Names of the Dead

by Mark Leggatt

  The owner brought out a bottle of Coke from beneath the counter and popped the lid. “Please, have one on me! I will fetch you a selection.”

  “Thank God for Arab hospitality,” said Montrose, and drank greedily from the bottle. He examined the label. The drink was dark and fizzy, but it wasn’t Coke, no matter what the label said.

  “This is my finest coat,” said the owner, holding up a long leather overcoat.

  That’s absolutely fucking appalling. “I’ll take it. What’s that?” Below the glass counter was a selection of cheap watches and knives. He could see what looked like a folded up toolkit, stamped with the Stars and Stripes.

  “It’s a Leatherman, monsieur. A multi-purpose tool. Like a very clever penknife.”

  “I’ll take that too.” Montrose pointed to a rack of luggage. “That big rolling suitcase. How much for everything?”

  “Well, normally . . .” the owner began to roll his eyes.

  “I’m in a hurry. Just name a price.” Montrose downed the rest of the bottle

  “Three hundred euros!”

  He peeled off a few bills and held them out. “Put the bag into the suitcase, I’ve got to rush for a train.”

  “Of course!” The owner tucked the cash into his pocket and lifted the leather bag into the suitcase.

  Montrose pulled on the black leather overcoat which reached down past his knees. He felt like a Gestapo officer. “I’ll need a hat. Nothing fancy.” For chrissake, not a fedora.

  The owner grabbed a red baseball cap with “I love Paris” emblazoned across the front. “For you, monsieur, on the house!”

  Talk about a fashion crime. Montrose held it in his hand. If Bonsergeant catches me, he’ll put me away for life. He felt the buzz of the phone in his back pocket. Charlotte’s phone? He pulled out her Blackberry and held it in his palm. Do I answer it? At least I owe her an explanation. Yeah, that and a bag of diamonds. I’ll tell her about the bridge. Then Mossad can pick up Reinhard, and throw his corpse in the river. He thumbed the phone and lifted it to his ear. “Charlotte? Look, I had to . . . ”

  “No, it’s not Charlotte, you asshole. Guess who?”

  Reinhard? How did he . . .? “Where did you get this number?”

  “A little bird told me. A little bird that we picked up at the department store. The police radio has been very busy. We just missed you. Pity, but we came away with a consolation prize.”

  It was them. The two men at the end of the alley behind the store. The Brits from Rome. Black and Grey Suit. No, they can’t . . . “Bullshit.”

  “Really? Listen to this.”

  His hand began to tremble and he pressed the phone hard to his ear. I delivered her straight to them.

  “Connor! Don’t tell them . . .”

  He heard her retch. Oh, Christ, no!

  “So, Montrose, this changes things, wouldn’t you say? You get your ass over to the Pont Neuf in the next ten minutes or we’re going to start cutting bits off her face. Ears, nose, lips, you get the picture. I don’t really have a plan, so I might go freestyle. Just hack away at anything. I’m feeling a little stressed, you know. I think I might enjoy it.”

  “You touch her and I’ll . . .”

  “You’re talking, Montrose, you should be walking. Or running. I start cutting in ten minutes.” The call ended.

  He stared at the phone.

  “Monsieur?” The shopkeeper stood with the empty store bag in his hands. “Are you okay?”

  “Gotta go.” Run! No, it’s too far. I can’t make it. He half turned to the door. “Where’s the nearest Métro station?”

  “Saint Michel.” The shopkeeper pointed to the west.

  “Does that line go to the Pont Neuf?”

  “Oui, monsieur, Line 4.” He pulled a tattered Métro map from his pocket. “The tourists, you know, they are always asking me . . .”

  Montrose pulled it from his hands and scanned the lines. Saint Michel would be crawling with cops. “What’s the next station to Saint Michel on this side of the river?”

  The shopkeeper tapped the map with his finger. “Odéon, monsieur. Straight down the Boulevard Saint-Germain, past Cluny Sorbonne.”

  He stuffed the Leatherman in his pocket, grabbed the handle of the wheeled suitcase and dragged it from the shop. He headed west to the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Just get to the bridge.

