await your news.”
She felt the same adrenaline dread she always did upon hearing the man’s unique blend of ice and silk. “I have your money.”
“Of course you do. Have you not always performed as required?”
“Where shall I send it?”
“The same Geneva bank as before. How much did you make off this particular transaction?”
It was an improper question. But this man could demand anything of her, and he knew it. “Fifty million dollars, less expenses.”
“Not bad for a week’s work. What will you do with all that cash?”
“The same as always. Spend most of it on art.”
“I never have understood your fascination for daubs of paint.”
He then surprised her by asking, “Who made the purchase?”
She started to refuse, but a faint warning bell sounded deep within her. “His name is Sir Geoffrey Treadwick. He has been a client for many years. He is chairman—”
“I know all about Treadwick. Where is he now, still on his little toy boat?”
She glanced in her rearview mirror, terrified he might be tracking her, but saw only lines of trucks and cars. “We are meeting in Geneva in . . . in a few hours.”
“I am glad you decided to trust me, Rhana. I would hate to lose you as well as our master forger, Sylvan. What a disappointment he proved to be. What a loss to us all.”
She gripped the steering wheel more fiercely and waited for the tremors to pass. “Is that all?”
“No, Rhana. It is not. Where will the transfer of goods take place?”
“Why do you ask?”
“That should be clear enough. The Englishman is a loose end. We cannot permit that.”
Rhana swallowed hard. Death followed very close indeed. “We are meeting at the Freeport Vaults.”
He paused a moment, then decided, “That location won’t do for closure. They are too well protected. You must draw Sir Geoffrey away. Someplace relatively isolated.”
“He won’t . . .” She was sure her pounding heart was audible.
“Yes, Rhana? What will your client not do?”
“I just thought of a place.” She described what she had in mind. The act of speaking filled her mouth with ashes. Which was hardly a surprise. Unless she was very careful, and they were all very fortunate, she had just consigned a trusted friend to the grave.
“This is a good idea, Rhana. You are certain he will come?”
“No. But I can try.”
“Very well. Make it happen.”
“He will be guarded. He always travels with security.”
“Leave his bodyguards to me. Oh, and Rhana?”
“Yes?”
“Half of that commission you made—it is mine. For my troubles, and expenses. It is very costly to blow up a Geneva art gallery and demolish people’s lives.”
“Of course.” She had feared he might even take it all. The fact that he had not done so implied the man was not done with her yet.
Rhana waited until he cut the connection to breathe out her fear. There was still a chance she could save Sir Geoffrey. Slim. But a chance.
Yet there was the risk that by saving Sir Geoffrey, she might well find herself claiming the crypt as her own.
Switzerland’s methods for hiding illicit wealth did not end with numbered bank accounts. The government had mastered the art of selling secrecy. The entire legal system was built on the premise that no outsider, no government agency, nor any official body could breach their walls. They hid money for the vilest of people, through the darkest moments of recent history. And their efforts did not stop with cash.
Rhana took the turnoff for the Geneva Airport and drove past the terminals. She turned into a parking area and instantly found herself encircled once more by Swiss efficiency. The lot was surrounded by a towering security fence topped with razor wire and lights. Her documents were carefully inspected by a vigilant guard, her name checked against a computerized list. Finally she was cleared to go inside.
Within the gates there was no indication as to why security was so tight. The windowless structure was squat and built of gray concrete and exposed steel. The reinforced portals were also gray. There was no sign indicating what lay within. For those fortunate few who had business here, none was required.
The Geneva Freeport Vaults was to art what a numbered Swiss account was to money. As long as goods were stored here, their owners paid no import tax or duties. All transactions were registered in Switzerland only, and the records were sealed by Swiss federal law. The names of buyer and seller were strictly confidential. No sales tax was charged. If the owner chose to take an item with them, that was their business. So long as the Swiss records were correct, the government felt no need to inform any other country as to what had happened, or where the item was going, or who was taking it. This one location was responsible for more illicit art transactions than everywhere else in the world combined.
Rent at the Freeport Vaults was astronomical. Their security was the best in the world. No break-in had ever occurred. Only the Swiss knew precisely how much treasure was held here. And they were not telling anyone.
Entering the vaults followed the same pattern as accessing a Swiss bank’s safety deposit chamber. Rhana handed her passport to the guard at the front desk. Her fingerprints were chec
ked. She informed the guard that a guest would be arriving. She was then passed through a second set of bulletproof doors and was escorted down a hallway.
