“Patricia, I’ve lost him. He may be heading for Coquelles to get a train to Paris, or even a chopper.”
“We have the stations and airports covered. If he comes into Paris we’ll be waiting for him.”
Conrad crossed over into the service tunnel and walked the full length of the train towards the previous escape route. Plushenko had eluded him again. He shone his flashlight up the tunnel and walked about a hundred metres past the rear of the train. Not a sound or movement.
He made his way back to the train and hauled himself inside. Suddenly, the lights flickered and stabilised. Conrad wasn’t sure why the lights had gone off in the first place. That wasn’t normal when the emergency cord was pulled. That must have been what Plushenko was up to on his laptop. A white-faced passenger, holding tightly to a woman who had fainted, sighed with relief.
“It’s all right,” he reassured her. “The lights are back on.”
Suddenly, the train manager’s voice blared into the compartment. “We’ll be on our way in a few minutes. There’s nothing to be alarmed about. Someone pulled the emergency cord. If anyone saw the person concerned please report it to the train manager.”
In the gloom of the service tunnel Plushenko gave a satisfied smile. He would have been cornered if Conrad had walked to the next escape route. Instead, he had duped him again. They would be waiting for him at Gare du Nord, but he wouldn’t arrive. He had arranged to pick up a Hertz rental car in Coquelles under the name of Luc Byard. By tonight, he would holed up in a luxury hotel in Versailles.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Versailles, France
Plushenko sipped his glass of wine while he surveyed the elegant dining room. A woman glanced across at the handsome man staring at her. Retrieving her mobile from her handbag, she listened intently for a few seconds. She looked annoyed as though she had been stood up.
Plushenko’s eyes roamed over her face and body. He forked a piece of meat into his mouth, his eyes never leaving her face. There was something overtly sexual about the gesture, sending an unexpected thrill coursing through her body. Smiling, he saluted her with his glass. Ignoring his advances, she left the table and wandered into the bar.
“Is everything to your satisfaction, Monsieur Byard? Would you like more wine?” the sommelier asked.
“Champagne; a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Keep it on ice in the bar.”
Rising from his seat, Plushenko followed the attractive brunette, deliberately bumping into her.
“Je vous demande pardon, mademoiselle,” he said in perfect French. Clicking his heels he gave a slight bow. He smiled disarmingly. “May I introduce myself – Luc Byard.”
“Amélie Prideaux,” the woman replied.
Temporarily flustered, a pink bloom blossomed on her throat rising slowly to her face. The man exuded animal sexuality. He was seducing her with his eyes.
“Please have a glass of champagne to apologise for my clumsiness.”
“I’m supposed to be meeting someone,” she explained, “but he has been held up at work.”
It was a lie of course. This was not the first time that Gerard had left her in the lurch. He had rushed straight home when his wife had rung to say that his little girl was feverish. Their five-year affair was coming to an end. She had not seen him for almost a week, not since a hurried liaison on Christmas Eve.
For a fleeting moment, Amélie hesitated. What was she thinking of letting a strange man pick her up? She noted the expensive suit, the well-manicured fingernails, the startling blue eyes. What was the harm in a glass of champagne? She shivered, a thrill of excitement and apprehension coursed through her. She couldn’t resist this man. She knew without doubt he would end up in her bed.
Sipping champagne in her elegant apartment near the Palace of Versailles, Amélie told him all about Gerard. Evidence of him was scattered everywhere. Expensive shirts in the wardrobe, toiletries, an electric razor in the bathroom. It couldn’t have worked out better.
He had been gentle with her at first until she started to struggle. As his lovemaking became more and more violent, he put a hand over her mouth to stop her crying out. Stuffing his handkerchief into her mouth, he pinned her shoulders to the bed. He had spiked her drink, but she still had enough strength to claw frantically at his face. He put his hands around her throat, increasing the pressure as his excitement grew.
