Names of the Dead

by Mark Leggatt

  “Yes,” he said and pulled out his ID.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Stein. He opened the barred gate and iron door.

  “After you,” said Montrose, holding out a hand.

  Charlotte stepped into the room.

  “Number 62.”

  He undid the Omega from his wrist and dialed the serial number. The door sprang open and Montrose lifted out the bag and placed it on the floor. “All yours,” he said.

  Charlotte knelt down, pulled back the zipper and pushed the clothes aside. A mass of diamonds sparkled back at them. “Mon dieu!”

  “There’s an envelope, too. A list.”

  Charlotte ignored him and dipped her hand into the diamonds. “C’est incroyable!” She made to pick up the bag, then stopped. “Connor? Did you mention a list?”

  “Yes. It’s in the bag.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve heard about a list, from Antwerp, that was supposed to exist, but we were never told what it was. Have you seen it?”

  “Yes. Names and numbers. I’ll tell you later.” It’ll blow your mind. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I’ll let my contact know. It might mean something to them.”

  “Let me carry that for you.” Montrose pushed the clothes back over the diamonds and closed the leather bag.

  They stepped out into the hallway. Stein was sitting behind his desk. “I hope you make this young lady very happy, Monsieur Montrose. Au revoir.”

  Charlotte blushed. “He already has. A bientôt, Monsieur Stein.”

  Montrose stood on the sidewalk and looked over at the café. “Can I borrow your phone? I just want to check my email.”

  She handed over a Blackberry. “Connor, I can’t thank you enough.”

  He shrugged. “The diamonds mean nothing to me. They never did. Until I found out where they came from. They were just a bargaining chip with Erwin Reinhard. But now he’s dead.”

  “I’ll call my contact. They’ll help, I’m sure.” She laid her head to one side. “Will I see you again?”

  Montrose hesitated. The clever answer was no. But this girl was different. You’re crazy. Keep your mind on the job. “I might not be back for some time.” He looked across at the café. “Let’s have a coffee. Then you can call your contact. I think I’m gonna need some help to stay away from the cops.”

  “I understand. Maybe we’ll say au revoir instead of goodbye.”

  “I hope so,” he replied before he could stop himself. Wherever the hell I end up. They crossed to the square and stood before the café. “Have you ever been to Morocco?”

  “Yes, I’ll let you know some good places to eat. But first, I’m going to wash my hands. I feel filthy from the sewer.” She turned and headed towards the restrooms.

  Montrose sat at a corner of the bar, where he had a good view of the square. He sipped the espresso and held the cup in front of him. It was the smallest amount of coffee he had ever seen, but it kicked like a mule.

  No one can clear my name. No one. He downed the coffee. Less of the self-pity. Just get out of town. Give Mossad the diamonds and list. They have the power to get me clear of Europe.

  He brought up his internet browser on her phone and logged into his email. A new message appeared on the screen.

  Re: FAO Jacques Kessler.

  Montrose – I have the video. It was contained on a memory stick found in the possession of my late father. I will exchange the memory stick and email the video to Interpol when I have the diamonds and the list.

  This is the deal. The diamonds and the list. I will accept nothing less. You have a chance to clear your name. I suggest you take it.

  Call the number below.

  Kurt Reinhard

  Sweet Jesus. He’s got it. He looked down at the bag. Mossad can’t clear my name. Only the video can do that. If I get the memory stick, I’ll damn well hand myself in. Once I’m in the clear then the Mossad attack dogs can tear Reinhard to shreds. He thumbed the number on the screen. The call was answered immediately.

  “Montrose?”

  “Yeah. Bad penny and all that. I got your email.”

  “Good. Then let’s deal with this like professionals. I have what you want. But do you have what I want?”

  “Yeah. Right here with me.”

  “Come to my lawyer’s office . . .”

  “Not a chance, slimeball. I’ll tell you where and when. I don’t want your goons showing up and spoiling the party.”

  “Pick your spot. I don’t have time for dramatics, Montrose. The entire Parisian police force are after you, so you’d better get there before they get to you.”

