The Watchers

by Jon Steele

  ‘Oh, mon cher, I do miss our visits. How long has it been since you’ve seen me?’

  Rochat thought about it.

  ‘A long time.’

  ‘Yes, nine months. Do you remember why you haven’t seen me?’

  Rochat remembered. ‘Because you died.’

  ‘Yes. You came to my funeral with Messieurs Gübeli and Buhlmann.’

  ‘Can I ask you a question, monsieur?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why are you still here if you died?’

  Monsieur Rannou touched the keys softly, not pressing them, just touching them.

  ‘So that you would know that without you, all the angels … all the creatures born of light will be lost for ever.’

  Rochat thought about it.

  ‘Because it’s my duty, because I’m le guet de la cathédrale de Lausanne.’

  ‘Yes, Marc, it’s your duty.’

  ‘I understand. Well, it was very nice talking to you again, monsieur.’

  ‘Goodbye, Marc.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Rochat made his way behind the tall pipes to the tribune. He opened a door to a short passageway and hopped down the stone stairwell that led to the floor of the nave. He shuffled through the big dark space with his lantern lighting the way. Looking up to the vaulted ceiling and seeing nothing but the teasing kind of shadows fluttering in the high arches. He stopped at Otto the Brave Knight’s marble sarcophagus at the side of the altar and gave him a quick tap.

  ‘Otto, I just saw Monsieur Rannou. He says Lausanne is full of angels and some of them are lost and come to hide in the cathedral. And he reminded me what Maman said, that I was going to Lausanne to hide from the bad shadows like the angels because angels were made of light and that an angel would come to the cathedral and I needed to protect the angel and without me all the angels would be lost for ever.’

  Rochat pressed his ear to the cold marble.

  ‘What do you mean, you already know? How could you already know? I didn’t even know till he reminded me of things Maman told me in beforetimes.’

  He listened again.

  ‘Oh, because all the angels have been making so much noise with their coming and going you haven’t been able to sleep for eight hundred years. Well, try and rest, mon ami. And be not afraid. They’re only made of light, after all.’

  He shuffled from the altar and jumped down four stone steps to a low iron gate under Otto’s tomb. The oldest and strangest-looking key on his chain opened a rusting lock. The iron gate creaked as Rochat eased it open. He raised his lantern into the pitch black.

  ‘Bonsoir, it’s only me.’

  ten

  Harper watched the Doctor punch from Athens to Los Angeles on his white telephone. The Doctor’s morning phone conference was running an hour over time. Just now it was the head of the US Olympic Committee on speakerphone, still deeply upset baseball had been dropped from the summer games.

  ‘You Europeans just don’t get it. Baseball’s the Great American Pastime. To be enjoyed and cherished by the entire world, like democracy!’

  The Doctor explained yes, baseball may indeed be a great American pastime, pure as democracy itself. But that doesn’t necessarily qualify it as an Olympic event. The Yank gasped and vented his outrage for ten minutes before ringing off without a missing you already. The room went blessedly quiet. The Doctor hung up.

  ‘I suspect the Americans, having once renamed French Fries to Freedom Fries, will now whip themselves into patriotic frenzy and rename them again to Home Run Fries.’

  Harper nodded, wondering if this might be a good time to ask why the hell he’d been ordered to report at eight a.m. if it meant hurry up and wait. Then a chime sounded over the speakerphone, followed by Miss Barraud’s reverential voice.

  ‘Pardon, Docteur. Il est arrivé.’

  ‘Bon. Faites-le entrer.’

  The office door opened and a fifty-something gent stepped in, elegant in his beige cashmere coat and silk scarf. The Migros bag in his hands looked a bit out of place. Didn’t seem the sort who did his own grocery shopping.

  ‘Bonjour, messieurs. Please excuse the delay, I had to take an important call.’

  The Doctor was already up from his desk and crossing the office. Harper watched them work through their Swiss greeting rituals. Warm handshake, three back-and-forth kisses on opposite cheeks. The Doctor then helping the visitor with his cashmere coat. Tailored double-breasted pinstripe underneath.

