by Andy McNab
‘Nadif is dead. I don’t know who killed him.’
He thought about it for a while. I heard more rustling. ‘You will call again tomorrow. Same time.’
The phone went dead.
I gave it thirty seconds and rang again. Nothing. He’d powered down.
PART FIVE
1
Courchevel 1850, French Alps
16.32 hrs
The skids of the Bell 222 settled on the tarmac and the pilot killed the engines. The stainless steel and fibreglass rotors wound gradually to a standstill. I took off my headset and waited for the door to be opened.
The Bell could normally take eight passengers at a time on the shuttle between Geneva and Courchevel. Frank’s people had booked it exclusively for my use. The pilot said his instructions were to wait as long as I needed him to. Then, as soon as he’d worked out I wasn’t Russian, he started talking and didn’t stop until we landed. Better thirty minutes of that, I supposed, than two and a half hours up the mountain by car, duelling with kamikaze Peugeot drivers.
Apparently it had been a very strange season. Winter had started a month early, with heavy snowfalls in October. Spring had also arrived way ahead of time. The sun had shone almost continually and there had been weeks of bizarrely hot weather. Then December had had some of the best snow of the season.
‘But you know how I will remember this season most of all? As the one when the snow didn’t fall. We waited through January, February and now this month for the big dumps of snow that never came. That’s why we’re lucky we live in the Trois Vallées.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Wise leaders who invested heavily in snow cannons, reservoirs and piste groomers.’
‘Man-made snow doesn’t sound very eco-friendly.’
‘It’s economy-friendly. Without it, the Russians wouldn’t have brought their bling-bling.’
‘Good for business, are they?’
‘These days, they are the business.’
I stepped out into a landscape that looked white enough to me. The piste groomers must have been working their miracles.
I looked along just 525 metres of steeply rising runway. There was a vertical drop at the end. It was easy to see why Courchevel airport was rated one of the most dangerous in the world. There was no go-around procedure, the pilot had said. The hill was supposed to help to slow a landing aircraft.
‘Does it work?’
‘Not always.’
Add to that a hazardous approach through deep valleys that could only be performed by specially certified pilots, and often freezing conditions with black ice and heavy snow, and you had one of the most challenging landings on earth. Jets couldn’t use it. Larger propeller aircraft like the Twin Otter and Dash 7 could, but they had been phased out. Smaller Cessnas and helicopters had taken over.
A driver in his early twenties greeted me and led me to a car. He was smartly dressed in a black suit, shirt and tie. His gold-rimmed Ray-Ban Aviators glinted in the sun.
I couldn’t help smiling to myself as I climbed into the back. I’d listened to Talk Radio on my way to Bristol airport. The coalition’s austerity measures weren’t going down well. Prices at the petrol pumps were higher by the day. So was the number of unemployed. All in all, it had been another grey and gloomy day in Broken Britain. Yet in a parallel universe Frank’s plane had turned out to be a G6 Gulfstream, more airliner than private jet, and I was in a black Merc limo with darkened windows on the way from the ‘altiport’ at one of the world’s most upscale ski resorts to meet with one of the world’s richest men.
According to a brochure I found in the Gulfstream, Courchevel 1850 was the highest and most famous of the resort’s four centres, distinguished from each other by their height in metres. It was also the bit where the billionaires hung out. 1850 was in fact only 1747 metres above sea level, but the good burghers were keen to shaft arch-rivals Val d’Isère. Everyone wanted a slice of Russian action, and the Russians always flocked to the biggest, highest, priciest — anywhere, in fact, with est on the end. With five-star hotels charging $35,000 a night for a suite, chalets at $190,000 a week and restaurants that boasted more Michelin stars per head of population than anywhere else on the planet, they wouldn’t have been dis appointed. If there was snow, they were here — if they weren’t in Moscow making money, or in London spending it. And where the Russians go, the nouveaux riches from the emerging economies in Eastern Europe, Asia and South America follow.
I’d landed in Geneva and got straight on the Bell. The helicopter transfer company’s choice of aircraft gave me a big kick. It had starred in Airwolf, one of my favourite TV shows as a kid. It looked much the same: navy blue, sleek and menacing as it flew low between the mountains.
There had been property brochures in the Gulfstream, too. As I drove in the back seat of the air-conditioned, leather-upholstered luxury bubble, I knew I was passing ‘chalets’ that cost upwards of $5 million. We were a world away from the shabby, peeling shit-pits I’d left behind me in Easton. No clapped-out Ford Focuses, either. All the other vehicles on the road were Range Rovers or Cayenne 4×4s. It seemed you could have any colour you liked as long as it was black.
We passed people out and about. They were walking little rat dogs wrapped up in Prada Puffas the same colour as their owner’s. This was Bling Central, on ice.
Even my young driver looked too cool to need to breathe. His Aviators didn’t have fingermarks; he never needed to adjust his short, wet-gelled hair. My own hair was greasy and my eyes felt so knackered they probably looked like they belonged to Vlad the Impaler. Fuck knows what he made of me in the back, contaminating his leather.
‘Are you here for the party, sir?’
His English was clear and crisp.
‘No, mate, just a quick visit. Whose party?’
