by Martin Suter
The weather had turned. Here and there the afternoon sun slipped through a chink between long clouds the color of the sea, gray splashed with spumes of white. A few of the chairs were occupied. At the beach bar the first guests had sat down.
38
Beyond the washed-up seaweed, yesterday’s sandcastles trickled to ruins in the east wind.
Allmen went for one last walk along the beach. His suitcases stood packed in his suite. His anthracite-gray suit was the only thing hanging in the wardrobe. In two hours the limousine would be waiting for him.
Last night the atmosphere in the dining room had been subdued. The guests were either in shock after the fatal accident or felt required out of decency to exercise a certain restraint. At his corner table Allmen felt like a widower, subject to furtive glances and whispers from other guests. Vanessa actually went as far as offering her sympathies.
She got up suddenly from her table, crossed the room, offered her hand, placed the other on his shoulder, and said, “My heartfelt condolences. It must be terrible for you.”
Allmen stood up and replied, “I barely knew him really,” feeling strangely guilty about this posthumous distancing.
Afterward she returned to her table. Judging by his facial expression, her husband had said something unfriendly. She put her cutlery down; he continued eating.
After supper Allmen had drunk a couple of vodkas with the barman in Sokolov’s memory, then gone to his room to start packing.
Now the hotel was full of police officers, questioning the guests. Allmen’s first impulse was to approach them and tell them about the Brits. But then he changed his mind. He didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to himself. If he were asked, he would mention them. If not, he would try to leave discreetly.
Now he had left the hotel’s private beach and entered the public stretch. The beach chairs here were colorful and individualistic, like the huts in a colony of dachas.
A voice behind him called out, “Herr von Allmen, excuse me.” It sounded out of breath.
Allmen turned. The voice belonged to a young, slightly overweight man with short blond hair. He held up a police ID and offered his hand.
“Krille. We heard you are leaving and wanted to ask a few questions,” he explained. “Otherwise I wouldn’t interrupt your stroll on the beach. Shall we walk on?”
They continued walking together.
“You were a friend of Herr Sokolov?”
“We ate together twice, had a drink at the bar once, and visited the spa together once,” Allmen corrected him.
“Nothing more?”
Allmen stopped and looked at Krille. It wasn’t hard to guess what was meant by his question.
“Whatever anyone has told you, I did not have a relationship with Sokolov. Not with him or with any man ever.”
Krille took this on board without comment. “What were you doing at the time of the … er … incident in the sauna.”
“The relaxation room is perfect for reading and resting. You don’t get disturbed by noisy children.”
Krille scribbled something in his tiny notebook. Allmen surprised him with a question: “Are you working on the assumption this was an accident?”
The officer scrutinized him. “Did you notice anything that might suggest otherwise?”
Allmen described both his sightings of the Brits, that they had followed Sokolov from the beach. That he had surprised one of them prowling around Sokolov’s lounger.
“Would you be prepared to make a statement to that effect?”
“If it doesn’t cause me to miss my flight.”
Krille halted. “Then we’d better head back. You will be picked up in under two hours.”
The man had been informed in detail about Allmen’s plans.
They walked past the randomly arrayed beach chairs back to the orderly ones.
“We inquired which of the guests were leaving ahead of schedule. You were the only one. Apart from the two British men. They checked out yesterday.”
Allmen stopped still. “I saw one of them in the relaxation room after it happened. There were several witnesses.”
Krille nodded. “I know.”
Allmen braced himself for the sentence, you were there more than once, however. What the investigator said instead was not much better: “Do you know anything about the laptop?”
“The laptop?”
“Sokolov was often seen with a laptop. We haven’t found it yet.”
An intuition made Allmen reply, “That’s strange; Herr Sokolov always had it on him.”
“Even in the sauna?”
Allmen shook his head. “In the relaxation room. On the occasion I was with him there, when he went into the sauna he left the laptop in the relaxation room.”
“Just lying around?”
“No, in his beach bag, covered by a bathrobe.”
“So someone could have stolen the laptop in the relaxation room.”
“Easily. Why is it so important?”
“Because it’s gone.”
Allmen looked at him in surprise. “Yes, of course.”
“One more question, Herr von Allmen. Where were you before you went to the sauna?”
“On the beach.”
“And you went straight from there to the sauna?”
“Straight there. There are witnesses to that.”
The investigator nodded. “Indeed.”
“Why do you ask then?”
“Just procedure. Someone searched Sokolov’s room.”
Anyone leading a life like Allmen’s learns not to let their face go red or white. This time too he succeeded.
“Searched doesn’t quite do it justice,” Krille observed. “Turned it upside down.” And after a few steps he added. “Broke in and ransacked it, in extreme haste.”
Allmen succeeded in hiding his relief.
They had almost reached the hotel. “One final request,” Krille said. “This is a little unorthodox, but given the tight timeframe …”
“Ask away.”
“We don’t have a search warrant, but in this case it would be granted within a few hours. Would you mind if my colleague took a quick look in your luggage before we get the paperwork, while we record your statement? Otherwise your departure might be delayed.”
