Eight

by James R. Vance

  “Local gossip,” Petra replied. “His grandmother told him that the gendarmes had arrested Roche. Alexis assumed that the house was empty. He asked me to drive him there. As I was on the phone to you, Roche returned. I needed to warn Alexis, but Roche found him first and attacked him. I tried to help, but fell and banged my head. The next thing I remembered was waking up to find you standing over me. How did you know that we were at Roche's house?”

  “When we speak, you stop suddenly but leave phone on. I ‘ear shouting and noise. Because you mention Alexis when you call, I contact ‘is grand'maman and she tell me that you go to ‘ouse because you think Roche is at the gendarmerie. Alexis, ‘e find evidence?”

  “I'm not sure. He was holding a folder when Roche attacked him, so it's possible.”

  “Thank you. Tomorrow, after your discharge, you make formal statement to police judiciaire at La Bastide. I take you and we bring your car from the ‘ouse.”

  “What about Alexis?”

  “Later, we see if ‘e return ‘ome. If no, maybe Roche take ‘im. When we find Roche, it is possible we find Alexis. The police search for Roche because it is possible ‘e assault you.” He turned towards the door. “Bonsoir, Louise. Dormez bien.” Jean-Marie departed, followed by the two detectives.

  What a weird interview, thought Petra. They obviously had no inkling of the secret room. Roche must have closed it off again. Should I have told them about it? I'll discuss it with Jean-Marie in the morning. Let them concentrate on finding Alexis before they get bogged down with other issues. She leaned back on the pillow.

  A nurse entered to check on her and to ask what she wanted from the menu for her evening meal. She handed her a menu form to mark her choices.

  Having completed the sheet and passed it back, she asked about the clothes that she had been wearing. “Où sont mes vêtements?”

  “Tous vos effets sont dedans,” the nurse replied, indicating a small wardrobe built into the wall opposite. She opened the door to show her the shoulder bag and her clothes on hangers.

  Petra thanked her, waited until the nurse had left the room and stepped gingerly towards the closet where she checked her shoulder bag. The gun was indeed missing, but the magazine was still in her make-up bag. She felt in the pockets of her jacket. The mobile was there, as was the tape from Roche's answering machine. The battery in the phone was dead and the charger was in her apartment. There was a telephone by the bed, but a notice explained that it was for incoming calls only. Damn, she thought, I'm incommunicado.

  Tomorrow would be her opportunity to expose Roche. She had more than enough proof of his complicity in people trafficking. Besides the tape messages, there were the false documents in the drawer, notwithstanding the damning display of democracy degradation on the walls of the secret cellar. She would use the crack on her head as an excuse for omitting to mention the room and its contents. She just hoped that they would find Alexis before these new revelations sidetracked the focus of their investigation. In the meantime, there was little to do apart from sleep and recovery.

  Before she could rearrange the pillow to make her head more comfortable, another nurse interrupted her.

  “Il y a quelqu'une pour vous, une visiteuse.”

  Petra's heart skipped a beat. Her first thought was Alexis. He's escaped from Roche somehow. Then she realised that the nurse had used the female gender. Her visitor was not Alexis but she was not disappointed.

  “Katherine,” she cried, as his grandmother shuffled in with the help of the nurse, whom she dismissed with a wave of her silver-topped cane.

  “Voulez-vous café?” asked the nurse from the doorway.

  Katherine looked round at her in disgust and shook her head. She turned to Petra. “No use asking for tea. They're clueless.”

  Petra grinned, painfully. The nurse left, unimpressed. Katherine settled in a bedside chair, reached down into her bag and withdrew a half bottle of vodka.

  “I came prepared.” She poured a generous measure into two plastic cups. “They'll think it's water.”

  Petra suffered more pain in amusement. “How did you…?”

  Katherine interrupted her. “Ssh, I'm about to tell you. The gendarmes came looking for Alexis and told me that you were here. I called a taxi after they left.” She slurped some vodka. “Now my dear, tell me all that happened.”

  Petra recounted the whole episode, this time in detail. She left nothing out, unlike her edited version to the police.

