by G. L. Baron
‘What happened next?’
The technician restarted the video. On the central monitor one could still see the woman looking around, looking for something… or someone. On the other screens the same scene could be seen, shot from multiple angles.
‘It wasn’t a coincidence. They hadn’t met by chance.’ Sforza suddenly stood up and pointed at Meredith. ‘See, she’s actually looking for him. As soon as she sees him she goes straight to our young professor.’
They could now see the woman touching Manuel Cassini’s hand on the screen.
‘Let’s go back to after dinner,’ said Sforza, dropping back into the chair.
The investigation, begun almost by accident as a favour to his friend Farinelli, was proving to be much more complex than expected. After the suicide, which had taken place in the Vatican, there had been the death of the museum superintendent in Florence, and then Meredith’s.
What the relationship was between the Al Husayn family and the two art experts, was not clear. Certainly, their driver had been killed in Cavalli Gigli’s home. There was certainly a connection with a fourth person: Manuel Cassini, a young Neapolitan professor. The man had been invited to Paris by a false e-mail sent from the Florentine superintendent’s computer, and then he had met the Sheikh’s wife.
The Monsignor, the superintendent and the professor had written a book together five years earlier: The Secret of the Cursed Painters. It seemed they had not stayed in touch, but had been in contact again only a few days before. At that point, it would seem reasonable to think that there was another element uniting them, at least ideally: Meredith Evans, the American wife of the Sheikh.
With absolute certainty, the woman had only met Cavalli Gigli and Cassini. The first, shortly after Christmas, in Florence, the second on New Year’s Eve in the hotel in Paris. Was it possible that she was the American Farinelli had spoken of, the one who de Beaumont had fallen for before killing himself?
If he had to bet – as he usually did – he would bet ten thousand euro on Meredith; only she could be de Beaumont’s woman.
‘Here it is.’ The big security man touched the joystick and the corridor of the first floor appeared on the screen. They could see Cassini, clearly drunk, holding the woman’s hand. The two arrived at the Imperial suite’s door and entered. ‘The lock was opened at 2:19.’
Sforza had wanted to argue something about the privacy of hotel guests – all their movements watched over within the structure – but chose not to say anything. He was there for another reason and had something else to think about.
‘And here comes the fun part.’ The man turned to Sforza.
‘And who is that?’ thundered the inspector, sitting up in his chair. ‘So… Julia Duskrja…’ The operator reading the surname on the computer screen paused for a moment. He lowered his glasses and then continued, ‘Duskrjadcenko. Julia Duskrjadcenko. She arrived with Mrs Al Husayn. They occupied a suite on the second floor.’ He called up another video file, a coloured table, and quickly read a series of numbers and dates. ‘Apparently she hasn’t returned to her room since last night.’
‘What is she doing?’
On the central video they could see the image of the corridor. A blonde, with very white skin, tight pants and a leather jacket approached the door of Cassini’s suite. She was holding a black brief case.
‘She knocks,’ the technician noted, narrowing his eyes. ‘And after a while the other woman opens the door.’
Sforza tried to interpret the scene. A few minutes after Cassini and Meredith had gone inside the room, a third person had knocked at the door. The Sheikh’s wife had opened it, and the woman had entered like a shadow.
‘They must have had fun in there…’ grinned the security man. ‘Too bad there are no cameras in the rooms.’
‘What happens next?’
‘Quite a bit later… at dawn, the blonde dressed in leather left with her suitcase full of erotic games.’
‘And what time did Mrs Al Husayn leave?’
‘The lock was opened at 5:34, fifteen minutes after Duskrjadcenko left.’
Sforza stood up. It was the second time he had seen those videos. He knew perfectly well what happened afterwards; four men were waiting for Meredith in the hallway and followed her to the square. The images of the Ritz ended there, but the next morning her body was found in a refuse container near La Défense.
‘Thank you.’ The inspector shook hands with the director and smiled. ‘That was good of you. Can we see the rooms now? Cassini’s, Mrs Al Husayns’ and the other woman’s.’
‘Certainly, I’ll get someone to accompany you.’
While the director spoke, the videos they had just watched began running again. They could see a close up of the woman, the one taken in Bar Hemingway. Meredith was moving in slow motion toward Cassini.
‘Wait a second!’ mumbled Sforza ‘Go back a few frames.’
The man turned round, and backed it up. The two police officers and the director exchanged glances.
‘What’s that?’ inquired Sforza. ‘You said they are high-resolution cameras. Zoom in more.’
‘What do you want me to magnify, the earring?’
On the monitor, you could see a frame of the woman who was turning round. The hair had stopped moving, rising up like in a publicity shot for a shampoo advertisement. You could see a flashy diamond earring and just below, towards the back of her head, he saw a strange design on the skin.
‘It doesn’t look like a tattoo. I think it’s attached. If I had to guess, I would say that it’s a kind of hearing aid.’
Sforza observed the picture in silence, biting his lips.
‘Or maybe not… what do you think?’ he asked while the technician enlarged the image further on the small transparent device; it looked like a microchip.
