by Mark Leggatt
“Did Priti make them?”
“Don’t be daft. Why would she make them when you can buy them on Amazon?” She reached into the bag and pulled out a thick silver cross on a chain. “Put this around your neck. It’s the microphone and transceiver. It connects to the earpiece and the Bluetooth on your phone.”
He held it in his hand then lifted it over the cap and onto his neck. “It’s a bit gangster.”
“Chinese technology has yet to catch up on your fashion requirements, Connor, but they’re doing their best. It’s either that or a big disco medallion and a hairy chest wig. Your choice.”
She handed him a phone. “Priti has set it up. It runs in the background even when the phone is switched off.”
He stopped under the palm trees beside the road and looked down at the map on her phone. “How far to the club?”
“About a thousand yards,” said Kirsty. She took the other cell from the pill box and dropped it in her ear, then fixed on heavy earrings. “Now turn up the volume on your phone, but slowly. Or you’ll blow you ear drum right across the harbor. Ready?”
He pressed the volume control to one bar.
“Priti, this is Kirsty. Test please.”
The voice of Priti grew and seemed to echo around his head. “Mary had a little lamb…”
Kirsty grinned. “She kept it in a bucket.”
“I don’t think we need to know how that version ends,” replied Priti. “Montrose, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Mr. Pilgrim will monitor comms,” said Priti. “I will arrange your hire car. Good luck.”
“Thanks, sister,” said Kirsty and she nudged Montrose. “We need to get you some proper clothes. If they check any of his photos, you’ve got to look the same. Like a rich idiot.”
“There are shops on the way?” He ran after her as she weaved between the traffic and down a side street.
“This is Monaco, baby! Everything is for sale. You need pastel shirts, cashmere and over-priced chinos. No Ralph Lauren or Lacoste polo shirts. There must be no branding on your clothes. That’s how the super-rich roll.”
“You know these things?”
“I do.”
“I hate shopping.”
The assistant held open the door and Montrose hurried into the street.
“Dump your clothes in the next bin,” said Kirsty, “Priti will leave new gear in the car.”
He caught his reflection in a shop window. “Jesus.”
“Stylish,” said Kirsty, “in a friendly, fascist kind of way.”
Montrose looked down at the sky-blue cashmere pullover, the white chinos and tan Gucci loafers. “I don’t want to die today.” He held up the polished leather man bag. “Not like this.”
Faber threw the door closed behind him so hard it rattled in its frame. “We got a tip-off.”
“You found him?” said Napier.
“No, but the missiles could be in France.”
“France?” Napier got up from his desk and stared at the map on the wall. “That’s crazy. But crazy is the new reality.” He walked over and traced his finger north from Rome, along the Mediterranean coast of Italy. He tapped his finger on the red line separating the Principality of Monaco from France. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if Montrose was on his way right there. Maybe he made it out of Rome. And there’s only one route by road. Right along the coast. Otherwise he’d have to take a detour through the Alps. And he isn’t Hannibal. What did this tip-off say?”
“That the location of the missile source may be in southeast France, and we should be prepared to move.”
“Prepared to move? Who gives a tip-off like that? Is this kosher?”
“The source is unknown, but has a very high hit rate. And it’s well informed.”
“Yeah, like an intelligence service. Like some tea-drinking Herbert in GCHQ.”
“Or maybe our guy in GCHQ?”
“Yeah,” said Napier. “Maybe.” He stood before the map. “Southeast France. We’re talking Marseille at a push, Toulon is a big naval base, then it’s all sun cream and film stars. Cannes, Nice and St. Tropez.”
“And Monaco.”
“That’s not France, but it might as well be.” He closed his eyes and placed his palms flat on his face. “This is a Russian missile. Where are the Russians in the region?”
“They’ve got spies at the naval base, the rest are fat gangsters with plastic wives spending their money in the sun. All along the coast.”
“Where’s the money?”
“Nice, Cannes and Monaco.”
“Yeah, but where’s the real money? The private banks, the yachts registered in a hundred different shell companies, the place where you can do a deal to sell a fucking missile?”
“Monaco.”
Napier stabbed a finger onto the map. “Forget the rest. We won’t get a better chance, but if we’re wrong…”
“We have time,” said Faber. “Montrose can’t have made it to Monaco already. Maybe we can set up a border post between France and Italy.”
“Yeah, that’ll please everyone. They haven’t had a border post there for thirty years. The whole freeway will grind to a halt.”