Amélie’s eyes were wide with terror. He liked that; it gave him a feeling of power. He didn’t want to kill her, but it was too dangerous to let her live. Plushenko looked down at Amélie sprawled over the bed. The light had gone out of her eyes now, but she was beautiful even in death. A mistress murdered by her wealthy, married lover.
Plushenko slipped out of the apartment and headed for the Metro. Earlier, he had booked a room at the Hilton Hotel on Rue de Courcelles near the Arc de Triomphe. It was possible the police would look for him under the guise of Luc Byard, but he no longer existed. Still, he had to lie low until the heat subsided.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Paris, France
Conrad settled back on the plush seat of the Bentley. Light flakes of snow danced in front of the windscreen. Sparkling fairy lights twinkled on the trees lining the Champs Élysée. At the far end the Arc de Triomphe was illuminated in golden light. Lamps blazed outside the imposing building as they drew up outside Patricia’s apartment. She was waiting for him with a hot toddy. He sipped his drink and sighed.
“I’d forgotten how comforting this is.”
“Why don’t you take a hot shower and we’ll talk later,” she suggested.
After dinner, he sat back with a large brandy. Patricia had deliberately given the staff the night off so they could talk freely. He patted his stomach contentedly while he mulled over the state of play.
With her usual efficiency, Patricia had posted lookouts all over Paris. Plushenko seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Where the hell did he go when he left the Eurostar train? They had scoured the areas around Coquelles and Calais. Private airstrips, fields, anywhere a plane or helicopter could land. There hadn’t been a glimpse of him anywhere.
Jumping off the train was a brazen move, but that was all part of Plushenko’s delusion that he could outwit anybody. He was here somewhere, probably right under their noses. Patricia wandered in with her gin and tonic and sat beside him on the sofa.
“If he’s in Paris he won’t get out without our knowing,” she said, as if she had read his thoughts. “My guess is he’ll travel to some rural area where he can be picked up by chopper from an isolated field.”
“He’s not going to risk a commercial flight, of that I’m certain.” He yawned expansively. “I’m bushed. Let’s talk again over breakfast.”
*
Conrad devoured delicious hot croissants and steaming coffee while he browsed through the morning paper. Suddenly, he stopped, cup halfway to his mouth.
“What is it, Jack?” Patricia asked, leaning over to replenish his cup.
“A young woman was found murdered in an apartment near the Arc de Triomphe.”
“It was in the evening papers yesterday – a lovers’ quarrel. They’ve arrested a man.”
“He’s been released – gold-plated alibi. His daughter was rushed into hospital that night with suspected meningitis. The nurses verified that he was there all night.” Patricia raised a quizzical eyebrow. “The victim had been drugged and raped, the same as Joanne Howard. I’m going to see Jules Laurent, my contact in the Prefecture of Police. I want to find out more about this murder.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Paris, France
Chief lnspector Jules Laurent tapped a pencil on his desk. Thinning mousy hair, sallow skin, moustache tinted nicotine-brown: a man you would not notice in the street, on a train or anywhere else. He looked like a hundred other French middle-aged men. But his eyes were sharp and knowing. He was notorious for his demanding standards in conducting criminal investigations.
“The woman was drugged, raped and
strangled. It was a particularly sadistic assault. A lot of bruising, if you know what I mean.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had investigated dozens of murders over the years, but this kind of brutal crime still made him squeamish. He had two daughters of his own. “We’ll get the filth sooner or later, Jack, but why are you so interested?”
“I’ve been working with your counterpart in Geneva – Ernst Dreher. He tells me you worked with him investigating human trafficking about five years ago.” Laurent nodded. “I also need your help.”
Conrad outlined the events leading up to Plushenko’s escape. He raised his hands, palms up, in a futile gesture.
“We’re up against a maniac, Jules. We’ve lost him, but my gut instinct tells me he’s hiding out somewhere in the city.”
Paris was teeming with tourists from all over the world. It would be easy for Plushenko to get lost in the crowds. He could be walking along the Champs Élysée at this very moment sticking up two fingers at the police.
