by James Easton
He’d bloody well escaped. Robin worked hard to keep from smiling.
The tank was listening carefully to the report on the TV. She couldn’t follow the French and tried an English European news site on her phone.
ARMED ROBBER ESCAPES FROM PRISON
Notorious armed robber, Jean Haim, has broken out of the Lille-Sequedin prison in what is being described as a highly sophisticated operation that distracted guards with two helicopters as well as explosives planted outside the prison walls. Nobody was injured in the jailbreak, during the course of which several holdalls filled with charcuterie, cheese and wine from a high-end Parisian delicatessen were dropped into the exercise yard.
Robin was biting her lip.
She met the tank’s gaze. He looked happy and proud.
“Where? où?” she asked.
The motorbike rider stopped at a layby. Jean Haim climbed off the bike, got over the fence, and moved into a copse of trees. A man wearing jeans and a blue quilted shirt, like prison clothes, took Jean’s helmet from him, jumped the gate and got onto the bike. Jean heard it accelerate away.
The land was flat around the prison, with few trees. Jean had known these moments would be pressured. He’d expected the sirens wailing in the background over the drone of traffic on the wide highways. He changed his prison clothes for black jeans, a pullover, a grey winter jacket, left there for him in a waterproof holdall. The car pulled up. He climbed over the fence and into the back of the car. He turned and looked through the rear windscreen as they drove away. Another bike was there now, a moped, the rider collecting the holdall with his prison clothes in it.
He’d been free for seven minutes.
The rendezvous was off the road near the Canal de la Duelle and there he climbed into a waiting camper van. Inside, a barber cut Jean’s shoulder length hair very short, pushed forward and across. He had fake eyeglasses for him, and a suit, tailored to his size. They’d measured him for it in prison four months earlier. An overnight bag. A charcoal coloured winter jacket with nice gloves in the side pocket. ID card and passport inside. He’d called in many favours to get them.
A car pulled up. Jean changed places with the driver. He set the satnav for Morzine.
CHAPTER NINE
Carolina and Miguel had flown to Geneva then hired a car. Snow-dappled meadows were rolling past, and mountains were rising in front of them. It was expensive-looking country. Carolina would have been enjoying the drive if it were not for Miguel’s questions, pushing her into corners.
He said, “So was it you, at the Defence Ministry? I mean, you were involved in this incident?”
“Which incident?”
“The attack on the minister last year. The police shot two terrorists.”
“I can’t confirm or deny anything operational, Miguel. No cop will unless it’s something very boring.”
“It’s just witnesses in this article I read said it was not the uniform cop who shot them. He officially got the credit. But they said it was a woman in the crowd.” He looked her over. “About 167 centimetres tall. Who looked like a student.”
“I’m 165 centimetres, and I’m not a student.”
“You look like one. And with shoes you might be 167.”
Carolina had on a large pale grey sweater, a short canvas skirt, leggings and camper boots in black, with a khaki parka. It wasn’t anything like what she had worn at the ministry that day so she didn’t know about this student stuff in the press. And she was twenty-five. Too old to be studying, she felt. Though people had said she looked younger.
“The article said two headshots. One for each terrorist.” Miguel said. “And that this is very unusual. Very high level training.”
She laughed easily, like this meant nothing to her.
“Miguel. Let’s make a deal. You stop bothering me and I won’t tell your parents you were eavesdropping on them.”
She felt that hit the bottom of his stomach and swallowed a smile.
“I wasn’t…”
“That pen you try to roll over your knuckles is a laser mic. Made by your dad’s firm. You’ve turned a lovely shade of purple, by the way.”
Miguel snapped his gaze away from her, sulking fiercely.
“Now, with all respect to your parents, they don’t know what I may or may not have done. Anywhere, at any time. OK?”
Miguel laughed then and brandished his pen. Its casing was solid black polymer.. “How did you know this was a laser mic?”
“You carry the earpiece in your hip pocket, and it’s about the right size. Now, ask people questions like that, you’ll just get lied to. OK?”
He was quiet for a while. The flush drained away, and he looked at the road with a small smile on his face.
“You don’t like lying, do you?” he said. “My mum said you were regarded as very honest.”
That thing again, that Eva had mentioned. Her honesty. The English test.
“I don’t do it,” she said. “I don’t lie.”
“It isn’t possible for you never to lie. Everyone does.”
Carolina nodded at the view in front. “Look at it, it’s beautiful, no?”
Miguel hardly looked, letting his question hang there.
She shrugged. “Why would I lie?”
“Graham Greene said a kindly lie can be worth a thousand truths.”
Carolina looked over at him. “Who’s that?”
“An English author.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen. I did Graham Greene in my English literature class. When we lived in England.”
“You speak good English?”
“Of course. I am fluent. My Mum was in the Spanish embassy for a while, and my Dad’s company has a London office. I’ve been there a lot.”
Carolina nodded. “So, you met this Graham Greene when you were there?”
“He’s dead.”
Carolina swiftly returned to Miguel’s theory about honesty. “Well, what he said, that isn’t really what we mean by lying. Technically, OK, this is a lie. But if you do it to be nice, it isn’t lying.”
