The Colours: A spy thriller packed with intrigue and deception

by T. M. Parris

  “No way!”

  “Yes. And this is despite the fact that the dealer never denied that he’d marked up the prices. He just said that as a dealer he was entitled to sell for as much as he could make. It’s not moral, but it’s legal, he said.”

  “So that was it?”

  “It’s all still going on in other countries, working through the civil cases. I guess it goes to show that if you don’t respect the law yourself, you can’t expect to use it to protect your own interests.”

  Aspects of this story preyed on Zoe’s mind. She found herself putting in long hours at the bank, staying after everyone else had gone, looking up names, piecing together the webs of companies and entities, tracing them back to their ultimate beneficial owners. She’d done background reading too, looking up the details of the Panama Papers and the other huge leaks that exposed the offshoring industry. She could see the same patterns there, how eventually everything would link back to a particular name.

  These names, these beneficial owners, the bank’s clients, she researched as well. Often she could find nothing online, or nothing untoward. Hector Howard’s hoover empire was much as he and Pearl had described it. Others had various news stories attributed to them, certain controversies. A Mexican who’d done jail time for murder. A Russian who’d been accused and jailed then exonerated for ordering a hit on someone. A Korean conglomerate owner charged, but never convicted, of embezzlement. And so on. Publicly nothing was black and white, but with what she knew about their private finances – well, she started to realise exactly what was meant by knowledge is power.

  If you don’t respect the law yourself, you can’t expect to use it to protect your interests. You could end up exposing your own secrets. And these people had secrets, that was for sure. Slowly, an idea started taking shape, an idea that began as unthinkable, but as she explored and probed and turned it over and broke it down, became fascinating and terrifying at the same time, so much so that it came to be there in her head day and night.

  She often returned to Yunayev, intrigued about his role in the lives of both Anna and that man John Fairchild. Yunayev was her special research topic. Who was Yunayev? Where his money came from she couldn’t trace, but she could examine what he spent it on. They had records of every transaction, his financial life here in Monaco. She started following up, going into more and more detail. Yunayev owned property in France, it seemed. And a yacht, berthed here in Monaco. Wow, a yacht! But of course he had a yacht. He was a Monaco millionaire. And when Zoe found out how much he’d paid for it, she knew she had to see it.

  Chapter 30

  The next day Zoe walked along the quay at Port Hercule staring at the yachts, as she’d so often done. But this afternoon would be different. In the berths to her left floated a line of gleaming white motor launches. Walking by, you got a good look inside. These craft were owned by people who weren’t shy of their money. She could see rattan deck furniture, generous white cushioning, an on-deck sauna, an enormous TV screen, counters equipped with coffee machines and huge glass jars and cocktail shakers, magazines laid out on a coffee table like in a waiting room.

  These super-yachts would have crews of fifteen or twenty sometimes. But on a motor yacht it was all cleaning and catering, nannying children and serving drinks. The sailing yachts were more her thing. She’d had a lot of fun on those with tanned easy-going crew hands that didn’t care where they went as long as they were at sea, and happily worked for a pittance. She could have settled for that but was destined for something better, so she was told. Looking at the deep blue colour of the ocean, seeing the ropes dip lazily in and out of the water with the gentle swell, smelling the salt on the air, she wondered who in their right mind would think that a bank was better than this.

  She carried on walking, looking closely at the names. Eventually she found what she was looking for, the Princess Voyager. This one looked a lot like all the others, equally sumptuous and grand. A guy was washing the wooden deck. He was crouched down focused on his work and wearing the shortest pair of shorts she’d ever seen on a man. Wiry dark hair. Hairy legs too. Tanned skin. She knew the type.

  “Hey!”

  The guy looked round and gave her a wide grin. Lovely.

  “You one of the crew on this one?”

  He stopped washing and came over, drying his hands on a worn old towel.

  “Yeah. Can I help you with something?”

  “It belongs to my boss. Mr Yunayev?”

