Avalanche
Page 8
Hervé lets out a short burst of air. “Every time I meet someone in this town that I think is not motivated by power, prestige, sex, or money—shortly thereafter I’m proven wrong.” He extends his arm toward the bed. “Please, don’t let me slow you down.”
“Why are you here?” Robert asks.
“A man showed up at a high-end whorehouse in town with a picture of a woman that the madam thought with some certainty was your wife. He asked for a girl that resembled her.”
“What?” Robert is aghast. “Is Ali okay? Who was this guy?”
“All I know is that he was disfigured. An American. And disguised.”
“Hervé, you’ve got to find out!”
“That is not all. Someone broke into the tow yard and disassembled Eugenio’s Porsche last night. They even killed an innocent dog. I am French; I love dogs. This is an outrage.
“But back to the Porsche: I did not know you had the key?” Hervé holds out the keys to the Porsche and dangles them from his stumpy index finger.
“That’s mine!” says Robert, a little too forcefully.
“No. It is evidence.” Hervé slips it in his pocket. “I’m going to my office. We have some video from last night. I’m getting closer to cracking the case. Maybe it was our disfigured man at the lot. I will save your wife—if she is alive.”
“Listen, Eugenio gave me those keys. It’s from the last night I saw Ali. They’re mine.” Beads of sweat form on Robert’s brow.
“When the case is closed, I will give them back to you. As a keepsake of your trip to Gstaad. For now, first things first—we must find your wife.”
Carola exchanges a nervous look with Robert and then stretches her hands over her head and says, “I really need a shower. You mind?”
Robert shakes his head no.
She drops her jacket to the floor, lifts her sweater over her head, and undoes her bra. She fondles her breasts and smiles at the salacious Hervé.
She moves closer. So close he can smell her perfume.
He cannot help but lick his lips and nod as if in agreement to something her breasts are saying.
Robert pulls out the gun and holds it at Hervé’s temple. He cocks the trigger.
“This was unexpected,” says Hervé.
Chapter 39
“You are a kinky bastard,” says Hervé, while Robert uses a pair of nylons to tie him to a chair. “Did you kill your wife? Is that what’s going on? For this slut? If so, you are the best actor in the fucking world. You are a better actor than Gérard Depardieu. And coming from a Frenchman, there is no higher compliment.”
“Look, Hervé, I’m really sorry about this,” says Robert. “I’ll explain the whole thing to you at some point. Just not right now.”
“You’ll explain it from a jail cell while you are losing your ass virginity. I will arrange it. Don’t do this, Monroe!”
“I have to.” Robert stuffs a sock in Hervé’s mouth and secures it with the strap from a pair of ski goggles.
Carola pushes her breasts in Hervé’s face one last time. “I’m not a slut.”
Robert grabs both his phone and Ali’s phone. And puts them in his coat pockets. “No hard feelings, Hervé.”
Hervé looks down at his stubby little fingers, his wrists tied to the armrest, and frees the middle finger from each fist.
Robert and Carola put the SILENCE S’IL VOUS PLAÎT marker on the door handle and stand outside the room. Robert takes the Porsche key out of his pocket. They both look at it intently. “How does it work?” asks Robert.
“Like this.” Carola slides the top off one of the keys, revealing a USB connector. “There it is, Eugenio’s masterpiece: the cure. Fucking weird, right? Worth ten times as much as the sickness.”
“Yeah.” Robert grabs it from her hand and puts it in his pocket.
She wraps her hand around his waist. Wary, he peels it off.
“Aww. Just when I thought you were starting to like me,” she says.
“I’ve always liked you. I just don’t trust you.”
Down in the lobby, it is quiet. The skiers have left for the day.
“What do we do now?” asks Carola.
“Wait for them to call. It’s almost been twelve hours.”
“Tell them I want my fucking money. Bearer bonds. And Eugenio’s cut, too.”
“How much are we talking?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“A fucking lot.”
“So, crime does pay.”
“I’m going to get some gum. Can I have some francs? I’ll hit you back when I’m a billionaire.”
