Eight

by James R. Vance

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  Two young men, dressed in Armani suits sat side by side on a gold velour sofa in the main reception hall of the Grand Hotel Europe on Nevsky Prospekt in St. Petersburg. The foyer, a wide concourse, formed a transverse area giving direct access to the main facilities of the hotel. Opposite to the two men, a red-carpeted ornamental staircase led to the upper floors. Uniformed staff busied themselves, satisfying every need demanded by their affluent clientele. This was one of the most prestigious hotels in Russia. This was opulence on a five star scale.

  The Grand Hotel Europe had played an important role in the history of the city for almost 150 years. It boasted of having been host to such famous dignitaries as Tchaikovsky, Dmitri Shostakovich, Ivan Turgenev, Sergei Prokofiev, Sir Peter Ustinov, Catherine Deneuve, Placido Domingo, Presidents Jacques Chirac and Bill Clinton, German Chancellor Helmut Kohl, HRH Queen Elizabeth II of the United Kingdom and of course during the autocracy, members of the Romanov family. Even Grigori Rasputin had dined there, as had George Bernard Shaw with Maxim Gorky.

  This was also the hotel where Grand Duke Mikhail, the brother of Tsar Nicholas II, had held secret liaisons with his lover, Natasha Wulfert, during the early days of their relationship. They always stayed in suite number eleven with rooms that overlooked the square. In reality, the square was a large circular parkland area, enclosed by splendid buildings that fulfilled various bureaucratic functions for the state. The overriding factor in their choice of that particular suite was its separate access, one that was less conspicuous than the other more public entrances.

  Surrounded by an ambience steeped in history, the two young men were planning the future. They wore stylish clothes and sported expensive wristwatches, one a Cartier Caliber, his colleague a Girard-Perregaux Opera Three. They were in deep conversation, animated at times, but both spoke quietly so as not to be overheard. Occasionally, they would interrupt their discussion by making discreet calls on their mobile phones. Their focus appeared to be the screen of a laptop that they were studying.

  To staff and other guests, they could have been wealthy executives or even famous celebrities. They were discussing neither international financial markets nor entertainment issues, but global terrorism on an unprecedented scale.

  8888

  Petra sat on her bed, deciding what clothes she should pack, a chore for her at the best of times. Ignorant of what lay ahead, she tried to cover all her options…so much for travelling light. Besides clothing, there were other considerations. Katherine's gift of her late husband's service revolver was a non-starter. She could hardly pass through airport security with a weapon like that stuffed in her luggage. Reluctantly, she placed it in the metal case under the bed.

  Suddenly, she realised that there were other alternatives. She turned to the innovative paraphernalia that she now had in her possession. She searched through the various disguised items of equipment until she was satisfied with her choices. One could easily perceive most of the pieces that she hoped would avoid detection at the airport as cosmetic or toiletry requisites.

  She checked the time. Bellegarde airport was a fifteen-minute drive. She needed to arrive twenty minutes before departure to check-in at the Air France desk. There was time for a light snack before she left the apartment. Once again, she called Alexis. Once again, his mobile seemed to be switched off. She thought about calling Jean-Marie, but, like Rob, his advice would be to return home and leave the police to deal with it. If she had been able to contact Alexis to know that he was safe, to be able to say au revoir, perhaps she may have been content to act sensibly and fly to London as opposed to Marseille.

  She smiled. It was not in her nature to be sensible. She had spent her life acting on impulse. When motivated by feelings of retribution, she usually thrust all logic to one side. Klara would understand her impetuosity. Petra had dragged her sister into her twisted world more than once. She decided to call her, partly to update her and partly to boost her own conviction that she was right.

  Her sister's comments were hardly appropriate to boost her morale. “You're mad, Petra. You never change. Always out of the frying pan…same old, same old. One of these days, you'll meet your match, but at least you'll have the tee-shirt. For once, I'm not part of your escapade. Take care, my love. I'll keep my eye on BBC world news. Give ‘em hell, sis!”