“Maybe not a bad idea. Flush him out. Maybe he’s going to lead us right to the missiles.”
Napier shook his head. “He’s too smart for that. There’s a whole network of back roads and mountain passes between Italy and France. None of them are manned. What about the sea? A boat could make it in four hours.”
“We checked. Only a pleasure boat and a few guys ripping up the water to impress the chicks.”
“Forget it. Let’s hit Monaco. Then if we hit the jackpot, Montrose walks right in. Who have we got?”
“We have eight teams around Europe.” He pointed to the map. “But that exposes us elsewhere. We have a tactical Learjet in Barcelona with ten men. They’ve been on alert since the first attack. We can have them on the streets in Monaco in thirty minutes. We’ll get airport priority. Then transfer to a police helicopter, because they’ll be dressed to kill.”
“They can’t fly to Monaco?”
“Too small for an airport. Everyone uses choppers down there.”
Napier edged closer to the map. “Do it. And warn the Monaco police. We want the whole damn force looking for him.”
“Yes, sir. One last thing. Do we try to take him alive?”
“I no longer care.”
The fat man glanced at the empty place at the table where the old man had sat. He paused, then began. “He told me just before the meeting. He thought the exposure was too great. Montrose could bring all this to an end in seconds.” He turned to the Director. “I do not think I speak for everyone at the table, but you said you knew where he was going, Director.”
“I am beginning to lose patience with this obsession.”
“Entertain me for a moment more,” said the fat man. “So, Montrose made it out of Rome. That was unexpected, no? Your ruse was to tempt him out into the open and into the waiting arms of the police and security services. Not to actually make it all the way to the Principality,” said the fat man.
The Director pursed his lips, then let out a slow breath. “Unexpected, yes. Unplanned, no. Worrying, gentlemen, is a misuse of the imagination. Yet I see you still don’t understand that. Very well, let me update you on the fate of Montrose then we can move on.” He nodded to a technician.
A picture appeared on the screen, showing two people standing at the corner of a street.
“Monaco, gentlemen.”
“Is that…?”
“Yes,” said the Director, “that is Connor Montrose. And it seems he has a charming assistant. No matter.”
“How did he…?”
“His method of arrival is irrelevant. Though he did get there very quickly. However, we were prepa
red.”
The fat man leaned into the screen. “I know that street.”
“I’m sure you do,” said the Director. “It leads to your private club. Mr. Montrose is about to have his final meal. The fly is walking straight into the web. And we will hear no more from him. Now if we can move on…”
“Director, if we can see that image then so can the police. You know Monaco, there will be someone watching him right now.”
The Director slammed his hand on the table. “Do you think I am an idiot! Of course they can fucking see him!”
No one moved.
The Director stepped back from the table. “Gentlemen. One last time. Let me explain. Then we will move on.” He walked over to the window and looked out over the fields. “Montrose is wanted by every force in Europe. You want him dead before he can talk, even though he has nothing to say. And this, gentlemen, is exactly what I am going to do. This is what I had planned. This is what is going to happen.” He turned to face the table. “Montrose will enter the club. It will be seen on the cameras. After a short period, he will leave the club via the hotel car park next door, as a passenger in a taxi. It will be seen by cameras. Then he will be driven away from prying eyes and his body will never be found. That will not be seen by cameras. The police will come calling and the club will tell them he visited, asked for accommodation, but had no business there and was asked to leave. He was given the courtesy of a taxi. And that is the last they heard of him. The club has a relationship with the police. Everything will be above board. The circus will move on and the club will be forgotten.”
“A taxi?”
“Yes, with a man beside him pointing a gun at his stomach. And as soon as the taxi has crossed into France, he will pull the trigger.”
Chapter 17
“I look like an asshole.”
“I’m afraid that you look very much like an asshole, but that’s important.” Kirsty stuffed their jeans and shirts into a polished metal garbage can attached to a streetlamp, then faced the entrance to the club on the other side of the street.
He felt the weight of the Glock in his polished leather man bag. “What if they search me?”
“What if they do? Remember, you’re a right-wing Christian and the only thing you believe in more than Jesus and money is guns. Just hand it over and tell them to take good care of it.”
He looked down as she opened her bag and unwrapped a cloth. “What’ve you got there?”
She smiled. “Just a little letter-opener.” In her hand was a long, thin dagger. The wooden handle was stained with age. The blade was dull but the edges gleamed silver and blue.
