by Lin Anderson
But neither death nor Chapayev had defeated him yet.
Darkness descended as he made the necessary calls. His table stood in the shadow of the back wall of number 10 Rue Forville. Above him, a washing line was pulled in. From open windows came the sounds of Cannes residents at their evening meal. Glancing up at the Chanteclair, he saw a couple in an embrace, never thinking they were visible to him or those in the flats above.
He rose as the clock on La Castre signalled the quarter hour. Neither Pascal, Preben or Oscar were to be seen, although there was a light behind the shutters of their small sitting room.
He went by Rue Panisse. Angele had given him a key and Patrick used it to enter, finding the room empty, a sleeping bag in the corner next to half-eaten food and an empty bottle of wine. The pillow had blood on it, which wasn’t fresh.
Patrick had the distinct impression that Leon had flown, and for good. Angele had betrayed him with the necklace and Chapayev had been a further incentive to disappear. Patrick was glad. He didn’t want Leon on his conscience.
He glanced at his mobile. Stephen had been trying to get a hold of him since he’d discovered treasure off the Île d’Or. Getting no response, he’d finally sent a text, imploring Patrick to get in touch. Patrick deleted the message. As far as he was concerned, Stephen and Colm had now played their part.
Crowds were making their way up the hill. Families with young children in prams; grandmothers and teenagers. The older residents were keen to get a seat as near the battlements as possible. The blue metal chairs, specially brought in for the occasion, were already filling up.
A stage had been set up with its back to the castle. It was deserted at the moment, but a DJ was playing a series of French ballad singers. Patrick checked the crowds, but there was no sign of Moreaux’s iron-grey head, although there were at least four Police Municipale officers with their smart dark-blue uniforms.
He turned and exited by the vaulted opening in the clock tower. The double doors of the church stood open. Mass was over, but a trickle of the faithful remained inside, in silence or in prayer, before the high altar with its seventeenth-century virgin, the Vierge Couronnée, holding a ship’s anchor.
Patrick moved into the shadows.
Korskof was the first to arrive. How he had come to know of the meeting, Patrick had already guessed. Korskof stood uncertain at the door, accustoming himself to the dim light. Patrick watched surprised as, with a glance at the high altar, the Russian bodyguard made a quick sign of the cross.
Next to appear was Moreaux. The lieutenant approached the Russian and a few words were spoken which Patrick couldn’t hear, although he was pretty certain their discussion involved his whereabouts.
Both turned when Brigitte and Chevalier appeared at the door together. Brigitte hesitated, but Chevalier took her arm and led her inside and straight up to Moreaux.
Brigitte pointed at the Russian. ‘This is the man who broke into my apartment, Lieutenant Moreaux,’ she said in a ringing voice. ‘And took Camille Ager away at gunpoint.’
All eyes in the church were now on the tableau. Muttering began, and grew louder. The Russian’s eyes darted round as the interested parties began to move towards them. Patrick had the terrible thought that Korskof would produce his gun, even in that public place.
It seemed that Moreaux had had the same thought. With a wave of his hand, his backup materialized. Two figures rose from prayer, their guns discreetly at the ready.
It was over in moments.
Korskof was escorted from the church, the mix of tourists and worshippers stunned by what had just taken place. Chevalier was the last to leave. Following Moreaux out, he stopped and glanced back. This time, Patrick did show himself, just long enough to give him the thumbs-up. Chevalier nodded in return.
Patrick chose a different route out of the church.
Moving swiftly through the maze of side passages, he exited by a small door on to Rue de la Castre. This side of the castle was deserted. He walked swiftly downhill, pondering Moreaux’s next move. The lieutenant had had no alternative but to arrest Korskof. He would hold him, but for how long? The policeman’s inscrutable expression when he’d first seen Korskof had given nothing away.
Patrick had no idea, as yet, which side – or sides – Moreaux was on.
