by Martin Suter
www.newvesselpress.com
First published in German in 2011 as Allmen und der rosa Diamant
Copyright © 2011 Diogenes Verlag AG Zürich
Translation Copyright © 2019 Stephen Morris
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Suter, Martin
[Allmen und der rosa Diamant. English]
Allmen and the Pink Diamond/ Martin Suter; translation by Steph Morris.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-939931-63-4
Library of Congress Control Number 2018961675
I. Switzerland — Fiction
For Toni
Table of Contents
PART 1
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
PART 2
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
PART 3
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
Epilogue
PART 1
1
Allmen was nervous. The receptionist would announce Montgomery’s arrival at any moment.
He was sitting behind a mahogany desk in an office at Grant Associates in Knightsbridge. Through the window, flanked by heavy curtains, he could see Hyde Park and the cars on South Carriage Drive.
It was thanks to the care he took in maintaining his network from earlier, better days that he’d been able to use this office for the meeting. This time it was an old classmate from Charterhouse who had come to the rescue, Tommy Grant, a good-natured, somewhat ponderous fellow. As family tradition dictated, he had become a lawyer, and was now senior partner of Grant Associates, a prestigious law firm in its fourth generation.
Tommy had been delighted to receive Allmen’s call, had invited him to dinner with his boring wife and his two bored, teenage sons, and was now happy to lend him this office for a day. Or two, or three. Since his father had retired from active participation in the firm, the room was only used a couple of times a year.
And so he was able to receive Montgomery in the imposing premises of this traditional firm, an invaluable boost to Allmen’s mission to propel Allmen International Inquiries to its long-sought international breakthrough.
In the two years since its founding, its field of operations had been limited largely to Switzerland. And to rather small-scale cases, none of them approaching the sums involved in the spectacular recovery of the dragonfly bowls, mainly involving pictures and objets d’art in the five-figure range, from clients in the art and antiques sector.
Carlos had created the website allmen-international.com on his secondhand computer. Allmen had written the copy and determined the look. The homepage had a flannel-gray background. Right at the top of the screen, spaced evenly across the width, were the names of the five cities, in an elegantly proportioned, classic silver Antiqua: New York, Zurich, Paris, London, Moscow. Beneath them, a little larger, “Allmen International Inquiries,” followed by the slogan Allmen was rather proud of: “The art of tracing art,” solely in English, as it didn’t translate so elegantly into German.
This somewhat grandiloquent Internet presence couldn’t disguise for more than a glance that Allmen International Inquiries hadn’t yet managed to distinguish itself from a shady, backroom detective agency.
The agency’s income came largely from the hourly rates they charged their clients, with occasional commissions on successful finds, and a small percentage of the recovered items’ value, correspondingly modest.
For Carlos this income nevertheless allowed him to reduce his day job as gardener and caretaker for the trust company that had bought Allmen’s Villa Schwarzacker to a part-time position. But in terms of Allmen’s lifestyle it was peanuts. He was frequently forced to sell off items from his collection of fine objects. And soon he would have to return to cashing in items he had acquired in other ways. Whatever, wherever.
That was why everything had to be in place for this meeting with Montgomery.
“Will you see Mr. Montgomery, sir?”
Allmen jumped. The voice came from the old-fashioned intercom, set at a high volume for Mr. Grant senior, who was hard of hearing. He pressed the worn talk button and had him sent in.
Montgomery was a shade younger than Allmen, late thirties perhaps. He wore a well-cut business suit and had a suntan, his cropped hair prematurely gray. He entered the room confidently, without looking around, as if he were used to such interiors.
Allmen stood up as he entered and walked toward him. As they greeted, he registered that his guest did not speak the kind of upper-class English his appearance might have suggested.
He offered him an armchair, part of the matching heavy leather furniture, and sat opposite.
“Tea?”
Montgomery declined. He placed an angular, battered executive case on the table in front of him, opened both locks, and extracted a thin folder. Then he looked Allmen in the eyes.
Montgomery’s eyes were a watery blue. In the whites around the iris were a few black specks of pigment, which made it hard for Allmen to hold his gaze.
“How long do we have?” was Montgomery’s first question.
“As long as you need.”
“Not long then.”
Allmen responded in the same businesslike tone. “That suits me too.”
Montgomery got straight to the point. “I’m sure I don’t need to repeat that everything I tell you today is strictly confidential.”
“Par for the course,” Allmen said.
Montgomery leaned back in the armchair. “A pink diamond. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
Allmen, an avid reader, had followed the recent story in the papers about the auction of a pink diamond at the Swiss branch of Murphy’s. The stone had fetched a record price.