  The wheeled suitcase banged against the wound on his heel as he turned into the Odéon. He stopped at the corner and saw, to his left, the classic art nouveau metalwork of the Métro entrance.

  He bounced the suitcase down the steps and hurried across the ticket hall. He slotted a few euros in the machine, pulled out a ticket and made for the escalator.

  At the end of the ticket hall two policemen stood, distracted by an old lady asking for directions. One of them gave him a double take. Montrose ignored him and stepped onto the escalator. Turning back would be a dead giveaway.

  He fought the urge to jump down the steps. His legs twitched, ready to run. He stepped off and saw a round security mirror placed high up on the wall. Two dark uniforms, standing on the escalator. Can I play the lost tourist? Not a chance.

  The rumble from the tunnels told him a train was coming. Two entrances. Left and right. North and southbound platforms. The train approaching was southbound. Wrong direction. But not with two cops on my ass. He watched the carriages flash past as it pulled into the station.

  He checked the mirror. The cops were walking down the escalator. They’d heard the train. Taking the Leatherman from his pocket, he flicked out the blade, tucked it into his palm, then pulled the suitcase down to the far end of the platform for the southbound train.

  The carriage doors slid open. He placed his foot inside and waited. The train was ready to go. In the corner of his eye he saw the two figures march onto the platform and stop by a carriage door. Now they were waiting for him.

  If they were clever, they’d just stop the train. The alarm sounded that the doors were closing. Guess they’re not that clever. He jumped into the carriage. The doors began to close and he booted the suitcase towards the platform. The doors slammed into the sides of the suitcase, and he grabbed the edge of the doors and pulled himself through the gap. He hauled the suitcase out and tumbled back onto the platform. The doors crashed shut and the train moved off. He caught the faces of the policemen at the window. Yeah, I’ll bet you’re pissed. Even if you pulled the cord, the train would be stuck in the tunnel.

  Two down. If the cops haven’t told anybody, I’m in the clear. Their radios might not work underground, but they’ll be shouting for every damn cop in Paris once they get to the next station.

  He sprinted along a connecting tunnel to the north platform, tore off the leather coat and stuffed it in a bin.

  Another change of clothes and I’ll be down to my shorts.

  A northbound train pulled into the station and he checked the map on the wall. Two stops to Ile de la Cité, the station in the middle of the island. Close enough. The edge of the island jutted into the centre of the Pont Neuf. I can make it from there. He stepped onto the train.

  But the train went through Saint Michel. The doors closed and the train pulled away. No choice now. If the cops on the southbound train were fast there would be an army waiting for me. Got to get there first. He held on tight to the handrail as the train rattled around a corner. Saint Michel was a big station. Three or four lines met there. I could lose them in a maze of tunnels and then run for the bridge. Maybe five hundred yards. But all the cops had to do was stop the trains and cover the exits.

  No. It’s not gonna work.

  He ran down the carriage and through the connecting doors, jumping over suitcases and barging past passengers until he reached the driver’s cabin. Taking out the Leatherman tool, he fixed the pliers around the triangular door lock. The train was starting to slow. They were close to Saint Michel. He squeezed the pliers hard and the metal bit into his hand, but the lock turned. He jumped into the tight space beside
the driver and slammed the door behind him.

  The driver spun around.

  Montrose slid out the blade from the Leatherman. “Don’t fuck with me,” said Montrose. “I’m not really in the mood.”

  The Dead Man’s handle began to slip from the driver’s grasp and he looked down at the mic for the intercom.

  “Don’t even think about it. Listen to me. Keep going. Stop the train at the entrance to Saint Michel.” The train slowed and Montrose braced his arm against the windshield. Through the tunnel he could see the platform and the passengers. No cops. They’d be in the station, covering the exits. “Forward a few feet. Just before the platform.”

  The driver pulled the train to a stop. Montrose grabbed the mic and thrust it in the driver’s face. “Tell Control there’s someone on the tracks. Tell them to cut the power.”

  The driver took the mic. “This is train 464. I’m in the tunnel at Northbound Platform 2. There’s someone on the track. Cut the power.”

  Montrose held the knife against the driver’s cheek. “It’s a kid. Tell them to do it now.”

