The Geneva Deception

by James Twining

  He paused. Allegra was holding up her hand for him to be quiet, her chin raised like a foxhound who has caught a scent.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Tom listened, at first not hearing anything, but then making out what seemed to be the faint rattle of an engine.

  ‘They’re coming back,’ Allegra exclaimed, turning excitedly towards the entrance tunnel.

  ‘Maybe to finish the job,’ Tom said grimly, hauling her back and loading the gun.

  They sat there, the ground now shaking with a dull throb, the occasional sound of a muffled voice reaching them. Readying himself, Tom took aim at the stone plug that was blocking the entrance, determined to take Contarelli, or whichever of his men he sent ahead of him, down with them.

  Ten or so minutes later the massive stone began to move, dirt and moonlight trickling through the crack. The sound of voices was clearer now, someone swearing in Italian, another one groaning under the strain. Then, with a final effort, the stone was rolled free. It fell on to its side with a leaden thump.

  A harsh, lightning strike of light flooded down the entrance corridor, washing over them and making them blink. On its heels came the thunder of what Tom realised now was a helicopter, the hammer chop of its rotors echoing off the walls.

  For a few moments nothing happened. Then a figure appeared at the tunnel entrance, a black silhouette against the floodlit backdrop.

  ‘Tom Kirk? Allegra Damico? Andiamo,’ he said, reaching towards them.

  They swapped a look, Tom slowly lowered the gun.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Allegra shouted through the noise.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tom called back. ‘But it is, it beats being in here.’

  Crawling forward, they emerged gratefully into the night, brushing the earth from their clothes and hands as they stood up. But whatever relief they felt at escaping was soon tempered by the realisation that their three liberators were all dressed in black paramilitary clothing – ski masks, fatigues, bullet-proof vests, field boots, guns strapped to their thighs. Two of the men were also equipped with night-vision goggles which they kept trained on the horizon, their Beretta PS12-SDs held across their chests, safety’s off.

  ‘Go,’ the man who had helped them to their feet ushered them towards the black Augusta Bell 412EP which had landed about thirty feet away, its spotlight trained on the tomb’s entrance, the wash of its rotors back-combing the grass. A fourth man was waiting for them in the cockpit.

  ‘Get in,’ the first man shouted over the roar of the engine, handing them each a set of headphones. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll put everything back here so they won’t know you’ve gone.’

  Slamming the door, he stepped back and gave the pilot the thumbs-up. Throttling up, the helicopter lurched unsteadily off the ground, dipped its rotors, and then climbed at a steep angle into the sky. In a few minutes, the tomb had faded from view, swallowed by the night.

  ‘Military?’ Allegra’s voice hummed in Tom’s ear, worried but with a curious edge.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, glancing round. ‘Their equipment’s standard Italian army issue. Could be special forces or some sort of private militia?’ He nodded at the back of the pilot’s head. ‘You could try asking him, but I don’t think he’ll tell us.’

  ‘Right now, I’m not sure I even care,’ she said with a relieved shrug. ‘The further we can get…’ Her voice tailed off into a puzzled frown as she noticed the envelope that had been left on the bench opposite. It was addressed to both of them. Swapping a look with Tom, she ripped it open and glanced inside, then emptied the contents into her lap: about twenty thousand euro secured in a neat bundle, a set of car keys, and five black-and-white photographs of a fire-ravaged apartment attached to an official press release from the Monégasque Police.

  ‘What does it say?’ Allegra frowned, handing it to him.

  ‘They’re looking for two missing people,’ Tom quickly translated. ‘An Irish banker, called Ronan D’Arcy and his housekeeper, Determination Smith. It says no one’s seen them since D’Arcy’s apartment caught fire two days ago. Looks like somebody wants us to take a closer look.’ His eyes narrowed as he studied the third photograph again, a small object having caught his eye. Had the police noticed that yet, he wondered?

  ‘De Luca?’ she suggested. ‘Remember he told us that his accountant in Monaco had disappeared?’