  The old woman hung on every word between sips of vodka. “Don't you worry your head about Alexis. He'll be fine. He's sensible enough to wait his opportunity. Besides, he's a Romanov. They can deal with adversity; it's in their psyche.” She patted Petra's hand. “It's you who concerns me. When did they say that you can leave this awful place?”

  “Tomorrow morning. They said that I must stay overnight for observation,” Petra replied, responding positively to the impact of Katherine's visit.

  “I suppose that's normal for a severe head wound. As soon as they discharge you, I suggest that you lead your gendarme friend to that hidden room. That, together with your tape should ensure that other agencies will become involved, increasing the odds on finding Alexis. I think that Roche has probably gone to Marseille. He has no friends in Limoges.”

  She smiled. “You, a secret agent…I should have guessed.” She shook her head, partly in amazement, partly in admiration. “You said that your mission will have been accomplished after you reveal evidence of Roche's involvement. Does that mean that you will be returning to England?”

  “No way. Not until Alexis is safe and sound. I also have a score to settle with Roche.”

  She hesitated. Perhaps she had said too much already. Could she trust Katherine to keep her confidence? Petra knew that she was on thin ice. Her mission would certainly be over after exposing Roche. Rob had said, ‘get in, gather info and get out’. However, that was before she had met Alexis and his grandmother. The goalposts had moved since that final briefing in London. She had thought about updating him with events, but maybe that was not such a good idea at this moment in time.

  Katherine glanced at the door, turned back to Petra and beckoned her closer. “You'll need a replacement gun,” she whispered. “I still have my husband's service revolver and ammunition. It's yours if you are unable to get a replacement.”

  Petra grinned. “You and I would have made a great team…a modern day Thelma and Louise.”

  “If only I was fifty years younger…” Katherine's eyes glazed over, as if rekindling some distant memory. She looked at Petra. The two women were not dissimilar in attitude. Obviously, this young woman had a story of her own to tell. She was certain that one day Petra would divulge her other life.

  Katherine thought of that magical moment in the Berlin hospital when she realised that she was in love with Alexei. The recollection of the constant dread they experienced as they fled from the darkening shadow descending upon Europe tainted that joyous memory. The invasive regime of communism as it began to consume the conquered eastern bloc countries soured the victory over the Nazis. To survive, they had each other and above all, faith. She needed that same faith now. Her grandson would return. His destiny would be fulfilled.

  She rummaged in her bag. “I have brought you a present, something that could be useful one day.” She placed a small object wrapped in tissue paper on the bed.

  Petra unwrapped it, revealing a silver cigarette case. It was engraved with a hammer and sickle, a Russian soldier and the dates, ‘1917 - 1937’, commemorating the twenty years anniversary of the revolution.

  Katherine explained. “It belonged to my beloved husband, Alexei. He carried it with him throughout the war. I like to believe that it protected him.”

  Petra turned the object over in her hands. “Is that why you said it may be useful to me one day?”

  Katherine simply told her to open it. Inside, Petra discovered strands of blonde hair. She looked at the old woman, mystified.

  �
�The hair belongs to my grandson, Alexis. He had an accident with his bicycle when he was younger. One of the wheels pulled out some of his hair.” She smiled. “He had a bald patch for a while. It's a keepsake from his childhood. Because I have chosen you as the future custodian of my family's history, I thought it might provide a DNA sample to compare with the records used to identify the remains of his ancestors. If ever proof was needed, you have it there.”

  Petra remembered the bloodstained razor that she had preserved, but to mention it might imply a degree of mistrust. She merely showed her gratitude. “Thank you. I don't know what to say.”

  Katherine patted her arm. “Just find my Alexis.”

  8888

  The mobile phone rang. Dumas answered the call. He stood, looked out at the vast expanse of blue-green water of the Mediterranean and listened to the anxious voice pleading for advice. Such a tranquil scene, he thought, I don't need this shit. They both conversed in a southern patois, a dialect derived from langue d'oc, a version of French still used by some across that area of France.