  She parked the Clio at the airport, presented her documents at the Air France check-in desk and waited in the bar tabac with a fruit juice until her flight was called. She picked up a copy of Marie Claire, partly to pass the time during her flight, partly to distract her from the inner turmoil that plagued her mind. There was a scheduled flight to Stansted on the departure board. Perhaps she was about to head in the wrong direction. The uncertainty of her decision troubled her. Whenever she lost control, she felt vulnerable. This was not the time to be insecure.

  At Lyon, she had a delay of fifty minutes before her connection to Marseille. At five to nine, she arrived on time at her final destination. Harcourt met her at the gate for arrivals. She was alone. Massey had elected to remain at the hotel.

  The detective greeted her warmly. “The New Hotel is full, so I've booked you a room at the Escale Oceania. It's a couple of blocks from ours in the old port area. How was your flight?”

  “Fine…any news on Roche?”

  “Nothing. As I said on the phone, Dumas denied being involved with him for years. He even remarked that he believed Roche to be dead, but that didn't ring true. Thoury, the police captain, told us that Roche was on the run. Surely, Thoury must have mentioned it to Dumas, socialising with each other on a regular basis. However, without any evidence to support our suspicions, there was little we could do. We had decided to head back to Limoges until I received your call.

  “Changing the subject slightly, since we spoke, I called Dumas. I explained that, as we were still here, we would accept his invitation to Saturday's party. As I told you on the phone, it's a celebration of his daughter's engagement, but Massey feels that it's his opportunity to impress some of his dodgy cronies. One of his security staff, whom we believed to be an undercover agent, actually warned us off. We formed the impression that something could happen this weekend, possibly a raid. If some top people from his criminal network are to be in attendance, that's a reasonable conclusion.

  “Anyway, Dumas promised to send invites, including one for you. I said that we had met a friend who was on holiday here and hoped that she could accompany us. You'd better re-invent yourself. Mind you, you're an expert in that field, I believe.”

  Petra guessed that Massey had been telling tales about her previous exploits. She put those thoughts to one side. “I'm worried about Alexis. He's disappeared and I've been unable to contact him. I'm concerned that Roche might be involved. The general consensus is that he may turn up here.”

  “Who, Alexis?”

  “No, Roche. The gendarmes have been searching for him since he fled from Limoges. I suppose that, if Dumas is bringing in illegal immigrants, he can just as easily ship out people like Roche. Do you and Inspector Massey think that he was truthful about not having had any recent contact with him?”

  “Massey has no trust in Dumas whatsoever. In fact, I don't think he trusts anyone. He gives me the impression that he considers everyone guilty until proven innocent. He's hardly an advert for the British justice system.”

  Petra agreed. “I know the feeling. I've been there on the receiving end. Mind you, in my case, he was right. Anyway, that's history now. If this party is scheduled for Saturday, what's on the agenda for tomorrow?”

  Harcourt's face lit up with a broad smile. “Don't mention anything to D.C.I. Massey, but I've arranged a relaxing day out for us.”

  “D.C.I…that's chief inspector, isn't it? Has he been promoted?”

  “I think that it was partly to compensate for the loss of his brother-in-law, D.S. Turner. Did you ever meet him?”

  “Oh, yes. I remember him,” Petra said, reflecting on their previous involveme
nt in Manchester. “He was okay. Massey terrified me. What happened to him?”

  “They were investigating some case involving a bioterrorism threat when D.S. Turner was blown up by a suicide bomber.”

  “Bloody hell! Where did that happen?”

  “Somewhere in the Midlands, I believe. I don't know the full s.p. and I don't think Massey likes to talk about it.”

  Petra realised that it would take time to recover from such a tragic event. “He must find this situation difficult, being involved again with potential suicide bombers.”

  “You're probably right. I never thought about it in that way. Perhaps that's why he's not very keen to be involved. I'll bear that in mind. Maybe I should give him more leeway.”

  Petra seemed keen to change the subject. “What's this relaxing pursuit you've organised? I assume that it doesn't involve him.” In contrast to her usual lack of sentimentality, she suddenly felt some sympathy for her antagonist.