Robert hands her a few bills from his wallet and watches her walk away toward the gift store. He feels in his pocket to make sure she didn’t just swipe the USBs. The plastic on his fingers gives him relief.
“Bonjour, Mr. Monroe!” says a man with a broad, hairless head as he grabs Robert’s hand and shakes it vigorously. “Remember me? I am Claude. Chief of security for the esteemed Gstaad Palace. I am terribly sorry about Mrs. Monroe. I should have…well…you know…It is Gstaad…Italian playboy…But Hervé tells me he has a strong lead. Did he talk to you? I let him in your room. I hope you don’t mind. Anything to find Mrs. Monroe, right?”
“Hello, Claude. Of course. Anything to find Ali.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“To?”
“To Hervé. He’s in your room.”
“Yes, I talked to him.”
“And?” Claude asks.
“Well, you know Hervé.”
“Yes. I do know Hervé.” Claude stares at Robert inquisitively.
Carola approaches and stuffs a piece of gum in Robert’s mouth. “Spearmint,” she says. “Nice for breath.”
“And who is this young lady?” Claude asks.
“She is?” Robert is not sure how to respond.
“Well?” Claude asks and leans in closer to Carola.
“I was a friend of Eugenio, the Italian man,” says Carola. “Our grief and worry has brought us together. Now we are friends.”
Robert is shocked that she told the truth.
“I’m sure the police would like to talk to you, miss,” says Claude.
Carola nods. “I’ve shown them everything. Well, almost everything.”
One of the phones in Robert’s jacket begins to ring. He grabs Carola by the hand and pulls her away. “We must go. Good-bye, Claude.”
Chapter 40
“Have you got the sickness and the cure?” the mechanized voice asks.
“In my hand,” says Robert as he walks outside, past the valets. “Let me talk to Ali.”
“You don’t make the rules. Bring it to the tow yard. At dusk.”
“No. Let me talk to my wife. Let me talk to Ali right now.”
“Robert, is that you?” Ali asks.
“Yes.” Robert fights to hold it together. “I’m coming to save you. Are you okay?”
“Pumpkin has been very good to m—” The phone is yanked away.
“Tow yard. Dusk.” The mechanized voice repeats.
“No. Center of town. In front of the Olden Hotel in one hour. Bring Ali. And the money for Yøta. And Eugenio’s cut, too. And make sure Ali is unharmed. You touch a hair on her head and the USBs go away forever.” Robert hangs up.
“What the fuck?” asks Carola. “Where did that guy come from?”
“C’mon. We’ve got to beat them down there. Set this thing up. Ever heard of someone named Pumpkin?”
“No.”
“She was trying to give me a clue. Should we go ask Hervé if he knows about Pumpkin?” asks Robert. “Must be the mastermind.”
“Why don’t we just give ourselves up to the cops right now? Fuck you. I want my money. They owe me. They killed my friend and fucked my world. They need to pay.”
“I’ve got an idea.” Robert hails a valet. “Hey, buddy, you got a piece of paper?”
“Oui,” he says, and hands them a scrap.
The man tied to Eugenio’s murder is named Pumpkin.
He hands the note to the valet and instructs, “Go inside and give this to Claude. Tell Claude to give it to Hervé.”
“Yes, sir.”
Robert takes Carola by the hand, and they head down the picturesque street, down the hill, toward the center of town.
Chapter 41
An hour later, Carola and Robert walk out of a bank on the main street in Gstaad. “Insurance, isn’t that what you call it?” asks Carola.
“I hope this works,” says Robert, cradling a safe deposit key in his hand.
They stand together on the esplanade in front of the Olden Hotel. At midmorning in this seemingly idyllic Swiss village, it’s quiet. Carola has her hands in the pockets of her rabbit jacket and continually turns, looking in every direction.
“Give me the drive or the key,” she says.
“No,” says Robert.
“Give me the gun.”
“No.”
“Don’t be a fucking hero,” she says.