  “Look, the yacht is en route to Saint-Tropez to pick up some weekend guests. I suggest that you make your way there, meet up with Dimitri and sail back into Marseille. It's too risky to come here direct. They'll expect you to head for the villa. Let's face it; where else would you be welcome? They'll monitor the main roads and place every motorway toll between here and Limoges under surveillance. Where are you now?”

  Having realised that the police would return after his run-in with Petra, Roche had fled from his house. Seeing her lying in a pool of blood, he had been convinced that she was dead. He was not prepared to stay and ask questions. Her car was outside and she had been on the phone when he had arrived. She could have been contacting others already on the way to join her. He had decided to make a quick exit.

  “I'm staying overnight with a mate near Feurs, about fifty kilometres west of Lyon.”

  Dumas thought for a few seconds. “They'll be mainly focussed on the A20 towards Toulouse, the A7 from Lyon to Avignon and possibly the A75 from Clermont-Ferrand to Montpellier. Stay clear of all those routes. Head for Grenoble and take the scenic route through Gap and Grasse.” Dumas grinned. “It'll take longer but at least, you can pick up some fresh herbs for my chef.”

  He became serious again. “Just keep off the bloody motorways until you get to Cannes. From there you should be okay on the A8 as far as Le Muy. They will not be anticipating you driving in from the direction of Italy. Come off there and it's a straight run into Saint-Tropez via Sainte-Maxime.”

  Roche winged, expressing his repressed fears and insecurity in his tone. “It'll take all bloody day to drive across the Alps.”

  “I'll tell Dimitri to expect you about midnight tomorrow, then. Don't fuck up!” Dumas finished the call and sighed. Trust Roche to fall foul of the local gendarmerie. It was time to make another call. He walked out onto the terrace overlooking the pool.

  “You okay?” asked Dumas when his call was answered. “Roche has contacted me. I told him to head for Saint Tropez. The yacht's on its way. Dimitri's on board. How do you think that we should play it? I wasn't planning for Roche to be here at the weekend.”

  The response was brutal. “He's a complete liability. I think Dimitri should ensure that he doesn't make it to Marseille. There's a small matter of some intel to worry about. You may hear that there's a female snooping around La Bastide masquerading as a student, but don't be too concerned. She's chasing shadows. She's English, possibly Interpol based, but more likely to be MI6. She had some altercation with Roche. He put her in hospital. That's the main reason he's skipped town.”

  “So that's why he's panicking.” His suspicions had been correct. “According to a contact in the port, two English detectives have also arrived on the scene here in Marseille. They're staying at the New Hotel. Is that coincidence or what?”

  “I heard that they were liaising with the local gendarmerie in Limoges regarding the two stiffs in England. The female investigator that I mentioned was certainly interested in Roche. I think that between them, they must have made a connection.”

  “But why have they turned up here? They must have found something linking Roche with me?”

  “It couldn't have been Roche. She never met him until he whacked her. An ex-gendarme has been mentoring her since she arrived. He probably tipped her off about your previous history together. I don't think it's a big issue, but be on your guard. I'll take care of everything at this end. I'll meet you at the villa when I've smoothed things over here. See you at the weekend.”

  “What about the two on the scene here? I can arrange for them to disappear. What d'you reckon?”

  “They know nothing. Not worth taking a risk. Distract them with your renowned hospitality and personal charm. Indulge them and if they ask about Roche, tell them that you thought he was dead and buried.” There was a distinct chuckle. “For once, you'll probably be telling the truth.”

  8888

  The taxi edged its way through a steady flow of slow-moving traffic and pedestrian supporters as it followed the Avenue du Prado towards the Stade Vélodrome. Despite the encroaching darkness, the warm evening air together with the bright lights and large crowds created a festive atmosphere around the short ride from the city centre. The vast area surrounding the stadium was awash with colourful and noisy spectators chanting their tribal allegiance to Olympique Marseille. The taxi eventually threaded a path through the crowd into a side road leading to one of the many parking areas. From there, the taxi driver directed the two detectives towards the main frontage and official entrance of the stadium.

