by Lin Anderson
The bullet had entered just above Patrick’s left knee. The wound was bleeding but not badly, the pain still dulled by the adrenaline and fury that continued to course through him. Nevertheless, Patrick did his utmost to convince Korskof that he was both in agony and unable to walk. If they planned to get him to the road, he wasn’t going to make it easy for them. Calling him all manner of names normally used against women, Korskof and his sidekick dragged Patrick to his feet.
His determination not to aid the move in any fashion slowed them down considerably. Patrick guessed that either the helicopter would return or there was a vehicle on its way. But there was always a chance that a car would come round the road and, seeing the trashed Ferrari, decide to find out what had happened.
It was a hope, but a small one.
Climbing back up the steep slope was a lot harder than running down it. Korskof’s lungs didn’t sound any healthier than Chapayev’s. The other guy was slimmer and fitter and took the brunt of Patrick’s attempts to slow them down. As luck would have it, nothing did come by on the road, so his plan failed.
He was dragged unceremoniously over the lip of the hill and thrown down by the roadside. Korskof proceeded to go through his pockets. He located and removed his mobile, which he threw down and stamped on, before kicking the remains over the edge.
Then the two men had a conversation in low voices, but definitely not in Russian. Patrick took a guess at Chechen, which he had no knowledge of apart from an occasional word. Minutes later, a car arrived. It was the one Patrick had seen parked outside the Villa Astrid. He was dumped into the boot and the lid slammed shut.
Shortly afterwards, by the forward and reverse movements, the sound of grinding and the thumps, he guessed the Ferrari was being helped over the edge to topple down the rocks.
Then they were off, at much the same speed he’d been driving before.
The trip took around forty minutes, according to the lit dial of his watch. Judging by the directions taken, they’d wound their way down to the main coast road, then turned left, which suggested he was headed back towards Cannes, although being in the boot was disorientating and he couldn’t be sure. Patrick was assuming he was on his way to the black yacht, which, as he had suggested to Leon, could simply have moved further along the coast.
Moreaux had shown no inclination to follow the Heavenly Princess outside his jurisdiction. The detective was glad to see the back of the black yacht. Why involve the Police Nationale with Chapayev any more than necessary? Besides, Moreaux – as far as Patrick was aware – knew nothing about the incident on board regarding Patrick, the diamonds and Chapayev. He would have no wish to come looking for trouble.
Therefore, Patrick was in this alone.
As the car rumbled on, he considered why they should want him alive and came up with three good reasons. They wanted to know the whereabouts of the black pearl. They’d counted the diamonds and discovered three were missing. They just wanted to kill him slowly. Or all three put together.
As Chapayev had said: debts must be repaid and it seemed Patrick was on his way to pay his.
The car finally came to a halt. Just prior to this, he’d judged by the change in sound that they’d entered a building of some sort. He heard the occupants of the car get out, three by his estimation. Minutes later, the boot was opened.
Patrick blinked in the sudden electric light and tried to focus – in vain as it turned out, for a cloth bag was immediately pulled over his head before he had a chance to check out his surroundings, or who the third member of the trio was.
Hauled out of the boot, he slumped to the ground and made no attempt to get up. The weaker they thought he was, the better. Korskof reiterated his litany of Russian abuse and hauled Patrick to his feet. The smell of fuel and lack of fresh air suggested they were in a lockup of some kind, but he thought he could make out the lapping of water. Then he heard the chug of an approaching motorboat and decided he was in a covered jetty, probably below one of the isolated luxury villas that dotted the coast around Cannes.
Patrick expected to be shoved into the approaching motorboat, but instead he was hustled up a flight of stone steps. He counted twenty-two. A door was opened and he was met by a different quality of air, suggesting that he might well be in the basement of a house.
Another flight of stairs followed, then another, but this time they were carpeted and the scent was of luxury. The final flight were wooden and bare, after which he was propelled into a room, and pushed briskly down on a wooden chair. His hands were wrenched behind his back and tied firmly together, his feet fettered to the legs.
