by Martin Suter
He went to the library and sat in his reading chair. Carlos served him a sherry.
Allmen drank half the glass and looked at him, baffled. “Can you comprehend it?”
Carlos shook his head.
“Why would he hire us to look for something that never disappeared?”
“Perhaps the diamond did disappear, but someone else found it.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I’m not sure, Don John.”
Allmen finished his sherry and, atypically, requested a second. Carlos poured it.
Allmen took it and pondered. “The bride was wearing the diamond on her finger the day after Sokolov died. Perhaps they got Sokolov to talk before they drowned him.”
Carlos repeated, “I’m not sure, Don John.” He excused himself; the food would be ready in a moment.
Allmen took his sherry, went to the cramped, over-furnished living-dining room, and sat at the table, set for a special occasion.
Carlos brought in the salad, grown by him on the tiny vegetable plot in the less shady area of the garden. The various salad leaves were drizzled with a lemon, macadamia oil, and herb dressing, layered into a little mound, and decorated with tomatoes steeped in olive oil.
Allmen made no comment on the tiny work of art. Instead he said, “When I talked to Montgomery on Saturday, the bride already had the pink diamond.”
“She probably did, Don John.”
Allmen ate, not paying the food the attention it deserved.
“Why didn’t he tell me that? Do you have any explanation, Carlos?”
“Two possibilities, Don John. Either the diamond never disappeared. Or Montgomery didn’t know it had been found because the two Brits were working for the Chinese.”
“And what would Montgomery’s role have been then?”
“Maybe he was used. Like us, Don John.”
Carlos cleared the plate and brought the main course. The chicken flesh was dark red and falling from the bones. The polenta was drenched in a thick wine sauce with diced bacon and pearl onions swimming in it. And yet Allmen had to force himself to finish his plate.
“Carlos?” Allmen asked, when he looked in for the third time to see if he could clear the table.
“Qué manda, Don John?”
“Did Sokolov have nothing to do with the pink diamond then?”
“I think he did, Don John.”
“Yes?”
Carlos nodded. “But the pink diamond is not what we think it is.”
44
Allmen tried time after time to get Montgomery on the phone until, soon after ten, he gave up. He put Brahms’s Variations on a Theme by Haydn on, with Harnoncourt and the Berlin Philharmonic, and attempted to read.
A sudden smashing of glass, loud like an explosion. Allmen leaped out of the chair but was grabbed from behind. A hand stifled him and everything went black.
A sharp pain shot through his left and then his right arm. He was pushed roughly onto the chair.
The next thing he knew he was sitting, breathing heavily, in his reading chair. His arms were tied tightly behind his back, shoulders, elbows, and wrists a mass of pain.
Now he heard noises from the vestibule, the sound of a scuffle.
“Hijo de puta!” Carlos’s voice cried.
An Englishman’s voice: “Jack! Over here!”
The man standing behind Allmen ran off. Now he saw him for the first time: black t-shirt, jeans, black stocking over his head. He vanished through the door to the living-dining room, knocking something over. It sounded like the little house bar.
The noise of fighting continued. Carlos again, with “Hijos de puta!” A blow that sounded like a fist on a sandbag, then silence, just the sound of panting.
Two men entered the library, holding Carlos by his arms and legs like a slain deer. They dropped him on the kilim rug, just within Allmen’s field of view. Carlos’s eyes and mouth were half open and he was bleeding from his nose.
One of the two crouched in front of Allmen and looked at him. He was dressed in black too, but his stocking was brown. His right eye was swollen half shut. Most likely Carlos’s work.
He opened his hand. “You give it to me, and we’ll be gone.” He spoke with a London accent.
“What?” Allmen spluttered.
“What Sokolov had. And you’ve got now. It doesn’t belong to either of you.”
Carlos groaned. The other man kicked him.
“Can’t you see what pain he’s in!” Allmen shouted at him.
The man gave Carlos another kick.
The first man held his hand out, more demanding.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Carlos received another kick.
“Stop that!”
Another kick.
Allmen had lost all feeling in his hands and could feel the numbness creeping up his arms. Carlos was bleeding and had stopped groaning, which Allmen took as a bad sign. He gave up. He pointed to the bureau with his chin. “There. In one of the drawers.”
Carlos groaned loudly, and received another kick.
The Londoner walked toward the bureau. “Which one?”
Allmen sighed. “I can’t remember.”
The man pulled out the first of the tiny veneered drawers, tipped it out onto the desktop, and sifted through the contents. The other man joined him to help.
Behind the two, Allmen suddenly saw two other men emerge from the next room. They were holding pistols and signaled for him to keep quiet.
Another drawer was turned out.
“Freeze!” one of the armed men said. Then, “Down!”
In a few seconds the two Londoners were lying handcuffed on their stomachs. Each move was perfect, as if all four had choreographed the arrest.