  At various checkpoints, it was necessary to show their passes until they entered the more sobering and grandiose stadium foyer. Immediately, Thoury, the police captain greeted and ushered the detectives to a pre-match reception where he introduced them to other members of his party. They gratefully accepted and quietly sipped the glasses of Champagne that a waiter thrust into their hands. Unable to comprehend the babble of conversation around them, they merely smiled and soaked up the atmosphere.

  Thoury led them towards another smaller group where a smartly dressed person held centre stage. He was of medium height, stocky in build with a tanned, somewhat weather-beaten face. His short but thick brown hair was greying at the temples; his eyes were dark and piercing. An engaging smile compensated for his invasive expression. The captain introduced the detectives to Michel Dumas.

  Fortunately, he spoke to them in English, not as fluently as Thoury, but well enough to engage Massey and Harcourt in polite conversation. More drinks were on hand and he invited them to partake in the casse-croûte abundantly spread across a nearby table. They exchanged pleasantries between mouthfuls of food, sips of Champagne and football banter. They stood in the inner sanctum of one of Europe's top clubs. Therefore, it was not surprising that, with their Manchester connection, the topic within his entourage focussed on the European exploits of Manchester United.

  Massey, ever the suspecting investigator, was unsure whether the interest shown by Dumas was prompted by football issues or terrorist targets. He asked many questions about the club. Harcourt later argued with her colleague that his enquiries were borne from pure admiration for a top-flight club. Massey still had doubts. They mentioned nothing about the reason for their visit. In the convivial ambience of the pre-match gathering, it seemed inappropriate to discuss a murder. Massey was hoping for an opportunity to broach the subject later. Dumas satisfied that specific need by inviting them to a post-match celebration at his villa.

  Marseille won the match, further endorsing the holding of a celebration party. A fleet of limousines sped them from the Vélodrome out of the city into the hills overlooking the bay, the Rade de Marseille. They headed in a southeasterly direction towards the heights above the Bouches-du-Rhône. Leaving the main road after having passed through a sparsely populated area, the vehicles swung between two un-gated stone columns onto a single-track road through rocky terrain.
Several minutes passed before they arrived at the perimeter walls of a large estate.

  Gigantic metal gates swung effortlessly open, allowing the limos access to a driveway lined with palm trees and ornamental lanterns. A robotic sentinel of security cameras monitored their progress from the entrance towards the villa, a magnificent turreted property that would have rivalled many a stately home in England. More cameras covered the immediate areas close to the building, whilst shadowy figures moved unobtrusively in the unlit depths of the all-encompassing gardens.

  If this display of wealth stems from the proceeds of illicit revenue, thought Massey, it's little wonder that local politicians, dignitaries and law enforcement officers were compliant guests turning blind eyes. On the other hand, it was blatantly obvious why Dumas featured high on Interpol's radar.

  As they stepped from the vehicles, Harcourt nudged him and nodded towards a brightly lit expanse beyond the main building. “An infinity pool. Isn't that just fantastic?”

  “Infinity pool?” The terminology was new to Massey.

  “You can almost see the effect from here. It creates the illusion of merging with the sea and beyond towards the horizon.”

  Massey grunted, unable to comprehend her girlish excitement over, in his eyes, such a mundane but pretentious feature. The floodlit pool cast a magical turquoise halo over the west wing of the property, but her colleague remained unimpressed.

  They heard dogs barking in the distance. Probably Dobermans, thought Massey with a shudder. This guy had security fit for Nicolas Sarkosy, the president. Was it to keep out unwanted intruders or to restrict the departure of individuals held against their will? Harcourt stood and marvelled at the splendour. Massey feared the potential threat.

  Dumas escorted them into the main reception area. Two curved marble staircases flanked the spacious room giving the impression of two powerful arms embracing the gathered guests. A mezzanine linked two further short sets of stairs to the first floor landing. Central within this symmetrical arc, an enormous crystal chandelier hovered above the visitors as though suspended in space. Two employees in white dinner jackets dispensed drinks from a cocktail bar beneath the protruding mezzanine, while several heavily built males in dark suits mingled amongst the score of guests. More security, thought Massey. The atmosphere was convivial but controlled.