by James Easton
Max was moving, thudding along to the fence behind the ski lift port. He climbed over and slipped, his glove sliding off the top of the fence. He rolled and felt his neck catch something hard and sharp in the snow, but he was up. He bulled forward, driving with his legs, and he felt the darkness around him. He was getting away.
He cut left, went up the bank, crossed over the road into the shrubs there, and made his way back to his own car. He closed the door as gently as he could, reversed slowly, two hundred metres, looking for helicopters. Listening for sirens. Nothing.
He swung onto the main road and followed it down. Rafa’s guys met him after five hundred metres. They drove his car away. Max stayed on foot in case they were taken lower down the hill. He tumbled across the road and was in the pines on the other side. The steepness and the trees made him slow, and he listened again. Still silent. After a few more minutes, he saw a single police car on the track far below. But now Max was only a man in the trees.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Robin showered, still feeling almost weightless with desire. She wanted to spend the morning in bed with Jean, doing what they had done overnight. She might have put his hunger for her down to three years in prison, had she not experienced the same thing before he went away. Robin had slept with fifteen people during that time. She realised she’d been trying to scratch an itch.
Jean wanted to start work early. She put his sweater on and went into the living area.
It was on the first floor, an open-plan kitchen at one end, the window with the view up the hill at the other. A big, long lounge in the middle. It was nearly light. She looked at the setup for their interview in the lounge.
He had put an armchair against a wall, a plain backdrop so it didn’t give away anything about his location. It felt about right to her.
She made coffee and watched him set up the camera she had brought with her, attaching its tripod and arranging it opposite the armchair.
“You need space for me,” she said. “The camera should be at an angle.”
He came over. “What do you mean?”
“Interview format. And I’d lower the camera a little.”
Jean said, “I don’t know about that. Maybe we won’t do an interview. Maybe I should just talk.”
“No. I’ve got to be present in the film, or there’s no point in me being here. You can do a home video without me. What did you ask me here for otherwise?”
Jean looked at her crotch and smiled. Robin did not return it.
He said, “The distribution. You are important for that.”
“Not unless I’m in the film. I ask the questions Jean, or no film. And no distribution.”
“There’s YouTube.”
“Good luck with that.”
He ran his hand over his hair. He was shirtless, more defined and built than he had been three years ago. How he’d kept himself sane in prison, he’d said.
“I’ll ask open-ended questions, so you can talk freely.” She said it in a reassuring voice, and Jean shrugged, “OK.”
“Shall we practice?”
“Sure.”
“Sit down.” Robin got a chair from the dining table and put it opposite Jean, moving the camera to her right then lining up the lens on him. She was only wearing the sweater, like a short dress, nothing else. She pressed record. Jean watched her, looking a little sulky.
She sat and crossed her legs.
“Jean, what would you like France and the world to know about you?”
Jean Haim let his eyes drift out of the window, like he was modest and hadn’t thought of the question Robin had asked him.
“I am no threat to France. No threat to anyone. I want to live normally, like any man. I am not a violent man. In my childhood, I was a sweet boy, you know.” He smiled shyly, looking at her. “Sensitive, peaceful. My mother did her best. It was hard for her, but she gave me some values. In my heart I am an artist.”
Robin went deadpan. “An artist with a gift for planning armed robberies?”
He laughed. “You are joking maybe but yes, like this. In crime, you must conceptualise each job like a work of art, separate from the others, and adapt it to reality. And nobody must be hurt, each time. We know, yes, it happened on one job I did, and I understand society’s reaction. It is a risk for a man like me. But no, I don’t want anyone to be hurt. We go in, we take, we leave. There is the threat of violence, but I always hope not the violence in actuality. What can I do that most men like me cannot? I think.”
Robin thought it was bullshit. But slick bullshit. It may convince some people.
“You showed that thinking in your escape. I mean, it was very elaborate.”
“No. It was simple. To the amateur, perhaps it looks elaborate. What is most feared by the French prison system apart from a riot? It is the helicopter escape. They have up nets to prevent this. What does it mean? It means if you produce a helicopter, they assume its purpose is to break out. Not to distract them in the tower. Two helicopters,” he laughed and raised a finger. “Even more of a problem.”
Robin uncrossed her legs. “Do you get distracted?”
Jean held her gaze. “From practice, maybe. Not when the job is real.”
“Easily?”
“It takes a lot.”
Robin moved her legs apart. Jean’s phone rang and he answered it.
“It’s Max.” He sounded agitated.
“Are we done?” Jean moved over to the window. Saw Robin pause the camera.
“No man, it was a set up.”
“What? Rédoine?”
“No, he bailed me out. Four guys came down on snow bikes. Shit. They cornered Rédoine’s guy. Then Rédoine takes out his own man and pins the cops down. He tells me where to go, to get out. I mean, Christ, I had the kit on me.”
“We’ve still got it?”
“Of course. Rédoine called again. He isn’t worried about losing the man. Says he’s checking security. He’s worried about leaks. He’d going to check that out, set up the next place. Jean, he killed his own guy and doesn’t give a damn.”
