by Martin Suter
Vanessa was lying on a towel a few feet away from him, covered to her chin, working on her Sudoku. Allmen gazed at her, lost in thought.
Suddenly she let her book fall and looked straight at him. Too late for Allmen to avert his gaze and pretend he hadn’t been watching her. He had no choice but to give her a sheepish smile.
Vanessa beamed back.
He was still wondering how he should react, as hers was not the kind of smile you could respond to simply with a further smile, when a shadow fell over him. It was Sokolov’s. There he stood, in brand-new, ill-fitting jeans and a polo shirt, not yet laundered, still with creases on its short sleeves.
“Nice at last,” he said.
“Indeed,” Allmen replied.
Sokolov bridged the looming silence with, “Have you been here before?”
“No, my first time.” Allmen stood up and held out his hand. “Allmen.”
“Sokolov,” the diamond thief of the century said, and gave his observer a friendly smile. Normally Allmen would now have offered him a chair. He looked at the two-person space on his beach chair and said, “I can hardly offer you this seat.”
“Thanks,” Sokolov said, and sat down on it.
Allmen had no choice but to sit next to him.
The wind carried voices over from the water, scattered shouts, children’s cries and laughter, drowned by the surf, reminding Allmen of the carefree swimming-pool afternoons of his childhood.
He was about to ask, “You’re Russian, right?” in Russian, but at the last minute decided it was more prudent to stick to German. Perhaps it would be useful if Sokolov didn’t know he understood his language.
“And I thought I spoke German without an accent. And you—let me guess?”
Sokolov didn’t need more than one try. It was easy to guess. Although Allmen could speak accent-free German, he left this at home when travelling to Germany, taking instead his Swiss accent. It made a better impression.
“I’m often in Switzerland,” Sokolov disclosed, “for work.”
“What do you do?”
“IT.”
“I thought so.”
“Does it show?”
“The laptop. Your constant companion.”
“Ah, I see. And you? What do you do?”
They had come to Allmen’s favorite question.
“I’m a man of independent means.”
Most people registered this statement with awe. But Sokolov wasn’t familiar with the expression. “So what does that involve?” he asked.
“A bit of this, a bit of that.”
“I see. You’re free to do whatever currently earns most.”
Allmen shook his head. “Whatever currently interests me most.”
“That’s my career goal too.”
The pendants on the small awning above the chair rustled in the wind, accompanied by the laughter of the gulls who suddenly flew up, as if obeying a secret command, and followed their inscrutable paths.
And again Allmen met Vanessa’s gaze. It seemed she had been looking over at him throughout the two men’s exchange, waiting to see how he would respond to her inviting smile. He decided to raise his eyebrows and shoulders in a gesture of helplessness.
“Are you eating in the hotel again tonight?” Sokolov’s question sounded like an attempt to revitalize the conversation.
“Yes. The food there is excellent, I find.” And then Allmen said it: “Would you like to join me at my table?”
They arranged to meet at 8:00 p.m. in the bar.
28
Allmen was there a little earlier, as always when meeting people. A gesture of politeness originally intended for ladies, which he had long since extended to men.
He drank a Singapore Gin Sling, which he’d asked the barman to make with a shade less Cointreau and grenadine and more Angostura bitters. A trick the bartender at Raffles in Singapore had shared with him. It made the drink slightly drier.
After the beach he’d tried to call Carlos from his room. He wanted to report back on the latest developments. But then something unusual happened. A Hispanic woman’s voice answered. “Casa von Allmen,” she said.
Allmen was taken aback, stated his name and asked if Herr de Leon was available.
“Carlos está ocupado, señor von Allmen,” she responded. Carlos was busy.
Only now did Allmen inquire with whom he had the pleasure.
“Maria Moreno,” she answered, almost reproachfully. She explained that Carlos was still working in the garden.
Allmen asked what she herself was doing.
Her reply sounded incredulous. “Cleaning.”
