by Jon Steele
The Swiss banker even knew a wonderful place on the market in Lausanne. Top floor, corner flat with a wraparound garden terrace. Lovely views of the French Alps and Lac Léman. He could arrange a mortgage with no money down, of course. Why, the whole thing could be run through the Two Hundred Club. Madame Simone Badeaux was the woman’s name, by the way. The banker just happened to handle her financial affairs and had her number in his BlackBerry.
‘Why don’t you call her now and have a chat?’
By the time the dessert arrived, Katherine’s life was sorted. And by the time she moved to Lausanne, a German pharmaceutical company announced they were buying the entire building that housed her flat. A three-hundred-thousand profit on a cash investment of zip. And she didn’t have to move for another two years.
Katherine Taylor liked Lausanne.
It dripped with easy money.
She stood, let the towels drop from her body. She sprayed a small mist of Chanel over her head, let the scent fall on her hair and shoulders. She opened the armoire, found the black Versace, slipped it over the expected black Aubade lingerie. The Prada heels would make their début tonight. They added 3 inches to her 5-foot 9-inch frame. The client said he liked tallish women. Her winter coat was on the chair by the front door. Fendi mink, three-quarter length. Another token of someone’s appreciation. An Italian Formula One driver this time, as thanks for her silence when an Italian tabloid offered her a million euros for the skinny on a certain dirty weekend in Rome, while the world champion’s pregnant wife was home alone in Milan. Men of immeasurable means knew how to thank a girl who could keep her mouth shut when required. She tossed on the mink, gave one more turn in front of the hallway mirror.
‘Later, baby.’
She took the lift down to the taxi waiting at the corner of Rue Caroline and Langallerie.
‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Taylor.’
‘Hi, Pascal. Ça va?’
‘I’m very well, mademoiselle, thank you. You are very pretty tonight.’
‘Thanks, Pascal. You always say the right things.’
‘The Palace, mademoiselle?’
‘Please.’
Pascal remained quiet through the ten-minute drive. Katherine appreciated his silence. That’s why he was number two on speed dial, and why she always paid twice the meter. She watched Lausanne roll by in the rain. Wet asphalt reflecting blue neon signs and orange street lamps. Rounding Rue Saint-Pierre and stopping at a traffic lamp, she saw the lights of Évian across the lake. Pretty, she thought, in a San Francisco sort of way.
Trolley buses rolled through the intersection till the lights changed and Pascal crossed on to Rue du Grand-Chêne. Katherine’s eyes just about popped from her head. The Lausanne Palace was flooded in red light, tied up in red ribbons and bows, garlands and ivy hanging from six floors of balconies. The pavement was dressed with stunted Christmas trees and the limestone pillars of the portico draped with hundreds of tiny white lights. None of it was there yesterday.
‘Look at that! When did they do all that?’
‘Today, mademoiselle. It is the beginning of Christmas season in Switzerland when the Palace is decorated. People from all the cantons come to see it.’
‘All that, in a day?’
‘We Swiss are very efficient.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Pascal made a quick turn up the crescent drive. Katherine giggled.
‘Gosh, it’s like living a fairytale.’
Ten bells echoed down the dripping street.
He checked his watch: five minutes shy of the hour. He tapped the crystal and put the watch to his ear. Still ticking, just slow.
He lit a smoke, stood still a moment. He listened.
Bells, rain.
Rain, bells.
As if there should be something else.
But he had no bloody idea what it should be.
He ducked under the hotel portico and waited as the taxi rolled up to the entrance. A nice set of ankles in black heels issued forth from the passenger door. The rest of the package came wrapped in mink, topped with a veil of blond hair that caught the white lights strung about the stone columns. He watched her make a slow turn, taking in the small forest of Christmas trees along the pavement. Watched her smile and climb the red-carpeted stairs to the revolving doors that carried her into the hotel like a kid on a carousel.
‘Stars in her eyes, that one.’