Jean looked at the hills. Clouds were on their way in the distance. He thought about that kid over there, the woman helping the guy who was beaten in the bar, how decisive she was. Putting those men down, no more. She was something else. The kid had to be important.
“Did you get a picture of the woman I told you about, the protection woman? The people with her?”
“Sure.”
“Send it all to me, would you? Maybe look for a place for the next exchange yourself. Don’t leave it all to Rédoine. Speak to you later.”
It would be OK. Max would go again. They were on track.
He went back over and rested his hand on the camera. Robin was pouring more coffee for herself.
“We should think about your name,” she said.
“My name is Jean Haim.”
“It sounds cool in English, almost like the letter ‘M.’ The problem is Brits and some yanks will pronounce it ‘hame’, like ‘name.’ Makes me wonder if we call you Jean M for the purpose of the film. It’s kind of mysterious.”
“But how do we do that, if it isn’t my name? I am known by my name, in France.”
Robin came over and put her arms around his neck. “Let me work that out.”
Jean liked how he imagined the single letter initial would look. He wasn’t sure about how it sounded. “I decide later.” He reached back and activated the camera, so it was filming the empty armchair. He pulled her sweater off and kissed her. He pushed her back on the armchair and spread her legs as he sank to his knees. He liked talking about himself. He felt his greatness like electricity down his spine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Berg was drinking coffee when the phone call came. His shoulders slumped, and Carolina’s heart went out to him.
“Another cancellation?”
He nodded. “At least I know what it is this time. The parties this and next week are connected, and they’ve gone to a
different resort.” He waved his hand in the direction of where Carolina assumed the other resort was. “I’m going to speak to my friend Alain about that standby instructor gig. You guys hitting the boards?”
Carolina glanced toward the bedrooms. “No, later maybe. Miguel is sore after yesterday.”
“On his six-metre slope?”
“He really isn’t very fit. We could come for the ride, get him moving a little.”
“Why not? If he wants a day off we could go to my shooting club.”
Carolina wouldn’t mind trying the Pardini. She liked the look of it and how it felt. But it could wait. “We’ve got two weeks ahead. I’d really like Miguel to do the board more before a day off. Where is Alain?”
“In Morzine.”
“We’ll get a coffee while you sort it out.”
Max put the kit back in the wine cellar and went to speak to Eric Scandella in the kitchen.
“This thing, the handover, didn’t work.”
Eric was still wearing his snow gear after his morning hike. He glanced through to check Henri was in the lounge. “What happened?”
Max shrugged. “Some cops came. The buyer thinks they saw his cover guy.”
“Sorry? Cover guy?”
“Protection. Someone watching for threats to the buyer. You know what? He took out his own handover guy.”
“Max, that means the cops will be all over this, if someone was taken out.”
Max nodded. “But it’s still on. We just need another place. I’m going to look around, see if I can see anything suitable. I’ll need your help.”
Eric said, “I need to stay with Henri, no?”
Henri walked in at that moment, put his coffee cup in the dishwasher.
“Henri,” said Max. “I want you and Eric to help me today. I need to find a spot for this deal.” He put some authority in his voice, trying to sound optimistic.
“Oh, Max, thank you. But I don’t think I should get involved in your business,” said Henri.
Max shrugged. “It’s just looking at some ground.” He didn’t like the negative attitude. He wanted to get past the hiccup.
“It’s, I mean, I know. But...”
Max slammed his right fist into Henri’s guts. He realised he’d thrown the punch as it travelled and opened his fist a little as it struck, letting it die there rather than driving it with his weight. But it was way too hard for Henri. You could feel softness all through his body as the blow connected. Like hitting blancmange. He yelled and went down.
Max felt bad. He let Eric push him back, and felt a prickle of envy when Eric helped Henri to his feet, all concerned.
“I’m sorry, Henri. I’m sorry, this is not what I wanted. We’re OK, just come out with us today. We’ll get some fresh air. You aren’t doing anything wrong. I’m sorry. Cool. Cool.”
Henri was nearly in tears. Max regretted it, but hadn’t hit him that hard and felt this was probably some kind of stress thing, this excessive reaction to a small punch.
“Henri, excuse me. I had a hard morning,” he said. “Nothing you can’t handle, eh? A little love tap, like that. I just want us to get our money, Henri, and that helps you, no? It’s the buyer that is insisting on this open-air handover. It’s tricky. But we can do it. So let’s go. Now.”
Henri went to get his coat, without saying anything. Max hoped he’d keep it together. But this was his deal, his step up, and he wasn’t letting it pass for some guy who was out of his element.
“We need to get some gear in Morzine first,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Carolina and Miguel went to a cafe while Anders went into one of the equipment shops on the main street of Morzine. Miguel didn’t relent on making her speak English.
Her phone rang.
“It’s Pablo. Just wanted to say thanks for the heads-up last night. It’s hot.”
Carolina looked out of the window at the busy street.