“So what’s lying? Being nasty?”
“Telling your parents that you snowboarded when you didn’t. Or you were injured when you weren’t.”
She could see he was a brainbox, trying to think his way around simple principles like some intel analysts sometimes did. Overthinking. And he was used to getting his own way, which made the tendency worse.
He surprised her with his next question. “Have you ever lied because you had to? Not just to be kind.”
Carolina pretended to think about it before saying, “Outside of my time in the security services, when we might use misinformation with an adversary, I’ve never had to.”
That was a lie.
She’d lied out of necessity two months ago. More than lie. She’d cheated. And time to fix it was running out.
Carolina’s mind went to the root of it all. Her mum’s call: “Carolina, I’m sorry love, we can’t pay the rent. Can you help? I’m so sorry.”
“Sí mamá, por supuesto.” Yes, mum, of course.
She had a little saved up in an investment account. She’d helped. What had spurred her actions subsequently in taking the London job was hearing her mum’s voice like that. Her dad hadn’t even been able to talk to her about it. But she could read the same thing in his eyes. He’d changed. Both of them had. Nothing was certain any more.
To steady herself, she looked at her left hand on the steering wheel. The scars reaching out of her sleeve.
A Black Peugeot GTI, an overpowered car, overtook her and slipped right, cutting her up before undercutting the car in front.
“Damn!” she said. “Who’s driving that crap?”
Robin King glanced in the rear-view mirror of her Peugeot GTI and saw a young dark-eyed woman glaring at her, her fire coming through the distance between the cars. She resisted the urge to blow a kiss and instead made a hands-free call.
“Farquar.”
> “Julian, everything’s changed. Can you meet me in France?”
“Maybe.” He sounded detached. “I take it you saw this bugger’s escaped?”
“Oh, yeah. I did.”
There was a pause. He probably thought she’d known in advance. “Are you driving at the moment?”
“Yeah. To Morzine.”
Another pause. “That’s where you want me to go?”
“If you’d like to, yes.” Robin tried her best not to make it sound like too much of an invitation.
“Need me to book stuff? Hotel etcetera.”
That sounded better. “Sure, thanks.”
“Stay on, and I’ll do it.”
She wondered if he’d ask his secretary, but thought she picked up his voice, speaking French.
“Done. Chalet Guy Koffmann. On the main bit. They had a cancellation.”
“A cancellation?”
“Last room in the place. It’s the season. Morzine’s packed.”
“So, we’re sharing a room.” It wasn’t a question.
“We can handle it. Now, I’ve got to get myself to an airport. If you think of anything, I’ll try and grab it for you. That oily Body Shop stuff, maybe? Just kidding. See you soon.”
Robin closed her eyes for a second. Stop it, Julian. Just stop it. But she supposed it made sense to share. It would look as unlike work as they could make it, which helped her cover. But that wasn’t why Julian had done it.
She gave it ten minutes, then called him back.
“Julian, the road just got jammed, maybe an accident. Can you pop to a chemist for me? I won’t have time here.”
“Yeah, what do you need?”
“Tampax Super.”
“No worries.” Julian was unperturbed. Even chipper. She knew what he was thinking.
“And a tube of Anusol.”
There was a silence. Not a pause. Defeat. Julian was crestfallen. “Sure, Robin.”
He’d read the signal. It isn’t happening. No matter how hard you try. I’m willing to risk you not coming. She realised she’d known this would happen and hadn’t made it clear at the beginning in case he wouldn’t help. She accepted the guilty pang, knowing it would pass. That’s what emotions did if you just left them alone.
Robin thought about how hard she’d worked, all the shit she’d had to pull even to get into a documentary team at NewSpan, let alone get in front of the camera. Pure luck, in a way. But you had to get to the right place to be there at the right time. You had to work, and you had to fight. Whatever the luck factor, her CV, from office runner through to young documentary maker on the cusp, looked like she’d never put a foot wrong. She deserved this. And she was going to nail it.
There, the pang had gone. Once an emotion dissipated, there was just you and what you wanted. Robin thought sometimes this was the only thing that proved you existed. You wanted things.
One emotion that didn’t seem to be passing was the feeling she’d had on learning Jean Haim had escaped. He’d contacted her just before doing it. Which meant she was in some way part of his plan. He’d thought about her too.
She didn’t put a name on the feeling, but it was persistent.
CHAPTER TEN
Eric and Henri were heading south, in a hired Renault.
“You cancelled everything, OK?” asked Eric.
Henri said, “Yes, it was OK. My partners will cover some things. We’ll move other things back.”
Eric adjusted his position. He was so compact it seemed he could sit nearly sideways in the car seat. “How did you get in difficulty? I want to know. You said it’s complex. But how does a man who is steady, like I can see you are, need the services of a man like me?”
“Does it make a difference?”
“I’m curious. Here we are, a few days together. It’s something we can talk about, that we have in common. I can help you, maybe.”
“What, like a therapy service?”
“Advice. I understand money.”
Henri sighed. “It was a woman.”
“She ripped you off?”