  She lowered her voice to say the name. The yachts may all be out on display here, but it was still a rule that no one ever revealed who the owners were. She could see that the guy recognised the name.

  “He’s changed his plans and is coming tomorrow,” she said.

  “Tomorrow? No way! Does the captain know?”

  “I expect so. If he doesn’t, someone needs to tell him.”

  The guy looked lost.

  “Well, you can get organised, can’t you?” said Zoe. “The crew’s on notice when you’re shoreside.”

  “Yeah, sure, it’s just getting supplies and doing the rosters and all that.”

  “Sounds like the captain’s job to me,” said Zoe breezily. “But I do need to take a look. Make sure it’s ready. Mr Yunayev has some important guests coming. They’ll be talking business. So he needs to be sure it’s all in order. Can I come aboard?”

  He hesitated.

  “Well, it’s not really my—"

  “I’ve got authorisation,” said Zoe. “A letter. I’m his secretary, you see. It’s all in here.” She waved a file of papers. “I’ll be really quick then get out of your way. You’ll have a lot to do. I’m Zoe, by the way.”

  “Oh! Freddy.”

  “That okay then, Freddy?”

  Zoe stepped onto the deck. Freddy didn’t try and stop her, though she was half expecting it. She gave him a friendly smile. She’d dressed up for the occasion: a little more make-up, outfit a little more classy. This was fun.

  “Watch the wet areas, they’re slippery,” he said a little sheepishly.

  “Thanks. Look, don’t mind me, I just want to check the cabins, make sure it’s clean. But you can show me round if you’d prefer.”

  “I guess I’d better,” he said. “But don’t worry, it’s clean!”

  The stern deck had a set of sun loungers arranged around a low table, a dark wood trim finish and two bay trees in pots, each at the bottom of a set of steps. Zoe followed the guy up to some glass doors leading inside.

  “This is the salon.” He slid open the doors and they stepped through.

  Plush, was the word. Sofas, heavy wooden tables, silverware, carpet. Wow, you could just forget you were even on a boat. It was so huge, wide as well as long. She was used to narrow, something that cut through the water like a knife and heeled in response to the wind. This just sat in the water like an iceberg.

  Freddy was looking at her face.

  “Not up to standard?”

  “Oh!” Don’t forget your cover story, fool! She walked around surveying the furniture critically, running a finger along a mahogany bar to check for dust, peering into the corners of the ceilings.

  “Seems okay.”

  “Want to see the upper deck and the sun terrace?”

  That was two more decks up. Two more decks! Up there, parasols, beige cushions, immaculately cleaned wooden trim. Zoe inspected it for quality and nodded.

  “I think this will be good enough. I’d like to see the sleeping quarters.”

  “All of them?”

  Christ, how many did the place sleep?

  “Yes. The master bedroom first.”

  He led the way. A huge bed with a padded type of canopy, great big decorative vases, long sleek drawer units, a huge TV screen. Roly poly cushions. Like a hotel room! Zoe straightened some table mats and looked into a drawer. It was empty. This space, it was huge, and owned by someone who didn’t need it, didn’t even seem to use it. That was criminal in itself. As were the roly poly cushions.
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  “Cinema room here,” said Freddy, as they passed a door. “That there is the spa. You need to see?”

  She looked at everything, appraising it, finding occasional criticism and managing to hide how completely bowled over she was.

  “So what are his plans?” asked Freddy as they went back aft. “Where are we going? For how long?”

  “I don’t know the detail, sorry. The captain should have been told by now. I’d follow up with him. But thanks for your time. Bon voyage, Freddy!”

  She walked off confidently, leaving him looking a bit lost again. They were being watched by a couple of guys on the quayside. Nothing unusual about that. She’d spent a lot of time here at the port doing exactly the same thing.

  It was why she was here, in fact. She’d gazed at all these boats so often, and now she’d got a chance to have a good poke about inside. And maybe that John guy was right. She wanted to see if she could talk her way in. But that was all. Just a fun way of passing an afternoon. Nothing more.