Allmen took his drink and sat by the large window alongside the bar.
The sea lay dark and heavy. Against the clear, blue-black evening sky a garland of white clouds had formed.
Allmen heard the barman say “Good evening.” He assumed Sokolov had arrived, and turned toward the bar.
But it was not the man he was waiting for. Two men he hadn’t seen here before were there. One looked familiar.
Suddenly Allmen remembered where he’d seen him last: in Café Viennois. He’d been sitting at a table by the wall reading the Herald Tribune. He’d been able to observe him in the mirror. He resembled an American actor. Then, as now, he couldn’t remember the name.
The two men were chatting, loud and unself-consciously, in American English. They were ordering cocktails and took no notice of him. Allmen was sure it was the same man.
His heart raced. An American he had noticed in Viennois was now at a luxury hotel on the Baltic coast. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
Sokolov came in. He was wearing a tie, probably so he didn’t stand out next to Allmen, who arrived elegantly dressed for dinner every evening.
He ordered a vodka. “No point pretending I’m not Russian,” he observed. “And what are you drinking?”
“Singapore Gin Sling. The sea here reminds me of that area.”
“It reminds me of my childhood. Same sea, a bit farther north.”
If from a distance Sokolov had seemed to Allmen like a cagey loner, close up he turned out to be open and direct. He described the youth camps near Tallinn he was sent to as a child, the military manner in which they were run. Allmen offered a few stories from Charterhouse, the exclusive boarding school where he had spent his youth, painting it as more militaristic than the reality.
When they walked through to the dining room, the man who resembled the actor was still deep in conversation with his companion. At the table, Sokolov asked, “Did you see the American? Looks like Martin Sheen.”
For the hors d’œuvre they ordered eel, not a rarity as such in the region. But the preparation was unusual: it followed a recipe from the Camargue, glazed in red wine sauce.
As Allmen was singing its praises, Sokolov surprised him with another revelation. “I’ve got no idea about food. Till now I’ve only ever eaten to fill my stomach. It’s something I have to learn.”
“You don’t mean to say it doesn’t matter to you what you eat?” Allmen asked incredulously.
“Not saying it doesn’t matter, but it’s not important.”
“Well perhaps you’re right,” Allmen concurred without conviction. “Perhaps people place too much emphasis on food.” He took a sip of wine. “And how do you feel about wine? That doesn’t matter either?”
“Not really. I’m a vodka drinker. You don’t drink vodka for gastronomic reasons.” He put his wineglass to his lips, held a sip in his mouth awhile, and attempted to feel something. “As I said, I still have lots to learn. Everything really: eating, drinking, clothes, travelling, living, taste … Being rich, basically.”
Allmen was still searching for an appropriate answer as Sokolov added, “Someone like you who learned all that in the cradle wouldn’t understand, of course.”
Allmen didn’t disabuse him. “Don’t worry, you’ll soon catch up. You seem to have one of the most important prerequisites already.”
“Which one?�
��
“Money. Being rich is easier if you have money.”
Sokolov laughed, not guessing how much that sentence rang true for Allmen. “I’m still in an experimental phase. And the money is just a foretaste too.”
They enjoyed a pleasant, relaxed, and increasingly amusing evening. They were the last guests in the dining room and the only ones to drink another for the road on the terrace. And another.
They talked in lowered voices, allowing ever longer pauses. Gazed out at the sea. At the avenue of lamps along the promenade. Into the sparkling summer night sky. At the fluorescing crests of the delicate waves.
It was after midnight when they finally left the terrace, and the man who had been watching them from a balcony put down his binoculars and said a few words into his earpiece.
Outside Sokolov’s room, Allmen asked, “How long do you plan to stay?”
“Not sure. As long as I want to.”
“There we go, you’re getting the hang of being rich."
29
Allmen showered, brushed his teeth, and put on clean pajamas. But once he was in his bedroom, he realized he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Too many thoughts running around in his head.