Korskof’s last action before he left the room was to punch Patrick hard in the stomach. Patrick had already braced himself, expecting some act of violence, so it wasn’t unexpected, but it was, he thought, a harbinger of what was to come.
Sitting in the dark, his breathing hampered by the bag, his earlier feeling of disorientation returned. He’d made some effort to free his hands, but plastic tie tags were extremely difficult to remove. As for his feet, taking off his shoes had proved no help at all. Both ankles were tightly secured.
His next move was to take the chair in small steps towards what he hoped would prove to be a wall. Every small jump backwards seemed to echo in what he suspected was an empty attic room. Whatever noise they could discern from below, it didn’t seem to concern them. No one appeared. The door remained shut.
Finally reaching the wall, Patrick tipped himself back against it, his plan being to ease the tie tags off the chair legs and at least set his feet free. It was a worthy idea but harder in the execution than the planning, and it didn’t take into account the jarring effect on the bullet wound in the back of his leg. Persistence eventually paid off. His feet freed, he contemplated his next move.
As far as he was aware his hands were tied together but not to the chair, the back of which was relatively high and wide. There was a chance he could work himself free in two possible ways. Abruptly, which might result in a dislocated shoulder, or slowly, which might need more time than he had.
Patrick decided to go for speed.
His first effort left him gasping and still firmly attached to the chair.
The next time he rose slowly to his full height. The weight of the chair was now in his favour. Patrick stretched his body upwards and the chair slipped down a little more. Bracing himself he extended his shoulders as far as possible, without them exiting their sockets.
His determination paid off. The chair dropped with a clatter and he was free of it, but still hampered by his lack of vision and his firmly tied hands, and surely his time alone was running out.
He made his way round the room looking for anything metal that might be used to help free his hands. En route he bumped into a table and a radiator, neither of which offered any help. Then he found the fireplace.
The grate was small with a tiled surround. Cannes winters could be cold, particularly in the hills and close to the sea – hence his own winter stays at the Chanteclair. The newer houses generally had central heating, but the older villas and town houses sometimes used wood fires.
Patrick sat down, back to the grate, and eased his wrists over the metal grill.
He had barely begun the sawing back and forth when footsteps approached the door. There was no time to locate the chair. No time to sit back down and pretend he was attached.
The door opened and two sets of footsteps entered.
There was a moment’s silence as the scene before them was absorbed, then Chapayev told Korskof in Russian just what an idiot he was.
TWENTY-TWO
Chevalier was regarding Moreaux with some consternation.
The two men were seated on the terrace of the Hôtel Splendid, each with a glass of wine in his hand, while waiters brought round plates of small delicacies, and passersby stopped to stare at the youth and beauty of the female guests at a funeral. Madame Lacroix’s girls were stunning when viewed individually; as a group they caused mouths to fa
ll open, and young male waiters to lose their wits entirely.
‘I need to know the truth,’ Moreaux repeated.
‘Seldom do we need to know the whole truth,’ Chevalier said. ‘We need only know what is necessary.’
It could have been himself speaking, which only irritated Moreaux more. He decided to say exactly what he was thinking, for once.
‘I believe Courvoisier to be in danger.’
‘From whom?’
‘Vasily Chapayev.’
Chevalier gave a small laugh. ‘Then you have only just woken up, Lieutenant Moreaux.’
Moreaux accepted this well-aimed and deserved jibe, as Chevalier went on. ‘Your job, as I see it, is to protect your fellow Suquetans. Marie Elise was one of us, as is Brigitte, as now is Courvoisier. Instead, you appear to prefer courting favour with rich and powerful Russians who use Cannes as their playground.’
Moreaux smiled. ‘Unlike those who sell them our houses and welcome them into our casinos,’ he hit back.
Chevalier chose this moment to savour his wine.
‘Diamonds,’ Moreaux said. ‘Does Courvoisier have diamonds belonging to Chapayev?’
Chevalier’s hand rose involuntarily to his tie, which was fastened with a diamond pin.
