by Mark Leggatt
CHAPTER 21
Two hours to Brussels. What the hell, ten minutes on a train in any direction would be good. Montrose ran up the steps into the Gare du Nord and pushed through a steady stream of people moving from the platforms to the Métro.
Would old Adubi tell the police the whole story? Nah, he’ll just report the cash theft. Sure as shit the cops won’t be told about the diamonds. That would be left to whoever Adubi phoned. No prizes for guessing who that would be. He bent down to pull away his sock, stuck against the raw wound on his heel, and glanced across the station concourse. Two gendarmes stood chatting near the far platform. Not your average coffee-shop cop. Mostly ex-army. You don’t start a rumble with those boys. Whatever. I’m ahead of the game. It has to stay that way. If the Swiss police knew my name for the Zurich heist, then maybe they told the French. Yeah, you know how Interpol works.
The ticket booth was dead ahead. The names of the Parisian suburbs flashed up on the departures board. At the far end of the platform he could see the big blue Eurostar locos and the signs for international departures. Time to bid Paris adieu.
“Two round trip tickets for Brussels. Do you know the time of the next train?”
“In exactly twenty minutes, monsieur. Platform twenty-four,” replied the assistant as he handed Montrose his tickets and change.
“Merci.” Montrose took the cash and turned towards the exit, then stood for a moment, examining his ticket. He glanced over at the gendarmes. They didn’t seem that interested. Maybe they don’t know. They will soon enough. The station wasn’t safe. The first thing the police would do was seal the entrance. They’d get a pretty good description from Adubi at Rue Lamont. They could arrive at any moment. I could walk straight into them. Carrying my ID.
Backing into a corner at the side of the booth, he undid the Omega from his wrist, then pulled out his wallet and the old Cartier lighter. He looked down at the two-inch gap at the bottom of the booth where it stood on the platform. It was thick with dust. Perfect. He dropped the train ticket on the floor, then tucked his lighter into the wallet and bent down. He slid the wallet and watch under the edge of the booth, picked up his ticket and headed for the exit.
Stepping into the sunlight, he saw a café across the road. If the police arrive with all guns blazing, I’ll see it from there. The wallet and watch could wait until the dust had settled. A change of appearance would be a good idea, but there was no time for anything fancy. He crossed the Place Napoléon, passed the café and took the Boulevard de Denain. To his left a barber shop was tucked down a side street and he ducked inside. The room was hot, thick with the smell of merguez and couscous. The wail of Arab music coming from a back room assaulted his ears. Montrose hung his jacket on a peg then covered it with an apron.
A bald man appeared from behind a beaded curtain. “Ah, monsieur, how can I help you?” he said, his smile full of gold teeth and gaps.
“A haircut, please. Short. Number two razor.”
“Of course, monsieur, please sit, this won’t take long.”
“Good, I have a train to catch.”
The cracked leather chair was hot and uncomfortable against his back. Above the music he could hear a faint police siren, and tried to keep still as the barber tied an apron around his neck. The clock above the mirror said thirteen minutes to go. The station would be getting busy pretty soon. And traffic was starting to build up. Even at weekends Paris was still the slowest racetrack in the world, so getting out by car was not an option. The sirens came closer. It’s only a police car, not every flic in Paris is looking for you.
He blinked. On the contrary. If old Adubi called the cops, that’s exactly what’s going to happen. There was no other way out. It had to be the train and it had to be now.
The barber tilted Montrose’s head forward and the razor buzzed smoothly over his scalp. The scream of sirens became louder. He flinched as a police car sped down the Boulevard de Denain.
The barber released his grip. “Monsieur? Did I hurt you with the razor?”
“No, just a muscle falling asleep. Are we done?”
“One moment.” The barber gently touched the razor against the skin above his ear to level the cut. “Voilà, monsieur.”
“Thanks.” Montrose jumped from the seat and pulled the apron from his throat. “Got to rush,” he handed the barber a fifty euro bill. “Keep the change.”
With effusive thanks ringing in his ears, he turned back to the station. He looked down at his watch before remembering it was gone. Maybe ten minutes to go. He looked up and down the boulevard and saw the sign he needed. Internet Café. He ducked into the doorway. The room was full of tourists, all blogging their latest adventures in the City of Light.