  “There's a fantastic infinity pool at Dumas's villa. I've arranged that we can spend the day there, swimming and sunbathing. There's also a sauna and jacuzzi, so we can pamper ourselves. Dumas himself made the offer when I called him about attending his daughter's engagement party.”

  “And you've not told Massey?” Petra grinned. “He'll do his nut!”

  “He can go and visit a museum, a chateau or something,” Harcourt said, not too bothered.

  “I can't wait to see his face when you tell him. A lead balloon springs to mind.” Petra found the image extremely amusing. “Hey, I've just thought. I can't go swimming. I've no cossie with me.”

  “There's a big department store opposite our hotel called Gallery something or other. I'm sure you'll find something suitable to wear there. I'm looking forward to a great day of shopping and swimming followed by a lavish evening meal with top quality local wine. Let's indulge ourselves before the fun starts on Saturday.”

  “You're a bad influence. If I wasn't repaying my debt to society, I'd be risking the sack.”

  The banter continued until they reached the old port area. Harcourt dropped Petra off at the Escale Oceania, giving her half an hour to check in and freshen up before she returned with Massey to meet up for a drink in one of the nearby bars.

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  Petra tossed her suitcase onto the bed to choose something suitable to wear for a late night drink. She still felt guilty remaining in France without a legitimate reason, but Harcourt had promised to take full responsibility for their extended stay. She decided to take a quick shower. She felt weary and unclean from travelling. It had been a long day and her head was throbbing again. The hospital had prescribed some paracetamol painkillers and Alprazolam tablets to relax her. Apart from tomorrow's visit to Galeries Lafayette, she would need to find a pharmacy to acquire the drugs. Perhaps a day in the sunshine by a pool would be a perfect way to wind down and recuperate.

  Her hair was almost dry when reception rang to say that her visitors had arrived. Refreshed after her shower and wearing a smart new outfit purchased in Limoges, she felt confident and ready to face Massey once more. She was mildly surprised when they met. He was quite pleasant towards her. Harcourt must have had a word in his ear, she thought. He'll soon change when he hears what we have planned for tomorrow.

  They walked down the Quai des Belges to La Samaritaine Brasserie. They chose a table inside the veranda to avoid the chill of the night air wafting in over the marina. Initially, the majority of their conversation centred on Petra's experience at Roche's house and her overnight stay in the hospital. Later, Harcourt eulogised about the villa, which afforded a gambit to broach their proposed poolside activity planned for the following day.

  Surprisingly, Massey agreed that, though it was a wasted day, the delay was necessary under the circumstances. He even suggested that there was also the chance to gain some insight into anything suspicious during their visit. He decided that he would occupy his day with a boat trip to the islands, especially Ile d'If. Petra was amazed by his acquiescent attitude. Maybe Harcourt had finally tamed him. A couple of rounds of drinks later, they parted company and retired to their respective hotels.

  Back in her room, Petra emptied the contents of her toiletry bag onto the bed. She gathered the items that she had removed from the silver case at the Limoges apartment. When assembled, some items formed a miniature pistol. The handle of an electric toothbrush concealed matching small calibre ammunition. The whole assembly operation took twenty seconds…only ten when she was in training. She took the weapon apart. On the third attempt, she managed the operation in less than twelve seconds. Just in case, she told herself.

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  Once inside the department store, Petra would have been quite happy to spend the remainder of the morning browsing through the endless racks of clothes. She settled on a pair of Corleone denim shorts that she found irresistible despite the hefty price tag. Unable to find any suitable swimwear, Harcourt suggested that she should try the Rue de la République, where there seemed to be a stream of fashion shops. Petra spotted H & M where she purchased a stunning pink bikini. A few doors away from the store, she was relieved to find a pharmacy for her prescription.

  After a shopping expedition that lasted almost two hours, they were finally following the road leading towards the Stade Vélodrome.

  “Are you sure you know the way?” Petra asked, concerned that Harcourt was driving with a map on her lap.

