by James Easton
“OK, I get it. So, you come with me, and I tell you.”
“That’s not fair. Don’t hold it over me like that.”
Jean instead told her how much the gold was worth.
Robin shot up straight. “You really could buy your freedom with that. You’re talking about bribery, right?”
“And a threat. I recover the gold, sell it, get the money into a Swiss bank. Then, I buy intermediaries, appeal judges, whoever else. That is the temptation. What I can also expose is the threat.”
Robin looked at the door. She held her chin in the fingertips of one hand, looked at him a couple of times before she spoke. “Jean, if you got that money, and changed your name, you could have a good life. A normal life. It could change everything.”
Wasn’t that just what he had said with different words? He nodded.
“I mean someone like me,” she said. “Could be with you. Without any problems. You would go somewhere far away. That would still be right. But you’d be safe, and free. Together.” She seemed nervous. “Whoever it was you were with, I mean.”
Jean said, “Pack up when I leave tonight. The guy I will leave with you, Emile, he will wipe the place. We meet up after.”
He noticed his heart was beating faster than at any point today.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Julian Farquar was in his hired car, watching the entrance of Chalet Guy Koffmann, and scrolling French news websites for updates on Jean Haim and Robin King. There was nothing yet. He wondered if the Spanish woman had passed it on. And if she had, whether the French police would issue an alert.
Two men, one with long hair, the other shaven-headed, went into the hotel. Julian took a photograph on his iPhone and waited. They emerged eight minutes later, the long-haired one talking on his phone, and moved away toward the shops on the same street. After a few more minutes, Julian made a call.
“It’s Julian Farquar here. I checked out earlier today, and I’m in Geneva now. I’d just like to check if anyone asked about me after I left?”
“Yes, Mr. Farquar. One enquiry by phone and one a short while ago in person. I do not have names for you.”
He thanked them and hung up, then started his engine and drove in the direction the men had taken, crawling along with pedestrians darting in front of the car every few seconds. He wrapped a scarf around his face and turned the collar of his jacket up.
They were having coffee outside one of the restaurants, each under a big outdoor heater. Julian parked his car down a side road where he could see them. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and said, “Oh, yes.”
Events had taken a pleasant turn. Eva had decided she and Ignacio would take the time that Berg’s flood of cancellations had freed up in his schedule for advanced ski instruction. Eva explained she liked the idea of some family time with Carolina and Anders on board as well and had extended their stay to a week after moving their cases over to Berg’s place.
Eva was now with Ignacio and Miguel, buying provisions in town. She would be doing the cooking as well as supervising Carolina’s English studies. Somehow, she’d put all this in place without seeming overbearing. And the shopping trip gave Berg and Carolina the opportunity to celebrate his partial turn of fortune in bed. Now she was half asleep with her head on his chest. He was reading her romance book.
“There aren’t any good sex scenes. It always leaves before it happens.”
“You just had four good sex scenes with me,” she said, hardly moving her mouth, her eyes still closed.
“You had four. I had two.”
She laughed and snuggled him, giving serious consideration to never moving again. Her phone buzzed.
During her time in the police, Carolina had often provided armed cover for colleagues planting all manner of surveillance devices near, or sometimes on, subjects of investigation. Some of these devices would track location, some would watch or listen, others would gather data. Although her job had been to watch for bad guys observing the installation process, Carolina had cultivated an extensive interest in what these devices all did. The charge lead she had switched for the one in Julian Farquhar’s iPhone earlier in the day had now completed draining its data and sent it to her. Berg seemed engrossed in her book so she rolled off him and picked up her phone.
A few minutes later, her impression of both Julian Farquar and Robin King had deteriorated.
Julian had three voice recordings, all made a couple of days ago. One of these, the first, had been made on a different device than his regular phone. All were conversations with Robin. Carolina put an earphone in so Berg would not hear and swept through one of the recordings, made a couple of nights ago.
A kind of irritation settled on her as it became obvious the kidnap was a set up. Worse, the interview was a commercial venture that Haim would benefit from. Carolina did not find Robin admirable, and the words ‘stupid girl’ played on the tip of her tongue. But this did not prevent her worry for Robin King’s situation deepening.
Because Jean Haim was not Robin’s only problem.
Julian followed the two men out of town.
It wasn’t far, up into the hills south and west of Morzine. After about ten minutes, they turned off the main road onto a narrower one that cut through raised fields. There was only the one house, the hill rising away behind it.
Julian drove on up the climb and turned into a track going back into the trees two hundred metres from the chalet. There was an open field to his right. He could see through the tiny wood down to the house the men had driven to. In daylight this would not be a safe position, but now it was OK.
Julian left the car and walked back into the field, carrying a Canon with a good lens. The curtains were not drawn at the back of the house. He saw Robin, talking to Haim on the sofa.
Julian raised the camera. He started shooting, zooming in on her face and the back of Haim’s head, moving left and right to change the angles. Haim was talking to the two men Julian had followed. They moved in and out of the shot. Robin was asking them something, looking from one to the other, smiling. Then she walked out of sight toward the front of the house.
