by Andy McNab
‘Same three knocks, then three more, then Raskolnikov?’
‘Spot on.’
I hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside handle. Then I plucked three hairs from the back of my head, gobbed on my fingertips and pasted them at intervals across the gap between the leading edge of the door and the frame. If they’d been disturbed by the time I got back, it wouldn’t necessarily mean that someone had lifted Stefan, but it would tell me that the thing had been opened and I needed to sort my shit out before going inside.
My first stop was a pharmacy, where I found a rack of black-plastic-framed glasses with +1 magnification. They’d give me a headache if I wore them too long, but I didn’t plan to. My next was a clothes store, to buy the sort of jacket people wear when they’re paying their bank manager a visit. I saw a matching blue beret on my way to the till, but I wasn’t aiming to turn myself into a cartoon Frenchman, just to cover up my head wound. I selected a blue baseball cap instead. Not the one with the Top Gun logo on the front: it wasn’t going to be that kind of party.
I picked up a Moleskine pocket-size notepad with an elastic fastener from a nearby stationery store. Writing anything down when you’re on a task can really fuck things up, but I still didn’t trust myself to hang on to detail that might help me sort things out. And if it was good enough for Hemingway, it was good enough for me.
The shiniest bits of Albertville had probably been thrown up a couple of decades ago, when it hosted the Winter Olympics. Until I reached the town centre, I got the impression that it had been chucked together from a random collection of trading estates.
The Banque Privée belonged to a more elegant world, and clearly had some history. I walked past it on the other side of the street, then ran through the usual anti-pursuit routines before making an approach. Known locations are always risky, and I had to assume that Mr Lover Man and his mates knew about this one. Tucked between two upmarket cafés, it was the sort of place where you didn’t get through the entrance until the people inside had taken a really good look at you.
‘Quoi?’ A staccato voice addressed me in French from a highly polished brass grille beneath a security camera.
I tilted my head towards it and told whoever was listening that I was English, that I was here in connection with Mr Timis, and I needed to see Mr Laffont.
The front door was made from the same kind of glass as the rear windows of Frank’s Range Rover. One glance at my reflection was enough to tell me why they’d hesitated to invite me in. But there was a soft buzz and it opened to my push.
The foyer was a riot of beige and gold topped off with a crystal chandelier that would have made Glen Campbell a very happy bunny. There wasn’t a cashier in sight. It wasn’t the kind of set-up where you dropped by to deposit your pocket money. You either transferred it electronically or delivered it in a bulletproof attaché case handcuffed to a man mountain with wraparound sun-gigs.
A blonde in a neatly tailored suit chose to ignore the slight bleep that sounded as I walked through the metal detector housed in the inside door frame. She offered me a formal welcome and indicated that I should take a seat.
I tore the first page out of my Moleskine and scribbled the number I’d given my gnome in Zürich over the phone last night. ‘Please give this to Mr Laffont.’
She rotated on one stiletto heel and disappeared up a sweeping, deep-pile-carpeted staircase. The security cameras were as discreetly positioned as possible, but I knew Laffont would already be examining me closely on his monitor.
Blondie materialized again ten minutes later, so I’d obviously passed the first test. ‘Monsieur Laffont is expecting you.’
I didn’t ask how.
She guided me to the first-floor landing, where a pair of massive Oriental vases flanked the entrance to a suite the size of a parade ground.
Almost everything about the man who rose to greet me from behind the world’s biggest mahogany desk was grey. His hair, his immaculately trimmed moustache, his suit, the eyes that glinted behind his rimless spectacles. He offered me his hand, but I wasn’t sure I could reach it. Then I realized he was just waving me towards a nearby chair – the sort you only ever saw in palaces or museums.
He opened the proceedings once I’d put down my day sack and we’d both sat. ‘Monsieur … er …’
I had no idea which of my names Frank had given him, or whether I wanted to tell him anyway, so I just took off my glasses and told him I was a business associate of Mr Timis and needed his help.
‘Of course, Monsieur. We heard the … news … yesterday afternoon. A tragedy. His poor wife …’
I knew I was being tested. Back in the day, I would have told him to stop fucking about and tell me what I needed to know. But filling a Swiss bank vault with Mexican drug money had taught me that in their world the game was played by a different set of rules. ‘I’m pretty sure they were separated. And I don’t think she is poor. But his son is gutted.’
‘Ah … little Bogdan. He must be …’
‘Stefan.’
He gave an apologetic nod. ‘I have only one more question, if it will not offend you.’
I told him I didn’t offend easily, but I was running short of time. I chucked Frank’s passport on to the desk.
He glanced at it, but wasn’t to be deflected. ‘Would you be so good as to tell me the connection between Monsieur Timis’s country estate and your Monsieur Le Carré?’
Thank fuck he hadn’t asked me this kind of stuff yesterday. There was no way I could have dredged it up. But today I remembered my first meeting with Frank, when he’d needed me to find Stefan and kill the people who had kidnapped him.
‘Frank’s dacha is in a place called Peredelkino. He liked the fact that it featured in Le Carré’s novel The Russia House.’