  “It’s a kid. Cut the power.”

  Passengers on the platform stared at the train as it stood in the tunnel. The motor hummed beneath him, and then slowed. The cabin lights dropped. Montrose ripped the mic from the dash of the cab. “Get back into the carriage.”

  “Monsieur . . .”

  “This train’s going nowhere. They’ve cut the power. Move it!”

  Montrose leapt from the cab and ran up the steps. He dumped the suitcase on the platform and wrenched it open. Passengers stared at him. “There’s a bomb!” he shouted. “Get out of the station!”

  Everyone turned and scrambled for the exit. Montrose ran to the far end of the platform and jumped down onto the track. If the cops were heading for the platform, they would have to fight their way through a mob of frightened passengers. He ran up the dark tunnel, timing his run and hitting the gravel between the wooden rail ties. The air was thick and hot in his lungs. Through the darkness he saw the lights of the station ahead. His breath pounded in his chest and his throat was raw as he ran up onto the platform at La Cité. A sea of faces turned towards him. He was about to shout to get them out of the station but stopped himself. No. That wouldn’t help. It would only attract attention. He scanned the faces of the passengers. Like I’m not doing that already.

  He headed for the platform exit and took the stairs two at a time. The ticket hall was quiet. No cops. They’d all be down at Saint Michel. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, slotted his ticket and walked to the exit and up the steps to the street.

  Shielding his eyes from the sun, he looked around to get his bearings. Directly in front, behind a formal garden of hanging trees, was the long gothic façade of La Préfecture de Police.

  The biggest cop shop in France. Someday, I’ll tell Charlotte. If she ever forgives me.

  He looked down at his feet. Lose the suitcase. He popped the locks, pulled out the leather bag and threw the suitcase over the railings into the garden.

  To his left he could see the river and he hurried to the Quai de la Corse. At the end of the street the Pont Neuf stretched across the Seine, stone mullions set into the side, where tourists sat with their guidebooks and sandwiches. Cool, damp air from the river filled his lungs as he ran.

  Cops. He saw the light blue shirt of a gendarme outside a building. Above him, three small French tricolors stuck out from the wall. Relax, official building. He’s supposed to be there. He slowed to a walk and crossed the street to the shade and cover of the trees, then picked up pace and slid to a halt at the end of the road where it joined the Pont Neuf. He scanned the length of the bridge.

  She wasn’t there.

  CHAPTER 31

  Montrose jerked his head around. A black Jaguar sedan slowed to a halt in the middle of the bridge. A man got out from the driver’s seat and sat on a stone bench set into a semi-circular mullion at the side of the bridge.

  Reinhard.

  Montrose crossed the road and stood before the mullion before lifting the bag onto the edge of the bridge. Let him see what’s going to happen if he tries anything.

  Reinhard kept his eyes on the bag as he stood up. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it. I’ve been hearing on the police radio about all sorts of adventures. They really are very upset with you.”

  Montrose nodded towards Reinhard’s jacket. “If you’re carrying a piece, the bag is going in the water.”

  “Do you think I’m going to double-cross you?” Reinhard opened his jacket. “Happy now?”

  “Where is she?”

  Reinhard nodded towards the Jaguar.

  Through the rear passenger window he saw a small figure in the rear seat. She sat very still. A tracksuit top was pulled up to just under her nose. Her eyes darted from side to side.

  “Anyone you know? You must think I’m an idiot, Montrose.”

  Montrose shook his head. “No, that really doesn’t cover it. Bring her out.”

  Reinhard nodded. “Good move. That’s what I’d do.” He stepped over to the Jaguar, opened the door and hauled her from the seat.

  Behind the lip of the tracksuit top Montrose could see the edge of the thick black tape covering her mouth. He looked down and saw the same tape wrapped around her wrists. Fear and fury were in her eyes as he pulled her close.

  Reinhard clapped his hands. “That’s so sweet!”

  “Fuck you. Show me the memory stick.”

  “Patience, Montrose. All in good time,” said Reinhard, patting his pocket. “And of course the video is ready to send to Interpol, from my phone.” He nodded at the leather bag. “Now, open it.”