“Thirty minutes,” said Montrose.
The assistant didn’t look at him, just held out his hand for the money and continued chatting to the girl at the end of the counter.
Hurry up, you idiot.
The assistant handed back a pile of coins. Montrose stuffed them in his pocket and headed for a free seat. I need the video on the USB stick. And a copy sent to a safe place in case Reinhard wants to dick me around. Not the CIA, they might keep the damn thing to themselves and watch me swing in the wind. He brought up the contacts page for Kessler’s bank, then his internet mail. They’ll trace the IP, but it don’t matter. I’ll be gone.
FAO Jacques Kessler.
Guess who, sucker? Yeah, I’m still alive and kicking. Kurt Reinhard might be glad of that. Because I’ve got his bag full of diamonds and if he wants to see them again, this is what he has to do.
I want the memory stick with the security recording of the murders in Rome, plus I want a copy sent to Interpol. Tell Kurt to ask his father.
Let me make myself very clear. Unless I get that video, then old Reinhard won’t be seeing his diamonds again. And the Cosa Nostra can eat him and his son alive.
When you’re ready to deal, put a clear message on your website home page. Otherwise, I’m gonna be wearing a lot of jewelry.
You’ve got 24 hours. Any more and the deal is off.
And you’re fucked.
When Interpol get the video they can tell the Italian Police. That’ll be two monkeys off my back. Montrose weaved past the desks and out into the street. Then that gorilla Spinks can call off the hunt. I’m not a snitch. I’ll keep my mouth shut. Yeah, if they let me live.
From the corner of Rue Dunkerque the station seemed quiet, just the usual tourists and commuters on their way home. The clock above the station said five minutes to go. A free table stood outside the door of the café and he threaded his way past the chairs, picking up a discarded sports paper. Taking the sunglasses from his pocket, he signaled to the waiter. “Un espresso, s’il vous plaît.”
He heard the screech of tires from across the river and saw the flashing blue lights at the end of the street. Two police vans raced down to the front of the station. That’s the CRS. Old Adubi made the call. They’ve brought in the riot squad. He lifted the paper higher to cover his face then pulled it down again. Everyone else was looking over to check the action, so he’d better do the same.
Heavily armed police raced out of the vans and into the station. How did they know I was here? No, they don’t. It’s gonna be like this at every station. Time to disappear. The hotels and brothels behind Gare du Nord should be safe. But I need a little distraction.
The waiter appeared with his coffee. “Monsieur,” said Montrose, “do you have a telephone I could use?”
“It’s at the rear of the bar.”
Pulling a handful of coins from his pocket, Montrose headed inside. At the end of the long wooden bar, a phone was mounted on a wooden board covered in scrawled numbers. He grabbed the receiver and dialed the operator. “I want to speak to the Préfecture de Police.”
“Just putting you through.”
The bar looked like it hadn’t changed in a hundred years. A dirty wooden fan turned lazily over his head, its only function seemingly a fairgr
ound ride for a few lazy flies. To his right was a gleaming brass absinthe faucet, and behind the bar the patron stood polishing glasses and scowling at customers.
A voice came down the line. “Bonjour, Préfecture de Police.”
Might as well go straight to the top. “I want to talk to the Préfet de Police. It concerns the armed robbery of a pawn shop in Rue Lamont.”
The voice sounded bored. “Monsieur, the Préfet cannot be contacted . . . ”
“If you value your job, I suggest you put me through immediately. This is a security issue.” There was a click as the call was transferred.
“Bureau de le Préfet.”
“I want to speak to the Préfet immediately.”
“The Préfet is not . . . ”
“I’ve heard all that. Tell him I’m from Interpol. I know where an armed robber is hiding. Do it now.”
“One moment, please.”
To his right, an elderly man sat at a small wooden table, leisurely tucking into a Croque Monsieur. Montrose’s stomach rumbled.
“Oui?” The voice was deep.
