by Martin Suter
The first thing Allmen did was call home and tell Carlos about the two surveillance teams. “I’d warn him, ideally. But then he’d vanish forever.”
Carlos agreed.
“But if I don’t warn him, I’ll be helping our competitors.”
“You have to get ahead of them, Don John.”
“How?”
“Search his room. Take his computer.”
“That would be very dangerous, Carlos.”
“Our job is very dangerous, Don John.”
“More dangerous for me than for you,” Allmen muttered.
Toward the end of the conversation he brought up Maria Moreno. “Have I understood correctly? You’ve hired a cleaning lady?”
Carlos was embarrassed now. “You had more or less promised her, Don John.”
“Can we afford it?” Allmen asked. He couldn’t recall ever having asked that question before.
“Certainly, if we conclude this case successfully,” Carlos observed slyly.
Allmen attempted to take the siesta he had missed. But he couldn’t sleep. He tried to read, but his mind was going around in circles. Finally he sat by the window and stared out at the sea. That didn’t help either. It lay there like an unsolved riddle.
When Allmen got to the dining room that evening, Sokolov was already sitting at his table in the opposite corner. They waved to each other, and each ate alone.
Sokolov’s reticence was not wholly inconvenient. Vanessa was in the dining room. She was sitting just a few tables away, giving Allmen occasional furtive glances. If he had been eating with his beach acquaintance yet again, she might have come to the wrong conclusion.
But when Sokolov finished his food and indicated with a gesture that he would wait for him at the bar, Allmen nodded dutifully.
Soon after the Russian, Vanessa and her companion also got up. She looked over at him, and he nodded to them. Only her companion nodded back.
Allmen finished his meal too, and asked the waiter to take his open bottle of Bordeaux to the bar.
It was loud and full there. A luxury liner had dropped anchor and a group of passengers had used their shore leave to drink in a different bar for a change. They were mostly well-heeled, retired couples with tanned faces and coiffured hair.
Sokolov was sitting at the far end of the bar and waved Allmen over. His Bordeaux was already there.
“Thanks for coming,” Sokolov said. He smiled and raised his glass to Allmen.
“Just a nightcap,” Allmen replied. “I’d like to get an early night.”
“That won’t be easy,” Sokolov noted. “There will be fireworks. In honor of the cruise liner.”
They looked out at the ship from their seats. Tall and slender by the side of the long jetty in the sunset. All its windows and portholes were lit, its rigging, railings, and vital contours adorned with garlands of lights.
“Shall we watch the fireworks together? My room has a little bay window looking out at the sea.”
The situation was starting to become uncomfortable to Allmen. He recognized the tone of voice, and the way Sokolov was looking at him, from his time at boarding school. This time too he extricated himself politely, without fuss, at the earliest opportunity.
“Pity,” Sokolov said. “Such a beautiful evening.”
33
It was just before ten when Allmen reached his suite. He called room service and ordered another bottle of the same Bordeaux. He’d left the rest of the last one at the bar.
He dimmed the lights in his salon and sat down at his panorama window.
Now it was night. With its brilliant lights, the ship exuded festivity. Allmen opened one of the French windows. In the distance, music could be heard, a big band playing “In the Mood.” He was overcome yet again by the emotion he felt seeing passenger ships: drawn irresistibly aboard. Although he knew that once aboard, he would be drawn irresistibly ashore.
There was a knock. Allmen opened the door to let the room waiter in.
But it was Vanessa.
Standing in front of him in a large hotel robe, looking up with her teasing smile. “Can I come in?”
Allmen let her in.
She walked past him to the window and looked down at the ship. “Have you ever been on a cruise?”
“Many times.”
“I’ve only been once. I found it incredibly boring.”
“Me too. Every time.”
“Then why did you do it so often?”
“I’m incorrigible.”
“Are you still incorrigible?”
“Not in that instance.”
Her green eyes scrutinized him. “But in others?”
Allmen nodded.