Why was the American from Viennois here? Was there a connection between him and Sokolov? Was he one of the Americans who had turned up at the apartment building, the rental agency, Lonely Nights, and the server administrator’s house?
And if so, why was he in Viennois? Was there some link between the American and him, Allmen?
Was he shadowing him?
Allmen did something he never normally did after drinking so much; he rounded off the evening with one last beer. He took a Pilsner from the minibar, filled a glass, and sat in the armchair by the window.
Assuming Montgomery was having him watched, was he doing it to protect himself? Was he hedging his bets?
It seemed all the more likely these people were working for Montgomery. That would also explain why he hadn’t insisted they disclose Sokolov’s whereabouts. He knew them already.
And what about Sokolov? He had said his life as a rich man was still in a trial phase, the money itself just a foretaste. Both facts pointed to the pink diamond. He, or the gang he belonged to, hadn’t yet cashed in the diamond. Sokolov was enjoying his wealth in advance. The villa in Spätbergstrasse, the housekeeper, the suite at the Grand Duc were all in anticipation of the bonanza to come. On borrowed money. Or perhaps saved.
Their kindred spirit—both living in style on money they didn’t possess—made him warm to Sokolov. It made him doubt if he was dealing with a real criminal here. He could just about imagine a computer nerd stealing a diamond worth forty-five million. But the stone vanished at a party hosted by its multi-millionaire owner. How could someone like Sokolov have gained access to such circles?
Perhaps he hadn’t actually been there. It was unlikely such an enormous coup was the work of a lone wolf. Much more likely to involve a gang. With Sokolov simply a member. Perhaps the brains? Perhaps the computer expert?
Allmen had to get access to Sokolov’s suite. Perhaps he would find a clue there. Exonerating him perhaps.
He finished his beer, brushed his teeth again, and looked out one last time at the nighttime sea.
Far, far out, a cruise liner sailed past. A pattern of filigreed light.
30
Almost blue, the bank of cloud on the horizon looked like a lakeside landscape. As if Allmen were sitting by a large, peaceful lake and the sailboats were drifting past the opposite shore.
Getting up had been harder than usual. His brain was fuzzy, how he felt after too little sleep and too much alcohol. A quick dip in the cool Baltic Sea had revived him a little, but now the salt water had dried on his skin and his whole body felt sticky. He was too lazy to walk the few feet to the shower, close to the beach bar.
Sokolov’s beach chair was empty. He probably felt as rough as Allmen. But Vanessa and her companion were there. The man was working away at his business as usual. But this time, instead of lying on the sand, Vanessa was walking up and down the beach holding a bright children’s bucket, her eyes glued to the ground. Every so often she bent down to pick up a seashell, examined it, and either threw her find in the bucket or back on the beach.
She was wearing the low-cut dress again, with lots of green, and the shawl that protected her delicate skin from the sun. And a large straw hat.
Allmen looked up from his book toward her from time to time. She acted as if she were totally absorbed in her shell hunt and hadn’t noticed him. Every time Allmen glanced at her, she had inched closer toward him.
Next time it wasn’t as easy to look back down. Vanessa was standing a few yards away from him, bending forward. She had opened her shawl, and the dress offered a good view of her cleavage. She stayed like this for what seemed like an eternity, then she crouched down. Her knees now hid her cleavage, but the dress had slid up her legs. It was impossible to avoid noticing she had nothing on underneath.
Suddenly she looked up and met his gaze. Allmen looked back down at his book, but he could feel her eyes on him. He looked up again. She was still squatting in the same position, but now she was smiling at him provocatively. He smiled back and shifted his gaze a little lower.
For a moment they stayed fixed like this.
“Vanessa!”
It was her companion’s voice. She stood up in her own time, and left.
At this point Sokolov arrived. Allmen wasn’t sure if he’d observed the scene. If he had, he let nothing show. He said good morning, began sorting out his beach chair, turned it to face Allmen, and sat down. “Are you feeling as hungover as I am?”