It would have been impossible to leave the harbour by water. It was jam-packed with boats, both large and small, in serried rows like sardines in a tin. Just off the lighthouse was no better, the larger yachts filling the bay almost as far as Sainte Marguerite. The display would begin when the appropriate official deemed it was dark enough, ten o’clock being merely a guideline.
Music drifted from the battlements in competition with that being played over loudspeakers on Le Pantiero. The display would be set to a chosen piece of music, something soaring and significant, the two locations trying to synchronize the accompaniment, but not always succeeding.
Patrick headed along the Quai Laubeuf, whose concrete curve stretched far out into the bay. It was a tricky passage, because of the numbers encamped there to view the spectacle, but it was still faster than swimming round the headland.
He moved down on to the rocks at the end and stripped off, much to the amusement of two young women, who’d settled down to watch the show. They screamed their encouragement as he dived into the water.
Patrick struck out strongly. He’d already plotted a route to the Heavenly Princess, but care would be needed moving among the rows of partying boats. He was yards from the black yacht when the first explosion of light occurred, making his approach all the easier. The small group assembled on the sky deck had eyes only for the firework display.
Pulling himself on to the metal platform, he headed up the steps and made his way, without challenge, to the laundry cupboard he’d used to change in before. A basket held dirty linen, due to go ashore for cleaning. Patrick rifled through and found a waiter’s outfit that fitted, just.
This time he didn’t intend to serve.
The various decks were deserted, and even the kitchen was empty, everyone outside taking in the show. The noise was deafening, a mixture of distorted music, bangs, pops and whooshes, the sky a kaleidoscope of colour.
Angele’s revelation as to the whereabouts of the diamonds had given him food for thought. Her plan that Leon might be the one to retrieve them had failed. Patrick’s appearance on the scene had in fact been her lifesaver. He wondered what she would have done if he hadn’t shown up, then remembered her earlier disguise and realized she’d had every intention of coming back for them herself. Patrick couldn’t help but admire her courage.
He made his way to her cabin. This time he found the door locked. Patrick stood for a moment listening for anyone approaching, before he extracted the key Angele had given him. Once inside, he re-locked the door, then approached the wardrobe.
The last time he’d been in here, he’d simply flicked through the contents, coming to the conclusion that they were Angele’s and that he had found her room. Now he took more care, praying that Angele had been right when she’d assured him that Chapayev would never find or even think of her hiding place for his precious diamonds.
‘He thought I was a stupid woman,’ she’d said, ‘because I let him do whatever he wanted. When all the time he was the stupid one.’
The item of clothing she’d described was a floor-length blue silk evening dress, low-backed with a bustle fashioned in the shape of a rose. Patrick located it eventually, hanging at the rear, behind a rail of daytime clothes.
As he extracted it, the moving silk emitted a scent that was definitely Angele’s.
He stared at the dress for a moment, excitement causing his heart to up its tempo, then he tore off the rose-shaped bustle.
And there was the treasure, just as Angele had said it would be.
A small black felt bag, safely tucked inside the rose. Patrick extracted it and discarded the rose.
Drawing open the cord, Patrick tipped the contents into hi
s palm. The sight of the sparkling stones caused him to catch his breath. He knew enough about diamonds to be sure those that glittered in his palm were worth a tidy sum.
There were at least twenty of them, premium cut to maximize their brilliance, beautifully clear and colourless. At a guess, they were a mixture of two and three carat. What the current value of the diamonds would be, Patrick had no idea, but certainly considerably more than the black pearl.
He carefully poured them back in the bag and put the bag in his pocket, then crossed to the door and listened. There was no sound of movement in the corridor, the only noise being the intermittent bangs and explosions from above. Checking his watch, Patrick estimated the fireworks had approximately ten minutes more to run. It was time to make his move.
He exited, re-locked the door and made his way to the sky deck.