‘Ah,’ Moreaux said. ‘Purchased from Camille Ager’s shop, I presume? The shop that she opened with the aid of Chapayev’s money.’
When Chevalier failed to respond, Moreaux continued. ‘If Courvoisier is your friend then you will help me locate him, before Chapayev does.’
‘Courvoisier prefers to work alone.’
When Moreaux swore under his breath, Chevalier continued. ‘Why do you think he’s in trouble now?’
‘Because Korskof was seen leaving the graveyard shortly after him.’
That declaration caused a change of heart in Chevalier.
The story that he now told was an interesting one and answered some of Moreaux’s questions. Coupled with Angele’s story and that of Camille Ager, it appeared to match Moreaux’s own train of thought. Chapayev was using Moreaux’s patch to launder diamonds.
It was inconvenient and extremely irritating and had certainly caused the death of at least one of Cannes’ citizens, but Chapayev was a force to be reckoned with. The dinner party had been designed to show Moreaux just how much influence and power the Russian already exerted in Cannes. Perhaps it had even been a warning that he should stay well clear.
That thought had entered his head before, but Moreaux was a man who often played sides off against each other, thus avoiding bloodshed and keeping the peace. In this instance, he decided that he had kept the peace for long enough.
He rose and wished Chevalier a good afternoon.
‘What are you planning to do?’ Chevalier asked.
‘Sometimes it is better to only know what is necessary,’ Moreaux threw back at him.
Just then Moreaux’s mobile rang. He took the call. ‘Where?’ he barked after listening for a few moments. ‘I’m on my way.’
Moreaux then left, ignoring Chevalier’s enquiry as to the subject of the call.
TWENTY-THREE
Sunlight filtered through the small attic window, beyond which was a glimpse of blue sky.
Since they’d removed the bag from his head, Patrick had concentrated on that one spot, imagining himself outside, looking up, free and unrestrained.
He was well practised in the technique of dissociation. The ability to disconnect from unpleasant physical and mental experiences had proved his salvation on a number of occasions such as this. Unfortunately, dissociation had also become a habit, creating havoc in his personal life.
He was aware that Chapayev stood before him. He was aware that he was speaking, but Patrick had no interest in what was being said. He was more conscious of Korskof’s proximity, because at times the Russian’s henchman’s actions brought Patrick back abruptly from that place outside himself.
A shadow blocked the light as Korskof moved into position once again. As a result, Patrick’s mind filtered back into his body.
‘You saved my life, Monsieur de Courvoisier. A sign of weakness.’
Patrick tried to return to his patch of sky.
‘You also stole three diamonds, and of course the black pearl, which I would like returned. Where is my property?’
Patrick waited for the blow to fall. This time it didn’t, although Korskof itched to dispense one. The conversation so far had been one-sided.
Patrick had refused to say anything until they’d removed the bag from his head and he could look Chapayev briefly in the eye. The Russian had appeared none the worse for his dice with a watery death. The popping eyes had gone, the water-filled lungs no longer gasping. He’d appeared no prettier, however, and no less greedy.
‘Where are the remaining diamonds?’ Chapayev repeated.
It was time, Patrick decided, to respond.
‘I gave them to Lieutenant Moreaux. You should expect a visit soon to question you regarding their origins, and your connection to the death of Marie Clermand.’
It was worth his return, if only to observe Chapayev’s expression at his announcement. The discomfort, quickly masked, suggested Moreaux wasn’t entirely in the Russian’s pay, which gave Patrick some cause for hope.
Chapayev was studying him with undisguised hostility. Had Patrick been in the Russian’s shoes he would, at this moment, be considering how much pleasure he would get from disposing of Patrick, and how easy that would be.
No one had seen him brought here. He could be killed and dumped at sea or buried in the garden of the villa. The chances were his body would never be found, or would be washed up in another jurisdiction far from Cannes.
‘I also told Lieutenant Moreaux that you were blackmailing Camille Ager,’ Patrick added for good measure.