“Monsieur le Préfet,” said Montrose. “This is a friend. The armed robber from the pawnshop in Rue Lamont is at the Gare Montparnasse. He’s taking the train to Bordeaux and then Spain. I suggest you stop him. He’s an Englishman disguised as an American tourist.”
“Who is this? How do you know this man?”
“You have friends in Lyon. Remember, Gare Montparnasse.” He hung up. Let the fun begin.
Montrose stood for a moment then heard the wail of sirens starting up. They were off. Give them a few moments and then stroll on over. I’m just a guy catching a train. No drama. If it didn’t work, I’ll hit the back streets. He stepped towards the door.
The payphone rang behind him.
He slid to a halt. His mouth went dry. They’ve traced the call. He spun around, but the patron was already lifting the handset to his ear.
“Oui?” said the patron. His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean who have you called? You should know, you dialed the number!”
Don’t say it, don’t say the name.
“You’re the Préfet de la Police?” The patron turned to Montrose with a grin. “Yeah, and I’m Napoleon Bonaparte. Now, fuck off.” He slammed down the phone. “Students. I’d send them all to Afghanistan to get their ass shot off.”
Walk away. Be cool. He took a deep breath and made for the door. The sunlight in the bar dimmed and he looked up to see the back of a man in a sharp suit blocking the doorway. Relax, only another rubberneck checking out the action at the station.
“Pardon, monsieur,” Montrose squeezed past.
“Ah, excusez-moi,” said the man, stepping aside.
As he walked out onto the terrace, Montrose saw the spooks gather around a police radio then run towards to their car, followed by the CRS. Two minutes to the train. Folding the newspaper, he placed some coins in the saucer of his coffee cup. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man in the sharp suit cross from the doorway and approach his table.
“Do you mind if I sit here, monsieur?” asked the man.
“Not at all, I’m just leaving,” said Montrose.
“I think not, monsieur. Please, sit down.”
Montrose turned, and saw the man gesture nonchalantly to the chair.
“Monsieur, there are policemen at every junction but you cannot see them. I think it would be better if you talked to me. Sit down. There is nowhere to go.”
Montrose lowered himself into the chair, holding the frame to stop his hands from shaking.
The man called over the waiter. “Deux cafés, s’il vous plaît.”
Montrose said nothing.
The man continued. “I suggest you enjoy the coffee, monsieur, while the entire police force chase around the stations of Paris. Besides, it may be the best coffee you taste for some time.”
A pulse was thumping in his neck as he pulled down his sunglasses and stared into the man’s soft brown eyes. “How did you find me?”
The man shrugged. “Alors, monsieur, it is not so difficult. Your French is very good, but not perfect. You are an American, no? And you have committed a crime. A fashion crime. With all our new CCTV cameras your description was easy to follow. You were spotted near the Latin Quarter, carrying a certain type of bag. Then you disappeared. However, all we had to do was look for a foreigner wearing a suit and an expensive overcoat. After all, it’s a pleasant day in Paris, no? We thought you might try to change your appearance, maybe lose the overcoat. Then we are told of a man wearing suit pants and sneakers. An unforgivable crime of fashion. Of course, anyone wearing such clothes had to be an American.”
Montrose felt fatigue and despair wash over him. His hands dropped onto his lap. “Is it so obvious?”
“I’m afraid so. Soon, you are spotted again and the bags have vanished. The local police watched all the connecting stations since we guessed you would try to leave Paris immediately. Rush hour is approaching, so your best bet is the train. Then it was simply a matter of choosing a station. I am in luck. I chose the Gare du Nord. It is the quickest way out of France. And if you don’t mind, I must say I’m feeling rather pleased with myself.”
A waiter appeared with two coffees and the man sipped from his cup before continuing. “You see, I had an idea. You are obviously a clever man. You would not be waiting on the platform, ticket in hand. You would buy your ticket, then leave, to watch the station for any danger, which is why I was looking for you here. Then I saw the sneakers and the new haircut. There are still hairs on your shirt. Brussels, no?”
“How did you know?”
“We simply asked in the station if any American or British fitting your description had bought tickets to Belgium in the last twenty minutes. We can spot you very easily, monsieur. The color of hair and eyes, the pale skin, the bizarre dress sense. It’s not so difficult. Tell me, has anyone ever approached you in the street, and asked you a question in English?”