  ‘Mr Harper, would you care to join us? It’s my honour to introduce Inspector Jacques Gobet of the Swiss police.’

  Swell, Harper thought, cops in cashmere coats and two-thousand-dollar suits …

  ‘How do you do, sir?’

  … and an iron fist disguised as a polite handshake.

  ‘Enchanté, Mr Harper. And let me take this opportunity to welcome you to Lausanne.’

  The Inspector joined the Doctor on the large sofa. He set the shopping bag on the carpet next to his spit-shined wingtips. Harper took the couch opposite, white coffee table between them.

  ‘Mr Harper, I contacted Inspector Gobet last evening after your telephone call. I gave him a rundown of our situation and he kindly agreed to come down from Berne this morning.’

  ‘Does that mean this is now a police matter?’

  The Inspector adjusted the French cuffs of his shirt till they were perfect. ‘Officially, I’m here in my capacity as close and trusted friend, visiting over a cup of coffee. You did promise coffee, Doctor.’

  ‘On its way, Jacques.’

  ‘To be honest, Mr Harper, you gave the good Doctor quite the fright last evening with your talk of foul play. I thought I’d best come down for a chat. Would you mind if I asked a few questions, unofficially?’

  Harper felt the Inspector’s eyes, as if he didn’t have to ask questions, as if he knew everything already.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Why do you think there is a connection between two unconnected facts?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The simple facts are these. You have misplaced one man of Russian origin and I have found one corpse on a mountain road. Where is the connection?’

  ‘The newspaper reported he was a Russian tourist.’

  ‘The newspapers reported the motorcar had been rented by a Russian tourist who secured the motorcar upon arriving at Geneva Airport four weeks before the events on the Montreux–Gstaad Road. He reported the car stolen from Les Trois Coronnes hotel in Vevey, Monday last. Two days before Mr Yuriev cleared Swiss Immigration in Zurich. Would that ease your suspicions?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘The photograph in the newspaper.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Looked as if the car had been pushed off the road and set alight.’

  ‘You could see this from a grainy reprint of a cellphone photograph, taken from two or so metres away?’

  ‘You just said it.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The newspaper said the car tumbled down a deep ravine. Two or so metres isn’t deep enough for a car to tumble and explode into flames, not without a little help.’

  ‘I see. You still haven’t told me why you think Alexander Yuriev was the victim. Do you have any evidence?’

  ‘Yuriev said he had something in his possession to give the Doctor, said he knew he was being followed.’

  Inspector Gobet raised an eyebrow. ‘Not really evidence, is it?’

  ‘Then call it a gut feeling.’

  ‘A gut feeling, yes. As I understand it, the IOC received documents through the post regarding a chemical formula for a performance-enhancing drug, did it not? I believe Yuriev then claimed he had sent the formula.’

  ‘He didn’t call it a drug, he called it a potion. As a matter of fact.’

  ‘Yes, of course, a potion. With debilitating psychotropic side effects, I believe.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So the facts
are: we have someone claiming to be Alexander Yuriev who contacts the IOC with the formula of a psychotropic potion – the very word being somewhat fanciful – and who also claims he’s being followed and in grievous danger, but who uses his own actual name in all email communications, his Swiss visa application, and when registering at the Hôtel Port Royal. These facts, combined with your keen forensic study of a cellphone photograph printed in a newspaper, have led you to believe Alexander Yuriev was victim of murder most foul. Well, I must say, sounds very conspiratorial, though not surprising, coming from a man with a history of alcohol abuse.’

  Harper stared at the Inspector a moment.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Mr Yuriev has a history of alcohol abuse, perhaps you’re aware of it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And, as I’m sure you’re aware, the Doctor here, who was a prominent medical professional before assuming his current position as President of the IOC, believes Mr Yuriev is most probably suffering from alcohol-induced paranoia.’

  ‘Maybe he’s a drunk, maybe he’s paranoid, maybe he was being followed anyway.’