  He’s got a point. But I’m not gonna hand myself in until I have that memory stick.

  “Montrose? Are you still there.”

  “Shut up, I’m thinking.”

  “Tick tock, Montrose. If the cops get to you first, you’ll be put away for life.”

  Yeah, and you’re a dead man. This has to be done quickly, before Reinhard has a chance to prepare a set up. “I’ve got the place. Pont Neuf, beside Notre Dame. Middle of the bridge. You’d better be alone, or the diamonds and the list are going in the water. And so am I. You understand?”

  “I understand, Montrose, that if you don’t turn up with the diamonds and list, then the memory stick will be going in exactly the same place. Thirty minutes. Pont Neuf.”

  “Thirty minutes? You think so?” He’s running around with his ass on fire, ‘cos the Mafia in Rome are waiting for their money. No point making it easy for him. Not my problem. “Might take me longer, the traffic in Paris is murder, you know.”

  “My patience won’t last forever, Montrose. The police aren’t the only people in Paris looking for you.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it.” That’s nothing to the hell that awaits you. “Which means I’ve got other things to think about than sightseeing on the Point Neuf. I’ll be there when it’s safe. Why don’t you get there and enjoy the view? Have an ice cream. You can watch the . . .”

  “Be there! Thirty minutes!”

  “Yeah. Later, sucker.” Montrose cut the call and looked down at the leather bag.

  The mirror was cracked and stained, but she had to admit, the dress did look good. She allowed herself a smile. He was a handsome man. Honest, too. There were not many of them about, in her opinion.

  She pinched her cheeks, just like her mother used to do, then smoothed down her eyebrows. Maybe pluck them? God, she thought, you’ve changed. That’s something that’s never occurred to you before. Her mother had been forever dragging her around the chi-chi boutiques of the 5th Arrondissement, trying to turn her into a chic Parisienne. Maybe her mother had been right all along. She examined her reflection. In this dress, all she needed was a pair of ridiculous high heels and she was ready for the Ritz.

  A pair of high heels was something she didn’t have. Her wardrobe was purely functional. Jeans, boots and leather coats. She looked good in those. Her father had just smiled and said she looked good in anything. But now the diamonds were safe, life was about to change.

  She turned and opened the door into the café. He wasn’t at the table. She ran to the bar. “The man who was sitting here. Where did he go?”

  “He left a moment ago, mademoiselle. He seemed in a hurry.”

  She ran out onto the terrace. A taxi pulled away from the other side of the square and through the back window she could see the short dark hair of the passenger. “Putain de merde!” The taxi was around the corner and out of sight before she could move.

  She stood, hands held out. There were no other taxis. She began to run then stopped. The taxi would reach the Rue des Rosiers in seconds. She’d never catch him.

  An old Lambretta scooter was parked to her right. At a table sat an old man. “Monsieur!”

  He looked up from his coffee. “Oui?”

  “I need your scooter! How much?”

  “What?”

  She pulled a wad of cash from her bag. “Five hundred euros. Right now.”


  “Mademoiselle, I have to tell you, it’s not worth a hundred.”

  “I don’t care. This is an emergency.”

  “Do you want to sign the papers?”

  “No, just give me the keys.” She grabbed the keys from the table and threw down the cash.

  “Ah,” said the old man. “The gentleman who left in a hurry. I hope he’s worth it.”

  She jumped on the scooter, turned on the ignition and pumped the kick-start.

  The old man shrugged. “Some lovers are not worth pursuing, mademoiselle.”

  The motor spluttered into life and she twisted back the throttle. Not a lover. He was a dead man.

  CHAPTER 30

  He slid down in the seat and glanced back. There was no sign of her. He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut. I’ve got no choice.

  The taxi came to a halt in the traffic. The driver turned in his seat. “Bad news, monsieur. The police have blocked the roads around Châtelet and all the side streets are jammed. We can go around, but it will take forever. We’ll have to head down to the Bastille, then over the river.”

  “Whatever is the quickest way. I just have to get there. What’s going on?”