  “I remember that we seemed to stay on the same road after leaving the stadium, but, after that, it's a bit hazy.”

  “Oh great! That means we could drive around in circles for the rest of the day.”

  “Trust me. I'm a chief inspector and I passed my advanced driving test. You're with an expert. Anyway, I can always phone for directions if we get lost.”

  Petra smirked. “So, advanced driving gives you the ability to drive whilst reading maps and using a mobile?”

  Harcourt laughed. “You're the one who speaks French. You can make the call.”

  Petra shook her head. “You're unbelievable.”

  Amidst their repartee, Harcourt spotted a sign for Les Baumettes. “I remember that,” she cried with some relief.

  After a short distance, they arrived at a large intersection, a roundabout with an obelisk rising from the centre. “We turned off here to the right, I think.”

  “I feel a phone call coming on,” Petra muttered under her breath.

  “This is it…Boulevard de la Concorde. It all looks so different in daylight.”

  They reached a T-junction. Petra looked at Harcourt's puzzled expression. “Now where, right or left?”

  “Let's take a right. We can always double back.”

  The road was busy and quite narrow, but broadened at a set of traffic lights.

  Harcourt perked up. “That's what we want. On the phone, he said Pointe Rouge. It's left at these lights.” She passed a post-it note that she had attached to the map to Petra. “What's after Pointe Rouge?”

  “It looks like La Campagne Pastre. Is that it?”

  “That's when we start to leave civilisation behind and head for the barren hillside. After that, we look for two stone pillars that front a narrow track. It leads to his estate. It's not far from here.”

  Petra became aware of a sudden change in the scenery. “Hey, this is nice now. Look there's the sea in the distance. It's like being on hols.”

  Harcourt grinned. “Keep your eyes peeled for Massey on his island hopping trip. He'll be the one standing in the bows of the boat like Di Caprio in Titanic.”

  They both broke out into a fit of giggles as the ridiculous image titillated their thoughts.

  “I don't remember this bit,” she continued, “but it was dark and we had drunk a fair amount of bubbly. At least we're heading in the right direction.”

  They followed the coastline south until the sign for La Campagne Pastre took them inland again towards a more rugged terrain. Eventually, the properties thinned out as they drove into a wilder regio
n on the fringe of the rocky outcrop of the Bouches-du-Rhône. Finally, they saw the two pillars. They were almost there. Their frivolity subsided as the thought of entering the criminal domain of possible terrorist sympathisers numbed their minds. They drove on in silence.

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  A taxi took the immaculately dressed young man from the Grand Hotel Europe to Pulkovo 2, St. Petersburg's main, but still developing airport. He had booked the morning Aeroflot departure to Frankfurt, where he would board a flight with Lufthansa direct to Dubai. A chauffeur met him at Dubai International and drove him to Raffles Hotel where his reservation was for a Diplomatic Suite.

  Later that evening he dined in the Asiana restaurant renowned for its fine panoramic views of the city. Two Arabian associates, smartly dressed Western style, joined him for dinner. They left immediately following the meal and he retired to his room to recover from the jet lag, a result of the excessive travelling over the past thirty-six hours.

  The following morning, there was a breakfast meeting scheduled for eight thirty with an associate from Abu Dhabi, followed by an Emirates flight to Lebanon. He attended yet another meeting at the Rafiq Hariri International Airport in Beirut, before boarding an Air France flight to Marseille. During each meeting, discussions had focussed on three key areas of concern: resources, logistics and finance. The agreement of a composite action plan and its subsequent implementation would follow at a later stage.

  Following the exchanges, the young man had sanctioned an outline strategy and regional responsibilities with the chiefs of several radical Al Qaeda related factions across the Arab world. Most were like him, well dressed, well educated and, for the most part, extremely Western in their appearance and habits. Unlike the fundamentalist and simple believers of Islam, they were prepared to assume an image very alien to their beliefs. In their eyes, they were the true zealots, willing to go to any lengths to justify their aims to reject Western life, to destroy it by terrorism and mass murder.