When they arrived at Rhana’s vault, the security passed his ID over one electronic reader while Rhana did the same at a second. The readers were positioned to either side of the steel doors, which meant that in the unlikely event of a security guard being overcome, no individual could access the two readers alone. And each additional visitor was matched by an additional guard. The Swiss were obsessive when it came to precautionary measures.
By the time Sir Geoffrey arrived, Rhana had stripped away the packing material from over half the items. Her visitor showed his avid love of art in the way he inspected each item. He did not observe. He absorbed. Rhana studied the treasures with him, and the man himself. She hoped desperately that he might manage to survive the coming assault.
He sighed his satisfaction, “There are more?”
“All the items are gathered here. I did not have the time—”
“No need. I will unveil the remaining pieces at my leisure. What you have here is more than enough to justify the purchase price.”
“There is no provenance,” Rhana reminded him. “Nor can you risk bringing in any expert.”
He waved that aside. “You have made it perfectly clear. These are for my personal enjoyment only.”
“Did you do as I suggested and contract for a vault yourself?”
“It’s all been arranged. They were kind enough to give me one just down the hall.” He even managed to wince with grace. “I don’t mind telling you the cost is staggering.”
“But worth it.” She reached for the phone connected to the side wall. The internal phone system was essential, for the building was designed to blanket all incoming signals. Rhana requested the assistance of five movers. They came within minutes. All the security guards carried white cloth gloves for just such occasions. The packing and moving of treasures was all part of their training.
When the transfer was made, Sir Geoffrey asked, “Do you have time for a late lunch?”
It was the opening Rhana had been looking for. “Nothing would please me more. But I have booked myself into the Rhone Spa. Why don’t you join me?”
“I believe I’ve heard of it somewhere.”
Rhana pretended to be astonished. “My dear, it is the most exquisite place on earth. You must come. We can lunch there, and then you will take a course of treatments and emerge transformed.”
He smiled thinly. “I am a bit old for such transformations, I fear.”
“What nonsense. The waters are rejuvenating; they’ve been in use since the Romans. And the place itself is divine.”
“And equally expensive.”
“Well, of course it is, darling. But never mind that. You will be my guest.”
“Stuff and nonsense.”
“I insist. Actually, it’s the only way you can come on short notice. They require references. It is that sort of place.” She smiled. “Who knows, you might even meet your fourth wife.”
“Fifth, my dear. Fifth.”
“Oh my, you are a rogue.”
“I had hoped to introduce you to a friend’s daughter,” he said. “The Deschampses of Nantes. Perhaps you have heard of them?”
She caught the ever so slight false note to Sir Geoffrey’s enthusiasm. The air seemed to evaporate from her vault. “The name, perhaps.”
“New money. Industry and communications, mostly. We do business together. Their daughter, Dominique, is a charming young lady.” With every word, Sir Geoffrey’s casual gusto became more clearly artificial. “The family knows nothing about art, but Dominique appears very open to instruction. She’s recently acquired a lovely apartment in the eighth arrondissement and is eager to start a collection of her own. Naturally I thought of you.”
Rhana wondered if he might possibly hear the thunder of her heart. “By all means, you must bring her along.”
Rhana left Geneva on the main lakeside highway. She waited until she had rounded the lake’s far end, some fifty miles away from the city center. She pulled into a highway rest stop and walked over to stand between two idling trucks. She used a brand-new cellphone to make the call.
Her secret ally answered on the first ring. “Yes?”
“I have news. Perhaps.”
“What is that noise?”
Rhana told him where she was. “For this, I need to be certain we cannot be overheard.”
“You are right to be cautious. Proceed.”
Rhana related the morning’s phone call, the way the money was to be handled, the discussion regarding Sir Geoffrey, everything. As she finished, one of the trucks revved its engine and drew away. She walked around the remaining truck, staying as much as possible in the shadows.
Her ally’s name was Amin Hedayat. In Farsi the words meant honest guide, which he most definitely was. Especially now. Amin said, “I grow increasingly certain that this could be the moment we have long awaited.”
Having her most dreadful hopes expressed by a man she trusted with her life only heightened her apprehension. “What should I do?”
“No, no, Rhana. You are the one who has been living this. You are on the front line. First you tell me.”
