by R J Bailey
‘George Konrad,’ he said, holding out his hand, but his eyes went to the bed. He ran his gaze over my Ready To Go gear. I didn’t like his staring at my stuff and I stepped between him and the goods on display. As I did so I took his hand, noting the strength of the grip, and gave him my name. The real one.
‘Were you a Girl Guide?’ he asked, peering over my shoulder. ‘ “Be prepared?” ’
‘I think that’s Boy Scouts.’
He moved around me to pick up a set of restraints from the gear and he sensed my body tense. ‘Sorry. I wouldn’t like you touching my stuff.’ He tossed the straps back onto the pile. ‘Looks like you got it all covered.’
It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for a PPO – spare batteries, travel plug, solar and regular chargers, camera, lightweight jacket, wash kit, broad-spectrum antibiotics, a Uvistar combat tourniquet, antiseptic spray, analgesics, butterfly sutures, tampons – which double as efficient blood-absorbers for a different kind of bleeding – a supply of various currencies, two phones, both with the FMF (Find My Friends) app, so one can always locate the other, nylon jacket, field dressings and haemostatic packs. Plus the MLA fast-strap restraints, in case someone had to be taken out of the picture. Ordinarily I might have included a can of Mace, but not when flying. Airport security isn’t keen on tear gas of any description. But carrying a pepper spray with 2 per cent of added CS gas was legal in France, so I could always pick up a couple of canisters along the way if I felt the need.
‘You check your phone?’ There was an odd accent at work here, part-European, part-American, and something else I couldn’t quite pin down.
I nodded. The message had come through that the car was in place, about half a kilometre from the hotel we were in, parked on a place in Fermanville, not far from the Hôtel de Ville. The keys would be on the front nearside tyre.
The hotel was situated between Barfleur and Cherbourg. The rendezvous point with the client was to be a beach – basically, a shingle-strewn gap in the cliffs – five kilometres out of town, just after midnight. It wasn’t yet seven.
‘You know, I thought I was flying solo on this one.’
‘Is it a problem?’ Some men on the Circuit really are lone wolves, happy to do the driving and the PPO work. Others, like me, feel more comfortable if the two tasks are separated.
He shook his head. ‘Nope. It’s a load off my mind having you. I don’t have to figure out a way to get into the ladies’ bathroom every time she wants a piss.’
‘That’s true. And you’re more use without your hands on a wheel.’
‘You want to get something to eat?’ he asked. ‘Might be the last meal that doesn’t come film-wrapped for a while. And coffee in a proper cup.’
So he knew about road trips. That was good.
‘And now we are two, we can talk about the split in our duties, perhaps.’
Another person who liked things well defined. I thought that was promising, too. ‘Sure. Give me fifteen minutes to pack this up, I’ll meet you downstairs.’
After he had gone, I re-dressed, putting on the Kevlar-reinforced ProTex bra and Under Armour knickers. Over the top went dark jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a suede jacket that had seen better days but was just about smart enough to cover all the bases I might meet on this trip – I wasn’t expecting tea at the Ritz or dinner on a yacht. The jacket also had plenty of pockets for phones and the Petzl folding hunting knife I had bought earlier in the day. It had a particularly nasty blade. The French were a lot more relaxed about knives, too.
Before leaving the room, I examined myself in the mirror. I looked OK – I wouldn’t go further than that – in that I was pretty relaxed and ready to go. It was good to be back doing something I knew about.
I picked Konrad up in the lobby and we found a restaurant close to where the car was waiting for us. It took a while to select a table, because neither of us wanted to have our backs to the door. Force of habit. But as he was the strong-arm element, I let him have prime position, with the room and the exits in view. Not that anything was likely to happen until we had the client under our wing. But pre-emptive strikes are always a possibility, so I kept my status hovering at the border between yellow and orange.
We ordered Virgin Marys, a bottle of Badoit and the fruits de mer. No alcohol. Konrad put a packet of Gitanes and a box of matches on the table before him and then ignored them. I watched him shift a little until he was comfortable. Something was digging into his back.
‘If you don’t mind me asking . . . what is it?’