Again, Allmen’s experience of delicate situations stood him in good stead. “Just be quick about it,” was his only comment.
The investigator called a colleague and sent him to Allmen’s suite. Then they walked to the hotel in silence.
39
With all the calm he could muster Allmen sat in the armchair by the window and gave his statement while Krille typed it into his laptop and another officer searched his luggage. This consisted of a matching set, now rather worn, which he’d had made in better times at the Louis Vuitton workshop in Asnières, in neutral black, not with Louis Vuitton’s initials but with J. F. v. A.
As the officer began searching, he said, “Please do it in a way that I can still get the suitcases shut. I don’t have time to repack.”
The man took a lot of care, he had to admit. Disdainful but impressed, his expression suggested he had never handled luggage like this. Everything had its place. The toiletries were in the toiletries box, the ties in the tie case, the shirts in the shirt carrier; everything detachable and fitting neatly together. Even the dirty laundry had its own bag, of soft leather.
For shoes there was a separate, flat case and for the suits a large one, which folded out into a little wardrobe.
At one point the officer said, “But you can’t check all this in.”
“Why not?” Allmen asked, perplexed.
“It would cost a fortune in excess baggage.”
“Oh, I see. Well, yes.”
The final piece was a little larger than a briefcase—Allmen’s entertainment case, with space for around twenty books, two Bluetooth speakers, and an iPod loaded with operas, symphonies, rock, folk, and jazz—depending on his mood.
The
officer carefully emptied the case. As he began refilling it, he noticed two loops on the bottom, left and right.
“Does this open?”
Allmen nodded.
The man pulled the loops, the base opened up and revealed—a backgammon board. A separate case held the pieces, and in another were playing cards for bridge, poker, skat, and jass.
Allmen helped him close the cases and the officer took a last look in the wardrobes and drawers.
“If you would excuse me for a moment. I just have to change.”
Krille thanked Allmen for his patience and understanding, and the two men said goodbye. Allmen changed into his suit and packed the clothes he’d been wearing.
Then he cautiously removed the flower painting above the desk from the wall and retrieved the laptop. He took the backgammon board from the base of the entertainment case, unfolded it, hid the little computer in the hollow space inside, and stowed it back in the base of the bag.
He informed the reception desk that his luggage was ready to be collected and went downstairs to the lobby.
The charming receptionist was on duty. He slid one of Sokolov’s five hundred notes over the desk toward her and thanked her for taking good care of him.
He skimmed the invoice—with all the extras, it came to somewhere over fourteen thousand euro—and signed it.
“You have my address,” he said casually, and shook the receptionist’s hand. “Ah, and while I think of it: address the letter to F. A. O. Herr Carlos de Leon, my personal assistant. Otherwise it may go astray.”
The chauffeur drove the Bentley faster this time as they were running late.
But the hotel had informed the airport. The check-in desk was kept open longer for Herr von Allmen.
40
Saturday was a good day to come home. Carlos had the whole day off and could give him a decent welcome.
While Herr Arnold unpacked the luggage from the trunk of the Cadillac, Allmen pressed the bell beneath the brass plaque with his initials.
Shortly afterward, Carlos appeared with a handcart dating back to the villa’s first owner.
“Muy buenas tardes,” he wished his patrón, “bienvenido.” He loaded up the luggage.
Meanwhile Allmen remunerated Herr Arnold appropriately.
Carlos went ahead down the flagstone path, the cart rattling, till just before the carved wooden door to the villa, then turned left around the box tree and wound his way through the rhododendrons and azaleas to the tiny gardener’s cottage.
It was high summer, late afternoon, and the mature species trees offered a cool, pleasant shade. Carlos had made tea, which he served in the library, along with his inimitable nachos with guacamole and frijoles. While Allmen drank some tea, Carlos unpacked the cases.
Then he returned to the library, poured more tea, and waited, as ever, for Allmen’s invitation to join him. Only then did he sit down.
“You found the laptop, right?”
“Yes, Don John.” He laughed. “Good hiding place.”
Allmen invited Carlos to help himself to the snacks. Carlos thanked him and took one.
“I told the police about the Brits,” Allmen said. “They left that same day.”
“And about the Americans?”
“I said nothing about them.”
Carlos didn’t ask why. Instead he revealed some surprising news. “Señor Montgomery transferred the money yesterday.”
Allmen acted as if he had expected no different.
“And he left a message. You are to call him urgently.”
Carlos passed him a telephone memo with Montgomery’s number and the time of the call. It wasn’t Carlos’s handwriting. Allmen looked inquiringly at him.
“Señorita Moreno. She took the call.”
“Have you hired her full time now?” Allmen was amused by Carlos’s awkwardness.
“No, no. But she is very efficient. A great help.”
“I see.”
Carlos cleared his throat. “Don John?”
“Diga!”
“When you talk to Montgomery, do you plan to mention the laptop?”
Allmen shook his head.