“Yes. One recently went to an anonymous bidder for over forty-five million Swiss francs.”
“Thirty million pounds.” Montgomery left a meaningful pause before saying, “The man is my client.”
“I see. The diamond has disappeared.” This sounded like an assertion, as if the information was not news to Allmen.
No comment from Montgomery. His spotted eyes maintained contact.
Allmen took a sheet of Allmen International Inquiries stationery, lying at the ready, and wrote “Meeting Montgomery,” along with the date and location, just below the letterhead. Then he looked at Montgomery in anticipation.
The latter leaned forward,
resting his arms on his thighs. “I’m not allowed to disclose the details. But I’ll say this much: my client held a private reception in one of his villas, at a location that’s irrelevant to our purposes. His wife was wearing the diamond. Next day it was no longer to be seen.”
Allmen waited, poised to note something.
“I know it’s not much,” Montgomery said.
“And how should we …” Allmen spoke in the plural when alluding to his multinational enterprise. “How are we to find the item without a single clue?”
“We are carrying out investigations in my client’s immediate surroundings ourselves. But now we have reached a point where we believe it makes sense to bring in third parties.”
Allmen was still waiting for something worth noting down.
“We have identified the go-between.”
“And why don’t you have him arrested?”
Montgomery reached into his jacket and took out a packet of cigarettes. “Do you mind if I smoke here?”
Allmen, who tended to describe himself as a non-practicing smoker, hated it when people smoked in his personal space. But he had never answered such a question in the affirmative. He expected his smoker guests to be tactful enough not to ask. But now the question put him on the spot. Tommy Grant had specifically requested that he not smoke in the office, out of consideration for his father’s asthma.
He was still wondering how to reply as Montgomery slipped the cigarettes back in his pocket, without a word. “Two reasons why we aren’t having him arrested. First, my client doesn’t wish to involve the authorities in the search for something he never officially owned. Second, the man has gone underground.”
Allmen nodded. This explanation seemed plausible. “And when we find him? What do we do, if you don’t wish to get the authorities involved?”
“When you’ve found him, follow him and let us know. Then we’ll discuss the next stage.”
Montgomery handed him the folder he had been holding in his hand the whole time. It contained a sheet of paper that looked at first glance like a resume. It bore the header “Artyom Sokolov.” A photo was attached to the top right corner with a paper clip. It showed an emaciated man with thinning, combed-back hair and sunken eyes.
The information was scant: Born 1974 in Yekaterinburg, around 6’2” tall, 187 pounds, medium blond, studied electrical engineering, degree in computer science, worked as a freelance IT specialist. Last known location Switzerland, and there was an address: Gelbburgstrasse 13, Apt. 12, 8694 Schwarzegg.
Allmen looked up from the paper and met Montgomery’s eyes, which must have been fixed on him as he read this brief information. “How did you hear about us?”
“I made some inquiries. Your track record impressed me. The dragonfly bowl case above all. The police search for the best part of a decade for them; your agency finds them in seconds—respect.”
Allmen let the sentence echo in his head to see if it sounded ironic. He decided it didn’t.
“We liked the fact that you’re a small outfit—the person it’s named after is still actively involved. And an international operation, which fits our needs.”
Still no irony to be detected.
“But, be honest now …”
Allmen looked up from the folder, to which he had lowered his eyes in modesty during the praise.
“Are you quite sure this job isn’t too big for you? Now would be the moment to tell me. Last exit.”
How was someone who had lived beyond his means for most of his life supposed to weigh up whether something was too big for him? Allmen simply smiled. “Thank you for the opportunity.” Then he turned to his sheet of paper and made a note in shorthand.
During his time as a drifting international student he had taken a course in the Stolze Schrey stenography system. Not because there was much likelihood he would put it to real use, but because he hoped to attract the attention of his fellow students and his father, which he succeeded in doing.
He had retained this skill. His shorthand had become increasingly individualized, becoming his personal secret code. He loved it, as he loved everything secretive.
Montgomery also seemed impressed. For the first time, when Allmen looked up, he saw that Montgomery was not looking into his eyes but down at the paper.
“What are your terms and conditions?” he wanted to know.
Although finance was fundamental to Allmen, he hated to discuss it. Carlos had prepared him a sheet with all the key points listed. Allmen didn’t have it at hand, emphasizing how immaterial the subject was. He stood up, went to the desk, pretended to look for something and finally returned with two pieces of paper, both titled “Fee Agreement.”