A small group stood by the harbour side railing, their eyes on the exploding colourful sky. Patrick made out Chapayev’s heavyset figure surrounded by an assortment of young, pretty women. Camille Ager wasn’t among them. Patrick checked the sky deck for Chapayev’s backup and spotted a man hovering in the shadows. Less imposing than Korskof, he looked a little nervous, as though he’d just been promoted in Korskof’s absence ashore. It was difficult to tell in the intermittent light, but Patrick assumed he was carrying a weapon under the smart suit.
Having appraised the situation, Patrick stepped into view.
One of the women turned and looked at him, wondering why a tall man in a waiter’s uniform should wear such an expression. Patrick ignored her and called out Chapayev’s name, saying it correctly in Russian.
Chapayev’s head shot round. To say he was surprised to find Patrick there was an understatement.
‘What do you want?’ he said.
‘We need to talk,’ Patrick said in Russian. He indicated the minder. ‘Alone,’ he added firmly.
The two men eyeballed one another, before Patrick turned and swiftly headed downstairs, making the assumption that Chapayev would follow, with or without his minder. Taking the route to the stern, Patrick opened the gate designed to keep passengers out, then took up a position in the shadows.
If his plan was to work he needed the Russian here, and alone.
Chapayev wasn’t far behind, his breathing laboured as he came down the last set of steps and into the stern.
As Patrick heard the gate open and clang shut again, a shower of sparklers lit up the sky. In the silvery light, he saw Chapayev wave upwards and guessed that, contrary to his command, the Russian had placed his minder on duty on the deck above.
‘Courvoisier?’ he shouted, his voice almost drowned in the soaring music as the display beat its way towards a climax.
Patrick stepped into the light.
‘Get rid of the minder, or I sprinkle the diamonds over the side.’ Patrick held the small black bag up for Chapayev to see.
When there was no response, Patrick said, ‘Angele hid them in a dress. She said you were so stupid you would never look there.’
The goading did the trick. The Russian had decided not to take a chance. He barked an order into the shadows. There was a shuffling sound in response. Either the minder had moved away, or else he’d just taken up a different position. Patrick suspected the latter was true.
The two men regarded one another in silence, as Patrick attempted to interpret Chapayev’s expression. There had been time enough for the Russian to be informed of Korskof’s arrest, which wouldn’t improve his feelings towards Patrick. Neither would the death of the Swede, the still-missing pearl or the large sum of money he’d lost in the casino.
Patrick ran his eyes over the big body, identifying a well-concealed lump under his jacket that was surely his weapon. At the same time, he considered just how far away Chapayev’s henchman had gone.
‘Monsieur de Courvoisier.’ Chapayev attempted to speak above the sound of the overhead extravaganza. ‘You were expected at La Castre.’
‘As I said, I only deal with you.’
Chapayev shrugged. ‘And here I am. So, you have brought me my diamonds?’
Patrick held out the bag.
Chapayev reached for it eagerly and Patrick gave it up without resistance. He watched as the Russian dribbled some of the contents into his palm. In the exploding light of the fireworks, the diamonds glistened and sparkled. Chapayev studied them greedily for a moment, then he slipped the bag in his pocket and looked at Patrick.
‘What is your price?’ he asked in Russian.
Patrick knew exactly what Chapayev was thinking. He had the diamonds. All he had to do was shout and Patrick would leave, or he would be captured. What was the catch?
‘Camille Ager is no longer in your debt and neither is Angele Valette,’ Patrick said.
Chapayev contemplated this.
‘Debts should be paid,’ he said, as though this was unfortunate, but necessary.
His hand moved towards his gun.
Anticipating this, Patrick launched himself at the Russian, propelling him into the gate. He grunted as the impact of the bar on his lower back sent breath from his lungs, but he had reached the gun. Patrick heard the crack as it went off and felt the bullet slice his right arm just below the shoulder.
He caught Chapayev’s wrist and heaved him round to face the sea rail, forcing his hand up his back. The Russian bellowed in pain, his feet slithering on the slippery deck. He dropped the gun and it skittered across the deck just out of reach. The music was rising to a crescendo, each note exploding in a series of bangs followed by a shower of riotous colour. An eruption of Russian expletives also peppered the air, followed by an order to shoot.
