by James Easton
A minute later Haim came out, wearing a backpack with his hood drawn up. He ran with his left arm tight to his side. You couldn’t really see he was injured. Carolina got out, wearing Berg’s jacket from the SUV with the pipe wrench up the sleeve. She started to run.
Her legs were stiff. Her body didn’t want to go again. She took the discomfort and wondered how much she had left.
The street was dead straight, lined by chalets and the odd apartment block and the cars parked on the verges and in ports under the houses. Haim went down a short slope between a couple of firewood stores. He slipped and fell, climbed to his feet, and got down to the road. Carolina followed.
The stars were bright, the streetlights pale smears against the sky. Mountains rose on either side, and there was a solitary, massive peak far away at the end of the valley. She could hear Haim’s feet through the still air. The occasional car, tires crunching the compacted snow and ice, then only the sound of his feet again, and her feet, and her breathing.
Just her and Haim and the snow.
He stopped and moved to his right, off the road. Carolina was alongside a house. She moved against it, into the shadows, inched forward to see where he’d moved to. He was on an area of clear ground with railings around it. The valley floor plunged there, a sixty-metre drop below the road. Haim stood against the railings, looking across to the other side.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Emile drove up among the houses overlooking the bridge. There was a cable car run almost alongside it, and for a while Robin, in the back seat, thought that was the bridge as her eyes ranged over the supports and cables and her mind raced.
She was rehearsing her story, the core of it anyway. A strong central narrative she could adapt to circumstances and audience. This was the last time she was going to shack up with a wanted man without understanding the full gamut of risks: legal and reputational.
She was also fantasizing about mountain strongholds, bareback horse riding, offshore accounts, and false documentation. She’d researched the latter subjects on a project early in her career and felt they might be relevant for her and Jean at some point.
Emile had been following the news on his phone. Robin could see he was worried. She moved her wrists around in the cable tie. Just like Jean had done on their first night here. She looked at the shimmering town and thought they’d come back here one day.
She was nervous, but she had this faith in Jean. He’d pull through. It wouldn’t be his fault if it had gone wrong. And a bit of gunfire, for these guys, probably wasn’t too much of an event.
Emile glanced back at her, looked at her bound wrists.
“It is OK?”
She nodded, “It’s fine.” She wasn’t going to say Jean had already done this twice.
“You went to a good school I think,” he said.
“Yes. I did, I suppose.”
Emile looked away, nodded. She wondered why he’d asked that.
“He’s there.”
Robin sat forward, “Where?”
“By the building.”
Emile pointed. The only building there was a four-storey apartment house. It was white, with wide balconies, shutters, and a peaked roof, slightly to the right of the bridge as Robin looked at it. Jean was by the corner, his head and shoulders visible in the streetlight glow over the neat hedge running parallel to the valley.
He moved down toward the bridge and disappeared. Emile drove down to the junction and pulled up next to the apartments. Robin studied the bridge. It was for pedestrians, its wooden boards caked in trampled snow, two huge frame towers a quarter way in and a suspension design. It was at least two hundred metres long. She couldn’t see much of the far end.
She could see Jean again now, on the last few steps above the road, crouched, looking at the bridge. She wanted to go to him but knew that he needed to do whatever this was, and she would be a liability. Emile was calm, checking the mirrors, looking around. The town seemed so quiet.
Jean had his phone to his ear. He moved back, off the platform, took the stairs down its side. Two minutes passed, then she saw him walk to the bridge.
Jean turned and looked back at the stone retaining wall running a hundred metres back the way he had come. A couple of cars rolled past, slowly, like always here. He raised his phone.
“Rédoine? You are there?”
“I am here. Starting on the bridge.”
“OK.”