She came back with coffee, handing it to the new people first, then going to the front of the house again, returning with a mug for Haim.
The shaven-headed guy came outside with his coffee and lit a cigarette, put the coffee on the window ledge and made a phone call. The long-haired guy moved to the front of the house, and Julian heard the front door thud, the sound carrying over the roof. a smiling Robin swiftly straddled Haim on the sofa, cupping his face in her hands and kissing him hard for a few seconds, then walking away before anyone returned. Haim smiled, stretching back on the sofa. Julian captured the whole sequence in twenty rapid shots.
Carolina had stopped breathing evenly. These were the only voice recordings Julian had on his phone, and he’d sent them all to backup addresses by email along with material he must have pulled in with the listening devices she’d found. He’d been playing around with software that allowed him to splice the conversations, moving the questions he’d asked to places that made Robin’s words, which were bad enough anyway, seem even more incriminating. She thought about the jealousy in the tone of Julian’s voice as he talked to Robin in these recordings. She thought too of his need earlier to say that they were sharing a room. Thinking of those things took her to Julian’s browsing history.
She saw Morzine hotel websites and searches about restaurants and ski fields. What you would expect for someone coming to this part of the world. Only with Julian they were interspersed with websites such as FemCrawl: Where Men are in Control.
Perhaps Robin hadn’t thought it through, but the French police would want to speak to her on hearing the kidnap story, and she would have to lie about it to them to maintain the public fiction she seemed to want to construct. Julian Farquar held decisive evidence of Robin knowing Haim and planning the deception. She checked out one of his websites, and knew then that even the labour of enriching
the conversations he’d recorded would have given him pleasure. He was not a man you wanted in a position of power over you.
A small part of her wanted to wash her hands of this and leave Robin to lurch toward wherever her evident capacity for rampant dishonesty might take her. She indulged that sentiment, knowing she wouldn’t act on it. Somehow, Carolina had to divert Robin from the screw up of going public with a load of bullshit. Robin King lived like she drove. High risk, and not as clever as she thought. It didn’t deserve the fate her boss was preparing for her. Carolina would need to have another chat with Julian Farquar.
Berg said, “Ah, now, page ninety-one is good.”
Carolina slipped her hand down over his stomach, and called Chalet Guy Koffmann. Berg pushed her hand away and rolled her onto her back. Carolina asked to speak to Julian Farquar. A member of the desk staff confirmed that Mr. Farquar had checked out and had asked for callers to be informed he was heading back to London, before Carolina dropped the phone.
In his car, Julian checked the images, transferred them to his phone, and sent them to a couple of different locations to keep them safe.
He continued to watch the house through the trees and brought up a birds-eye image on a tablet that had a large enough screen for him to trace routes with his finger. He went into a street view on the road and confirmed he could see the other side of the house from there. It was where the bedrooms would be.
He checked through the stills he had taken, particularly those of Robin astride Haim on the sofa. The way her lips crushed into his. He laughed and said, “Keeping this quiet is going to involve keeping me very happy indeed, Robin. What a sordid tale. What a sordid tale.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Carolina opened the door to Ignacio, who carried in a grocery box with two carrier bags on top. Miguel was arguing with his mother in very rapid Spanish that they smoothly switched to English on seeing Carolina.
“I like pork. Not fucking goat.”
Eva looked kindly at her son. “There I was, Miguel, thinking your newfound snowboarding skills would stop you being so spoilt. But I see the improvement is not general and certainly does not extend to your language when in this frame of mind. Apologies, Carolina. I am doing goat brochetas.”
“Wild goat?” asked Carolina.
“Si. Yes.”
“Wild goat brochetas are my favourite,” said Carolina.
She winked. Miguel laughed. “OK, I will try.”
“With patatas revolconas,” said Eva. Miguel laughed once more and went out of the room. Eva had her hands on her hips, watching.
“How did you do that?” She shook her head.
Carolina said, “You are really doing brochetas?”
“Yes.” She reached into her bag and set a bundle of short, hardwood skewers on the bench. “Give me a hand?”
Berg took Ignacio and Miguel through to see his vodka equipment. Eva hung her coat, rolled her sleeves up, and started peeling potatoes.
“Talk to me, English only.”
Henri brought the tomato sauce to a boil, turned the heat down to a simmer, and started cutting salami into cubes. He’d already grated the rest of the Comté.
Max had told him to cook dinner for the six men who had arrived, dressed in dark outdoor sports clothes and carrying several holdalls. They were speaking in a language that sounded part Turkish, part Italian, part Russian, and looking at diagrams Max had sketched on Henri’s daughter’s art pad, with her coloured pencils. Henri had suppressed the urge to tear her things away from them.
He drained the spaghetti, left a little water, put olive oil in and tossed it, then added the sauce, stirring until the coating was good. Added the cheese. He took it over to the table.
“Should I give some to Eric?”
Max frowned. “Of course, why not. He only got a slap, Henri. He’s allowed to eat.” He laughed. The others laughed.