45
As soon as the two Brits were lying, tied up, on their stomachs, Carlos pulled himself to his feet. He was wearing a pair of Allmen’s old pajamas, altered to fit him, and wiped the blood from his nose with the sleeve. He went over to the man with the black stocking and gave him a kick. “Uno,” he counted. And then four more: “Dos, tres, cuatro, cinco. Five times, hijo de puta.”
One of their rescuers was talking quietly on the telephone, the other helped Allmen out of the armchair and cut the cable ties he was bound with.
Allmen lifted his numbed hands and looked at his wrists. The plastic had cut deep. In a few places his skin was broken and bleeding.
“Are you alright?” the first rescuer asked. Clearly an American.
“I’m fine,” Allmen stated. He wanted to take his dress handkerchief from his breast pocket to offer to Carlos, but he was having trouble controlling his hands.
Carlos saw what he intended and deterred him with a wave. Ultimately he was the one responsible for washing and ironing. He left the library. He returned right away holding a bundle of paper towels to his nose.
Now the Americans had turned the intruders on their backs and removed their masks.
They were the two Brits from the Grand Duc.
The other rescuer had finished his telephone conversation and returned to the library. It was the man who resembled Martin Sheen. He offered his hand.
Allmen attempted to shake it, without success. “No feeling,” he explained.
The American took Allmen’s limp hand and shook it. “Bob,” he introduced himself. “And this is Joey.”
“Hi!” his partner called, without letting the two Brits out of his sight.
Allmen introduced Carlos, still standing with his head tipped back and paper towel against his nose.
“Are you alright?” Bob now asked Carlos.
He answered with a brave, “Sí, señor.”
“Thank you for the assistance. How did you know what was going on here?” Allmen asked.
“We have been—how can I put it?—protecting you.”
“On whose behalf?”
“On behalf of someone who owns something that you have.”
“The same thing these
two wanted?” Allmen pointed to the bound men.
“Same thing.”
“And who are they working for?”
“The competition.” Bob’s cellphone rang. He answered, said “Okay,” and ended the call. “They’re here,” he said briefly to the other man. He nodded and left.
Bob went over to the bureau and began searching.
“And what is this thing everyone wants?” Allmen asked.
“This.” Bob had found Sokolov’s pink flash drive and held it up.
The other American returned, accompanied by three men. They greeted Bob like a friend and nodded swiftly to Allmen and Carlos. Two of them helped the Brits to their feet and led them away.
The third briefly held an official-looking ID under Allmen’s nose and said in Swiss German, “We’ll be in contact.” He said goodbye and followed his colleagues.
Allmen looked at Bob. “Who were they?”
“Your federal police. How did you come into possession of this?” Bob held out the flash drive.
Allmen improvised. “Sokolov gave it to me. I was supposed to look after it for him.”
“And what about his laptop?”
“I thought the two Brits had stolen it.”
“That’s what the German police think too.” The American put the storage device in his pants pocket and started to leave.
“One more question, Bob,” Allmen said. “How did you find your way to the Grand Duc?”
“We were tailing the Brits.”
“And how did they find their way there?”
“They were tailing you.”
“But why were you in Café Viennois that time?”
“Because the Brits were there.”
As Bob said goodbye, the feeling returned to Allmen’s hands again. And with it the pain of the incisions.
Carlos’s nose had stopped bleeding and he accompanied the Americans to the door. He returned with a brush and pan and started sweeping up the broken glass.
“Do you know how the Brits found us, Carlos?”
“Sí, Don John: Señor Montgomery.”
“And what do you think is on the little flash drive?”
“I don’t know, Don John. But that is the pink diamond.”
46
Despite the warm weather, Allmen felt forced to hide the marks from the cable ties under heavy double cuffs. Even at these temperatures, he never committed the sartorial sin of wearing short sleeves under a jacket. But he did resort normally to light summer shirts with simple cuffs and plain mother-of-pearl buttons.
For Carlos it was even harder. The evidence of the fight was on his face. Glowing in a spectrum of colors, his eye was so conspicuous he didn’t dare go out on the street. An illegal immigrant needed to be as unobtrusive as possible.
The problem was groceries. For the first time in his life, Carlos did the unthinkable. He asked his patrón to go shopping. He gave him a neat, clear shopping list, including a few everyday supplies: bread, cheese, butter, cream, beef cubes, a spring chicken, paper towels, and toilet paper. He wrote the name of the supermarket down, and sketched out where to find the various products.
Allmen remained unequal to the challenge. He failed to grasp the system for releasing the shopping carts, and once he’d learned it by watching a housewife, he found he didn’t have the requisite two-franc coin. He made do with a basket and set out on the hunt.
The first thing he found was the most embarrassing item, toilet paper. He noted the location, intending to return when he had a few more products as camouflage.
It took him a quarter of an hour to find them again. He took two rolls—the large family packs were too conspicuous—and covered them with the six frozen pizzas he had decided on instead of the items listed. He could eat out and Carlos could eat the pizzas, practical and less work, till he felt ready for the outside world again.
Allmen went to the checkout and paid in cash, amazed at how cheap it was. He nearly gave the cashier a tip out of habit.