  But it had been so easy. And that got her thinking again.

  Chapter 31

  It took a good deal of asking around Fairchild’s network to pinpoint Max’s elusive vessel-hawker. While Fairchild was at it, a few things struck him as odd. One, if the guy really wanted to get rid of this object, why didn’t he try anyone else in town besides Max? Fairchild approached the most likely market stallholders and cash loan shops but no one had heard of the man or the object. Maybe Max’s response had scared him off – but if he needed the money you’d have thought he’d try again somehow.

  Then there was the fact that he wasn’t using his real name. Fairchild discovered this after learning of the quiet unassuming lodger of Mme Boucher, a landlady who didn’t require references, only cash, and didn’t ask too many questions. She didn’t mind answering them, though, when gently quizzed by an old friend of Fairchild, a retired family doctor who knew Nice and how it worked. Mme Boucher happily revealed to the former doctor some interesting detail about her lodger, how recently he’d come to Nice, how he called himself Pippin but that wasn’t the name on his ID card, how he was visited more than once by a loud Parisian whose face seemed familiar, that he owned some nice-looking paintings considering how little money he seemed to have. Also, how she hadn’t seen him for a couple of days although his things were still in the room, but he’d missed the rent this week.

  Fairchild was fully intending to pass all this information on to Rose. But not before he’d had a look himself. It did no harm to stay ahead of the game. It was helpful, in fact, to investigate further and check that this guy was a legitimate lead before wasting Rose’s time on him. But he’d have to be discreet. Rose and her gang – which, at times, included him – would probably approach Mme Boucher, which meant that he had to find some other way in. And that was why he was, late one evening, staring out of the window of an empty holiday let in the middle of the old town, looking across the street directly at Pippin’s window.

  The street was so narrow that if the window had been wide open, you could step across from one ledge to the other and drop straight inside. But it wasn’t open, though it was ajar. That made the manoeuvre a little more tricky. Fairchild looked down into the street three floors below. It was not too late for strolling couples and groups to pass by, exploring the restaurants and bars of Nice. He’d have to be quick. Choosing a quiet moment he bent, flexed, used the wall to push himself off and landed on the ledge opposite, grabbing a sturdy-looking drainpipe with both hands. The drainpipe thankfully supported his weight, along with a couple of indeterminate cables, some of which would never be the same again. He balanced himself and let go with one hand to feel for the flimsy window catch. He pulled open the casement and lowered himself silently down inside.

  The doctor had told him how sensitive Mme Boucher’s hearing was, so he moved around as little as possible. The room appeared to be in use. The bed was made. Clothes hung in the cupboard. A piece of stale bread sat on a plate. An empty glass smelled of sweet wine. On the floor by the bed lay a very worn copy of the Letters of Vincent Van Gogh. Fairchild carefully pulled open a drawer under the dresser. A French ID card lay inside. He photographed it and closed the drawer.

  In the cupboard he went through the pockets of every single item and found nothing. Nothing at all. Curious. There wasn’t a lot of stuff of any kind; Pippin obviously led a very simple life. No twelfth century BC bronze Chinese vessel, or indeed artwork of any kind, except for a rather alarming outsized oil painting in an inappropriately plain frame. Fairchild risked more light and shone his wrist torch directly onto the canvas, moving it around slowly. He stopped at the image of the church, on a hill high above a city with ocean in the background. A bonfire was blazing and people were dying. The colours were deep and saturating; the images disturbing, their features exaggerated. His torch travelled to each of the corners. He found a signature in the bottom left: G. Fournier. Interesting.

  A door opened below. Fairchild’s torch snapped off. Stairs creaked. Mme Boucher was on the move. Either she had incredible hearing or a sixth sense. Very impressive, but Fairchild didn’t wish to make the woman’s acquaintance this way. As the creaking neared and a light flicked on, giving the door to the room a sudden yellow halo, Fairchild opened the window, stepped onto the sill and climbed swiftly down the drainpipe. Just under the window ledge he tucked himself in and froze. Above, he heard a muttering. The window was pulled shut and fastened. He waited but heard nothing more. Below, he looked down onto the heads of a passing group of four. Engaged in an animated conversation, they didn’t look up. Fairchild quietly waited then climbed the rest of the way down and disappeared into the night.