“The facility in the Alps was deserted when Wallace and I went up there, but I’m convinced that’s where he’s headed. If we don’t stop him, the consequences will be catastrophic.” Conrad’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. “It’s Ernst.”
“Pierre Fournier has ordered another suit.” It took a minute for Conrad to register what Dreher was telling him. “From the same tailor in Paris.”
“Are you sure that this Fournier and Alex Campbell are the same man?”
“Absolutely sure – the same eyes. Apparently, he ordered the suit two weeks ago over the telephone. Their measurements are also exactly the same. It’s being picked up from the store tomorrow night at eleven o’clock.”
“What if he decides to turn up today?”
“He won’t, the suit isn’t quite ready. Unfortunately, the seamstress was off work yesterday. She’s working all-out to get it finished by tomorrow night otherwise he’ll cancel the order. They agreed to open up especially for him. He must have given them a lot of business to open up late on New Year’s Eve.”
“We’ll be waiting for him,” Conrad replied, snapping his phone shut.
*
Conrad watched the entrance to the tailor’s from the hotel opposite. He had been sitting there sipping coffee for over an hour. Jules had men watching the area plus a man inside the store posing as an assistant. It was dead on eleven o’clock. His heart thumped in his chest when he spotted a tall man sporting a homburg, a scarf pulled up over the bottom part of his face. The man gazed at the display of men’s clothes in the illuminated window for a few moments then walked briskly away.
Further along the street a figure, wearing scruffy jeans and a red anorak with the hood pulled up, walked sloppily along the pavement and stepped into the store. Conrad sighed. Perhaps Plushenko had got wind that they were watching him? Perhaps the tailor had warned him off? Suddenly, his mobile shrilled.
“A kid has come to collect the suit,” a voice whispered.
He lunged for the door knocking over his coffee. At the same time Jules and the other agents converged on the store and grabbed the startled youth.
“Who asked you to pick up this suit?”
“Monsieur Fournier… he gave me twenty Euros to pick it up,” the terrified boy blurted.
“Why? What do you know about him?”
“I don’t know anything. I’m just a student… at the Sorbonne. It was a bit of extra money, that’s all.”
“If you’re lying you’ll go down for this,” Jules barked. “Take him in for questioning.”
“Please, I don’t know anything!” the boy cried hysterically. “You can check with the university. Monsieur Fournier approached me in a bar. He gave me the money and promised more when I delivered the suit.”
“That’s exactly what you’re going to do!” Conrad said.
*
Conrad followed the boy making his way towards the south pillar of the Eiffel Tower. New Year’s Eve – tourists and Parisians alike were swarming into the Trocadero to see in the New Year. The boy disappeared and reappeared in the throng of merrymakers. He was only thirty metres behind him now.
As the teenager came up to the pillar, Fournier stepped out of the crowd and took the package. Conrad lunged at him. Unable to halt his momentum, he hit the concrete with a jarring thud. By the time he was back on his feet Fournier was disappearing into the crowd.
Conrad threaded his way through the mêlée and caught sight of him backtracking towards the Pont d’léna. Instead of crossing the bridge, he turned sharply and ran along Quai Branly. Bypassing Pont de l’Alma, he raced down Quai d’Orsay and turned onto another bridge.
“Jules, he’s crossing the Pont des Invalides on to the right bank,” Conrad yelled into his satellite phone.
He was way behind him now. They passed the Rond-Point des Champs Élysée and crossed over Rue la Boétie. He strained his eyes trying to keep the ever-distant figure within sight, but it was no use. At the junction of Boulevard Haussmann and Rue de Courcelles he lost sight of him completely.
“Jules, I’ve lost him. He’s got to be holed up somewhere in an apartment or hotel. I’m going to scout around.”
In the Purple Bar of the Hilton Hotel, on the Rue de Courcelles, Pierre Fournier sat in a secluded corner watching people coming and going. He smiled to himself relishing the fact that he had outwitted Conrad again. Briefly, he closed his eyes. When he opened them again Conrad was standing near the entrance to the bar talking to the concierge who was shaking his head and gesticulating in the Gallic way.