‘I don’t know what it is and I don’t know what it’s for… but I’ve certainly seen one like it already.’
*
Shortly after Sforza had left, one of the electronic locks on the first floor clicked open, operated by one of the cleaning ladies’ badges.
22
Paris, New Year’s Day. 2:59 p.m.
Nigel Sforza, a young man in charge of the hotel and the two Gendarmerie officers reached Meredith’s suite, the César Ritz Suite. It was the last room they visited. Just minutes before they had been in Cassini’s Imperial Suite and the one that had been occupied by Julia Duskrjadcenko.
They had found the rooms in perfect order and, in fact, according to data recorded by security, the only one to have been used was Cassini’s.
The concierge ran his master key through the electronic lock. After a moment, the white, lacquered door opened with a very discreet click.
Once inside, the four men had the immediate feeling that something was wrong. The entrance overlooking the main living room and large dining room, was not in the usual orderly state they were used to; the Persian carpet was ruffled and one of the Louis XVI style chairs was overturned.
‘We’ve had visitors,’ said Sforza gravely. ‘And I’m not talking about the cleaners.’
The security man pulled a radio from his jacket and whispered something into the microphone, looking more frightened than surprised.
The four men moved towards one of the two bedrooms together. On the four-poster bed, which was said to be identical to Marie Antoinette’s, some women’s clothes were scattered. It seemed that the suitcase had suddenly exploded. On the floor were the contents of another bag: they could see a mobile phone power cable, a book and some loose papers. A tablet with its glass broken was next to them.
‘When was the door opened?’ the young hotel man whispered into the radio.
A voice crackled from the headset.
Meanwhile, the two policemen headed one into the second bedroom and the other to the bathroom.
‘What? A quarter of an hour ago? And by whom?’
Sforza went to the window, next to a lacquered commode. As soon as the young man assigned
by the director had replaced the radio in his jacket, the inspector looked him straight in the eye with a penetrating glance. ‘I bet the lock was opened with a badge exactly like yours…’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because it’s there!’ he replied, pointing to a small card with a microchip resting on the cabinet. ‘If I were a thief and looking for something I would not lose the key that let me—’
At that moment a dull sound coming from the bathroom caught his attention. It was as if a large object had fallen.
He spun round, just like the young man.
Then another sound, strong, clear and unmistakable this time, echoed from beyond the wall: it was a gunshot.
The two men threw themselves on the ground, trying to hide behind the canopy bed.
The other policeman, meanwhile, showed up at the door of the suite with a Beretta in his hand; the shot had come from the bathroom, where he had directed his colleague, but it was not followed by voices or other noises.
The standoff lasted a few seconds. No sound, no hiss, no noise.
‘If I were a thief, I would not leave the key…’ Sforza, whispering, tried to finish the sentence that he had started. He turned with a smile to the young man who was crouched beside him and trembling like a leaf. Meanwhile he drew his gun ‘…unless I were still here.’
A dull sound broke the silence again. This time it was followed by a body staggering out of the bathroom; it was the other gendarme putting one foot hesitantly in front of the other and holding a wound in his stomach.
A second had not passed before a shadow of a man jumped out from behind the door.
He was thin, of average height, and very agile. He wore a black balaclava and clutched a Sig Sauer in his right hand.
He moved a few metres in the direction of the door, and fired another shot in the direction of the bed, towards Sforza.
The Interpol agent, keeping his head down, tried to return fire, but did not have time to aim properly; his bullet went straight into the baroque mirror above the fireplace, which shattered into a thousand pieces. Weapons were not his strong point, in the obligatory training practice he always got by with the minimum score.
Meanwhile, the black shadow had moved undisturbed into the main lounge. There was no one standing between the intruder and the exit. And the door slammed a few seconds later.
Sforza jumped up and headed for the hallway. ‘Tell your colleagues to block the exits,’ he cried to the young man. ‘And call an ambulance.’
Meanwhile, the other cop moved to chase the intruder.
When they reached the large first-floor corridor, the man was already far away, at least twenty metres away from them.
Sforza began to run, gun in hand.
Beyond the marble staircase leading to reception, the hall bent to the left. The black shadow slipped round the corner and out of Sforza’s sight for a few seconds.
Moments later they heard three gunshots closely followed by the sound of breaking glass.
When Sforza reached the end of the corridor, the man seemed to have disappeared; he must have fired at the French window facing the square and then jumped out, taking advantage of the canopy above the hotel’s entrance.
The Interpol agent approached the window cautiously, the air coming from outside was cold and damp.
He leaned out looking left and right, making sure the intruder was not on the ledge. Then he saw him below, in the car park; a shadow that ran with the pace of a sprinter. He was now in the middle of Place Vendôme.
He snorted and turned back into the hotel crossing his arms; the gendarme, out of breath, had just arrived with the Beretta tight in his fist.
23
Lyon, New Year’s Day. 7:19 p.m.
The lift doors opened on the landing of the third floor and out came a figure in a dark suit.