“Muy bien, Don John.” Carlos stood up. “If we have nothing else to discuss, then I’ll examine it.”
“Yes please, go ahead.”
“Could you write ‘pink diamond’ in Russian for me?” Carlos handed him a piece of paper. Allmen took his fountain pen and wrote the two words in Cyrillic script. Then Carlos left him alone.
Allmen called Montgomery’s number. He answered instantly. Allmen informed him about Sokolov’s death. Montgomery’s response was businesslike. He didn’t wish to know any details and didn’t ask about the circumstances. It was as if all he was hearing was the official confirmation of information he had known for some while. Allmen’s suspicion that the two Brits were Montgomery’s men was lent further credence.
“We’re on target,” he said simply.
“Could you be a tad more specific?” Montgomery sounded cross.
“Not on the telephone.”
“Then in person, in London. When?”
Allmen proposed waiting till tomorrow to see how the investigation had progressed, then coming up with some possible meeting times. Montgomery agreed and hung up.
Allmen put the memo with the phone number in the outside pocket of his suit. There he found the pink flash drive from Sokolov’s safe. He put it in one of the many drawers in his bureau, sat down at the piano, and relaxed with a little Cole Porter.
41
Meanwhile Carlos was sitting at the little desk in his garret with Sokolov’s laptop.
A wonderful device, no comparison with his old thing. The tiny computer was crammed with software. Mostly programs Carlos had only heard of, at best, special tools for programmers. But there were also lots of useful things, out of Carlos’s price range, for image manipulation, design, text, music, and so on.
Carlos began searching the hard disk.
The calendar was empty. Either wiped or never used. The address book contained 130 addresses in Cyrillic script.
Carlos searched for the word “pink” in English, German, and Russian, in vain. There were no results for “diamond” in any of the languages either.
Sokolov’s inbox didn’t seem to have been emptied for years. Carlos found messages going back to 2007. Most were in Cyrillic script. But there were a few German and English ones. Carlos had picked up English from the tourists as a little shoeshine boy. He had spoken German ever since living in Switzerland. So he could easily have read and understood the messages if they hadn’t been technical discussions, which most were. They were full of expressions that meant nothing to him.
Here too, there were no hits in the search for “pink diamond” in the three languages.
He had no choice then but to open each email individually and read the German and English ones. For the last eight months alone there were nearly three thousand received and sent messages. Most of the English ones were about business. Sokolov rarely mixed his work with his private life. He had had one extremely private relationship with a certain Günther, with whom he had corresponded in very racy German. The only business relationship that was also personal was with someone from New York called Paul La Route. One of the emails referred to an evening in which they had clearly had a lot to drink. Another included a photo of the villa in Spätbergstrasse and an invitation to La Route to come there when he was next in Zurich.
Carlos worked back as far as April. Then he switched the laptop off. He packed it in two plastic bags, secured them with wide packing tape, attached a long rope to the package, and took it to his bedroom, where the attic window faced away from the villa. It was night now. Carlos climbed out onto the roof. Even as a boy he had earned a bit of money from the gringos climbing high into the crowns of their trees with a machete to prune them and free them of mistletoe. He had no fear of heights.
He climbed up the snow guards to the chimney, pushed the package inside, and l
et it down a few yards. He tied the string and climbed back down to his bedroom window.
Allmen had stopped playing the piano, but Carlos could still hear him puttering around. He went downstairs and gave him the bad news that he had found nothing.
42
Viennois was almost empty. Several of the habitués were on vacation and the tourists, who at this time of year typically competed with the remaining 10:00 a.m. guests for their regular tables, were sitting at the tables outside. It was a lovely summer’s day.
Allmen’s mood was low. Sokolov’s death had really sunk in. The suspicion that his client Montgomery was involved unnerved him, and Viennois reminded him of another worry, the mysterious American who looked like Martin Sheen.
Gianfranco brought his second coffee and a croissant. Shaking his head he exclaimed, “Quarantacinque milioni per un anello, Signor Conte!” Forty-five million for a ring, Count Allmen!
Allmen looked at him in surprise. Gianfranco pointed to an article in the newspaper in front of his guest. Allmen hadn’t noticed it yet.
The piece took up a quarter of a page. The headline read, “The Pink Diamond Comes Out.” Beneath it was a smiling Asian lady wearing a red bridal dress. She was holding up her left hand, on which she wore a large solitaire.
“Li Hua Jiao, daughter of major Chinese investor Zhang Wei Linh, and her wedding present,” the caption read.
The article explained that the buyer of the pink diamond, which had achieved the record price of over forty-five million francs at Murphy’s Swiss auction house, had only remained anonymous because he wished to surprise his daughter with it at her wedding. He was the Chinese multi-millionaire Zhang Wei Linh, whose daughter Hua Jiao had married the Chinese pop star Li Feng Hu last weekend.
43
Carlos was wearing his waiter’s jacket with black trousers and a tie, something he rarely did on weekdays, with such a short lunch break. But when Allmen caught the smell of coq au vin—one of his favorite dishes—he realized Carlos had found out.