by Martin Suter
Now he noticed the weather had improved. It had stopped raining, the wind had died down, and the dense cloud was even letting occasional rays of sunshine through.
Allmen stood in front of his beach chair and looked around. Quite a few other hotel guests were on the beach now. Many had turned their chairs around so the few rays of sun didn’t simply hit their back, as in Allmen’s case. Children were playing in the sand, and a few of the tables at the beach bar were occupied.
The Russian voice was directly behind him. It didn’t sound like a forty-year-old; it must belong to an old man, sedately describing times gone by.
Allmen listened. Military ranks came into it, and expressions such as billet, field kitchen, officer’s mess, sentry, inspection; the old man was describing military service. And soon Allmen realized he was talking about the time when the Grand Duc had been requisitioned by the Red Army and, as a young officer, he had enjoyed what he called the best part of the war.
The other man’s voice sounded younger. But it was limited to monosyllabic comments and expressions of admiration, surprise, and astonishment.
Allmen walked between the wicker chairs toward the beach bar. This gave him the chance to glimpse the speaker. He was a very pale man, his ample body filling both seats of the chair. He had leaned his head back, and was looking with half-closed eyes down at the man crouched on the sand in front of him.
The listener had his back to Allmen, who couldn’t see his face. But his hair was thin and mousy-blond.
At the beach bar Allmen ordered a glass of champagne. To calm his racing heart.
He could only see the back of beach chair thirty-two. Allmen kept his eye on it. On his way back he would take another route to get a glance at the listener.
After the second glass his heart stopped racing and the mixture of euphoria and recklessness had set in, for which he so loved the drink.
He signed the bill and gave the barman a tip large enough to help him remember Allmen’s name and room number. Then he wandered back to his chair.
The old man was still telling stories. But the listener was no longer crouching. Now he was standing up. He was a short man, nowhere near Sokolov’s six foot two. His face was rounded and his eyes were not sunken.
Allmen sat back down in his chair and returned to his reading.
After a while the beach attendant began preparing the neighboring chair, opening it up, removing the wooden cover, pulling out the footrests, brushing the sand off.
“Thank you,” the guest accompanying him said. “Please bring me a milchkaffe.”
His accent made Allmen look up.
The man was tall, with a narrow face and thin, dark-blond hair, combed back, and deep-set eyes.
23
Only twelve days after receiving the assignment, Allmen International Inquiries had found the man they were charged with looking for.
Allmen would dearly have liked to impress his client with this success immediately. But he had to be patient. Naturally he wanted to discuss the situation with Carlos first.
Allmen took his trousers and sweatshirt off and entered the water. He swam for a while, till he felt he could walk back to his chair, watching Sokolov, without giving the impression that was the only reason he had gone swimming.
Sokolov was sitting sideways in his chair with his legs drawn up. He had a small laptop on his knees and was typing. As Allmen passed him he looked up quickly then focused straight back on his screen.
Allmen dried his hair, peering from under his towel as he did so. Sokolov was not dressed for swimming. His skin showed no sign of having been at a beach resort for over a month. He looked harmless. Harmless and a little lonely.
Another hour till he could call Carlos. He spent it reading, just two yards from the man who—if everything went to plan—would help him earn 1.8 million francs.
Twenty minutes too early, Allmen packed his beach basket. In passing he nodded to his new neighbor, who had pulled the awning down as low as it would go and failed to look up from his laptop.
“Now that it’s finally nice, you’re leaving?” the beach attendant said in amazement. Allmen gave him a tip and asked him to reserve chair seventeen for him for the duration of his stay.
At ten past twelve on the dot he called home.
“Allmen International,” Carlos answered, with his Hispanic accent.
“I’ve got him, Carlos,” Allmen announced.
“Felicitaciones!”
Allmen briefly described how he had found him, that by chance they were beach chair neighbors, and the impression Sokolov made on him.
“Montgomery said, ‘When you’ve found him, follow him and let us know. Then we’ll discuss the next stage.’”
They were silent. Both thinking the same thing. It was Allmen who said it out loud.
“We don’t really trust him, do we, Carlos?”
“No, Don John.”
“Has the money been transferred?”
“Unfortunately not, Don John.”
“See what I mean?”
“Una sugerencia, nada más.”
“Yes?”
“We inform him that we’ve found him. But we don’t say where.”
Allmen thought it through. The idea appealed to him. That way he could find out how Montgomery wanted to proceed, without the risk of him snatching the booty. “Yes, let’s do it.”
“But … Don John?”
“Yes?”
“You have to switch your cellphone off and stop using it. Phones can be located.”
“Then it’s better if you inform Montgomery, Carlos.”
Allmen ended the conversation and switched the phone off. He lay on his bed, crossed his arms behind his head, and contemplated how he was going to shadow Sokolov with a team of one.
The swallows’ polyvocal chirping and the gulls’ occasional laughter lulled him to sleep.
Fifteen minutes later, when he woke, refreshed, he had an idea.
He showered and dressed for lunch. Then he called Frau Schmidt-Gerold, the housekeeper, to his room with the excuse that he wanted another cushion for reading on the recamier. He backed the request up with a fifty euro note, which the woman almost refused to accept.