Calmly, Fournier walked out and took the lift to the executive floor lounge. Taking a glass of champagne he sat down, his eyes never leaving the entrance. He tried to disguise his anxiety when Conrad walked into the bar five minutes later, his eyes sweeping around the room. There was an atmosphere of jollity as midnight approached. A flat-screen television flickered on the wall, panned over the crowds around the Eiffel Tower, then switched to the Champs Élysée.
The countdown began. On the stroke of twelve, champagne corks popped around the room. Most of the inebriated guests were kissing and hugging perfect strangers. An attractive girl flung her arms around Conrad and kissed him on the mouth. He pretended to respond, but he was watching the bespectacled man sitting on his own quietly sipping a drink.
A woman wobbled towards the man and leaned over to kiss him. For some reason she backed off, casting nervous glances over her shoulder. Conrad sidled over to the woman and put his arm around her.
“How about a kiss for me? He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
Puckering up, she planted a wet kiss on his mouth. Seeing another target in her sights she wandered off.
Conrad pushed through the bodies and sat down opposite the man.
“Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year, Jonathan Landers.” The man introduced himself in faultless English.
“Paul Winters,” Conrad replied, using his middle name and his mother’s maiden name.
Conrad scrutinised the man’s reaction, but there wasn’t a flicker of recognition or fear in his voice. They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes.
“Will you have another glass of champagne?” Landers asked amiably.
“Not for me. I’ve had too much already… acid stomach.” Conrad grimaced. He wanted all his wits about him. “Perhaps some hot chocolate to settle my stomach.”
“Hot chocolate it is. In fact, I think I’ll join you.”
The throng of guests had thinned out, heading out to clubs and bars. Landers motioned to the waiter.
“Hot chocolate for both of us and make sure it’s hot.” He turned to Conrad. “They never seem to get it right in hotels.”
“Of course, monsieur,” the weary waiter replied with a tight smile.
Conrad studied Landers while they chatted. Distinguished, early fifties, silver-haired, pencil moustache, gold-rimmed transition spectacles. Charming, self-assured; a man who demanded deference. Conrad couldn’t be certain of his eyes, pe
rhaps greyish blue – it was hard to tell behind the darkened lenses. It was all wrong. Nothing fitted with the description of Campbell or Fournier. So why did he have an uneasy feeling about the man?
“Will there be anything else, Monsieur?”
“Ah yes,” Landers said, “I forgot to mention I don’t want cow’s milk. I’m allergic to it. “Goat’s milk is fine, if you have it, otherwise I’ll have black coffee.”
Conrad froze, struggling to assimilate what he had heard. Heart thumping painfully in his chest he tried to appear nonchalant. Was this just a coincidence? He had to see the eyes behind the glasses.
“I think I’d better have a leak before I drink anymore,” he said. Unsteadily, he stood up almost keeling over. “I feel a bit woozy.” Suddenly, he lurched forward. Landers managed to catch him before he crashed into the table, but Conrad’s hand caught the side of his face knocking off the spectacles. “I’m so sorry. I’d better sit down.”
Landers swiftly picked up his glasses and replaced them; but not before Conrad caught a glimpse of the hard, cornflower blue eyes and the barely discernible thread scar over his left eyebrow. Then it hit him with startling clarity. Campbell, Fournier, Landers, Plushenko; they were one and the same. He was staring straight into the eyes of the Generalissimo. Heart thumping like a piston engine, he struggled to work out what to do next. A rush of adrenaline surged through his chest. He had to appear as normal as possible. He grimaced at Landers.
“Ask the waiter to keep my chocolate warm. I’m going to the loo.”
Conrad smiled at the girl sitting behind the desk at the entrance of the executive lounge.
There was no way anyone could leave without passing the desk. He waited a few minutes, but Plushenko didn’t appear. He took a deep breath and walked back into the lounge. His smile faded when he spotted the vacant table. Had Plushenko recognised him even with the week’s growth of beard? Patricia had persuaded him to keep it saying how different he looked. He raced back to the desk.
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