‘I’m not sure, but they say it’s costing five million euros. Cirque de Soleil are being flown in all the way from Canada.’
‘That’s some party. Keeping you busy?’
I found myself doing the cabbie chat I normally saved for London.
‘Three hundred people are coming, or so they say.’
‘Not for the skiing, that’s for sure.’
There was snow around the chocolate-box village, but it was dribbling down the mountain with every passing minute. Now we were lower, I could see large expanses of rock fighting their way into view.
He checked his sat-nav for the hundredth time. ‘Not far now, sir.’
2
We stopped outside a massive, classic Swiss chalet that looked as if it had been carved out of the granite high ground behind it. Snow covered the gently sloping roof and wide eaves. The pathway had been freshly cleared.
‘Are you the new owner, sir?’
I checked out the three-storey slice of paradise like I was trying to remember if I’d bought this one or the next, and dreamt a little before coming back to the real world. ‘No, mate, not me. How much did it go for?’
‘Twenty-two million dollars. Just last week. They say it has a pool.’
For that amount of money, I’d have demanded a bigger driveway as well. It only just fitted the gleaming black Range Rover with French plates and darkened windows.
‘I’ll tell you if it has when you take me back. You’re waiting, yeah?’
‘Yes, sir. I am booked until you want to leave. Same as the helicopter.’
I opened the door. The cold, crisp air attacked my face. I liked it. It woke me up a little. ‘What’s your name, mate?’
He swivelled in his seat, smiling under his sun-gigs. ‘Jacques.’
I leant down. ‘You new at this, Jacques?’
He nodded like a puppy. ‘My third day.’
‘Try not to speak to the guests, Jacques. These people don’t like that.’
He flapped. ‘Sir, I’m so sorry, I—’
I put up a hand. ‘It’s no drama with me, Jacques. You seem a good guy and it would be a nightmare to lose a job like this. Best to have f
un using your eyes and ears. You might find out exactly what’s going on around here, yeah?’
He let it sink in.
‘The guy in that house, Jacques? He can buy that shit because he knows that knowledge is power. He told me so himself. So, if you listen, look and learn while you drive you won’t have to depend on “them” to tell you what’s what. They’ll depend on you. Get it?’
He nodded.
‘See you in a bit, then, Jacques.’
The huge wooden door was a few centimetres ajar. I pushed it wider. The hallway was empty. No one lived here. But it was far from a rustic ski lodge. The interior looked as if it had been ripped out of a Manhattan penthouse. Sleek, modern lines. A symphony of glass, steel and dark grey marble. The front of the house was all that was left of the original.
I could see now that the hall wasn’t entirely empty. Mr Lover Man and his mate Genghis were hovering. They didn’t look fazed to see me. There was no reaction at all. Frank must have been giving them tutorials.
I nodded a greeting. ‘Afternoon, lads.’
I didn’t get as much as a blink in return. Genghis just pointed upstairs. I walked across the marble floor to the grand glass and steel staircase.
As I climbed, I began to hear the echo of excited, high-pitched voices. They spoke English with heavy French accents. They were enthusing about how beautiful the new colours would look. I reached the first floor and walked towards the oohs and aahs. I went through large double doors into a high-ceilinged room that could have doubled as a wedding venue. The tall panelled windows overlooked the dog-walkers up on the mountain path.
Swatches of material and big wallpaper folders covered the parquet floor. Frank was wearing jeans that had creases ironed into them, and a white open-necked shirt under a yellow golfer’s sweater. He was staring down at the collections of colours and patterns strewn around his feet. Either this was about taking his mind off his troubles, or he was back in Terminator mode.
The high-pitched voices turned out to belong to a man and woman who looked like they should have been on one of those makeover shows. They were talking to each other as if they were the only ones there, and Frank was the film crew.
‘Everything looks so wonderful in this light.’
Frank glanced up as I headed towards him. His face said he definitely wasn’t as jacked-up about it as they were. Besides, the light was shit: the cloud made sure of that.
He was doing some serious weight training with that platinum Zenith Class Traveller on his wrist. I’d fancied one myself in the Moscow watch shop until I’d seen the price tag. It had no jewels, no glitter; it was just a practical-looking lump of metal with loads of little dials on. I wasn’t sure how they justified it being £475K. For that price, it should be making the tea.
Frank followed my gaze. ‘You know your timepieces. I have a passion for them.’
He twisted it to and fro on his wrist. ‘But, you know, they’re easy to come by. Unlike decent houses under thirty million dollars in this place.’ He looked around him. I couldn’t tell if he liked it or not.
‘You here for the birthday party, Frank? Or is it yours?’
He rested £475,000 worth of watch on my shoulder.
‘If so, they say it’s costing you five million euros. They also say Cirque de Soleil are being flown all the way from Canada to spin about on a couple of ropes.’
He nodded slowly. I still couldn’t work out what was going on in that head of his.
‘I’m just a guest. I’m part of the ten per cent of the population who own eighty per cent of the planet. You’d think we’d operate as individuals, but sadly we’re just a herd.’
His hand left my shoulder and pointed at nothing in par ticular in the cavernous room. ‘This? I eventually had to get one. We all do.’