“No. I spent money on her.”
Eric’s eyes widened.
“Wow,” he said. “That is a shit load of money on a woman. Who was she?”
“An actress. I won’t say who.”
“OK, sure. It doesn’t matter. How did you meet her?”
“I fixed her boobs.”
Eric caught his breath. “Is that when you fell for her?”
“Yes.”
“While you were fixing her boobs?” Eric held his hands up in front of his chest.
“No. Not during that,” Henri looked across, scowling.
“Excuse me, Henri.” Eric turned his palms out, apologetically.
Henri nodded. “I mean, the whole thing. Consultation, discussion of options, follow up. It was gradual.”
“How gradual? I mean, how many meetings did you have?”
“A few. I suppose. She asked me to meet once or twice, coffee, lunch, when she was near my office. I should have noticed that it was strange, in that it wasn’t related to her procedures.” He paused, recalling a smile, a lilt in her voice. “But, of course, I was flattered.”
“OK, but you also met for the procedure?”
“A few times.”
Eric was still looking at him, so Henri took him through it. “You discuss what they may want doing, initial examination, then focused discussion of options, second examination, and concrete planning.”
“Is that when you draw on the boobs?” Eric held an imaginary pen and drew spirals in the air.
Henri shook his head, not really hearing it. He’d driven this way with his wife and kids last winter. The road was straight, with banked earth either side, two lanes moving easily in each direction. And there was sun now, and that felt great when you were driving to a holiday with your loved ones. No mountains yet. They were a few hours away. Just the open sky, the clouds at different altitudes, forming different shapes. He’d explained them to his daughter when they were right here, on this road, last year.
He tried to brighten up. “What’s the plan, Eric? Anything further?”
Another shrug in Henri’s peripheral vision.
“No. We’ll hear more later. Relax. You should be happy. This is a little pause for you. Enjoy.”
Eric gestured ahead of them. Winter sun bounced off his shades. He seemed happy. Henri thought the loan shark probably didn’t get out of the city much. He wondered what lay in store for them in Morzine.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Carolina and Miguel had seen four snowplows on the narrow hill roads around Morzine by the time they got to AB Langrenn. The driveway swung around on a gradient and levelled out before you could see the house. A one-storey place, like an L.
The garage was open. She saw some kind of brewing kit arranged on shelves at the back, vats or barrels or whatever it was, an insulated boiler, dials, and pipes all connecting somewhere. They parked in front of the garage alongside the motorbike and a chunky SUV. They got out, stretching, and took their bags from the car.
Anders Hooper-Berg opened the door, a dishcloth in his hand.
This was a good-looking man.
He was about thirty-three, lean in the way you‘d expect for a winter sports guy, nice broad shoulders, an easy, laid-back smile. Carolina stepped up into the kitchen and shook his hand.
“Anders.”
“Carolina.”
The immediate impression was one of a nice guy you could have some fun on. No, fun with. For company. The trouble started a moment later when they made eye contact a second time. Anders Berg had deep brown eyes with grey segments that seemed to glow. The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly when he smiled. It gave him a glint of life and mischief. Like he knew who he was.
He nodded to the left. “Bedrooms are over there. I’m at the end, just grab the ones you want. Do you like curry?” He went over to the cooker and stirred something on the top with a wooden spoon.
Carolina heard Miguel get to the door behind her. “Miguel, take the bedroom next to the bathroom.”
Miguel put a bag down and saluted. She turned back to Anders and his curry.
“Sure,” she said. “What kind of curry?”
“My family’s.” He tasted from the spoon and put it back in the pot. “AKA, Guyanese chicken. I’ve got to get the bike in.”
Carolina realised he wasn’t speaking as she was following him toward the garage, and she wondered if he’d meant her to go with him. He pushed the bike inside. It was a Kawasaki with chains on the tires for the snow. He covered it up carefully. She looked at the vats and pipes.
“Oh, you’re here.” He turned to where she was looking. “Vodka. I’ve been doing it eight months. I thought about calling it Morzberg.”
She didn’t catch it all. “Berg... your name?”
“It took me a while to get the hang of running this equipment in sub-zero temperatures, but I’ve got the right bits insulated now.” He crouched, checking one of the monitors on the front. His boxer shorts were dark blue, and she found them more interesting than pipe insulation. Berg explained that he wanted to etch a picture of the town onto the bottle. She couldn’t say what she wanted to exactly in English. He leaned a bit closer, smiled encouragingly. Damn, she felt estupida.
“Sorry, my English is terrible.”
He walked back into the house. “Sounds pretty good to me. I don’t speak Spanish, so you’ll have no choice anyway. You need a board, don’t you?”
“Yeah, if you have one for me.”
“In the kit room, next to the sauna through there.”
“You have a sauna?”
“Yeah, a little one. Two people can squeeze in at a push.”
She saw a pine bench stretching away from a smoked glass door.
“Shit. The curry’s boiling,” said Berg.
She wandered into a kind of study. Old leather sofa and armchair, rows of retro climbing magazines, rough stone walls. It seemed conducive to concentration. She would need somewhere like this.