“Want me to check the ear?”
“No. Just give me more of the meds. And before we leave, can you numb it?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t want to go woozy.”
“You won’t.”
One of the men sucked spaghetti, and it whiplashed tomato sauce across some of the papers. Henri gave him the tea towel on his shoulder to dab it with. Someone spoke. Everyone laughed.
Max told Henri, “He said you are a good wife.”
Henri made himself laugh with them. He walked away, thinking of the papers. A representation of a house, with elevated ground all around and lines drawn from various points around the structure. Like angles of fire for guns.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Carolina had gone through a kind of rapid-fire English examination with Eva.
Eva said, “Carolina, you speak English fine. Just little mistakes and OK, I repeated things a few times. We’ll work at it. You’ll improve.”
“You’re Spanish.”
“And?”
“Spanish people are nice. I might get people who say I can’t speak it well enough.”
“We’ll work on your social trust as well. Keep talking.”
Ignacio came in from the garage with a basket full of logs for the stove in the lounge. Berg was powered down in front of the sport. Miguel was sitting just like him.
Eva opened a couple of beers for her and Carolina.
Berg had a little breakfast bar with two stools in the kitchen, and Carolina perched there. Eva took the two goat shoulders out of the fridge. “I like it on the bone, but Miguel prefers brochetas. Can you butcher?”
“Yes. A lot of time in the mountains as a child.”
Eva handed over a knife and the carving board, and soon Carolina had it off the bone and cubed, and Eva had the bones roasting with onions to make stock. Eva handed over the skewers. “Four pieces on each, you think? So, tell me why you are shy.”
Carolina laughed. “I’m not shy.”
Eva said nothing.
Carolina felt like she might be on the verge of blushing under this examination. “I’m not used to the kind of people I’ll be working for in London.”
“People like us, you mean?”
Carolina skewered some goat.
Jean opened the door to another three guys. They came in with backpacks and a black polymer attaché case. As Rafa and Dino greeted them, Jean went down the corridor to the bedroom where Robin was watching their interview on a laptop.
“I am talking to the guys, OK. I have to speak French but listen if you want. I trust you.”
Jean knew she didn’t speak French, but liked making the gesture. He left the door open and went into the room. He stood with his back to the kitchen, and they lined up in front of him.
“I wouldn’t do this with anyone else. Rafa and Dino will be with me in the house. Carlo, Pierre, you are on the hill, ready to go down to the house if we need you. But your main job is to watch the area, take out anyone who runs. Emile, you look after Robin here. OK, can I see the rifle?”
Pierre put the polymer case on the kitchen counter and opened it. Jean asked permission, then assembled a small sniper rifle.
“Beautiful. Barrel is forty centimetres?”
“Forty-four.”
“So short. And the stock screws on?”
“Clips on. It’s like a catch, on and off, two seconds max.”
“Ah yeah, I see this… here. Good. Have you got a night vision scope?”
“Yeah, but I have to test it. It’s brand new.”
“Do that now, out the back.”
Pierre stepped out of the patio windows. Jean turned to the others.
“How is the cold weather gear? You guys may be up there a while. And if you take any stuff up there, you take it back down with you. When this is over, we leave no sign. Guys, we brief more on the way out. But this is simple.”
Pierre came back in and beckoned him over.
Jean went to him.
“There’s some guy up in those trees. Up the slope.”
“On the big hill?”
>
“No.” He nodded up the small hill at the side of the house. “Up there. He’s got a camera. There’s a car behind him, but he’s in the trees right now.”
“Can I make anyone something to eat?”
He looked over at the kitchen. Robin was there, smiling.
“Ham and cheese toasties?” she said.
He didn’t know which of the guys spoke English, but they seemed to like the idea. Perhaps a hot woman offering food was kind of universally appealing. He felt this flush of pride. He went and put his snow gear on, then went into the spare room and pocketed some of the heavy-duty refuse sacks he had there. He thought of his switchblade. That Spanish woman had taken it. It might not be the best thing for this, anyway. He patted Pierre on the shoulder.
“How is your English?”
“OK.”
“Make conversation with her. Make her smile and laugh.”
He slipped through the curtains and went to the corner of the meadow at the back. It was very dark, but he knew the ground was pretty smooth. Jean wriggled under the hedge and bore right into the open field, moving diagonally up the hill. Then climbed over the gate at the top of the slope, quietly. There was a frozen, muddy track. He felt tyre treads under his feet before it levelled out nearer to the road. The moon was low. Jean was only thirty metres from the car when he heard footsteps and saw a tall man move out of the trees and get into the driver’s seat.
Julian Farquar closed the car door and checked the lights were off and his phone still had battery charge. Then he looked at his footage.
He laughed quietly. “Oh, yes. What are those guys carrying from the cars?”
He had some stills taken through a gap between the curtain and the window frame over the sink in the kitchen. She was laughing and preparing something for them. He expanded the shot, zooming in. Her throat looked relaxed, her body language very comfortable.