Jean stepped onto the bridge. The snow was packed and full of grit and worn off in stretches. He started to walk. Trying to act normal through the pain in his arm. It had set in. A damaged kind of throb. He looked out like he was strolling, a curious tourist, not a criminal on a deal, his eyes tracing the lines of the slopes plunging down to the rooftops far below. Office facilities, some shops, a big carpark. He peered ahead into the low lights at the other end of the bridge. The space between them was dark, almost like the mouth of a tunnel.
Jean heard a thud back on the road. Felt something through the boards. Then he heard feet, light and quick behind him.
He knew who it was.
She was here.
He clenched his teeth. This time there would be no stopping. She’d chosen this. He listened, gathering his strength.
Jean spun around. She rolled past his bad side and came up behind him. He turned with her, and a bar of metal slammed into his bad arm.
It was worse than being shot earlier. Like his arm was illuminated with the pain. A volcano. He heaved her onto the other side of the bridge, kicked her torso in the same move, watched her bounce off the railing, and hit the floor. He stepped in to finish her.
She swung the bar into his ankle with both hands. Fresh, new pain exploded, more damage. Joined to his elbow somehow. He had to put her away. He moved around her and stamped on her torso, not getting it flush because she blocked it with that metal bar she held. He kicked her legs, went again at her face. The bar – a pipe wrench – hummed through the air by his shin. He backed away. Looked into her dark eyes, blazing behind the strands of tangled hair. Looked at her bared teeth. Heard her ragged breathing. Like an animal. Like him.
He hesitated for the first time in his life. She could tie him up in a fight, maybe even take him with that wrench and his arm like this. He moved away, limping, unable to put a lot through the ankle. It was swelling in his boot. He swung his backpack off. It was a liability in a fight.
The dull lamps just beyond the other end of the bridge gave no real light. He saw a figure there, a big guy, slightly heavy with a winter jacket and his hood up. Jean checked behind him. The Spanish woman had followed him but fallen again, kneeling there, holding the side of the bridge.
His phone rang.
“Yeah? Where are you, Rédoine?”
“You are looking at me.”
“Get on the bridge. We said meet in the middle.”
“GIGN are coming. We’ll be targets in the middle. Come to my end. We’ll do it quick and get away from here.”
Jean turned again.
She was still kneeling. Both arms on the rail. He moved toward Rédoine. Half hopping. Half running.
Carolina clung to the side of the bridge, arms round a strut.
What the hell? This, now…
Vertigo again, with the drop over the side of this bridge. The memory of hanging there by that branch. The valley had rolled without warning, so that she thought she was falling in reality. Like being very drunk.
Tears pulsed down her face. She was furious at herself.
If he gets away he’ll come for Miguel.
Stop him. Do your job.
She had to go now, or she wouldn’t catch him. She pushed up onto her feet, let go of the side with her left hand, grabbed the wrench as she stood up straight.
Let go with your other hand.
Haim was struggling, but getting away. An old man on one side, an athlete on the other. Carolina let go of the rail and stepped across to the left. Making herself focus on Haim, not the drop either side. She hefted the wr
ench in her left hand. With her right, she reached into her pocket and took out the second brocheta.
He heard her. Saw he couldn’t make it. Let her come. Kill her this time. Your only chance. Her or you.
Ten metres. Five.
He turned.
Carolina swung the wrench at his head. He ducked. She banged into him and felt his hand grab the back of her knee and try to lift her over the side, his shoulder driving into her chest. She crunched the end of the wrench into his ear. He snarled at the pain. She spilled out of his grip, and he scrambled, like someone dropping a stack of books, trying to keep hold of her. She rammed the wrench head into his mouth. Haim, desperate now, barely flinched.
He reversed the pressure and slammed his palm into her midriff, then shoved her down hard onto the bridge on her back. Blood ran around his teeth, onto her face. He got his hand on her throat and banged her head against the surface. Jerked her up by the front of her jacket. Grabbed her throat to do it again. She let go of the wrench, grabbed his wrist, and drove the brocheta into the soft inside of his elbow, pulled her knee to her chest, and booted him under his chin.