“Hey, somebody’s gotta be.”
“Fine. You leave me out here with nothing. How am I supposed to stay alive?”
“Stick to the plan and everything will be fine.”
“Nobody told me any fucking plan.”
“Look,” says Robert. “There she is.”
A couple is walking down the promenade. The man wears an Arab’s headdress, mirrored sunglasses, and a stringy, shiny black beard. The woman wears a retro, cornflower-blue one-piece ski outfit with a magenta hijab wrapped around her blond hair and draped across her mouth.
When the couple gets about thirty feet from where Robert and Carola stand, the man holds out his palm in the woman’s face. As if she is a dog, she heels. He points down and she settles on her knees.
The man approaches. As he gets closer, Robert can see it’s a disguise. Elastic string holds up the beard. Beneath the synthetic hairs, Robert sees opaque patterns, melted, permanent rivers of seared flesh. “You must be Robert,” the man says with a strong Kentuckian accent. “I’ve had the best time getting acquainted with your spouse, inside and out.”
Robert’s blood boils. “Bring her over here. I want to talk to her and know she’s unharmed.”
“I make the rules.”
“Where’s my bearer bonds, you prick?” asks Carola.
“You must be Yøta. Eugenio told me all about you. He had a soft spot in his heart for you. I offered to carve it out. Pity he had no endurance. Not like Ali. She can go all night.”
“I’m gonna blow your fucking head off!” says Robert, trying and failing to keep his cool.
“Not a good idea. We’ve got four snipers set up and only three targets. Give me the USBs. Both of them.”
“No. Not until I talk to Ali.”
“And I want my fucking money,” Carola adds.
“I’ll say this one more time—you don’t make the rules. We want to make sure it works first. Then you’ll get your money. You could’ve picked up a USB from any drugstore in town.”
“You can’t do that, asshole,” says Carola. “You plug it in. You let it out. No getting it back in the box.”
“Hand it over.”
“No,” Robert says.
“Fine. I call out ‘target and fire,’ and the three of you are dead. I pull it out of your pocket. Walk away.”
“It’s not on me.”
“Really?” Pumpkin asks.
Robert nods. “Ali, are you okay?” he yells.
No response.
“You’re lying,” Pumpkin says.
“Maybe, but is it worth losing the USBs forever? Ali, say something!” Robert squints to see her frightened blue eyes. She blinks, and tears run down her nose.
“Go get it,” Pumpkin says.
“Why won’t she talk?” asks Robert.
“I gagged her.”
“This is fucked. No respect!” yells Carola. “Deal is off.” She grabs Robert by the shoulder and tries to lead him away.
Robert resists. His gaze is set thirty feet away. “What’s wrong with her? What did you do to Ali?”
“She loved every second of it,” says Pumpkin. “Hand over the drives. I won’t ask again.”
In the blink of an eye, Carola’s hand is in Robert’s pocket. She grabs the USB and sprints away.
Robert reaches out, pulls in Pumpkin by the shoulder, and holds the gun to his head. “Run, Ali!” he yells as loudly as he possibly can. She stays on her knees, unmoving.
Pumpkin yells, “Target! Fire!”
Robert spins around and several bullets hit Pumpkin in the chest, leaving him gasping for air. The two fall in the snow.
More rounds ricochet in the snow at Carola’s feet as she runs away.
The magenta hijab explodes in red.
Robert can’t breathe. He’s empty, aching, thoughtless. He crawls toward Ali.
The town is filled with screams and sirens.
Robert pulls her lifeless body to him, peeling away the bloody hijab, rubbing the red from her face, and revealing a gagged woman who is not Ali.
Pumpkin is on his feet and limping off toward a waiting black SUV. How? He must be wearing a Kevlar vest, Robert thinks. The woman was not so lucky. Robert drops her corpse and runs in the direction of Carola.
Chapter 42
Claude stands at the door to Ali and Robert’s room with a bellman. The bellman slides a card in the lock. They open the door to find Hervé struggling against the wingback chair.