She put her arms round his neck and kissed him decisively. Suddenly she let go and said, as if she owed him an explanation, “I’m going for a nighttime swim in a minute. I can’t go swimming in fine weather; my skin can’t handle the sun.”
And as if giving him the chance to decide for himself about her skin’s sensitivity to sunlight, she opened her bathrobe, slipped it over her shoulders, and let it drop.
Allmen ran his hands down her white body and kissed her.
There was a knock.
Vanessa pushed him away and bent down for her robe.
“Just the room waiter,” Allmen whispered.
She kissed her index finger, pressed it to his lips and disappeared into the bedroom.
Allmen opened the door for the waiter, took the wine, and gave him his tip. By the time he’d closed the door and turned round, Vanessa was standing in front of him again. Still naked.
He kissed her again.
And there was another knock.
“Now what?” Allmen shouted crossly.
But it wasn’t the room waiter this time.
“It’s me, Artyom,” a soft voice said.
Vanessa bent down for her robe.
“I’m not free now,” Allmen said.
But Vanessa gave him a pat on the backside and said, half wistful, half cheeky, “My husband was right about you two after all.”
She opened the door and walked past an aghast Sokolov.
“Have a lovely evening,” Allmen heard her add.
Sokolov regained his composure. “Sorry. I’m an asshole. Sorry.”
He turned and left. Allmen watched the sad figure till it vanished at the end of the corridor.
He closed the door, opened the bottle, poured himself a glass, sat at the window and looked out at the sea.
Soon he saw a white figure walk onto the beach. She threw off her bathrobe and walked with outspread arms into the sea, swam a few strokes, and emerged again, pulling on her robe, the hood over her head. As she hurried back to the hotel, she rubbed herself dry with the toweling robe.
The night swimmer had ensured her alibi.
Allmen was still awake, the bottle almost empty, when a loud noise broke his thoughts and made him jump. Four jets of light shot into the sky, then dispersed into balls of fire, drizzling a shower of colored light down on the dark surface of the sea.
At the end of the fireworks display the liner expressed its appreciation with three deep notes from its siren. Then he heard the passengers’ applause.
Allmen was sad he wasn’t one of them.
34
When Allmen entered the breakfast room next morning, neither Sokolov nor Vanessa were among the guests. Nor did they appear during his breakfast.
By the time he’d finished his second macchiato—oh how he missed Gianfranco’s lattes at the Viennois—he was the last guest. He signed for his extras and left a suitable tip for the waiter’s patience.
At the door, the friendly receptionist approached him. “The time has come, Herr von Allmen. Tomorrow suite 214 will be free. If you’re still interested we can do the changeover anytime after 3:00 p.m.”
Allmen thanked her. He was looking forward to the bay window, he claimed. He returned to his room, sat at the desk, and considered the situation—he told himself his thinking was more structured sitt
ing at a desk.
If Sokolov really was moving on, he had little chance of staying on his tail. If last night’s incident was the reason for Sokolov’s sudden change of plan, he could see no chance of deterring him. Allmen was thoroughly straight.
But perhaps Sokolov had other reasons for departing. Perhaps he’d had a message from a contact person. Perhaps the Russian he’d talked to in the pool hadn’t just been some fellow countryman he’d met by chance. Perhaps he’d been called to a meeting. Perhaps the diamond had been sold, and the wait for the big money was over. Or had Sokolov simply noticed he was being shadowed and now wanted to escape?
He had to find out what Sokolov was planning. He had to find out where he was going and who he was in contact with.
He had to get into his suite.
Allmen dialed Sokolov’s room number. No one answered. He got up, put swimming trunks and bathrobe on, packed his beach basket, and went on the hunt.
It was a pleasant, somewhat windy day. Clouds as white as the hotel floated like swans over the blue sky. Light and shade alternated at a relaxing pace. A super beach day, ideal for people with sensitive skin.
He wasn’t on the beach. “Has Herr Sokolov already left, or not yet arrived?” he asked the beach attendant, who had seen him coming and was busy preparing Allmen’s chair.