  ‘Why have Contarelli bury us, only to dig us up a few hours later?’ Tom asked with a shake of his head.

  ‘But who else would have known where to find us?’

  Tom shrugged. She had a point, although right now he was less concerned with who had rescued them than why, and what they wanted.

  The pilot’s voice broke into their conversation with a crackle.

  ‘What’s our heading?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My orders are to take you anywhere within operational range,’ the pilot explained.

  ‘Anywhere?’ Tom asked in surprise. He’d assumed that whoever had set them free was planning to have them brought to him.

  ‘Anywhere,’ the pilot confirmed. ‘As soon as we land, you’re free to go.’ He reached back and handed them two Swiss passports made out in false names. ‘What’s the heading?’

  Tom paused before answering, flicking through the forged documents. He reckoned a full tank would last them 600 kilometres. More than enough to leave De Luca, Gallo and the murderous madness they seemed to have stumbled into far behind. Allegra seemed to be having the same thought, because she pulled her headset off and yelled into his ear so she couldn’t be overheard.

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘If we want out, then this is it,’ he called back. ‘A chance to walk away while we still can.’

  ‘Walk away to what? Until I can prove what Gallo’s up to, I’ve nothing to walk away to.’

  Tom slipped his headset back on.

  ‘Can we make it to Monte Carlo?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ the pilot confirmed. ‘What do you need?’

  Tom paused before answering.

  ‘A suit for me. Three buttons and a double vent. A dress for the lady. Black. Size 8.’

  PART THREE

  ‘I fear the Greeks, even when they bear gifts’ Virgil, The Aeneid, Book II, 48

  FIFTY-SIX

  Over the Ligurian Sea, fifty kilometres southeast of Monaco 20th March – 2.21 a.m.

  Rigged for black, they had headed west, hitting the coast just north of Civitavecchia and then hugging it as far as Livorno, sawing in and out of the jagged shoreline to stay under the radar. Once there, they had struck out across the sea, the city’s bright lights fading behind them to a gossamer twinkle, until there was nothing but them and the water’s empty shadow and the echo of the rotors as they skimmed low across the waves.

  Occasionally the moon would emerge from behind a cloud, and for a few moments Allegra could see their spectral reflection in the swell, a ghost ship carried on neon whitecaps. Then, just as quickly, it vanished again and the darkness would open beneath them once more, an endless abyss into which they seemed to be falling without moving.

  Allegra glanced over at Tom, but like her he seemed to be enjoying the flight’s noisy stillness, his dirt-smudged face pressed to the window, alone with his thoughts. She wondered if, like her, he could still feel the plastic against his skin, moist and warm, still feel his fingernails lifting as he scrabbled at the chamber’s earthen walls.

  She hated to admit it, but she had been scared back there. Not danger scared, where adrenaline kicks in and instinct takes over before you even have a chance to think. Dying scared, where there is time for the mind to wander long and lonely corridors of fear and uncertainty. The sort of fear that she imagined lingered in the portentous shadows of a surgeon’s forced cheerfulness or a radiologist’s brave smile.

  Perhaps this explained why she found something strangely comforting about the engine’s noise now, its animal roar having settled into a contented purr that was a wel
come contrast to the ticking contemplation of death that she had endured in that tomb. A reminder that she was alive. That she had escaped.

  Not that she was sure what they had escaped to, exactly, or who had helped them. Clearly somebody had their reasons for wanting them alive and continuing their investigation. Less clear was who that might be. De Luca, perhaps; if she was right about D’Arcy working for him. But then, as Tom had suggested, it seemed unlikely that he would order Contarelli to kill them, only to dispatch a search-and-rescue team a few hours later. But if not him, who? The FBI? Tom had told her that he had worked with them before. Was this them protecting their best chance of finding Jennifer’s killer? She shook her head ruefully. The truth was, there was no way of telling.

  More certain was her growing trust in Tom. He would never stop, she knew, never rest until he had brought the Delian League down and punished whoever had killed his friend. Part of her almost felt jealous of this fierce loyalty. Did she have anyone who would have done the same for her? Probably not. The realisation strengthened her resolve. If she didn’t follow this through to the end, wherever it led her, no one else would. And then Gallo would have won.