  Montrose tightened his grip on the bag. “Let her walk away. Then we deal. Or the bag goes over the side.”

  “You know, I knew you were gonna be a prick about this.” Reinhard pointed towards the quay. “Look over there. See the guy with the raincoat?”

  Montrose looked. A man rested his elbows on the wall of the quay facing them, a raincoat draped over the stone. That face again. Black Suit from Rome.

  “You know what he’s hiding?” said Reinhard. “No? Well, if you so much as make one fucking move with that bag, there’s a rifle trained on your friend. It’s a Heckler and Koch 417. Currently the weapon of choice for British Special Forces in Afghanistan, with a 7.62 mm round. It’ll go through the human body and leave a hole the size of a basketball. But a sexy little chick like her? It will cut her in half. Just a little incentive for you.”

  Montrose could make out the end of a muzzle under the raincoat. It’s not a bluff. He pulled her to edge of the bridge, shielding her from the shooter.

  “Hurry up, Montrose. Think how pretty she’s going to look when a 7.62 has blown her guts all over the road.”

  Montrose stood his ground. “I want the shooter to walk away. Or I’m just gonna lose it. And you can clear up whatever fucking mess is left.”

  “That’s not gonna happen.”

  “I swear, if she goes down, you’re going with me.”

  “You behave yourself, Montrose, and she won’t. Straight swap. The bag and list for the girl.”

  Charlotte mumbled through the tape. Montrose pulled down the tracksuit top and eased the tape from her lips. She twisted her head to Reinhard. “Fis de pute!”

  “Shut it,” snarled Reinhard.

  She shook her head. “You have no idea what you’re up against. You’re a dead man.”

  “Charlotte, start walking,” said Montrose without taking his eyes from Reinhard.

  “Non! I’m not afraid of him.”

  The tremor in her voice told Montrose otherwise. “Please, I need you safe. Go now!”

  “No. I want to stay with you.”

  Montrose saw the determination in her wet eyes. She looked like a child.

  Reinhard scoffed. “Oh, how touching! The drama!”

  “Shut the fuck up,” said Montrose through gritted teeth.

  “Hurry up, Mon
trose. He might just shoot you first and then her. Who can say?”

  Ain’t no choice. He’ll do it. Montrose brought the bag down from the edge of the bridge and laid it at his feet. “You’ve got what you wanted.”

  “Slide it over to me.”

  Montrose kicked the bag forwards.

  Reinhard reached down and pulled out the envelope. He examined the contents briefly. “And now, for the finalé.” He nodded towards the man on the quay.

  Montrose glanced back to the quay. He stared at Black Suit. Tourists strolled behind him as he leaned against the quay. This ain’t right. He’s actually gonna drop down to the scope and take up a firing position with a sniper’s rifle? Under a raincoat? In broad daylight? He turned back to Reinhard. “You know what? This is bullshit. He’s not gonna shoot her. In the middle of Paris? Surrounded by witnesses? Good try, dickhead.” He stepped forward to grab the bag, and edged her back towards the edge of the stone. He froze as metal jammed hard into his kidneys. He could smell the cologne. Mr. Grey Suit.

  “So,” said Grey Suit. “You worked it out. He’s not the shooter. I am. And do you think I’ll miss from this range?”

  He felt Grey Suit angling the weapon against his back, pressing his knuckles into his kidneys. Professional shot. In the back, through the throat and into the head. He could feel the barrel stretching up his spine. The length told him that the weapon was fitted with a suppressor.

  He saw the tears well up in Charlotte’s eyes. Silenced weapons. Soft head rounds. No exit wound. No one will know. They’re going to kill us. Right here. Right now. Then walk away. He turned his head slowly towards her. “Charlotte? Tell your friends.”

  Reinhard narrowed his eyes. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  He looked left and right down the river. No boats. Let’s hope they’re not under the bridge.

  She looked at him quizzically, “But, we cannot . . .”

  He reached over and held her bound hands. “Someone’s got to tell them. That’s you.” He brought up his hand and shoved her hard in the chest. Her bottom smacked against the stone parapet and her legs flew into the air as she tumbled backwards over the bridge.