“The sea. The sea will help.”
“Sometimes what helps me is the sauna.”
Allmen pulled a face. “With me that makes it worse.”
Sokolov turned to his laptop and Allmen to his book. Helene von Nostitz, Stories from Old Europe, almost the perfect book for this location.
But he couldn’t concentrate on the past. He was too preoccupied with the present. Above all the issue of how he could get his hands on Sokolov’s keycard.
Vanessa and her companion were leaving. She gave him no further look. The man put a proprietary arm around her shoulder, then they turned their backs on Allmen and walked slowly toward the hotel.
Suddenly she removed her hand from his waist and put it behind her back. She made a fist, then opened and closed it three times in a swift, furtive wave.
Allmen’s thoughts soon returned to Sokolov’s keycard. Now he had an idea.
“What about this for a compromise. You go to the sauna, I’ll go in the sea, then we meet in an hour at the bar in the spa and I’ll invite you for a pick-me-up.”
Sokolov looked up in surprise, snapped his laptop shut, and stood up. “A deal,” he said simply, packed his beach bag, and left.
Allmen stood up and went into the water. It felt cool and soft, and was sending gentle waves ashore.
He looked back and saw Sokolov retreating in his white bathrobe.
Two other figures, also wearing hotel bathrobes, now left the beach bar. They were new arrivals whom Allmen had first noticed on his way past the bar toward his chair. Two Brits with shaved heads, who didn’t look like they could afford a hotel like this.
They went the same way as Sokolov.
31
Allmen gave Sokolov ten minutes’ head start. Then followed him into the spa.
In the pool it was quieter than usual. The weather was nice enough for the children to play in the sand, which was still damp from the morning’s light rain, malleable like spring snow.
Allmen went past the pool to the corridor leading to the sauna area. He entered the relaxation room, lit only by soft LEDs in changing colors. Restful Indian music emanated from somewhere.
The room was empty apart from two men. One was lying on a lounger, apparently asleep. The other was standing next to a different lounger, on which lay a towel, bathrobe, and beach basket. On All
men’s arrival, he stepped quickly away from it and lay on the one next to the sleeping man.
Now Allmen recognized them. It was the two Brits.
He could see the glint of Sokolov’s silvery laptop poking out of the beach basket. He settled down on the neighboring lounger and waited for the Brits to go in the sauna.
They showed no sign of doing any such thing.
Why had the man been standing by Sokolov’s lounger? Had he started rummaging through his things only to be interrupted by Allmen? Did he have the same plan as Allmen? Was he after Sokolov’s keycard?
He peered toward the two men. Both looked as if they were sleeping. The one on the nearer lounger was lying on his side, his head facing Allmen.
Allmen waited. It wasn’t long before he saw the Brit open his eyes for a second then close them straight away.
Now Allmen realized who they were. These were the Brits who had been one step ahead of him all the way. Now they were one step behind.
He waited for Sokolov to emerge from the sauna. He greeted Allmen with surprise and delight and lay down on his lounger. “Let’s have that pick-me-up in fifteen minutes,” he suggested.
“Or twenty,” Allmen said.
After five more minutes’ pretend sleep, Allmen heard the two Brits going to the sauna. Fifteen minutes after that, Sokolov was sufficiently rested.
“Wouldn’t you prefer to get changed first, and drink the pick-me-up at the bar?” he suggested. “More elegant than sitting in a bathrobe alongside juice-quaffing health nuts.”
Sokolov agreed. As they passed his suite, he took his keycard from his bathrobe pocket and opened the door. Allmen was relieved that the card was still there. He had suggested this minor change to the plan simply to ascertain that.
32
They didn’t confine themselves to one pick-me-up. Sokolov knocked back a couple of vodkas, then insisted Allmen order a vodka between glasses of champagne too. “You can only toast your friendship with a Russian with vodka.”
It was 4:00 p.m. by the time they withdrew to their rooms.