His head whiplashed. He fell back, and she scrambled for the wrench. He was dazed, holding the rail, sitting like a child with his legs straight out. Carolina whacked the inside of his left ankle, the one she’d hit before. She felt sick and Haim howled as it shattered. He tried to use the agony to get up, his mouth square and tight, the sweat on his face washed over by the lamplight and the night sky. He fell back. Carolina fell back, too. In the opposite direction.
She heard a helicopter and sirens. Pablo had told them.
And she heard feet. Light, careful, feet. “Nice fight.”
Jean Haim moaned. “Eric? You? You are Rédoine?”
“Sound different speaking English, don’t I?”
Carolina saw the stars, realised she couldn’t raise her head. Someone knelt by her shoulder.
“You are so compelling. I wish I could know you.”
It was the little guy she’d seen eating with Bullneck in the restaurant. Realisation hit her. Michel Sylvestre had been guarding him. The little guy was Rédoine.
Haim’s voice was a cracked whisper. “Max, Max. What the hell did you do?”
She looked at Rédoine Luce. There was no violence in him. He wasn’t going to hurt her.
He was holding Haim’s backpack.
“Did you hear the name he used for me? If so, please forget it.”
She looked back at him.
“You are so brave. Amazing. I love this.” He looked around either side of the bridge. Then he laughed. “They always screw it, the police. Make sure they can see your hands. But you know that. Buenas noches.”
He walked away down the bridge.
Robin got out of the car, her hands still bound, ignoring Emile’s pleas to stay. She made it down the stairs, onto the bridge, and ran toward Jean. He turned over and looked down the bridge toward her. Started crawling her way. Past that viscous cow who had hurt him, now pulling herself up on the handrail. The helicopter was almost overhead. She saw ropes unfurl. Jean got up and immediately pitched over and fell. He looked toward her, reaching out a hand with the fingers extended.
Two armed men slid down. Aimed their weapons at him. Another two behind them, aiming at the woman. Robin clamped her lips together, felt tears falling. Her legs froze. Like there was a forcefield around her. Men were running from the other end of the bridge. She could do nothing
Jean, looking at her, his face young and angry. Like a little boy.
Her hands were trembling as she took out the backup mobile Emile had given her. There were shots behind her, and she looked back as she brought up the camera and switched to video. Emile was on the ground, two armed men standing over him. She looked back at Jean one more time. Made sure she remembered every detail of how he looked, how all of it looked, and how she felt.
Robin turned her back on him and selected video in the camera options.
She made a call.
“Liz? Robin. Yeah, I’m OK. Look, this is hot. I’m going to send you a video in a minute, and you’ll want to get it out. We can then do a livestream through this phone.”
She held the phone out with both hands and spoke into the screen.
“This is Robin King. I am in Morzine, France, where Jean Haim – a notorious armed robber recently escaped from prison - has been apprehended on this bridge behind me. Others in his group have been arrested or shot in a police operation.” She took a breath. “I was kidnapped by this group two days ago, and managed to escape in the chaos a few moments ago.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
The next morning, just after dawn, Eric put the dishcloth in the refuse sack.
“There. Your place is clean.”
Henri looked around the kitchen and the breakfast area. Eric had wiped the whole house down. “Thanks, Eric. You think it’s enough?”
“Trust me. The authorities would already have been here if they thought it was important. Max and his colleagues took great care to keep their whereabouts secret. Now, are you ready?”
Henri stood up from the sofa.
“Let’s go,” said Eric.
They drove into Morzine. The news was full of the retaking of Jean Haim and the still mysterious events at the AB Langrenn place. Henri laughed, looking at the headlines.
“They are calling it Gunfight in Morzine.” Then he frowned. “That can’t be right. Says a number of them shot each other in the head. That it was some kind of standoff, or maybe a fast draw. Sounds weird. And some reporter has become very famous overnight. These guys had her as a prisoner.”