“I am so sorry. I called your office. When you were not there I came up here immediately. There has been a shooting in town,” Claude says, and then removes the gag over Hervé’s mouth.
“Claude, you are as keen as a cabbage.”
Hervé stands in the middle of town studying the dead woman’s body. He holds out his arm, imagining the trajectory of the bullet, and turns it toward a rooftop. He shakes his head and looks down at the note from Robert in his hand. Who is Pumpkin?
Hervé notices the resemblance between this woman and Ali. “Call the madam,” he tells a nearby officer. “I am willing to bet this woman is from Belarus. Apparently she never made her train. Round up the eyewitnesses. Tell the ME to use a rape kit on her. Get me DNA.”
He takes out his phone and dials. “Allô, Greta. This is Hervé. We have an execution-style murder in the middle of my town in the middle of the day and a note that someone named Pumpkin is responsible.”
“No…I did not think he was real,” Greta murmurs.
“Who? What?”
“The legend of Pumpkin. Video surfaced on the dark web of a torture, something out of your worst nightmare—a disfigured man setting fire to parts of a hostage. Enjoying it.”
“But what was the purpose of releasing it?”
“Psychological warfare. A curriculum vitae. Pumpkin works for the highest bidder.”
“What else do we know?”
“Rumor is he’s an American. A vet, from Iraq or Afghanistan. We are not sure.”
“Ah, just like our friend Al-Fayed.”
“You think the two may be connected?”
“We must find out.”
Chapter 43
Robert is alone, hiding between cars in a parking garage. His black blazer is covered in an unknown woman’s blood. He has a gun, a key to a safe deposit box, and two cell phones, each with a little bit of battery. No Carola. No USB drive. No Ali. He’s wanted by the police. He could just give himself up. Perhaps that is best. Maybe Hervé really does know what he’s doing. A little more than an hour ago, the nightmare seemed close to over. He heard Ali’s voice. He had a plan. Now, a call to the police could mean her death. It would certainly mean the end of Carola. His only chance to retain her help was that she still wanted the money, but now she doesn’t need him for that. She has the sickness. She could make her own deal.
But he has the key that leads to the cure.
He must find Carola. She’s his only chance.
But how?
He takes out his phone. What was that thing? The whole underworld is on it? Chat something? Snapchat!
Robert goes to the app store, finds it, hits DOWNLOAD. He enters his code with his clawed-up hands. He waits and waits until he can open the app. It wants his name. His handle. His location—NO. He goes to the search area. Find Carola—too many. Find Yøta—none. Find Y-not-T-A—yes! It’s her, pigtails in a silhouette. He enters, “Carola, it’s Robert. I’m in the parking garage on the fourth floor. Please help me.” He enters his number.
His phone rings. Robert is filled with hope. He answers.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Robert. It is Abdul Al-Fayed.”
“Hello, Mr. Al-Fayed.”
“Time is up. Do you have good news for me about my painting?” Al-Fayed asks.
“Mr. Al-Fayed…” Robert wipes his sweaty brow and pulls the sketch of the canvas weave out of his breast pocket. He’s amazed it’s still there.
“Well?”
“No. I’ve been trying to get my wife back.”
“Has the issue been resolved?”
“No. It has not.”
“This is regrettable. Tell me, Robert, are you in the CIA?”
“What? No!”
“That makes sense. I see you are in trouble with the police. Your face is on the television. If you were CIA, this would not happen.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You are wanted for kidnapping and murder. This sounds like you did something wrong.”
“It’s all a misunderstanding. I’m just trying to get my wife back from the kidnappers.”
“Tell me where you are. My men will come and pick you up. I will fix your problems, you will fix mine.”
“How?”
“I’m in the favor business. You will sign an affidavit proving the authenticity of my Modigliani. The people who hold your wife—I will trade them something they really want for something they have acquired by accident.”
“Okay. I’m on the fourth floor of the parking garage.”
“Is Yøta with you? Do you have the cure? We will sell it together. You will be rich beyond your wildest dreams.”