She had nearly left the room before he asked what he really wanted. “Oh, Frau Schmidt-Gerold, could I ask you just one little favor?”
“Certainly, Herr von Allmen.”
“Could you just pop this in Herr Sokolov’s room for me?” He held out an unaddressed, sealed envelope, with the hotel crest on it. “You know, Herr Sokolov from room …”
“Two-one-four.”
Allmen withdrew his hand. “Actually, on second thought, no, I’ll see him myself in a moment at lunch.”
Frau Schmidt-Gerold assured him she would happily do this favor, but Allmen said he’d changed his mind.
Room 214 must be on the same floor as his, and sure enough, there it was, on the fire escape plan hanging in his walk-in wardrobe. It was a suite like his, with the same layout. There was just one difference. It had a small bay window.
He passed by reception on the way to lunch. The receptionist who had welcomed him on arrival was on duty now.
“Good day, Herr von Allmen. I hope you’re enjoying your stay with us.”
“It’s perfect, thank you,” Allmen confirmed, “almost perfect.”
“Almost?”
“Well it’s just a detail really. I noticed room two hundred fourteen has a small bay window. Could you check if it’s free for me?”
The receptionist went to the computer and returned, full of regret, with the news that the room was occupied.
“Could you tell me till when?”
She returned to the screen and regretted to inform him that the guest had not stated a departure date. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes, please let me know as soon as you have a checkout date. Would you do that for me?”
She promised to put a note in the file for 214. As soon as she or her colleagues were given
a departure date, he would be informed.
Allmen pushed a hundred euro note over the counter and expressed his heartfelt thanks.
The weather was fine enough for lunch on the terrace, which was full of wealthy people in leisure wear. They wore a lot of blue-green, stripes, and polo shirts, with emblems, insignia, and hand-sized polo players on the breast.
Sokolov was there too. He was sitting in the shade of the veranda, where there were hardly any other guests. He had eyes only for his laptop, occasionally forking some food into his mouth.
Allmen stayed till Sokolov signed the bill and stood up. He followed him and saw him disappear into the elevator. The display panel indicated the second floor, then went out. Allmen called the elevator down to the ground floor and likewise went up to the second floor. When he walked past room 214 the “Do Not Disturb” sign was hanging over the handle.
Allmen went to his room and sat in the armchair by the window, reading and wandering down the corridor every half hour.
The sign remained on Sokolov’s door throughout the afternoon.
24
He saw him next in the dining room.
Sokolov was sitting at a four-person corner table from where he had a view of the whole room.
Allmen had been given the exact same table in the corner diagonally opposite.
Sokolov was the only man in the dining room not wearing a tie. He hadn’t needed such a good table; throughout his meal he stared at his small laptop.
And that, even though the food was amazing. Allmen had chosen the tasting menu, something he often did at the start of an extended stay in a hotel. It was more than just a vote of confidence in the chef; it also gave him an overview of his or her strengths and weaknesses.
He could barely find a weakness however. Not when it came to fish—baked sole with artichokes sautéed and steamed in olive oil then deglazed with white wine. Nor poultry—corn-fed chicken cooked in a Dutch oven with caramelized bacon and vegetables. Nor meat—breaded flank of veal with sage and anchovy beignets.
The wine menu was also very respectable. He even found his favorite red from the Priorat region, Clos Martinet 1993. A joy at a very decent price of 260 euros for such a rarity.
So no weaknesses. But a notable strength when it came to desserts. The buffet held an array of nougat chocolate creations, baked pineapple in a crispy shell, lemon tartlets, vanilla profiteroles, a number of mille-feuilles, crêpe parcels, strudel cakes, soufflés, gâteaux, crèmes and a breathtaking range of sorbets.
Allmen would have enjoyed a greater sense of contentment, which fine food and drink in a pleasant atmosphere normally brought him, if he hadn’t had to keep paying attention to his surveillance object.
However, Sokolov hardly demanded his full attention. He was concentrating on his laptop as ever, shoveling the culinary works of art into his mouth without a thought. A typical IT person.
But once, as Allmen took one of his regular monitoring glances, Sokolov had turned away from his computer and was looking back at him. Their eyes met, and Sokolov nodded.
Allmen nodded back and returned to his plate.
25
Sokolov was not at breakfast the next morning. Allmen made a tour of the hotel complex, but he was nowhere to be seen. He suspected he was on the beach, but before he got there a sudden shower drove the bathers away. He fled to his room, sat at the window, and gazed at the overcast sky and the beach, empty of people.
The solitary beach attendant was closing up the beach chairs and collecting towels. He stood still at one of the chairs. He looked as if he was talking to someone. Then he walked on.
Against the smoke-gray sky was a lighter bank of clouds from which curtains of rain hung, far off, over the sea.
Suddenly, from among the rows of beach chairs, aligned with military precision, a tall, white, monastic figure emerged. It was a man in a hotel bathrobe. He had the hood pulled down over his face and was heading for the spa. Calmly, unconcerned by the pouring rain.
Allmen put his trunks on and cloaked himself in a toweling robe to walk downstairs and out briefly through the rain to the spa.