She had to stop and take several tight breaths, as though each word had to be forced out through her fear. “Let them make the attack. See if this Dominique Deschamps is who they say she is. Or something more. And if more, how good they are. Because if we are to survive . . .”
“They must be very good indeed,” he finished for her. “Very well. I agree. Only one thing, Rhana.”
“Yes?”
“If you can, do your best to stay alive. We need you still.”
Chapter Nine
Sir Geoffrey demanded, “Is this a safe line?”
“My cellphone is brand-new,” Marc replied. “The only people who possibly could be listening in are doing so because we want them to. What about at your end?”
“I don’t . . . I did as I was instructed. I bought a new phone from a kiosk I selected at random.”
“Then we’re good. Where are you?”
“The back room of an utterly dreadful café. The area surrounding the Freeport Vaults houses mostly an immigrant population. The next table is smoking a hookah.”
“I imagine you’re safe. What’s up?”
Sir Geoffrey described what had happened. “Can you make any sense of this?”
“It’s one of two things,” Marc decided. “Either your friend, this Miss Rhana, wants to thank you for a sizable cash deal, or she is setting you up. Unless . . .”
“Yes? Do go on.”
“Unless she has made these arrangements precisely because she wants to meet with us. Somewhere safe and remote.”
“Which this most certainly is. The Rhone Spa is out beyond Chamonix.”
“Where is that exactly?”
“Clear on the other end of the lake, right down the Rhone Valley. The spa itself is quite lovely, from what I’ve heard. Frightfully expensive.”
“Do you have the time to do this?”
“My helicopter is standing by, and I left my day free.”
Marc felt he had to point out, “You can’t keep the artwork.”
“My dear boy, I’m well aware of the price of honesty. What shall we do?”
“The only thing we can,” Marc replied. “Go and meet her. But first I’m going to make a few calls.”
Kitra was seated on the hotel restaurant’s veranda when Marc appeared. Marc wore his dark suit and a dark gray shirt and matching tie. He also wore his mask. “We have to go.”
Kitra was already rising. She said to the waiter, “Would you please put this on my room?”
The bellhop took unique pleasure in pulling the Ferrari around the hotel’s front loop. Kitra slipped in behind the wheel, revved the engine, and asked, “Where are we going?”
Marc unfolded a map and pointed at a location far down the length of the lake and
beyond. “We need to hurry.”
The gearshift was a small lever positioned just below the starter button. There were two selections for drive. One put the car in fully automatic mode. Kitra chose the other, which activated the paddle shifters on the steering wheel. “Good.”
Marc spent the entire journey on the phone. For a time, Kitra listened with one ear. She knew he was making these calls in her presence so she would understand where they were going and why, and what the risks might be. He did not speak directly to her except to give directions.
Eighty kilometers after leaving Geneva, the lake ended at the nondescript industrial city of Aigle, where the road turned north and west. They stopped for gas and headed into the Rhone Valley. The Alps rose in ponderous majesty to either side, great green slopes topped with ice that gleamed fiercely. Kitra knew all about the region’s history. When she had been young, she read every book on geography the kibbutz’s meager library contained. They had provided her escape from the Judean plains that both protected and imprisoned her.
The Rhone valley had been formed by one of the largest glaciers that had ever ground its way through Europe. A deep layer of sediment had been its departing gift to a newly formed valley. The road wound through verdant fields, sparkling and fresh with the greens of a growing season. The lower slopes on either side were traced like corduroy with vineyards. Higher up clung the glacier’s final remnants.
The road began climbing, and the Ferrari responded with the tightly controlled ferocity of a car that had been born for such moments. The hairpin curves rose and swooped and twisted in waves as beautiful as poetry.
The Rhone Spa was a medieval castle poised upon its very own mountain. Kitra turned off the main road leading up to Chamonix, navigated down a narrow defile, then roared up a hill shaped like a perfect cone. Every inch of the slopes was given over to vineyards. She powered down her window and the fragrances of fresh earth filled the vehicle. There was no reason why the perfume of a new season should make her sad. None at all.
They pulled through ancient battle ramparts and parked in the forecourt. The rear bastions had been torn down, granting the castle an uninterrupted view of the mountains and the valley. To her left was a small grassy landing strip holding a helicopter. To her right sprawled an array of luxurious vehicles. She pulled the Ferrari between a Maybach and a pearl-gray Bentley and cut the engine. The silence was deafening.