In the supermarket parking lot Herr Arnold was waiting with the Cadillac, and stowed the incriminating purchases in the trunk.
Carlos took the groceries from him, stony faced. When Allmen began extolling the virtues of the ready-made pizzas, he answered with his “Cómo no, cómo no.” Then he went to the kitchen and stuffed the pizzas into the freezer.
The next time Allmen saw him was at teatime. He poured the tea in silence.
“I’m sorry, Carlos, I’m not made for all this domestic business. Why don’t you ask Maria Moreno to come and help more often till you’re back on your feet?”
“Because we can’t afford it, Don John. I don’t think we can expect any more money from Señor Montgomery.”
“We still have a little left. And there are bound to be some new jobs.”
47
But in the days that followed, no new jobs came. Late August granted them a last few fine days. Carlos’s beat-up face regained its familiar firm contours. And Allmen returned to his familiar rhythm, alternating between Viennois, siesta, Promenade, the Golden Bar, and the opera.
But in early September two atypical events occurred.
The first was a surprising encounter at the gardener’s cottage. Allmen, never an early bird but sometimes a nighthawk, came home shortly before six in the morning. After his dinner at Promenade he’d looked in at Süden, a new club whose recent opening he’d been taken to by a friendly drinking companion, and whose promoter had been so impressed by his manner and appearance he’d pressed a VIP card on him.
He’d had a drink, and another, both on the house, and just as he’d wanted to leave, he was detained by the arrival of Jasmin, a friend from the good times, and swept back to the bar. Later he accompanied her home and accepted her invitation for a good-night beer.
It was a brisk morning. There was dew on the lawn and a hint of fall in the air. Allmen was walking toward the gardener’s cottage, keyring in hand, when he saw two figures detaching themselves from each other at the half-open front door. The man was Carlos, the woman—Maria Moreno.
The two gentlemen were somewhat more embarrassed than the lady. She greeted Allmen unself-consciously, and after a few pleasantries, let Carlos accompany her to the garden gate.
The second significant occurrence was the visit by an officer of the Swiss federal police, a man in his mid-fifties, very polite and formal, with a very small notebook that he balanced on his knee while deftly taking down Allmen’s statement.
When he’d finished, Allmen asked, “Those two drowned Sokolov, didn’t they?”
The officer nodded.
“Do we know why?”
“They’re saying it was an accident. They were trying to get information from him by repeatedly pushing him under the water. He drowned in the process.”
“And you believe that?”
“Herr Sokolov must have fought very hard. He was covered in bruises and had traces under his fingernails matching that pair’s DNA.”
“What will happen to them?”
“They’ve been left in the hands of our German colleagues.”
“Do we know who they were working for?”
“We are working on a particular, specific assumption. I can’t say any more at this stage of the investigation.”
“A certain Herr Montgomery?”
The officer remained silent.
“And do we know who Montgomery was working for?”
The officer got up, handed Allmen his card and said, “If anything else occurs to you, please get in touch.”
Otherwise the days passed peacefully and without incident. Allmen International Inquiries shelved the pink diamond case. Allmen put all his creative energies back into feigning solvency. And Carlos began to worry about his decision to halve his hours for K, C, L & D Trust Company, worries that the fun-loving, optimistic Maria Moreno knew how to banish.
48
Since acquiring some savings, thanks to the commission on the dragonflies, Carlos had begun to take an interest in f
inancial issues. And this was how he came to read the following article in the business section of a weekly newspaper Allmen had read and discarded:
Hedge & Win under Investigation
The British hedge fund Hedge & Win may be behind the theft of the HFT software that a former employee of investment bank Brookfield Klein was carrying when arrested at Boston’s Logan International Airport, according to a statement from the New York District Attorney’s office, which is investigating the case.
The computer program is the result of many years’ work. The bank uses it to carry out high-frequency transactions. During the months prior to his arrest, the suspect, a Canadian named Paul La Route, former employee of Brookfield Klein, was in constant communication with the hedge fund.
Paul La Route? The name sounded familiar.
It was getting dark earlier now, and the moon was nearly new, so Carlos was able to climb the chimney without fear of being seen.
It was still mild and there was no wind. The villa stood in darkness; through the windows he saw the faint lights and flashing LEDs of office equipment. The large glass roof of the library was dimly lit. From the baby grand came the sound of the nocturne that Allmen played decently.
Carlos lifted the laptop carefully out of the chimney and climbed back down to his attic window.
There were thirteen emails to and from La Route. The first went, “Hi Artyom, back in NYC, still hungover but sober enough to make one thing clear—I meant it about the Vivid P project. I hope you did too. Cheers! Paul.”
The reply was from the same day: “Hi Paul, let’s go then! Artyom.”
La Route had answered straight back: “Great! You’ll be hearing from me. Paul.”
After ten days’ radio silence came the next message. It contained a link to a server and the information, “user: artyom, password: vividp33,” and the instructions to download the file before 5:00 p.m. New York time, save it straight to a flash drive then delete it from the hard disk. La Route would then delete it from the server.