At that point, Laffont treated me to something like a smile. ‘Excellent. Monsieur Timis said you would be making contact in the event of … an accident.’
‘What else did he say?’
‘That he was deeply concerned about some recent business acquisitions. He didn’t divulge the details, but was confident that the contents of his safe-deposit box would usefully add to the things he told you the night before last.’
I didn’t want to admit that I’d lost my marbles in that ‘accident’ and was still struggling to remember a single one of the key elements of Frank’s briefing. I needed him to share Frank’s confidence in me, and to give me as much help as he could. I didn’t need him to put a call through to the local nuthouse. And I wanted him to get a fucking move on.
He stood and did that James Bond trick with his cuffs, picked up a small leather wallet and motioned me towards an archway in the far corner behind his desk. It opened on to another stairwell that led down to the vault.
A steel door unsealed itself after scanning Laffont’s index fingerprint and right iris, then swung shut as we moved through it. Finally we arrived in a room that belonged in the next century, not the one before last. The lighting was as understated as the furniture.
Laffont held back a heavy crimson velvet curtain, then let it fall as we entered the land of the safe deposit. They lined all three walls, floor to ceiling. He slid two keys out of the wallet and inserted them into a box at shoulder height on the right-hand side. He turned them simultaneously, clockwise, until there was a soft click. Then he extracted the drawer and placed it with reverence on the velvet-covered table under a low-hanging light at the centre of the room.
He dipped his head and retired to the antechamber. He’d know fucking well what was in there, but maintaining the illusion of detachment obviously suited him.
I lifted the lid.
First out of the box were six passports.
Three for me, with driving licences to match. Same first name, three sets of different surnames – Saunders, Savage and Browning. Three for Stefan – now Steven – each IDing him as my son. Frank knew that, in a post-Madeleine McCann world, even the sleepiest European frontier post would react badly to an
y attempt to smuggle a kid across a national border. And whoever had supplied these had been busy with the Photoshop. Three slightly different hair colours and styles, one with glasses, two without.
I put them to one side.
Next up was a blueprint for a container vessel commissioned by a shipping outfit called Nettuno, based on the coast of Puglia, not far from Brindisi. I unfolded it and spread it out under the light.
The maze-like structure triggered a fragment of memory, but maybe only from some time in the past when I’d had to scrutinize the layout of a building, an aircraft or a boat before a task.
There was a set of deeds for a chateau overlooking Lake Konstanz. A chateau I’d definitely seen before. In Frank’s desk drawer. Now I knew it had been purchased by a Swiss-based holding company, which must have been part of Frank’s web of international business enterprises.
I put them next to the blueprint and tried not to get a headache as I ran my eyes over them. He’d meant them to be seen in the context of his briefing. He hadn’t intended these things to be brainteasers. But that’s exactly what they were.
There was also a wad of euros and US dollars. Frank had always believed that cash said more about you than Amex ever could.
Finally, in a chamois-leather drawstring bag, a very familiar shape. Another matt black compact Sphinx, two mags and a box of fifty 9mm Parabellum rounds. It was a fancy name that some people thought meant ‘prepare for war’.
At least that part of Frank’s message was clear.
I only wished he’d prepared for it better himself.
17
I picked up the pistol, removed its top slide and dismantled the working parts far enough to be able to take a close look at the business end of the firing pin. It was factory fresh. I reassembled it, loaded up one of the mags and tucked it into my waistband.
I zipped up my jacket and put everything else that Frank had left me in the day sack. I deposited the weapon Mr Lover Man had doctored in the box, closed the lid and slid it back into its slot in the wall.
Laffont stood as I emerged.
‘My turn to ask the questions?’ I made it sound like one, but he knew it wasn’t.
He gave a brisk nod and sat down again.
‘The documents. Were they arranged by Frank’s bodyguard? The black guy? Because, if so, they’re already compromised.’
He shook his head. ‘No. They had to be done at speed, and with complete confidentiality. I arranged them personally.’
‘Tell me about the chateau on Lake Konstanz. His ex-wife’s place?’
‘That was certainly Monsieur Timis’s intention.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘Is she living there now, or in Moscow?’
‘I only see the invoices. Mostly for building work. But, yes, she is overseeing the renovation personally.’
‘Tell me about her.’
He looked blank.
‘Is she to be trusted?’
‘Monsieur Timis went to great lengths to keep her happy when he was alive. Even after they—’
‘Is that a yes or a no?’
He hesitated long enough to make it more ‘no’ than ‘maybe’. Which was a fucker, because I’d been hoping she might be the safe place I needed for Stefan.
‘He seems to own an Italian shipping company. Nettuno. The blueprint—’
‘A recent acquisition.’ His turn to interrupt. He seemed to like that. ‘The due diligence was … rushed. I was not privy to the process.’
‘I got the impression that he wasn’t happy about it.’ I didn’t say Stefan had told me that – or that Frank might have done and I couldn’t remember.
‘I gather there are … were … complications.’
‘What complications?’
‘The kind that sometimes come with cargo … which has been transported from North Africa, Greece and Eastern Europe.’
‘Drugs- or people-trafficking?’