“I’ll ask. I’ve just come on shift.”
The beach attendant took his time. When he finally returned, it was in the company of Vanessa and her husband. He took the cover off their chair. And suddenly, as if he’d only just remembered Allmen’s question, he called over, “Herr Sokolov hasn’t been here yet today.”
“Thanks,” Allmen murmured.
“No problem!” the beach attendant yelled.
The hint of a sardonic smile hung on Vanessa’s lips.
Allmen nodded over to her and continued on his search.
If Sokolov felt anything like he did after that strange night, he was probably hungover. “Sometimes what helps me is the sauna,” he had said.
35
The relaxation room was empty. The same meditation music, the same meaningful, shifting colors from the LED lights, the aroma of essential oils.
None of the loungers seemed occupied; there were no towels or bathrobes on any of them.
Allmen went to the corridor leading to the pool area. Before he got there, he met Sokolov coming toward him.
“I ruined your night. I’m sorry. Izvini.”
“Forget it.”
There was an embarrassed silence.
“Do you want to come in the sauna?” Sokolov asked.
“I’ll lie down there. And when you’re finished, we can go to the pool bar and rehydrate.”
They went to the relaxation room, Sokolov put his things on a lounger, and Allmen settled on the next one.
No sooner had Sokolov disappeared into the sauna than Allmen felt inside the pockets of his bathrobe. In the right one was a phone, in the left the keycard. Allmen took it.
The two Brits were sitting at the pool bar. One was just signing the bill, the other stood next to him, waiting.
If they’d had designs on Sokolov’s keycard, they were too late, Allmen thought.
The second-floor corridor was empty except for a cleaning trolley, outside room 198. As he passed, Allmen stole a pair of disposable gloves and stuffed them into his bathrobe pocket.
When he reached 214 he knocked and waited. Nothing.
He knocked again. Still no one came to the door. Allmen put the gloves on and slid the card through the reader. The lock clicked. The door was open.
He switched the “Do Not Disturb” sign from the inside handle to the outside and entered the suite. It was the same as his in reverse. Aside from the bay window in question, the rooms were identical.
The room hadn’t yet been made up. The bed was in disarray and there was chaos all around.
Clothes and underwear were strewn across the sheets, undoubtedly flung aside as Sokolov got ready for the sauna. In the bathroom a used towel hung from the faucet of the second basin. The faucet on the other wasn’t fully closed.
Through an open wardrobe door he could see the two suits Sokolov had worn in rotation. Two shirts also hung on hangers. On the recamier were shopping bags from a department store in Rostock. Alongside them, three shirts still in their packaging. And four brand new ties, each more hideous than the next.
The safe was in the same cupboard as in his suite, surrounded by both clean and dirty laundry, and the moldy remains of the bowl of fruit the hotel provided each weekend.
Allmen’s faint hope that Sokolov had forgotten to lock his safe proved optimistic.
There was nothing hidden among the clothes, nor in the shoes.
Allmen considered where he hid things in hotel rooms himself. His empty luggage occurred to him, the toilet tank, the gaps between sofa and armchair cushions.
Suddenly he heard women’s voices from the corridor. They grew louder as they reached the door. Allmen stood stock-still. But then he heard the voices grow quieter again.
He’d been gone fifteen minutes already.
In the bathroom was a toiletries bag, in the side pocket, along with a roll of floss, a small jewelry box.
Allmen’s heart missed a beat. He flipped the little lid of the case open. It contained a pair of gold cufflinks with the initials A. S.
He put it back, went into the bedroom, and looked around.
The clothes on the bed! The pants!
In the right pocket was Sokolov’s wallet. Alongside receipts, business cards, scraps of paper, and a few hundred euro were three credit cards.
Allmen took them to the safe and slid the magnetic strip on the first card through the reader.
With a soft beep, the lock opened.