Reaching the last door, he stopped. There was a large window next to the entrance from which one could see car headlights proceeding along Quai Charles de Gaulle.
He approached the lock and before entering the code he looked at it carefully; it was exactly as he had expected it. He punched in the ten digits and waited. One second. Two. Nothing happened.
For a moment he was afraid of having done something wrong… or that the information was not correct.
Then, suddenly, the three LED lights turned green and the lock clicked. He entered and closed the door behind him.
The entrance was wide, separated from the laboratory’s other rooms by a crystal wall. To his left was a metal cupboard with three doors and behind it a row of blue chairs. It was almost completely dark; there was only a slight glimpse of light coming from a desk lamp on a computer workstation just beyond a sliding door.
At that point, however, something unexpected happened. A chair slid along the floor and a figure jumped up. He was talking to himself and moving towards a coat stand next to the poster of a naked woman.
It was Fabien Bérot. He should have left by now… why was he still here?
The intruder sighed. If he really had to kill him, he had to do it before he came out into the hallway. He moved closer to the cabinet and stood still, in the dark, watching Bérot through the crystal wall.
The young man turned off the laptop, threw it in a bag and flung it over his shoulder. Then he took out a pair of headphones and put them on his head. He turned off the light on the desk and headed for the exit, humming.
The intruder took out a small Glock from his pants and released the safety catch.
Bérot came towards him, his eyes glued on his mobile phone display. He moved in the dark, his face illuminated only by the light of the phone. He slid open one of the glass doors that gave onto the main atrium and found himself less than three metres from the intruder.
The shadow held his breath and simultaneously tightened his grip on the gun. Now it seemed as if there was no choice…
Instead, nothing happened. Bérot did not even notice him; he continued straight on, humming, and in a few moments had disappeared down the hallway.
The intruder breathed a sigh of relief and moved to the main lab. He reached the desk, squinted in the darkness and spotted what he was looking for: the atomic force microscope was in the next room.
He went towards the microscope, the two microchips were still in position on the observation platform.
He opened it, taking care not to cut himself, and picked them up with his fingers.
He pulled out a small box, similar to a ring gift box, and placed them in it, side-by-side, then went back again into the largest room.
He was missing just one more thing: the ultrasound support.
He knew where the safe was, and thought that it had been put away safely. He pulled the poster off the wall and smiled: there was a Juwel with a digital electronic Runner combination.
He composed the number he knew and the bolts of the lock started to open slowly.
After opening the heavy door he found what he was looking for; the device had been dismantled into many parts, all lying neatly on a metal tray, but they were there. He took the pieces one by one, arranged them in a transparent dust bag and put them in the inside pocket of his jacket.
24
Paris, New Year’s Day. 7:30 p.m.
Manuel Cassini returned to the Ritz just before dinner. It had been an exhausting day for him; after his constant hallucinations and fainting at the Louvre, there had been a quick interrogation with Interpol. It had lasted only a few minutes because the inspector had suddenly been called on to another crime scene.
‘A series of interlocking triangles?’ Sforza had murmured into the phone. At least, that was what he thought he had understood.
He remembered a similar bracelet perfectly; it belonged to the woman who had approached him the night before… the same who most probably had drugged him. The girl had flattered him, telling him she had read his books and admired his work and he just could not resist.
However, the fact that his admirer was very beautiful, he fo
und himself thinking later, was not the reason for triggering off his sudden passion.
He was certain that even if she had been less striking, he would have equally accepted both the dinner and the after dinner; not everyone was used to handling the art of flattery…
After the brief interrogation they had let him go, and for that morning, at least, he had not been arrested.
However, there was still the image of the hand pulling the trigger and Cavalli Gigli bleeding to death in his mind. Regrettably, it was not just a simple premonition, as he had hoped: the superintendent was really dead. Sforza had been clear on that… Yet it was not enough to have him arrested.
After being released from the Louvre, he had wandered aimlessly through the streets of Paris, trying to clarify his thoughts. He had taken a long walk through the Tuileries Gardens and then he had gone to Montmartre on the underground.
Meanwhile, the rain had stopped and despite the freezing January air, many artists began to crowd the square overlooking Rue Norvins. He had lunch and spent the rest of the day there.
In the evening, he returned to the Ritz exhausted but calmer; he had not had any visions the whole afternoon. He was convinced the effects of the drugs had, somehow, disappeared.
The doorman greeted him with a friendly smile and then opened the door.
In his mind, this was to be his last night at the hotel. The next morning he would take a flight to Italy, providing the police would not arrest him before.
‘Professor Cassini.’ Inspector Sforza was in front of him, leaning against the great marble staircase’s balustrade leading to the upper floor. He wore a flashy leather jacket and faded jeans. Three gendarmes, talking between themselves, were behind him. ‘I will only take a few minutes. Have you already eaten?’
Cassini found himself thinking again that, after all, if they wanted to arrest him for the murder, they would have reacted to him in a different way.
He nodded, smiled and held out his hand to Sforza. ‘Not yet. Will you join me?’