  ‘As in the old psychiatrist’s joke. Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.’

  Wherever the cop in the cashmere coat was leading him, Harper knew he had no choice but to follow, including smiling along with the old psychiatrist’s bloody joke.

  ‘True.’

  ‘In fact, Mr Harper, you have no proof that Alexander Yuriev was being followed or that he was in any real danger. That all this talk of a potion is nothing more than a wretched man seeking help from, how did he put it, the only man he could trust.’

  ‘His email accounts disappeared.’

  ‘It may interest you to know, Mr Harper, the European Hotmail network experienced a major systems crash seventy-two hours ago. During the reboot, there was massive loss of data across the entire continent.’

  ‘Sounds rather convenient.’

  ‘Agreed, but it is also a fact convenient things do happen now and then. Sapiens nihil affirmat quod non probat, eh?’

  Harper stared at the Inspector, instantly knowing the words. ‘Don’t affirm what you don’t know first hand.’ Couldn’t remember where the hell he’d learned Latin.

  ‘Let’s just call it a hunch, then, Inspector.’

  ‘As opposed to a gut feeling?’

  ‘I heard something in his voice.’

  ‘Yes, your one and only telephone conversation with Mr Yuriev, thank you for bringing it up. I believe you stated he sounded in some distress.’

  ‘That’d be a polite way of putting it.’

  ‘How would you express it, Mr Harper?’

  ‘Like a man who was scared to death, who knew he was running out of time.’

  ‘Another hunch?’

  ‘Like I said, I heard something in his voice.’

  ‘How long was your conversation with Mr Yuriev?’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘It’s not a trick question, Mr Harper.’

  ‘Five minutes, maybe ten or more.’

  ‘You’re not sure?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Purpose of the conversation?’

  ‘Arrange a meeting in Lausanne.’

  ‘Did you keep contemporaneous notes of the telephone conversation?’

  ‘Notes?’

  ‘Contemporaneous notes, Mr Harper. Jotting down times conversations begin and end, all the things said in between, that sort of thing. Your memory may be playing tricks on you.’

  ‘My memory?’

  ‘Yes. For example, what was the telephone number of your London flat?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your telephone, in London, what was the number?’

  London, crummy one-room flat across from King’s Cross, telephone ringing off the hook. Guardian Services Ltd calling.

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  The office door opened, a butler rolled in a cart of coffee and pastries. He poured from a porcelain china pot into matching cups. The Inspector shifted the mood.

  ‘A fine coffee service, Doctor. Is it von Eenhoom?’

  ‘Indeed, Jacques. Europa and the Bull.’

  ‘Beautiful. Qing dynasty, I believe. A reproduction, surely.’

  ‘Yes, but the original is in the Olympic museum. A gift from the Chinese government to mark the Beijing games of 2008.’

  ‘You must allow me a private viewing before I return to Berne.’

  ‘Avec plaisir.’

  The butler offered croissants and left. The Inspector had a small sip of coffee. Harper watched him chatting away with the Doctor. French cuffs with gold cufflinks, manicured nails, signet ring on a fat little finger, hands looking as if they could crush a bowling ball for laughs. Wants to know your bloody London phone number because … because he already knows you couldn’t remember it if your life depended on it.

  ‘May I ask a question, Inspector?’

  ‘By all means, Mr Harper.’

  ‘Exactly what kind of policeman are you?’

  The Doctor’s reaction was just shy of the apoplectic Yank being told baseball had been crossed off the Olympics.

  ‘Mr Harper, I will have you know Inspector Gobet is, in fact, Deputy Director of the Swiss Federal Police. He is also an adviser to Interpol and other international security agencies including the European Court of Human Rights. He has for many years been the Swiss liaison officer to the IOC, as well as all international NGOs and international financial institutions headquartered in this country. It will interest you to know that it was Inspector Gobet who personally recommended your services to me, and had you fast-tracked through Swiss immigration.’

  Harper looked at the Inspector.