He knew what I was referring to. He stroked his beard, cupping his mouth to keep his voice low. ‘You know guns?’
‘I know which end you point at people,’ I said, somewhat disingenuously. I knew a little more than that, thanks to the army and an intensive course in Slovakia back when I was qualifying. The Colonel had insisted, even though the chances of using or needing a firearm in the UK were close to zero.
He rubbed a finger along the side of his nose, as if considering whether to reveal his innermost secrets – gunmen spend hours agonising over their choice of weapons – or just tap it and tell me not to worry my little head about such things. I hoped he wasn’t going down the patronising route.
It took him a minute to make his mind up. ‘This one here –’ he meant the one against his spine ‘– is a Ruger .38 Special LCR.’ He said it in exactly the same tone as he had ordered drinks, albeit a little softer.
LCR stood for Lightweight Compact Revolver. ‘The polymer and aluminium one?’
If he was impressed he didn’t show it. ‘That’s it. It’s fifty per cent lighter than the all-stainless-steel model. And it has a light trigger pull for a double-action.’
He stopped and smiled.
‘What?’
‘You just want to check I know what I’m talking about.’ It wasn’t a question as such.
The Virgin Marys arrived, so I didn’t reply.
‘Cheers,’ I said, lifting up the drink to my lips.
‘Eskerriska. So you are testing me?’
‘No. I always like to hear a professional speak. It’s comforting. Also it puts me on the same page if anything happens. I won’t be shocked when you pull out a bazooka.’
‘Pistols only, I am afraid.’
Handguns were fine by me. Submachine guns, assault rifles and anything else fully automatic make me nervous. Guys with AKs and the like tend to spray the room and see what they’ve hit afterwards. I was hoping this guy had a little more finesse. ‘You use an ankle holster too?’
‘When I’m in the car, yes. The Ruger is hammerless, so nothing to catch on clothing. It’s a smooth . . .’ He shook his head and gave a little smile. ‘There I go again. And before you ask, I’ve got something with a little more . . . what’s the word?’
‘Clout?’
‘Punch.’
The Ruger was good for close work, but didn’t have much in the way of real stopping power. I didn’t ask him what the other handgun was. I was just satisfied he had one. I changed the subject. ‘What’s your accent?’
‘All over the place. Hungarian, Scottish—’
‘Scottish?’
‘Mother’s side. I’ve got some ginger in this beard when it gets long enough. And I’ve spent a lot of time on film sets, so there’s American in there too.’
‘You act?’
‘They’d have to be pretty desperate. Sometimes, I’m third thug from the left. But no, I’m an armourer. I make sure the actors know how to hold a musket or a Sten and how to handle blanks. So that they don’t blow each other’s heads off for real.’
‘So where does the BG gig come in?’
He stirred the Virgin Mary, making the ice rattle.
‘Sometimes you get sick of play-acting. I mean, really sick. The real thing keeps me sharp. And sane.’
Half the crustacean population of the Atlantic Ocean arrived on a vast platter and we began to tear them limb from limb. ‘What do you know about the job?’ he ask
ed.
‘I’m just the driver.’
‘That’s not what I heard.’
I didn’t ask exactly what he had heard. He might just be digging. Or he might have talked to the Colonel. It didn’t matter to me. ‘This time, I’m just a driver. Any idea who the opposition is?’
‘Apart from the cops with their Red Notice?’
‘Which could be a stitch-up,’ I said. ‘Just to delay her.’
He cracked a crab claw open and sucked out some of the meat. ‘Could be,’ he agreed eventually. ‘Although it was there on the Europol bulletin, so I think we assume it’s kosher. But, look, I’m not even sure there is any other opposition. I think there’s just a feeling that accidents don’t happen.’
I must have looked blank.
‘Good crabs.’ He dipped into the finger bowl and wiped his hands on a napkin. ‘You know the best crabs I ever had? Velvet crab soup. We used to fish for them off a pier as kids and hand them to the chef. He’d fry up onion, leek, garlic, fennel seeds and thyme, then add tomatoes, white wine, stock. You’d blend the crabs whole, shells and all, sieve them, then add to the liquid. Bring to the boil, remove from heat, add cream, maybe a little white crab meat. Delicious.’ He caught my look.