Patrick ducked as the first attempt ricocheted off the railing and flew into the night. The henchman was well positioned and a second shot would likely hit home. Patrick jerked Chapayev’s arm further up his back, eliciting a squeal of pain, then suddenly released it and swung him round, placing himself between the Russian and the railing.
Free of Patrick’s arm hold, Chapayev regained his balance.
The second shot rang out from above. This one zipped past Patrick’s head. The marksman was good. Too good, and probably using night vision. Patrick encircled the Russian with his arms, using him as a shield. Patrick stretched himself to his full height, then threw himself backwards over the rail with all the somersaulting strength he would use in a dive.
Chapayev’s feet lifted clear of the deck.
Their combined bodies balanced briefly on the top rail before tipping. Patrick let go his hold as they descended, Chapayev’s arms flailing. When he hit the water a fraction of a second before Chapayev, Patrick had already taken a deep breath.
Chapayev had not.
In a mad panic he grabbed for Patrick and they descended into the depths together. Patrick tried to free himself but it was no use; fear had made Chapayev frantic, the last of his air escaping his unhealthy lungs like a car tyre rapidly deflating. His eyes popped white with terror, yet one hand still clutched at his pocket to prevent any attempt by Patrick to retrieve the diamonds.
Patrick’s feet touched the bottom, stirring up a cloud of sand to choke them. In the resulting darkness he could no longer see Chapayev’s face, but he could hear him.
The Russian had used up his meagre supply of air and was now breathing salt water.
Patrick kicked upward, trying to pull the Russian with him, knowing he had very little time, but Chapayev had become a dead weight, his massive girth acting like an anchor. It was useless. He should simply release him and take back the diamonds, but if Chapayev drowned, Korskof would be out for revenge, and not just on Patrick. Angele and Camille would be also on his list.
His own lungs heaving, Patrick secured Chapayev round the shoulders and kicked upwards.
His head broke the surface to meet the roving beams of searchlights. A shout in Russian was followed by a ping as a bullet hit the water near him. Patrick bellowed back that Chapayev was with him, and the shooter stopped.
Feet
clattered down the metal steps. Patrick heaved the Russian’s head and shoulders on to the diving platform and, taking a deep breath, submerged again. As he swam under the yacht, a chorus of yacht horns sounded in deafening unison, showing the marine audience’s appreciation of the fireworks.
They would hoot like this for at least twenty minutes, as the yachts left their moorings in a great exodus, churning up the dark waters of the bay.
Metres away now from the Heavenly Princess, Patrick took a quick glance back. Standing by the railing, looking in his direction, was a tall figure in a smart grey suit. The African man from the dinner party had seen him leave.
SIXTEEN
The return journey was nerve-wracking. No one was looking out for a swimmer mad enough to weave their way through a flotilla of moving yachts. The first bullet had caught his arm just below the shoulder. He was pretty sure it was a surface injury, but knew it was impeding his ability to swim. Speed wasn’t important, although avoiding propeller blades was.
Eventually he drew within sight of his diving spot and was relieved to see his two female fans had already left. He trod water while he pulled off the waiter’s uniform and stuffed it among the large rocks that made up the foundations of the Quai Laubeuf. Then he pulled himself clear of the water.
The path along the quai was thick with people leaving their vantage points and heading for their cars. Patrick did his best to negotiate his way through, eventually taking to the rocky outpoint east of the curved swimming bay. From there he dropped on to the sand and made for the beach shower. He stood under it long enough to remove the salt, knowing he had a change of clothes in the boot of the car.
Checking the Quai Saint Pierre he spotted two policeman standing next to Les Trois Soeurs. It was just as well he hadn’t planned to go there to shower and change, or the Chanteclair either. No doubt Moreaux would also have someone watching the hotel.