“They got some interior security guys on him, followed Sylvestre to Avoriaz very early this morning. He dropped back, but on one of the routes there they picked up some other guys, followed them to a ski-lift station. Looked like some kind of exchange. Anyway, one of them got taken out when the cops showed up. No merchandise or money on him.”
“They know who he was?”
“No, it was some kind of rifle they killed him with. Headshot. ID will take a while. The shooter was careful not to kill the cops. Didn’t have long on target. They aren’t screwing around.”
“Sounds like it.” She looked over at Miguel, who was busy now with a pain au raisin and hot chocolate. “Take care, Pablo. Thanks.”
Miguel cleared his throat.
“Have you got a boyfriend?”
She shook her head.
“Just because, Anders likes you as well.”
Carolina smiled, looking at the busy cafe.
“As well, as you? Miguel, I’m happy to be single for now. And I’m nine years older than you.”
“I don’t like you,” he said. “Like that.”
“Exactly. You don’t want an old woman.”
There was a pause. She looked over at him. Miguel was doing his brave face. The thought beat its wings in her mind before he said it.
“I don’t like you like that, Carolina, because I’m gay,” he said. He was blushing furiously.
Carolina smiled at him. “Okay.”
“No big deal,” said Miguel, working hard to make it seem so. “I changed my school last year.” He shrugged.
“So you go to gay school now?”
He laughed, looking relieved. “No, I go to... it’s for clever... I mean...”
“Brainboxes?”
He nodded. “I was changing the subject.”
“Got it,” said Carolina. Last summer, she had been talking to a sixteen-year-old girl at a party who imparted something about her private self to Carolina after knowing her for about an hour. She wondered if she brought this openness out in people.
“What I meant was Anders likes you as well as you liking him.” The flush cleared from his face. “So, you know.”
She was being matchmade by a fifteen-year-old.
A heavyset man sat down at one of the outside tables, barking on the phone. She realised she’d seen him near Sylvestre in the restaurant the previous evening, before the fight. He watched two guys, one tall and soft looking, the other small and wiry, walk out of one of the stores with a couple of carrier bags.
The store the men had exited sold hunting equipment. She saw telescopes and binoculars in the window. The scratch on the back of the heavyset guy’s neck, peeping out of the collar of his ski jacket, was fresh. He got up and walked away from the cafe. The other two joined him from across the street. He stood up as they reached him.
“I knew it,” said Miguel.
“Que? What?”
“You just said you like him too.”
Had she?
The men Carolina had been watching moved away from the window. She saw Anders pass the window. She stood up, keeping the men in eyeshot, moved to the door with Miguel following, where they met Anders. Carolina smiled, but her mind was on how she could safely leave Miguel with him for a while to follow the men.
It was as if he had read her thoughts. “Carolina, you can take a break from Miguel. Look who’s here.”
He stood back, and Eva and her husband Ignacio, tall and striking like Eva, stepped inside. Miguel did not look pleased initially, but he hugged them. Then Eva deftly took Carolina to one side.
“Pablo and I have liaised for a while,” she said without preamble.
The men had moved away down the street.
“He told me about what you have seen in Morzine. Something’s going on here.”
“I haven’t neglected Miguel.” Except for when I let him get into a fight, thought Carolina.
“I know.” Eva followed Carolina’s gaze to the men’s retreating backs. “Them?”
Carolina nodded.
“Go,”
Eva’s eyes flashed. “See what they do.”
Miguel shot Carolina a look. She zipped her jacket up. “Miguel, we board later. Anders is coming for that too.”
Miguel looked back at her, then glanced at Anders. And smiled, slowly. “Sure. See you later.” He had Berg’s ear to himself. Eva put an arm around his shoulders.
Berg tossed Carolina his keys. “Binocs are on the back seat.”
Carolina bought some chocolate and carb bars then caught up with the scratched bullneck guy and his friends as they made the end of the street and went to a four-wheel-drive. She decided they were called Bullneck, Fatty, and Tiny. She let two cars fill the gap between them, then followed. They cleared the town after five minutes and went west as the road climbed through conifer forests, winding in long stretches and sharp turns, snowplows working the route both ways.
The road opened out and straightened when they stopped climbing. The snow had eased, though the sky was still a solid grey veil. You couldn’t see the mountains across the valley to the south. Bullneck pulled off the road at the first layby.
Carolina looked ahead and saw the trees enclose the road four hundred metres away. She parked down a track there, back from the road, put her energy bars in her pockets with her phone and took her binoculars with her as she got out and headed to the tree line.
Bullneck had to be looking for a site for another attempt at the exchange that had been rumbled earlier in the morning. Someone did not want to meet behind closed doors, it seemed. Could be a security thing. Could be an ID thing. Nobody knew who the phantom Rédoine was, so her guess was the latter. She began to move around to Bullneck’s north, wanting to get closer. She tucked her hair into the collar of her ski jacket and pulled on a black thermal beanie and pulled a grey buff around her face. With the mature trees and the grey day, the forest was dark, and she moved quickly.