‘What?’
I shook my head, partly in admiration, partly in surprise. I hadn’t realised I’d picked up Gordon Ramsay by mistake. ‘Nothing. I’ve never met a gourmet gunman before.’
‘I’m not a gourmet. I just like decent food. I mean, this is good but . . .’ He cleared his throat, perhaps suspecting he was about to become a food bore. ‘Anyway. Enough about crabs. Back to the business in hand. Luxembourg? You know about that?’
‘I know that’s where we are going. A board meeting, so I was told.’
‘Kind of.’ While he considered whether to tell me, he began to dismember a langoustine. ‘You know what an NOP is?’
I ran through all my PPO acronyms and then a few more. PON – Person of Note – I knew, but not the reverse of it. ‘I don’t. Not On Purpose is my best guess.’
‘Close. It’s Nothing On Paper. It’s a bank account, or accounts, where everything is kept up here.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘No statements, no tax returns, nothing. One person at the bank is charged with knowing all the financial information of a particular client. They report in person to both client and bank, so there is no paper trail. No emails, nothing.’
‘That’s crazy.’ It was like that novel Fahrenheit 451 that Paul gave me to read once, where books were kept alive by each member of the rebel underground memorising one great work of literature each. Some people got to recite The Great Gatsby, others Pride and Prejudice. I always felt sorry for whoever got War and Peace. Maybe they split that one. Paul also cajoled me into watching the underwhelming movie of the book; mind you, sometimes I missed being cajoled. ‘Doesn’t sound like a sane way to run a business.’
‘Nobody ever said tax avoidance schemes were rational,’ he replied.
‘But surely it’s also illegal?’ I felt very naive saying it. Clearly it wasn’t a service Post Office Savings would offer.
‘It is now. There’s something called the Foreign Account Tax Compliance Act that, as an American citizen, she should comply with. But some historic arrangements with private banks were exempt from the change in July 2015, when anonymous NOPs and bearer shares were made illegal, if the holder had dual nationality. Mrs Irwin has dual citizenship.’
‘With?’
‘Ireland, I believe. Although I suspect she doesn’t spend a lot of time hanging out in Ballybackass of nowhere.’
‘You’ve done your homework.’
He gave a sly smile. He knew it was unusual for someone in his line of work to be quite so diligent in researching the background to a job. ‘These days, according to the Luxembourg rules, someone, somewhere, has to know the names of whoever owns the cash or shares. But there were loopholes.’ He gave a what-can-you-do shrug. ‘There’s always loopholes if you know the right people. If there’s one thing the Panama Papers showed . . .’
He had managed to shuck the spiny carapace of the langoustine and tucked in.
‘It’s that with the right money you can get away with murder. Sorry, bad choice of words. You can get away with fleecing friends, families, institutions, whole countries.’
‘Colonel d’Arcy told you all this?’ I asked, a little peeved that he should have more information than me.
‘A little. As you said, I do my homework. It means you don’t have to keep asking the client stupid questions.’
Ah, the client. Mrs Elizabeth Irwin, widowed, left very wealthy by her late husband, on the board of a couple of museums, contributor to several charities. She didn’t sound like the sort of person who used these NOPs. But then again, as Konrad said, the Panama Papers threw up all sorts of apparently upright citizens who had squirrelled their money away in less than wholesome places.
‘So she needs to go and see her NOP guy? I thought the mountain would come to Mohammed.’
‘Usually would. Normal procedure, the bank’s guy gets on a plane and they meet in an airport lounge in Dubai or a bar in Miami, or wherever. It’s difficult, though, when you are in a coma after being knocked down in a hit-and-run accident.’
He let that sink in. It took its time. ‘The account supervisor or whatever he is called?’
‘Yes, the man with it all in his head.’
‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘Accident?’
‘Crossing the road after work, hit by a big four-wheel drive. Didn’t stop. Now in hospital pissing into tubes.’