  Chapter 32

  They took a soft, friendly approach with Mme Boucher while Ollie kept watch outside. Yvonne led, explaining they were insurance investigators trying to trace a painting, and that there were rumoured to be some upstairs in her lodger’s room. If they could just take a quick look, probably nothing in it, but a preliminary check to rule it out would save them having to call the police and get them round. At that idea, Mme Boucher did eventually step aside to allow Rose past up the stairs, closely followed by John Fairchild. Yvonne stayed to chat with the woman and see what she might have to say about Fournier.

  It was a tiny bare-floored loft room, only just big enough for the two of them to stand in. Rose closed the door behind them and donned a pair of gloves. Sooner or later, this room would probably be combed by the police and she didn’t want them poring over her biometrics.

  “Not much of a place,” she commented.

  “Handy for the old town.”

  She stepped over to the casement window and glanced down into the street. Fairchild picked up a tumbler and sniffed it.

  “Rosé wine, I’d guess.” He was wearing gloves too. He tapped the remains of a baguette sitting on a plate. “Left in a hurry.”

  “The rest of the place seems neat and tidy.” Rose opened a drawer and found a few clothes folded into piles. She searched it, then the other drawers.

  “Is it just me?” she asked, “or is this room practically devoid of any personalising marks?”

  Fairchild opened a small drawer in a table that was being used as a wash stand.

  “There’s an ID card in here,” he said.

  Rose stepped over and glanced down.

  “Well, so there is.”

  But her attention was on something else, the choreography of Fairchild’s movements.

  “You’ve been in here already, haven’t you?” she said.

  He looked bland.

  “For heaven’s sake, Fairchild. We’re meant to be working as a team! How am I supposed to trust you?”

  He had the grace to look slightly shamefaced.

  “I didn’t want to waste your time. So I thought I’d check it out first.”

  “But you could have said something.” She thought of Mme Boucher. “The landlady didn’t recognise you.”

  “No, she wouldn’t.”


  “Then how did you get in?”

  Fairchild glanced over at the window. Rose looked out at the drop below and the window opposite.

  “Really? That’s a lot of trouble to go to, Fairchild. Apart from staying one step ahead of me, what did you gain from it?”

  “I thought he was interesting enough to investigate further. The room gives very little away, like you said. Even the ID card is on its own in a drawer. Where’s his wallet? If he took his wallet, why isn’t the ID card with it? It’s as if it were deliberately placed here.”

  Rose opened the drawer to take another look. Her phone rang. It was Ollie.

  “What?”

  A pause at the other end.

  “What is it, Ollie? Have you seen something?”

  “No, it’s okay,” said Ollie. “False alarm.”

  That cold feeling again, working up her spine. “You thought you saw something?”

  “Yeah, but I was wrong. Forget it. All clear.”

  “Ollie, what did you see?” She could feel Fairchild’s eyes on her.

  “Seriously, it was nothing. All clear out here. Sorry, my mistake.”

  “Well, okay. Call if you need to.”

  She hung up.

  “Everything all right?” Fairchild was still watching her closely.

  “False alarm.”

  Her heart was still pumping but she made an effort to refocus on the search.

  “These paintings the guy’s supposed to have, they seem to be gone. Apart from this one.” She pointed to an enormous oil. “What did you make of that, on your previous visit?”

  Fairchild ignored the dig. “Nothing notable or well-known. A throwback to twentieth-century expressionism. There’s something very Chagall about it, this red sky and the deliberate avoidance of realism.”

  “Is that a polite way of saying the perspective’s all wrong?”

  “I guess, but anyone can paint a nice view of Marseille. The point about expressionism is that it’s the emotional landscape of the artist, not a literal depiction of reality.”