  “An escaped prisoner. American, I heard.”

  Montrose sat up with a jolt. “Is that so?”

  The taxi spun a u-turn towards the Rue de Rivoli. Through the windshield, he could see the six-way junction around the Bastille. Normally cars would be speeding around the base of the monument, but everything was gridlocked.

  I’ve thrown away my last card. Mossad were not going to help without the diamonds. Or without Charlotte. Only one way. Get the memory stick with the video and hand yourself in. He rubbed his face hard. Yeah. Helluva plan. Make it happen.

  “Ah, no luck, monsieur,” said the driver. “They’re stopping every car entering the Bastille. They must really want this guy.”

  That’s for sure. Montrose watched policemen check cars then wave them through. This isn’t gonna work. “Damn this traffic! I’m going to be late for my appointment. How far is it to walk?”

  “About thirty minutes, monsieur.”

  “Looks like I’m on foot.” Montrose handed the driver a fifty euro bill. “Keep the change for your trouble.” He was out of the taxi before the driver had a chance to reply.

  The Métro station, Saint Paul, was across the road. That line goes along the river, past the Pont Neuf. He was about to turn in when he saw two gendarmes just inside the station entrance. They’ve locked the place down. It would have to be on foot. Back streets and fast. Head south and west, make it to the river and then down to the bridge. However long it took. Just stay clear of the cops.

  He turned off the street and slipped into a doorway. Damn sure there’s a price on my head. The taxi driver could go straight to the cops. Time for another change of clothes. There was nothing on the street except small shops and apartments. A department store or clothes shop would be on the main drag.

  He headed towards Rue Saint Antoine and saw the Bon Marche. Five floors high. They’ve got to have something.

  The police would concentrate on the main junctions and Métro. Then they would appear on the streets when the taxi driver opened his mouth. He fought the urge to look over his shoulder and pushed through the glass doors. In front were aisles of food. A plan was pinned to the wall with the escalator to the right. Menswear, next floor. Don’t run. He glanced back at the top of the escalator. Two gendarmes, pushing their way through the doors of the shop. The taxi driver had worked it out.

  In front was the menswear department. They’re tailing a guy in a suit and carrying a leather bag. Even if I get out of the store, the suit’s a giveaway. Too damn flash.

  Pulling a duffle coat from a rack, he ducked into a changing booth, tugging the curtain closed behind him. He took the duffle coat from its hanger and threw them onto a small bench at the side of the booth. His hands tore at the suit jacket. He pulled out his wallet and stuffed it into the pocket of the duffle coat. He looked down at the leather bag. They’d spot it a mile off.

  He peeked out of the curtain. In front was a cash desk with large store bags behind the cashier. If I buy the duffle coat then I can hide the leather bag in a store bag. That would work. Then give the gendarmes the slip and out of a fire exit.

  As he drew back the curtain, two Kepi hats appeared at the top of the escalator. The gendarmes. They’d be on him in seconds.

  There was nothing in the changing booth to use as a weapon. He looked up. Above him was a sprinkler. Now would be a good time to start smoking.

  He grabbed the coat hanger, pulling the plastic arms together and folding the metal hook into a spike. He twisted the light bulb from its socket on the side of the changing booth then tore the plastic price tag from the duffle coat and twisted it around the end of the metal hook. He pointed it towards the empty light socket and the two copper contacts. One of those has got 110 volts running through it. Get it right or the cops will be picking up a corpse.

  He touched one side of the hook against the right hand contact. Nothing. The other one is live. Good choice, you lucky bastard. Holding it hard against the contact, he gently turned the hook until it was a millimeter away from the live contact. His hands jolted as a blue electric arc sparked across the gap to the hook. The plastic wrapped around the hook began to smolder. Again. I need more.

  He widened his stance, his hands trembling as he edged the hook once more towards the live contact. A fat blue arc shot across the gap and ignited the plastic. He ripped the hanger from the socket and jammed it up into the sprinkler.

  The fire alarm burst into life. Water spewed over him and he pulled up the collar of the duffle coat and peered around the curtain. It was raining in the store. The gendarmes stood there for a moment, water running off their Kepis, and then ran back down the escalators.