The hourly rate was between 80 and 150, depending on the expertise of the staff member and the complexity of the task. Research and investigation were more expensive than simple surveillance for instance. Alongside this came expenses and commission in the event of a successful recovery, either an additional ten percent of the total fees or, should the value of the item be higher, ten percent of that sum. Whether the fee was paid in Swiss francs, euros, dollars, or pounds depended on the country in question.
He handed this fee agreement to Montgomery, who scanned it and placed it on the club table.
“And what is your invoicing procedure?”
In this area he and Carlos had agreed on flexibility. Depending on the client’s reaction, Allmen International would either invoice for the exact work done or request advance payments on account. Montgomery’s reaction suggested the second model.
“We take payments on account. The account is then settled—in your favor or ours—at the end of the operation.”
“And what is the down-payment sum?”
“Twenty thousand. In your case pounds.”
Montgomery fished an envelope out of his executive case and pushed it across the table. “Ten okay?”
Allmen registered this without comment. He left the envelope lying nonchalantly where Montgomery had left it.
“And then there’s the commission. In our case you can hardly reckon with ten percent.” Montgomery unscrewed the lid of his fountain pen.
“I think in this instance we could make an exception and offer eight percent.”
“Four,” Montgomery decided. He crossed out the “ten” on each agreement, wrote “four,” signed and dated both copies, and handed them over. Allmen signed both in turn and placed his copy next to the envelope with the money.
After they had parted company Allmen stood by the window and looked down at the street. He saw Montgomery leave the front door with his phone to his ear. Now he snapped it shut and pocketed it. Barely a minute later, a black Range Rover pulled up at the curb. On the passenger side a man got out, gave his seat to Montgomery, and closed the door. He waited till there was a gap in the traffic and the car could drive off, then took advantage of the next gap, crossing the street at speed and vanishing into the park. The man was carrying a black sports bag over one shoulder.
Allmen did three things next, which if the meeting had gone less favorably, he would have refrained from.
He walked to the Wilton Arms, his favorite Knightsbridge pub, and drank two deliciously warm, brimful, froth-free half pints of bitter.
He paid a surprise visit to his tailor on Savile Row and ordered a three-piece suit in a wonderful Donegal.
And at Claridge’s he had himself upgraded from his junior suite to a proper suite.
As he got into his cab to the airport the next morning, he noticed a man. He was photographing the hotel entrance, carrying a black sports bag over his shoulder.
2
Carlos met him wearing the blue apron he wore to clean shoes. He took Allmen’s case and mackintosh and followed him into the greenhouse library.
It was a summer afternoon and he had lowered the faded orange blinds to block light coming through the glazed roof; they had once been used to protect plants from direct sunlight, now books. The curtains were drawn too. The rays of su
n that shot here and there through the gaps in the blackout gave the large room a theatrical air.
The piano stool was standing at the ready, surrounded by the majority of Allmen’s shoes. None of them genuinely needed polishing.
Allmen sat down and placed his right foot on the black shoeshine box. Carlos began brushing. He asked no questions, simply waiting for Allmen to start talking.
“Carlos, this is Allmen International Inquiries’ international breakthrough.”
“No me diga,” Carlos replied. “You don’t say.” He took a cloth from the box and drizzled liquid over the shoe from a small plastic bottle. He had never said what it was, and Allmen had never asked. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it had simply been water.
Allmen told him about the pink diamond, worth forty-five million, and the 1.8 million commission this would mean.
Carlos listened in silence. Tapped his index finger under the tip of each foot when Allmen was to switch feet, and murmured “por favor” when he wanted his customer to put another pair on.
The shoes were lined up, shined to perfection, Allmen had reached the end of his report, and still Carlos had barely said a word.
“Qué pasa, Carlos? Why aren’t you saying anything?” Allmen asked.
Carlos had begun piling the shoes in a clothes basket ready to sort them back into Allmen’s shoe cupboard. Now he broke off from his work. “The case is too big for Allmen International, Don John. We shouldn’t accept the job.”
“You mean the sums of money are too big?”
“Everything about it is too big.”
Allmen didn’t understand exactly what Carlos meant. Perhaps he shared the feeling that had briefly overcome Allmen himself on the return flight, that he was poised to enter a world of wholly new dimensions. People who were willing and able to pay forty-five million francs for a ring were capable of anything. And people willing and able to steal forty-five-million-franc rings …
“Allmen International will rise to the challenge,” Allmen answered.
Carlos shook his head. “Con todo el respeto, I think it would be shrewder for Allmen International Inquiries to turn the job down.”
“Think of everything we’ve already invested in it. The travel costs, the hotel …”