‘Shit. And, as you said, some people don’t believe in accidents.’
‘Right. And if it wasn’t an accident, they probably didn’t intend him to even survive to live like he is, a vegetable. It was most likely a murder attempt. So, I suspect the client is taking out an insurance policy just in case the next step is a tragic accident befalling her. That’s you and me, by the way. The insurance.’
‘What about her own security?’ I asked. ‘A woman like that must have her own . . .’
‘Goons?’
‘BGs, PPOs,’ I said.
‘They missed the boat. Literally. Two of them, never turned up for the crossing. Sailed without them.’ He finished the rest of the crab. ‘Hence the call to Zürich for emergency replacements.’
‘And that doesn’t worry you?’
‘Somewhat. But it might be for the best – it’s always comforting to have someone with local knowledge. The Americans probably wouldn’t even know the rules of the road.’
I didn’t like it, though. The NOP guy gets hit by a car, two PPOs miss the sailing? ‘Why didn’t they fly out? The muscle?’
‘I think she fired them. You would, wouldn’t you?’
‘I guess so.’
He examined the carnage before him, dipped his fingers in the lemon water and wiped his hands on a napkin. ‘I’m done here.’ He nudged the Gitanes packet. ‘Mind if I have a cigarette?’
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘You’d be very welcome.’
We moved outside to the terrace and smoked two each, not saying much, lost in our thoughts. Eventually he said, ‘How about we get the car now, drive back to the hotel, check out and drive down and look at our very own Omaha Beach.’
I glanced at him through the last wreaths of my smoke. ‘Omaha? Hardly. At least I hope not.’
‘I worked on Saving Private Ryan. Tom Hanks’s Thompson was one of mine. Nice guy.’
All this seemed a long way from Hollywood film stars and re-enactments of D-Day. If it were me, I think I’d stay with replicas and bank the pay packet. At least nobody would be shooting real bullets at you. But then again, it was possible that men like Konrad needed the adrenaline that the work gave you. And I was one to talk. What the fuck was I doing there, smelling the breeze off the ocean, wondering where a woman who was worried about her secret fortune was right now? I could tell myself I was doing it all for Jess, but part of me wanted t
his.
‘What’s your real story?’ he asked.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Everyone on the Circuit has something inside them, a little kernel of hate or addiction or love that brings them back.’ He looked at me. ‘We’re all damaged in some way.’
‘Apparently, you know more about me than I do. You tell me.’
‘I heard lots of things about you. Dead husband, missing daughter, some trouble in a garage in London. It’s hard to know what’s true and what isn’t.’
I laughed. ‘Thing is, it’s all true.’
He gave a low whistle. ‘Wow. I guess some of us are more damaged than others.’
‘Fuck off,’ I said softly, but with feeling.
‘Sorry. I meant . . . some of us carry a heavier burden. My English . . .’ An apologetic shrug. ‘It doesn’t always work right.’
‘Yeah. Forget it. OK, let’s go see what wheels they left us. Let’s hope it comes in black.’
We settled the bill. I checked the Seamaster. It was after nine and the streets were growing dark as we walked towards the car’s location, but the air was still warm. I refused a third cigarette but Konrad lit up. ‘Last one for a while,’ he promised. I didn’t have to ask why. It wasn’t because he was worried about passive-smoking risks for me or the client. It was so he would always have his hands free and never have to worry about dropping a lit fag in his lap in the heat of the moment.
I had asked the Colonel for a French car and something with a boot, rather than a hatchback, which ruled out the Citroen DS5 that I would really have liked. The Colonel had sourced me a Peugeot 508 GT Line saloon, which was nice and roomy for three people, with enough space in the rear for the Principal to lie down if need be. Not the fastest car on the road, maybe, but more anonymous than, say, a BMW M5. And besides, I was hoping to avoid any high-speed chases. Slow but steady would be my watchword. I saw it as soon as we turned into the place, parked at the southern end of the square, well away from a brightly lit brasserie.
I found the keys on the wheel and pointed the fob to unlock it. Konrad put a hand on my wrist to stop me.