Here too his keycard opened the door. He found himself in a warm reception area smelling of essential oils. The light was subdued and came from the illuminated entrances to the saunas, changing rooms, steam baths, and massage rooms.
Another entrance led to the pool area. Allmen was met by the moist warmth of the heated swimming pool, a mild aroma of chlorine, and the shouts of children. It was a busy time. Clearly most of the guests driven off the beach by the rain had come here. Allmen found the last free lounger and got comfortable. He returned to Daphne du Maurier’s time-travel adventure, but continually broke off reading to observe the guests.
There were several families of three generations there—couples with their children and their parents. Fathers whose unnatural manner of horsing around with their kids suggested that they didn’t normally spend much time with them. And there were some who were rich enough not to have to look good—overweight, flaccid, and unfit, but satisfied with themselves and the world.
Next time Allmen looked up from his book, he saw Sokolov. He was standing at the entrance removing his soggy bathrobe, which he threw in the basket for used towels, before going to the shower.
He was a very white, very lean man. Above the drawstring on his long white Bermudas a straight dark line rose to his breastbone where it split like the highest point of a fountain into strange, symmetrical chest hair.
Sokolov stayed a long time under the warm jet, his head thrown back, eyes closed, like someone who wants to rinse the ordeals of the day from his body.
Then he went to the pool and slid into the water. Allmen only realized how blatantly he was watching him when their eyes met. Sokolov nodded to him. This time he smiled a little. Allmen smiled back.
Sokolov started swimming. Allmen headed for the warm Jacuzzi, separated from the pool by a narrow wall. A few kids in armbands were splashing around in it, under the watchful eyes of their parents. Allmen sat up to his neck in the frothing water and peered over the edge of the Jacuzzi toward the pool, where Sokolov was systematically doing his laps.
Suddenly he lost sight of him. Allmen stood up and waded to the edge of the Jacuzzi. There, right below him, stood Sokolov, talking with a man. Allmen immediately retreated to his original spot. It was a while before Sokolov was back in his field of vision, swimming again. On the steps to the pool he saw the man who had been listening so attentively to the fat Russian’s war stories. Was this a chance encounter of two countrymen? Or two accomplices making contact?
26
She had intense red hair with a shimmer of gold. There was an almost bluish tint to her white skin. Her breezy, low-hung dress and thin shawl were different shades of green. Her toenails were painted a shade of red that jarred with her hair. She looked as if she was constantly forced to prevent herself and everything around her from being blown to the four winds. She was young, but you could already sense the marks age would one day leave on her. When she lay in the sun, she covered herself entirely with a beach towel, focusing on a Sudoku book and moving her lips as she worked through it. She wore a lot of gold around her wrists and on her fingers. The frames of her sunglasses were also gold trimmed.
Allmen had been watching her for a long time from his beach chair. She had shown no sign she was aware of his gaze. She could easily have evaded it by sitting in her chair instead of using it solely as base camp.
Her companion was somewhat older and stayed mostly in the chair. Allmen saw him briefly as he wandered toward the bar. The man was on the phone, writing in a large notebook. He was stocky, with a moustache, and fully clothed like his partner. His only concession to beach life was his footwear; his lumpy, naked white feet were strapped into sandals.
Allmen nodded to him, as he seemed to be looking in his direction. But he was checking in on the woman.
“Vanessa!”
Vanessa? Allmen savored the name and decided
it suited her.
He carried on to the bar and ordered his light snack—strawberries with cream and a glass of champagne. From here he could easily keep an eye on Sokolov’s beach chair.
Aside from his conversation with the other Russian, Sokolov had done nothing further out of the ordinary. He ate his dinner in the dining room, accompanied by a beer, and never looked away from his laptop if he could help it. He divided his time between the beach, the pool, and his room.
Allmen found it easy to adjust to Sokolov’s rhythm. He got lots of reading done, took advantage of the excellent cuisine and the wine menu, full of constant surprises, and didn’t even have to forgo his siesta, even if it was sometimes disturbed or curtailed. Sokolov was not a difficult surveillance subject. And if he did ever lose sight of him briefly, he could rely on the reception team, who would undoubtedly inform him straightaway of the impending departure of the guest in suite 214.
He called Carlos from the phone in his room now. Last time they had talked the money was still not in their account. It was on its way, Montgomery had said. A sentence Allmen did not like to hear. He had used it too often himself.
Carlos also reported that Montgomery had taken the news they had found Sokolov entirely as a matter of course. He had accepted that Carlos didn’t want to say where he was, and instructed them to continue shadowing Sokolov. He would inform them about the next move.
“The next move” was a subject at the top of Allmen’s mind. Right now he didn’t have the slightest idea.
But after three days without developments, things took their own course.
27
A fresh southeasterly had swept in and banished the clouds lurking ominously over the hotel palaces all morning. The change of weather caught the staff off guard, and they were still setting up the beach bar for good weather as the first guests arrived.
The sea, which just a minute ago had been splashing gently back and forth, now sent real waves ashore. Not breakers, but large enough to animate the gulls, who until then had been standing in lines along the breakwaters watching for pickings.