  Montrose burst out of the booth and ran across to the cash desk, snatched up a large store bag, stuffed the leather bag inside and joined the rush of shoppers and staff heading for the fire exit. He ran past an old lady, then stopped and turned. “Let me help you,” he said, grabbing her arm and bundling her towards the exit and down a flight of stairs before she could protest. He held on tight to the old lady until they emerged into an alley at the side of the store. No cops.

  “Good luck,” he said and walked off. Sweat was streaming down his back and he felt on the edge of hysteria. Keep control, you know what you have to do. Head south for the river. West to the Pont Neuf. They’re not looking for a guy in a duffle coat.

  He tried to breathe, but his chest was so tight he could only take short gasps. Lights flashed in front of his eyes as panic closed in. Just walk. Keep it together. Run when you hit the water.

  “STOP!”

  Shock slammed through him. He dropped the store bag. The leather bag spilled out. He tried to pick it up, but his hands shook so much he missed the handle.

  “Hands in the air!”

  Montrose turned.

  A soaking gendarme pulled a pistol from his holster. “Put your hands on your head, you bastard.”

  I’ll never make it. It’s over.

  The gendarme’s hands tightened around the pistol. He didn’t hear the scooter until it ploughed into him from behind. He flew into the air before landing head first on the cobbles and lay, motionless.

  Charlotte tumbled to the ground beside him. Her face was creased with shock and anger. She looked down at the gendarme’s pistol, lying at her feet.

  Montrose realized his hands were still in the air.

  A shout came from the end of the alley. They both turned.

  Two men in suits. Shit, I’ve seen them before. Montrose threw the store bag over his shoulder and picked up the scooter. “Charlotte! I’ll find you!” He climbed on and opened the throttle, careering down the alley until he shot out onto the Avenue des Célestin.

  Got to make it south of the river. He turned onto the bridge over the Ile Saint Louis. The scooter bounced around as he
weaved through the traffic. Fuck the cops. I can make the Pont Neuf in a few minutes from the south side. Straight along the quay. He jumped the lights and headed west.

  They’re looking for a guy in a duffle coat with a store bag. On a scooter. They’d guess I’m heading over the river. The Boulevard would be lined with CCTV. The scooter would have to go. Try to make it to the edge of the Pont Neuf then ditch it.

  The traffic at the end of the bridge was solid. The lights were red and he bumped the scooter up onto the curb and around the corner, pedestrians scattering around him. He ran off the sidewalk and squeezed into a gap through the traffic on the Rue de la Tournelle. Glancing up along the quay he saw blue flashing lights in the distance. They were coming his way. Go south, through the side streets then double back to the Pont Neuf. He dragged the scooter left on a pedestrian crossing then turned down an arched street to the Latin Quarter.

  The streets were close and winding as he dodged past tourists and parked cars. He was going nowhere fast. It would have to be the Boulevard Saint Michel. Get some speed up. I’ll be tracked the whole way, but there’s no choice.

  He turned at the end of the street and slotted into the traffic heading west, past the tourists and the fin de siècle cafés. The road opened up. In this traffic they would spot him easily. It wasn’t going to work.

  The Métro. That would take me to the bridge. There had to be a station around here, and the line that stopped on the Ile de la Cité, where the Pont Neuf crossed the river.

  Montrose squeezed the brakes and pulled into a side street, stopping behind a van. He tore off the duffle coat and dumped it on the seat of the scooter. To his left were the usual shops and overpriced cafes. He slipped his wallet into his pocket and took off down the street. He stopped in front of an Arab maroquinerie.

  Leather isn’t my style, but it would have to do.

  The owner greeted him with arms wide. “Monsieur! You look like you need a cool drink!”

  “Yeah.” Montrose looked up behind the counter to a line of gaudy clocks with the Eiffel Tower painted on the dial. I’ll make it. Only a few stops on the Métro. The cops would be charging around trying to find the scooter. “And I need a coat and a suitcase.”