  Tom suddenly tapped the window.

  ‘Monte Carlo.’

  The city had appeared out of the night, a stepped pyramid of lights that clung to the steep mountainside with concrete claws, its jaws open to the sea. The helicopter banked to the left and climbed over the yachts anchored in the harbour before swooping back towards the heliport, a narrow cantilevered shelf that hung over the water. It landed with a bump and then dusted off as soon as their feet had hit the tarmac, climbing steeply until the clatter of its blades was nothing but a warm whisper on the wind.

  The heliport was shut for the night, but someone had seen to it that the gate set into the hurricane fence had been left unlocked. The keys left for them in the envelope opened an X5 parked on the street outside the deserted terminal building. Inside, Allegra found a bag of casual clothes and two suit carriers – one containing Tom’s shirt and suit, the other a knee-length black dress that they had clearly managed to lay their hands on in the hour or so it had taken them to fly here. Shoes, underwear, cufflinks, comb, make-up – they’d thought of everything, and she knew without even looking that it would all fit. These people, whoever they were, knew what they were doing.

  ‘Ladies first?’ Tom offered, closing the door after her and then turning his back.

  It was only when she had undressed that she realised how filthy she was; her face, arms and clothes were covered in stains, dirt and small cuts and grazes that she had unconsciously picked up somewhere between Li’s oily workshop, Cavalli’s foam-filled car, Contarelli’s gruesome basement and the empty tomb. Grabbing some wipes, she quickly cleaned herself up as best she could, applied some make-up, and then wriggled into the dress. She checked herself in the mirror before she got out. Not bad, apart from her hair, which would need six months and several very expensive haircuts to get it looking even half decent. But it had served its purpose.

  She got out and swapped places with Tom, hoping that his raised eyebrows were a sign of silent appreciation. Five minutes later and he too was ready to go.

  ‘Want to drive?’ Tom offered, holding out the keys. ‘Only this time you have to promise not to crash into anything.’

  She refused with a smile.

  ‘What’s the fun in that?’

  The casino was only a short drive from the heliport, although, in a country of only 485 acres, everything was, almost by definition, close to everything else. It was still busy, a succession of Ferraris and Lamborghinis processing slowly across the Place du Casino to give the tourists enough time to gawp. Turning in by the central fountain, its bubbling waters glowing like molten glass in the floodlights, they waited in line behind a Bentley Continental for the valet to take their car.

  The casino itself was an elaborate, baroque building, its façade dominated by two flamboyant towers either side of the main entrance and encrusted with statues and ornate architectural reliefs. The floodlights had given it a rather gaudy appearance, clothing it in amber in some places and gold in others, while a lush green copper roof was just about visible through the gaps between the towers. A central clock, supported by two bronze angels, indicated it had just gone three.

  ‘You still haven’t told me why we’re here,’ Allegra complained as Tom led her into the marble entrance hall to the ticket office.

  He glanced across with an indulgent smile as he paid their entrance fee, as if this was a somehow rather foolish question.

  ‘To play blackjack, of course.’

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Casino de Monte Carlo, Monaco 20th March – 3.02 a.m.

  There was a compelling logic to the casino’s layout: the further inside you ventured, the more money you stood to lose. Although a simple conceit, it had, over the years, led to the evolution of a complex and intuitive ecosystem whereby those at the bottom of the food chain rarely strayed into the territory of the higher, predatory mammals.

  This could be easily observed in the way that the outer rooms were mainly inhabited by sunburnt British and German tourists, their clothes creased from having been kept at the bottom of a suitcase for the best part of a week in anticipation of a ‘posh’ night out, their modest losses borne with thinly disguised resentment. The middle rooms, meanwhile, were populated by immaculately dressed Italian and French couples – ‘locals’ who had driven up on a whim and who seemed to play the tables with an almost effortless familiarity. The inner rooms, finally, had been overrun by Russians; for the most part overweight men dressed in black and clutching cigars as they would a bayonet, accompanied by daggerthin blonde women half their age wearing white to better show off their tans. Here they bet with an indifference that verged on boredom, the roulette table lavished with chips, each spin of the wheel a desperate plea to feel something, anything, in a life blunted by having forgotten what it means to want something but not be able to buy it.