‘Is there a difference?’ Laffont’s look of distaste made me want to ask him how much he knew about the kind of businesses that had made his client Monsieur Timis his first few millions. Frank had done his best to go respectable over the last few years, but I was pretty certain all that shit was still not far beneath the surface.
Which made me think that whatever had rattled him enough to call me must be either very bad indeed or very personal.
Or maybe both.
He’d only asked for my help once before now, and that was when he’d thought he’d lost his son.
‘So what happens now? Is everything on hold?’
‘An audit is called for.’ He paused to give his next sentence the weight he believed it deserved. ‘I will take care of it personally.’
I brought out the invitation to the opening of the distribution depot and unfolded it. ‘And have you ever had dealings with Adler Gesellschaft? I’m guessing it’s a German company. I found this invite in Frank’s desk.’
‘Of course. Monsieur Timis is the majority shareholder. And it is not German. It is Swiss. The head office is in St Gallen. But the depot …’ he pointed at the address on the card ‘… is local.’
Majority shareholder. Acquisition. Italian shipping. Swiss construction. I knew Frank had been trying to go legit; I hadn’t realized how serious he was about it.
‘Are there complications there too?’
His brow furrowed. ‘Not as far as I know. Why do you ask?’
My eyes locked on his. ‘Because one of their monster lorries forced me off the road immediately before Frank was killed.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Very.’ I paused. ‘And you’ve just told me their head office in Switzerland is on his ex-wife’s very smart new doorstep. That’s already two coincidences too many.’
‘Nettuno was his particular concern.’
‘Maybe he was looking in the wrong direction.’
He shrugged. ‘I have no way of telling.’
‘Maybe you should be taking a long, hard look at Adler too.’
His expression said he was happy for me to do my job but not for me to tell him how to do his.
I decided it was time for us to be new best friends again. ‘Thank you for the half-million euros.’
‘You are welcome, Monsieur. As you know, it is the sum you agreed for looking after his son. The balance will be paid into your account when you have discovered who is responsible for Monsieur Timis’s death, and why, and then …’
He left me to fill in the blanks.
‘The balance?’
‘The other half-million.’ He allowed himself the smallest of smiles. I couldn’t blame him. This was Albertville, for fuck’s sake, not Zürich. Frank must have trusted him a lot.
I asked if I could call if anything else came up.
He extracted a wafer-thin leather wallet from somewhere among the greyness and handed me his business card. ‘My private cell phone.’
‘How private?’
‘Very.’ His eyes glinted. Fair one.
I didn’t make a habit of collecting people’s business cards, but I tucked this one away. Laffont clearly had access to a whole lot of shit that I might need to tap into once the due diligence kicked in.
‘Monsieur Timis was most … insistent that I should help you. In any way possible.’
‘Excellent.’ I leant in towards him. ‘Perhaps you can kick off by taking care of his son. I don’t like leaving him on his own. It makes us both vulnerable. And I can move faster and be less visible if I go solo.’
He tried as hard as he could to disguise it, but I knew I’d caught him off balance. He looked like he’d had a red-hot poker shoved up his arse. He raised his eyebrows and gave a small cough into his delicately bunched fist while he sorted himself out. ‘Alas, that will not be possible … Madame Laffont, she is not in the best of health …’
I imagined that Madame Laffont was as fit as a butcher’s dog, and couldn’t be bothered to get off her sunbed.
‘I’m sure
you and Madame Laffont would find Stefan very … rewarding.’ It was my turn to give him the kind of smile that wasn’t more than skin deep. ‘And what better way to honour his father’s faith in you?’
He glanced at his Patek Philippe wristwatch. ‘My apologies, Monsieur. Sadly, I have another meeting scheduled for … five minutes ago.’
As we got to our feet and shook, I told him I needed one other thing. Could he make sure the digital record of my visit was wiped?
He responded with another dip of the head. ‘You dislike being photographed, Monsieur?’
Being photographed had once been fucking close to fatal for me, and put Anna and our son severely in harm’s way too. But he didn’t need to know that.
I gave him some meaningful eye to eye. ‘Dislike doesn’t even begin to cover it, Monsieur Laffont.’
On the way out I remembered that I’d left the +1 specs on his desk. Fuck it. He could keep them.
18
I’d left the Polo near the town hall.
I read the number on Laffont’s card three times on the way back to it, waited five minutes, then checked I’d got it right. This time the magic worked. But I copied it into the Moleskine once I was back behind the wheel. I’d test myself again later.
Then I went in search of a cyber café. I wanted to get the latest on the investigation into the body on the mountain. And to find out as much as I could about the lay-out of the Adler set-up. I quartered the town for half an hour without finding one, so decided to head straight for the address on the invite.
I needed to find the driver who had slammed his foot on the brake right in front of me and sent the X-Trail off-road. Then I needed to take him somewhere quiet and grip him. I’d invite him to refresh his memory of yesterday afternoon’s events, and refresh mine too. He’d suddenly realize he wanted to share some information with me – starting with the name and contact details of Mr Lover Man or the fucker who’d put him up to it. It wouldn’t necessarily mean we’d be completely sorted, but it would be a good place to start.