He got big smiles from the two as they held squares of wallpaper against the wall to ooh and aah at. They must have been interior designers.
This was getting us nowhere. I couldn’t tell if Frank was putting on a brave face or was simply in denial. Either way, I had to shake him out of it. I needed answers.
I pointed to a door.
3
I led him out into a wide corridor with yet more marble beneath our feet.
‘Where’s the other Brit from Moscow?’
Frank looked around. He wasn’t happy to talk here. To our right were ceiling-high doors that would open into rooms with views of the mountains, trees and snow. He hesitated.
‘Does this place have a pool?’
He nodded and started to walk along the corridor. As I followed, my iPhone vibrated in my jeans, but the squeak of my Timberlands on the marble was louder.
At the far end of it we got into a glass and steel lift. He finally spoke. ‘The other Brit has gone.’ He pressed a button. ‘I did not need him any more. He should not have got himself into such a position. Both of them were no good.’
We moved smoothly downwards.
‘Why? You sent them to test me. They did.’
Frank stared at the glass wall as we passed the ground floor. ‘But not well enough. If they’d been any good, you would have been picked up more easily.’
‘But that would have meant I wasn’t the man for the job.’
‘Correct. But they should have killed you as soon as you put them in danger. Somebody has to lose. Somebody always has to lose.’
The lift stopped. Frank gestured for me to leave first. ‘Just be happy it wasn’t you.’
The door closed automatically behind him.
‘Italian design, German hydraulics. Precision-built houses and Swiss watches, they are very nice things to have, Nick. But there are always better examples. There is always someone in more control than you are. Everyone has a superior.’
His jaw tightened, like he couldn’t stomach the thought. Apart from that, his face was impossible to read. Talking about watches, lifts, even his HR concerns — it was like he knew what I’d come to confront him with and was doing everything he could to avoid it.
We walked along a short corridor. Our footsteps began to echo.
‘So who’s your superior?’
‘Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin, prime minister of the Russian Federation, chairman of both United Russia and the Council of Ministers of the Union of Russia and Belarus. A truly powerful man.’
‘And who’s his?’
‘People like me who buy chalets in this village. If he wants to be elected president again.’
As if on cue, Frank threw open another set of doors to reveal a wall-to-wall swimming-pool. It filled the entire footprint of the house. It had been carved out of the mountainside and finished to look like a South Pacific rock-pool. The water was crystal clear. The only evidence of humans ever being near it was a small table. On it lay a colouring book and a set of pencils, and a half-filled-in picture of a pink and yellow fairy.
Frank looked at it and then at me. ‘For all that, I’m still being held to ransom by African fishermen. You have news for me, something you want to say.’
It wasn’t a question.
‘They could still be alive. I heard a recording of Tracy. It wasn’t made for me. It was a generic message. “Help us, we’re in trouble.” This is good news. I could hear vehicles. It means they made it to land safely. But things have gone wrong.’
‘How so?’
‘The two guys who’ve been following me since Moscow. The two I thought were yours.’
I told him.
4
His face was stone as he took the information on board. Not even a flicker as I told him Tracy’s sister was dead.
‘What are you going to do about them, Nick? They are your problem. Mine is Stefan.’
‘They Georgians?’
‘Possibly. You have been working very hard to find that out about me. Enemies, they breed like rats.’
‘So it’s also your problem. They must know Tracy and Stefan have been lifted. They must be wondering if they can get to them before you do. Then they become t
heir captives, to be used as leverage against you. No more supporting the south?’
Frank the machine stood still and listened, his eyes unfocused as he stared at the granite wall.
‘They must be following me because they don’t know which clan have them. They must be hoping I’ll lead them to Tracy and Stefan — then they can jump in and grab them from me. That’s what I’d do.’
He nodded very slowly.
‘But that’s not the important thing, Frank.’
He turned his head. His eyes narrowed.
‘The important thing is, how do they know? Like I said, that’s your problem. Was it the crew? The two lads you got rid of?’
He shook his head. ‘The crew have been with me for years. They know their lives depend on their loyalty. The other two knew nothing.’
‘What about the lads upstairs?’
‘They are the only people I trust. They are also godfathers to Stefan. No, that knowledge has come from elsewhere.’ He jabbed a finger at me. ‘But that can wait. How much do they want?’
‘Three million US.’
He jabbed his finger again. His voice boomed around the granite walls. ‘Give them what they want. I want Stefan back here, and safe. I want this ended before anyone else gets to them.’
‘No, Frank. That’s not how it works.’
His eyes burnt into mine. I wondered when he’d last heard the words ‘No, Frank.’ I had to get past this alpha-male shit.
He jabbed a third time, his face taut, a natural reaction when people are preparing to fight or just plain scared.
‘Do what I say!’
He shouted again, this time so angrily he almost lost it. The sound reverberated like thunder round the pool-room. ‘Do what I say! You will pay what they—’
Mr Lover Man and Genghis pushed their way in, pistols drawn. Frank obviously never raised his voice unless there was a problem.
I stood stock still, arms out, presenting no threat. Frank waved his hands at them. Everything was OK.