He dropped his smoke on the pavement, ground it underfoot. He pulled the collar of his mackintosh tight against his neck and stepped back in the rain. He passed the oyster bar at the hotel brasserie. Saw mounds of molluscs on ice and two lads in white smocks prying open shells with blunt knives. A crowd of well-heeled types inside the restaurant living it up. White wine and assorted belons all round. He saw Blondie come through a door connecting to the hotel lobby, following the maître d’hôtel to the corner booth near the windows. Middle-aged gent stood to greet her. The gent wore a swell suit. The kind that said expense account. The waiter helped Blondie with her mink, revealing a nicely cut black dress. The kind that said nicer underneath.
He turned away and walked along Rue du Grand-Chêne, crossed over the wet road and took the stairs down to a dark alleyway you’d miss if you hadn’t been told where to look. Stone path was like a rat’s maze, turning left then right and hooking back once or twice after coming to dead ends, to where a single light bulb dangled above a black steel door. No sign, no markings. Just two doormen the size of bulldozers with faces to match, standing motionless under matching brollies. They watched him approach. He stopped in front of them.
‘Good evening, lads, I take it this is the place.’
They looked at him for a moment and then stepped aside without a word. The black metal door behind them slid open. He nodded in appreciation.
‘Cheers.’
He followed a come-hither beat down a flight of stairs. Blue neon squiggle on one wall spelled ‘GG’s’ and illuminated photographs of scantily clad women on the other. All the women smiling with promises of wonderful things. He hit the last step, pushed through red velvet curtains to a dim room scented thick with perfume and cigarette smoke. A beam of white light cut through the smoke to a woman on a small stage. Her body adorned with a sheer white scarf. Her alabaster-coloured skin, like the scarf, reflecting the purity of whiteness as she caressed the brass pole between her legs. She leaned back, swayed in time to the come-hither beat, let the scarf fall from her body.
‘Right. And it’s that kind of place.’
He checked his coat with the rather nice-looking thing who appeared from nowhere, numbered ticket in her hand and a smile on her face that could melt butter.
‘Enjoy your evening, monsieur.’
‘I’ll try.’
He took the ticket and walked to the bar where two beauties in negligees sat with their long legs on display. Drinking Colas on ice, waiting for the kindness of a stranger. Harper took a seat at the end of the bar. One of the women, the one with the almond-shaped eyes, said:
‘We will not bite, monsieur.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Are you afraid to be close to us?’
‘Maybe I’m the shy type.’
‘Perhaps monsieur would like to buy us a glass of champagne and we could help you overcome your shyness.’
He looked at the menu on the bar. Cheapest champers in the place listed at six hundred Swiss francs. Switzerland, land of medicinal bubbly and half-naked shrinks on call.
‘How about a rain check, ladies?’
‘As you wish, monsieur.’
He dug out his smokes, lit up, looked around the club. All the punters sitting in the shadows with their drinks and cigarettes. None of them matched the photo.
‘Welcome to GG’s, monsieur. You would like a drink?’
He turned to a petite woman behind the bar. Asian face, brown eyes, slender body draped in red silk.
‘Vodka tonic, please.’
‘With pleasure.’ She mixed the dri
nk in a tall glass, set it before him. ‘I hope you enjoy it.’
He tasted the drink, heavy on the vodka. Designed to get you well pissed and loosen up all those francs burning a hole in your pocket. He drank deeper.
‘Is it to your liking?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The drink, monsieur.’
‘It’s fine.’
She gave it ten seconds.
‘You’re a newcomer to Lausanne, monsieur.’
He thought about it for five.
‘I suppose I am.’
‘You must take time to visit the cathedral.’
‘The what?’
‘In the old city.’
He stared at her, wondering about the weirdness of a half-naked woman in a strip club telling him he should see a bloody cathedral.
‘I’ll try and fit it in.’
The bartender gave it another ten seconds.
‘Is there anything else I can offer you, monsieur?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I could ask one of our lovely dancers to join you for conversation, if you wish.’
‘Conversation?’