He looked at the woman’s picture. “What a story. Her colleague seems to be missing. Wow.”
Eric looked over and smiled as he drew into the kerb, outside Chalet Manon.
“OK, go to the sixth floor, end of the corridor. See you soon.”
Henri took a deep breath, checked the two rifles were in their cases in his backpack. Again. He was nervous. But he got out and went into Chalet Manon.
He was out ten minutes later. Eric drove him back. They didn’t speak until they were out of town.
“So, you did you first gun deal, Henri. How did it feel?”
Henri was flushed. “Great. Brilliant.” He punched the air with both fists.
“And you threw a body down a ravine last night and supported our triumph on the bridge. Not bad.” Eric winked. “Are you satisfied with your contribution now?”
“Yes.” Henri felt his own restored vitality. He reached into the backpack by his feet and took out the envelope.
“Half a million Euros,” he said.
“It’s yours,” said Eric.
Henri stared at the envelope as they drove over the hills. Morzine was like a model town behind and below them in the valley. Henri kept glancing at Eric, confused and relieved and happy. “You ask me to stash this merchandise in my wife’s place here, to reduce my debt. Then you wipe it, and I am half a million richer.”
“I made a lot more. You earned it. Much of that would have gone to Max. I’m sorry for the stress,” said Eric, pulling into the driveway.
Henri said, “You could have taken it at any point. Why wait until it all went wrong? Why try to go through with the deal at all?”
Eric said, “Do you really need to ask?”
Henri looked at him for a minute. “By working with Max, you saw the goods, checked Max hadn’t been tailed, shortened the time spent at the exchange if you are already comfortable with all that. Your business, Eric, it’s complex.”
“Yes, it’s complex, though you are on the right track. Don’t think about it anymore.”
Eric stayed in the car. Henri paused, one foot on the driveway. Eric smiled at him. “Your wife is coming. Enjoy your family. I’ll be back in Paris in two weeks. We’ll talk about the boobs then.”
Three days later, Eva Pérez de Miranda exited a Mercedes on Avenue Marceau, outside the Spanish Embassy in Paris. A few minutes later,
she sat in a meeting room at the disposal of the Spanish cultural attaché. The man who met her had flown in from Madrid that morning.
“Everything is stable, in Morzine?” he asked.
“Yes. We wiped down most of the weapons we’d used in our own defence anyway. What could not be obscured was justified self-defence.”
He smiled. “And how is our little warrior?”
“Well, she was briefly arrested while the French authorities established what had happened. And she spent her custody time in hospital getting her arm stitched. She’s in the clear.”
“What are your plans, Eva?”
“Immediately, we’ll help Anders Berg with his repairs and enjoy our planned skiing holiday. We’re all in a very nice hotel now. Spain is paying, given part of the reason I was in Morzine was a recruitment.”
“Of course. How is Miguel?”
She paused. “Getting on with it. It will take time, but he’s OK. Ignacio has been wonderful with him.”
His gaze became more serious. “And Carolina Carrasco Cortes?”
“I owe her my son’s, my family’s, life.” A slight smile played at Eva’s lips. It showed pride, and maybe a little sadness. Then it was gone.
“I run her, Antonio. I run her.”
After a while, he inclined his head. Eva waited a second longer.
“Then she remains a loyal servant of Spain.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Miguel Pérez swung his snowboard around and waved at Carolina, who was forty metres away at the top of the slope. Ignacio, new to the board, crashed halfway down. Miguel went to his aid.
Carolina was guarding a fork where the slope split into the short, manageable one to the left that Miguel was working on and something a lot more fun to the right.
Berg came down to join her on a snowboard. She had hardly seen him since Haim was arrested. Briefly at the hospital, then he’d gone to Spain with Ignacio for two days once the French authorities were satisfied. He’d been viewing the repairs at his home just now. His black eye was all the colours of the rainbow, and he had stitches under the plaster on his cheek.