‘You have been busy.’ Chapayev gave a small, unpleasant smile. ‘I think it’s time we retired you.’
Chapayev turned on his heel.
‘I should have left you down there to feed the fish,’ Patrick called after him.
‘You will soon wish you had.’
It was a war of words Patrick could never win, but it felt good to try.
The door slammed shut behind Chapayev and silence fell. A heavy brooding silence, filled with malice. Korskof’s hatred advanced before him in waves. Patrick felt it beat against his body, a warning of the physical abuse that was yet to come.
Korskof stripped off the smart suit jacket, then the pristine shirt, to reveal his upper body, which was almost completely covered with tattoos. Patrick recognized a few of them, especially the Russian prison tattoos. Korskof had been a busy man in his youth.
The tattoos didn’t bother Patrick. He had his own scars, not tattooed on his chest, but in his mind and his heart, and he didn’t wear them as a badge of honour.
Patrick said this now in Russian, challenging Korskof to fight him, man to man, with honour. Hitting a tied-up man, Patrick said, was like hitting a woman, or a child. That was the work of a coward.
Sensing a slight change in the Russian’s demeanour, he kept at it.
‘No man fights like a woman,’ he said, using some of the derogatory words the Russian had spat at him earlier. ‘Kill me like a man.’
Maybe he had hit a nerve, or maybe Korskof just fancied some fun. After all, Patrick didn’t look much of an opponent. He could barely stand and had already taken a fair beating. Or maybe the Russian fancied a longer match than he would get with Patrick sitting down and tied up.
There wasn’t much fun in pummelling a corpse.
Korskof came over and, going round behind Patrick, cut his bindings.
‘Get up,’ the Russian ordered.
Patrick gave his legs the same command and waited for them to obey. Finally they did.
Korskof kicked the chair away, just as Patrick’s body considered making use of it again. The Russian was circling him, licking his lips, planning his first move. Patrick continued to play the injured soldier. He w
as injured, but he was now free and he intended staying that way.
The room was small – bare apart from a table in one corner and the south-facing window. The patch of blue sky was still there, under which would be a glistening sea. Patrick imagined dropping into that water, how good it would feel against his hot seared skin, how peaceful and quiet it would be below the surface.
The Russian, growing impatient, was coming at him, bellowing like a bull.
Patrick sidestepped him so quickly he hardly noticed the move himself. His body had been hammered, but his instinct and reflexes still worked. The move buzzed his brain cells, sending them into quick-fire motion. He felt a surge of something. Adrenaline, fury, hate. What he couldn’t achieve with his body, he would have to do with his brain.
The Russian came at him again, his weight as much a hindrance as an advantage. Patrick took up a stance and kicked. His right foot met Korskof directly in the groin. The impact was as unexpected as the movement. Korskof bent over in shock and instant agony.
Patrick quickly swivelled and kicked again, reaching high between the legs, but this time from the back. The Russian went down, groaning, but he wouldn’t be down for long.
Patrick grasped the thick neck between his hands. He had a moment in which to break it and he didn’t hesitate. Quickly releasing the head one way, he snapped it back the other. The Russian’s body relaxed, collapsing outwards and downwards like a pool of water. There was no blood, or outward evidence of death, but it was there in that room, all the same.
Patrick made for the door, his left leg suddenly dragging. If he was challenged now, he had nothing left to give. On the other side of the door, all was quiet. He crept down the stairs, still shoeless and silent.
The carpeted stairs were even better. He paused at the bottom, listening for sounds from the villa, but heard nothing, apart from the quiet tick of an ornamental clock. He had a choice now. Exit on to the terrace and try to reach the road or sea from there, or make his way into the basement from whence he’d come.
The choice wasn’t good either way, but a need to get into water as quickly as possible made him make for the basement stairs. Fairly certain now that Korskof had been left to deal with him alone, Patrick emerged into a cave hewn from the red Estérel rock. The motor boat he’d heard arrive as he’d been bundled up the stairs was no longer there.