The cupboard lights fell on Sokolov’s laptop. Allmen took it out. Under it was a bunch of keys, a passport, a small wad of five hundred euro notes, and some car keys.
No diamond. The only pink thing was a small USB flash drive.
Allmen took the flash drive, the laptop, and, given Montgomery’s attitude to payment, five of the new, stiff five hundred notes. He locked the safe, returned the credit card to the wallet, the wallet to the pants pocket, opened the door a crack, ensured the coast was clear, and walked to his suite.
He couldn’t use his own safe. For that he would have needed a credit card. He placed his haul in a drawer where he kept his own valuables, as he did in all hotels—nothing had ever gone missing—and rushed back to the sauna.
36
The relaxation room had ceased to be relaxing. Spa staff in uniforms were running around with earnest expressions on their faces. Groups of guests in swimsuits and bathrobes stood in clusters talking excitedly in lowered voices.
“What’s happened?” Allmen asked a bulky man he’d talked to in the dining room.
“Someone’s drowned,” he explained, “in the plunge pool. Some people’s circulation can’t handle the extreme temperature changes.”
Allmen walked toward the door to the cool room. A massage therapist who had once massaged him blocked his way. “I’m afraid you’re not allowed through here, Herr Allmen.”
He looked over her shoulder. Several spa staff were kneeling over a body. Allmen could only see a long, white leg.
“Is that …?”
“I’m afraid so, yes. It’s Herr Sokolov.”
Allmen was rooted to the spot. He stared over at the group of assistants. And at Sokolov’s long, thin leg.
It was only when the ambulance crew and emergency doctor needed to pass him that he regained movement.
Slowly, numbed, he walked toward the exit. By the pool he remembered Sokolov’s keycard. He returned and sat down on Sokolov’s lounger, as if in shock. He was so convincing the massage therapist soon came over after to ask if everything was okay.
“I’ll be alright,” Allmen said, and the therapist returned to her post.
As he got up, he slid Sokolov’s card back into the bathrobe.
PART 3
37
The rain beat down on the beach chair canopy. The drops made tiny hollows in the fine sand. The flat stones were washed clean and shone like gemstones. From time to time a gull screeched, echoing its own sad cry then letting it die away.
From the spa Allmen had gone straight to his room and tried to call Carlos. Maria Moreno had answered yet again, and informed him that Señor de Leon was busy.
“It is very, very urgent,” he insisted impatiently.
“He’s over in the villa. A burst pipe. Please try again later.”
Allmen opened the drawer that held his valuables. He took the laptop out and looked around the suite.
Over the desk hung an oil painting, a flower study of dubious quality in a heavy gold frame. He pulled it away from the wall slightly, placed the laptop upright within the stretcher on the backside of the frame, and carefully replaced it.
Then he tried to call Carlos again, this time with success.
“Carlos, they’ve killed Sokolov.”
There was silence for a moment. Then Carlos asked, “Who?”
“The Brits, I think. Drowned in the plunge pool at the sauna. I saw them close by just before it happened.”
Another short silence before Carlos said, “So they got there before us again.”
“Not entirely, Carlos.” Allmen told him about the laptop.
“Come home as soon as you can, Don John.”
He had only just put the phone down when it rang again. It was reception. They were sorry but suite 214 would not be available just yet after all. The police needed to carry out an investigation first.
That was absolutely fine, Allmen said, and apologized himself as his plans had also changed and he would not now be needing either that suite or his current suite. He asked them to arrange a flight for the next day, to book the limousine and prepare the invoice.
Then he went to the beach.
Only a few days ago he had sat next to Sokolov here. “That’s my career goal too,” he’d said, when Allmen explained he was a man of leisure. And now, just before achieving it, he had died.
Allmen felt melancholy. And the sense of departure he always felt leaving a hotel wasn’t helping. The knowledge that the rooms that had been his home for a few days would soon be occupied by other people was, as ever, a reminder of the transience of existence. The constant coming and going of guests and seasons was what he loved about hotels, and why he always felt wistful on leaving.