  As they walked through from the Salle Europe, Tom found his thoughts wandering. He had tried to resist it as long as he could, but it was hard not to be drawn back to the Amalfi, not to let the fairground flash of the slot machines and the piano play of the roulette ball grab him by the throat and catapult him back through time, as if he had stumbled into some strange parallel world.

  It was as if he was watching a film. The echo of the shot being fired, Jennifer crumpling to the floor, the smell of blood and cordite, that first, disbelieving scream. A film that he could play, pause, forward and rewind at any time, although it would never allow him to go further back than the crack of the gunshot. That’s when everything had started.

  ‘Tom?’ The mirrored room slowly came back into focus and he saw Allegra’s hand laid in concern on his shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ He nodded, the scream still silently ringing in his ears even though now, on closer inspection what struck him most about this place on reflection was less its similarity to the Amalfi than its differences.

  Here, they played Chemin de Fer not Punto Banco, for example. The poker tables were marked in French not English. The roulette wheel had one zero, not two. And the air was seared with the bittersweet tang of a century and a half of fortunes being lost and made. Small differences on their own, perhaps, but pieced together and set amidst the jewelled chandeliers, stained-glass windows and ornate sculptures that adorned the casino’s soaring rococo interior, they breathed a soul into this place that Kezman could never hope to buy, and revealed the Amalfi in all its silicone-enhanced artifice.

  ‘Deal me in.’ Tom sat at an empty blackjack table and placed a five-thousand-euro chip on the box in front of him.

  The croupier looked up and smiled. In his early forties, he was a tall precise man, gaunt and with a pianist’s long, cantilevered fingers.

  ‘Monsieur Kirk. Very good to see you again.’

  He dealt him a king and a five.

  ‘You too, Nico.’
<
br />   ‘I was sorry to hear about your loss.’ For a moment Tom thought he meant Jennifer, before realising he must be referring to his father. That was almost three years ago now. It showed how long it had been since he was last here.

  ‘Thank you. Carte.’

  ‘You don’t twist on fifteen,’ Allegra whispered next to him. ‘Even I know that.’

  ‘Seven,’ the croupier intoned. ‘Twenty-two.’ He scooped the cards and Tom’s chip off the baize.

  ‘See?’ Allegra exclaimed.

  ‘I’ve come for my gear,’ Tom said in a low voice, placing another five-thousand-euro chip down. ‘Is it still here?’

  ‘Of course.’ Nico nodded, dealing him an ace and a seven.

  ‘Eighteen. You need to stick again,’ Allegra urged. Tom ignored her.

  ‘Carte.’

  The croupier deftly flicked an eight over to him.

  ‘Twenty-six.’

  Allegra tutted angrily.

  ‘You don’t like losing, do you?’ Tom said, amused by the expression on her face.

  ‘I don’t like losing stupidly,’ she corrected him.

  ‘Perhaps madame is right,’ the croupier ventured. ‘Have you tried the Roulette Anglaise?’

  ‘Actually, I was hoping to bump into an old friend here. Ronan D’Arcy. Know him?’

  The croupier paused, then nodded.

  ‘He’s been in a few times. Good tipper.’ A pause. ‘Ugly business.’

  ‘Very ugly,’ Tom agreed. ‘Any idea where I can find him?’

  Nico shrugged, then shook his head.

  ‘No one’s seen him since the fire.’

  ‘Where did he live?’

  ‘Up on the Boulevard de Suisse. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Can you get me in?’

  The croupier checked again that no one was listening, then nodded.

  ‘Meet me in the Café de Paris in ten minutes.’

  ‘I’ll need a couple of phones too,’ Tom added. ‘Here -’ He threw another five-thousand-euro chip down. ‘For your trouble.’