Montrose slowly nodded.
“Voilà! How did they know? Permit me to introduce myself. I am Detective Bonsergeant.” He took another sip of his coffee then dabbed his lips with a napkin.
Montrose shifted in his seat. “You don’t look like a policeman.”
“No, I don’t look like an American TV policeman. They seem to sleep in their clothes. This is Paris, monsieur.” Bonsergeant settled into his seat. “I heard about the armed robbery in Zurich.” He tapped his breast pocket. “Twitter. Very useful for a policeman. And then I hear of the robbery in Rue Lamont, where someone tries to sell a diamond! I spoke to the owner of the pawn shop. Of course, as a policeman, I find it very intriguing.”
“Yeah, and I find it fucking ridiculous.” I’ve had some shit ideas, but that had to be the gold standard. After the Zurich gig, the word would have gone out to the whole trade. Anyone trying to sell diamonds was going to stand out like a bulldog’s balls. And I had to pick a Jew. “I did what I had to do.”
“You make it sounds like a Western movie, monsieur!”
“Maybe, but there’s no happy ending. If the sheriff arrives, I’m the one he’s going to shoot.”
“Ah, the shooting. Very strange, this Zurich business. Amateurs, I thought. An armed hold up? Professionals don’t open fire at the drop of a hat. I checked the witness messages on Twitter. And they didn’t match up with the police bulletin. So, diamonds are stolen in Zurich and then someone turns up in Paris trying to pawn one? The pawnbroker was very reticent about what you were trying to pawn until we examined his security camera. Now the intrigue starts to blossom. It becomes addictive. The detective’s nose, it scents . . . merde!”
“Yeah, there’s a lot of it about.”
“Also, the police report tells me that the suspect is armed and dangerous. Do not approach. Really? If the man in Zurich and the man in Rue Lamont are the same, why are they behaving so differently?”
Montrose couldn’t resist a wry smile and saw a corresponding amusement in Bonsergeant�
�s eyes.
“Are you armed, monsieur?”
“No. Apart from a Swiss Army knife.”
Bonsergeant blew out his cheeks. “I don’t want to ruin your reputation as an armed robber, monsieur, but a penknife doesn’t really count.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I watched you in the café. You do not have a gun. So, why would they say that a man like you is armed and dangerous? The kind of phrase that makes a policeman shoot first and ask questions later? Eh?”
“Because they want me dead.”
“Voilà! Tell me, monsieur, who are they? Who did you steal the diamonds from?”
“You really don’t want to know. They stole them many years ago. All the original owners, they’re all dead.”
“Dead? All of them?”
“They were from Antwerp. In 1941.” Montrose watched Bonsergeant’s face change, his blue eyes clouding over and lips tightening as the dates and location clicked home. Montrose held out his hands. “There are things I cannot tell you. The less you know the better. But they will come for me.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Can I trust you?”
Bonsergeant rolled his eyes. “Who else have you got?”
“They tried to kill me in Zurich. I was in the car, with the diamonds. Check the witness reports. The shots came from the car in front. I escaped, but they won’t stop. They’ll try again. I just have to stay away from them as long as possible.”
Bonsergeant stuck his chin in the direction of the station. “The crimes of the Gare du Nord are well known, monsieur, but this café? Do you know
its history?”
“No, I don’t.”
“This was a restaurant and hotel before the war and then it was taken over by the Gestapo. Very convenient for the station, you see. They took people straight from the train and into the cellars below us. They tortured them. Or sent them to Germany for slave labor, to die in the camps. I know all this because my grandfather kept a diary. He was a policeman, just like me. In those days, it was the police who did the dirty work in Paris. He had to arrest many people, most of whom were never seen again. Of course, like most of the police, he let some escape when he could. But, he did it once too often and was brought here. In the rooms below your feet, he was tortured and beaten to death.” Bonsergeant sat silent for a moment, then looked up. “I am proud of him because he saved lives where he could. And it is ironic, monsieur, that I am here now, to tell you something that could save your life.”