She tapped a small notice on the bar: ‘Merci de vous souvenir de GG’s: vous pouvez regarder mais pas toucher’, You may look, but not touch.
He looked at her, wondering what one says to a half-naked woman.
‘Actually, I’m waiting for someone.’
She opened her arms. Her breasts perked up under the silk. They were perfect.
‘I’m someone, monsieur. A very nice someone for you to talk to.’
‘The someone I’m looking for is a man.’
She leaned over the bar, smiled somewhere between coy and coquette.
‘Then, monsieur, you are in the wrong place.’
He looked in the mirror above the bar. Portrait of a thirty-something chap in a tweed sports jacket and loose-fitting tie, propped at the bar of a strip club in Lausanne. Like being there and not there at the same time. His eyes fell from the mirror.
‘Funny you should say that, mademoiselle.’
He finished the drink, set the glass on the bar.
‘You will have another drink while you wait?’
‘There comes a time in the tide of human emotions.’
‘Excusez-moi?’
‘I’d love another drink.’
He smoked, waited for the refill. Up in the spotlight, a caramel-coloured woman with long dark hair took the stage. She wore a gold sari that glimmered in the spotlight. She pulled it from her shoulder and it slid from her body like something liquid. She held it in front of her as the spotlight dimmed and blue backlight swelled, casting her naked form against the cloth. He watched the sari rise slowly to the woman’s eyes, watching her watch him. Inviting him to talk about the sensation of desire, maybe. He turned back to the bar, saw himself in the mirror again. Portrait of a thirty-something chap who couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such a thing. The bartender was back with his drink.
‘I hope you enjoy it, monsieur.’
‘If it’s anything like that last one, I’m sure I will.’
He stamped his smoke in the ashtray, scanned the tables again. The man from the photograph still nowhere to be seen. Strange place for a meet, but it was the place the man wanted. Someplace safe, someplace they couldn’t be overheard. Too dangerous, time running out, must give you something. Sounded desperate, crazed even.
He sipped his drink.
An even heavier blast of vodka.
Shaping up to be a rough night.
Standard operating procedure since coming to Lausanne. Couldn’t sleep in this town any more than in London. Just sit on the settee. Drink, smoke, watch History Channel through the night, every night. Not so much getting pissed as trading the sensation of memory for all there was to know about the two and a half million years of human existence. From the moment the Homo ergaster line of humanoids became bipeds, learned to control fire and file stones into hand axes. Bit of the old drinking game before pretending to sleep. Pour a round and chug it down every time someone on the telly said the words ‘war’ or ‘mankind’. He shook it off, lit another fag, looked around the joint. Place filling with more punters in search of conversation with a naked woman, but not the man he was waiting for. He turned back to the bar with his empty glass. The bartender in the red silk had another refill waiting for him.
‘You’re a mind-reader, mademoiselle.’
He checked his watch again.
Eleven minutes after eleven o’clock.
Flashing back again.
Seven weeks ago.
The last time he saw the hands of a clock in the same place.
Playing the drinking game in a one-room flat. Telly filling the dark room with blue flickering light. Holy Crusaders on the screen, slaughtering their way to Jerusalem in the name of Jesus. Streets running with blood. Telephone rings. He stared at it. Couldn’t remember the last time the telephone rang, couldn’t even remember where the hell he was. He got up from the sofa bed, pulled aside the window shade. Huge yellow brick building across the road. Clock tower atop the building reading eleven eleven.
‘Where the hell am I?’
He closed the shade and sat back on the bed. Let the phone ring, thinking the bloody thing would give up sooner or later. It didn’t. He grabbed the remote and turned off the telly. The room wholly dark but for the glow of streetlamps against the window shade. He picked up the receiver, didn’t speak, just waited. Silence. Till a man’s voice came down the line:
‘Good evening, Mr Harper.’
‘Who?’
‘Jay Harper, on the Euston Road at King’s Cross Station?’
‘King’s Cross?’