  ‘You’re Guardian Services Ltd?’

  ‘In point of fact, Mr Harper, Guardian Services Ltd is a subsidiary of Guardian Services SA, an international private security firm based in Zurich. I serve as a member of the board. I’ve followed your career with keen interest. Does that make things a bit more clear?’

  Like mud.

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Good.’

  The Inspector turned to the Doctor.

  ‘I’m sure Mr Harper intends no offence, Doctor. He probably wonders why I’m grilling him so hard. Though I’m distressed you didn’t mention my responsibilities in training the Swiss Guard of the Vatican City. Very proud of that one, you know.’

  The Inspector took another sip of coffee, set his cup in the saucer.

  ‘As far as the grilling, Mr Harper, it’s called entrapping interrogation. The kind of thing that we toss in the mix to keep the subject off balance. Truth be told, most single men have difficulty remembering their own phone number. How often does one ring oneself, what? No, I wasn’t interested in your answer, I was interested in your reaction.’

  Harper stared at the Inspector. Son of a bitch was playing him.

  ‘My reaction.’

  ‘Yes, profile the manner of your thinking, as it were. By the way, you might wish to jot down a few contemporaneous notes in future. Just a little professional advice.’

  ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’

  ‘Good, then we may move on. Gentlemen, what I am about to tell you is part of an ongoing investigation by my Special Unit Task Force. We involve ourselves with cases of particular concern to the Swiss national interest, and therefore operate somewhat below the public radar. So I insist the information remains confidential.’

  The Doctor dipped his croissant into his coffee. ‘Of course, Jacques.’

  ‘By coincidence, Mr Harper is correct about the nature of the scene. The man found in the motorcar didn’t die in the road accident. He was murdered, tortured to death. His body had been repeatedly scorched with a household pressing iron causing severe loss of flesh and muscle tissue, especially to the stomach region. The pressing iron was allowed to burn through to the spine.’

  The Doctor choked.

  ‘I’m sorry, Do
ctor. I’ve put you off your croissant.’

  ‘No … I … Good Lord.’

  ‘Russian mafia.’

  The Inspector turned to Harper. Harper was half surprised the words had slipped from his mouth.

  ‘Indeed, the Russian mafia, Mr Harper. How would you have known?’

  Like his sudden knowledge of Latin, no bloody clue.

  ‘History Channel, maybe.’

  ‘History Channel.’

  ‘I watch a lot of History Channel.’

  ‘Indeed? Bit of a fan of History Channel myself. And you’re right. This method of torture is the preferred brand, if you will, of the Russian mafia.’

  ‘Jacques, was Yuriev involved with criminals?’

  ‘Please, Doctor, let’s not jump to conclusions. I only provide facts, and the facts are these. Russian gangs control most of the motorcar theft in Europe. Recently, they’ve been turning their attention to Switzerland. Not surprising given the wealth of choice within our borders. The problem is these gangs are notoriously protective of their turf. At present, we are working on the premise that Comrade A tried to muscle in on Comrade B’s market share. As with most business dealings involving Russian businessmen, one of the two comrades is bound to end up murdered. We’re all aware of Mr Yuriev’s dire straits. But I have no reason to suspect he was involved in such activity.’

  The cop in the cashmere coat was making sense. Still, Harper wasn’t ready to concede.

  ‘How can you be sure, Inspector?’

  ‘After your phone call to the Doctor, my task force ran his name through our database. There’s no record of him having any association with the Russian mafia.’

  ‘Interpol?’

  ‘When Interpol wants information, they come to me.’

  ‘Physical ID then.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Cross-checking archive photos with the body.’

  ‘You may recall, Mr Harper, the newspaper reported the body was burned beyond recognition.’

  ‘Computer-assisted post-mortem identification systems could create a 3D image of the face using the skull.’

  ‘My, you have been watching History Channel, haven’t you?’ The Inspector patted the Doctor’s knee. ‘You can see why I recommended Mr Harper to you, Doctor. Doesn’t dilly dally, excellent record.’