‘Yes, the yellow brick building just outside your window. The one with the clock.’
His eyes scanned the bed, the floor. Bottles of vodka in varying stages of emptiness, a wallet, British passport, an ashtray stuffed with dead butts, a couple of packets of smokes. He reached for the passport. Photo inside with a name: Jay Michael Harper. Born: London, 1971.
‘Who the hell’s this?’
The voice on the line answering as if the question was for him.
‘Guardian Services Ltd, Mr Harper. Representing freelance security specialists such as yourself. We’ve engaged your services many times in the past.’
Harper had no idea what the voice was talking about.
‘Little late for a bloody sales call, isn’t it?’
‘This isn’t a sales call, Mr Harper. We’ve been trying to contact you for three days.’
He rubbed the back of his neck, looked around the room. Books, newspapers, rubbish scattered about. He shook his head, trying to come to.
‘Right.’
‘There’s a job for you in Lausanne.’
‘Where?’
‘Lausanne, Switzerland.’
‘Lausanne.’
A wave of sickness came over him, his head throbbed with pain. Coming to was proving difficult.
‘Look, this really isn’t a good time.’
‘I apologize for the hour.’
‘No, it’s not … look, I’m not up for any sort of job, not just now.’
‘Mr Harper, may I ask you if you are in a position to choose?’
‘To choose?’
‘Our records indicate you’ve been without work for some time. One would have thought you could use the work.’
The voice let him think about it. He grabbed the wallet and opened it. Thirteen pounds sterling, no pence. No other forms of ID, no credit cards, no bank cards. Like the voice said, no choice.
‘What kind of job are we talking about then?’
‘Oh, the usual sort of thing.’
Harper had no idea what the fuck that one meant. Then again, when there’s no choice, there’s no choice.
‘So, what next?’
Walk across road tomorrow morning, six o’clock. Find St Pancras Station around the back of King’s Cross. Second-class rail tickets to Paris in your name
at the Eurostar desk. Guy waiting on platform, holding a sign, ‘Guardian Services Ltd’. Doesn’t introduce himself, doesn’t say a word in English, mumbles in French. Somehow Harper catches the drift. Métro strike, need a taxi to Gare de Lyon, running late already. Hands over a ticket for the Lyria TGV to Lausanne, leads Harper to a waiting taxi on Rue de Dunkerque. Driver speeds through traffic, talks non-stop. Harper listens to the guy babble about the state of the world. Très mal, monsieur, on marche complètement sur la tête . . bloody world’s been turned on its head – in a bad way. Stares at the back of the driver’s head, wondering, Where the hell did I pick up French? Makes the train for Lausanne, just. Four hours of clickity clack later, Harper was in a small office of smoked-glass windows and a view of a parking ramp. On the desk, a Swiss residency card and work permit, a mobile phone and desktop computer, a letter addressed to him. The letter welcoming him, listing the address of a flat for his use on Chemin de Préville. Keys could be collected from the accounting office along with five thousand Swiss francs for expenses. A briefing book, a set of business cards.
* * *
Jay Michael Harper
Security Consultant
International Olympic Committee
* * *
Like waking up and finding yourself in someone else’s life.
First weeks not much to do other than make sure everyone parked in the right places and the overnight lads pulled down the shutters at night, and wore blue cloth booties over their shoes so as not to scuff up the marble floors.
Just as well, he thought, anything more complicated might’ve tipped off his employers he didn’t know why the fuck he was there. Then, a manila envelope marked ‘Confidential’ appeared on his desk. Inside were ten pages of hand-written scribble. Numbers and equations, charts and graphs. Attached memo advised him to get to the bottom of this. Getting to the bottom had got him as far as GG’s, waiting for a man named Alexander Yuriev.
He checked his watch again.
Eleven forty.
The man named Yuriev was late.
Harper dug his mobile and some scraps of paper from his pocket. He sorted through the papers looking for a number. He found it and dialled. Four rings later an annoyed-to-be-disturbed voice picked up.