“What the hell is that?” said Montrose.
“It’s a Sykes-Fairbairn. A British commando dagger. Standard wartime issue for the Royal Marines. They still use them. A very nice Welsh Guardsmen taught me how to use it.”
He shook his head. “What if they find it?”
“It will be at the bottom of my bag, covered in sanitary towels and panty liners, and if anyone gets near it I’ll say I need my bag back and the nearest ladies toilet immediately.” She placed the knife deep in the bag. “Men are such wimps.”
He heard Priti laughing in his ear. “Your car is ready. There will be radio silence from both Mr. Pilgrim and I unless it is an absolute necessity.”
“Let’s do it.” Kirsty strode out from the curb.
“Wait,” said Montrose. “I’m supposed to be the big shot. I walk in front.”
Kirsty growled.
“You’re the secretary, remember?” He stepped one pace ahead of her.
“Yeah, I’m the secretary. But I’ve got a knife, so remember to be a considerate employer, or I’ll cut your goolies off.”
“Jeez, it’s tough being a boss.” He looked up at the club. “I can’t see the cameras.”
“Correct, and I’ll bet that they are watching us all the way, so walk like the God-fearing gun-toting right wing racist Nazi bastard that you are. This shit is about to get real.”
They both stepped up the curb to stand in front of a high wooden door. “How long do you think we’re going to last?” said Montrose.
“Oh, ye of little faith. Let’s concentrate on what that piece of shit knows, then get the hell out. If he is the middleman then he knows where the missiles came from. Or where the next attack will be.”
“Oh, right. Nothing too tricky, then? He’s not going to just spit it out.”
She patted her bag. “He might need some persuasion.”
“Kirsty, he’s not going to be on his own.”
“I didn’t think he would be. So, we might have to get him on his own. If we do, leave that to me.”
“Look…”
“You do what you have to do, and if it all goes to shit, I’ll do what I have to do.”
There was no nameplate or doorbell. “We do it my way first, yeah?”
She didn’t look at him. “Oh, yeah. Absolutely.”
Montrose knocked on the door. He felt the mascara sticky where Kirsty had darkened his eyebrows. “Okay. We’re about to walk into a club run by terrorists, arms dealers and pedophiles. I’ve got a gun, a handbag and I’m wearing make-up.”
“Welcome to my world,” said Kirsty. “Fuck the patriarchy.”
“Oui?”
Montrose looked down at a small metal grille.
“I have an appointment with Monsieur Blokhin.”
“Entrez.”
The door clicked open. Montrose felt a jolt of adrenalin as he stepped through the entrance. In front of him was an old-fashioned revolving door of etched glass and dark wood, lined with polished brass handles. Through the glass he could see a figure sitting behind a desk about twenty feet away. Kirsty stood beside him. “Ladies first,” he said.
“Gee, thanks, I’ll be the first to get shot. No, you’re the right-wing alpha male, and I’m just eye candy, so you go first. That’s how it works in the great white America.”
“Yeah.” He shoved the brass handle and stepped in. The door revolved smoothly then slammed to a halt. Montrose almost smacked his face off the glass. He felt a puff of air and the door started again, and he emerged into a wide hall lined with ivory marble. The sweat chilled on his skin, and he heard the hum of aircon above and from brass vents set into the floor.
He felt a shove in his back as Kirsty came behind him. “Sorry.”
She smiled sweetly and spoke softly, her voice masked by the aircon. “Stop acting like a nice guy, you fascist prick.”
He stuck out his chin and marched towards the long desk at the back of the hall. In the corner he could see a high wooden door, flanked by two guards. Behind the desk, a man with close-cropped hair watched him approach. Montrose placed a hand on the marble top counter. “Mister Robert Nohmark. I’m here to see Mister Blokhin.”
“He is expected,” added Kirsty, in a low, southern drawl.
Montrose stopped himself giving her a sideways look for channeling Scarlett O’Hara.
The man nodded. “For security reasons, I must ask you if you are carrying a weapon. I hope you understand. We have many important club members who insist on discreet but very strict security.”
Montrose caught the Russian accent. They had this place sewn up. “Of course, my club is exactly the same. It is not an issue.” He took the Glock from his bag and placed it on the marble counter.
Kirsty stepped forward and placed her Glock beside it. “I just feel so naked without my piece.” She lifted her arms dramatically in the air. “Do you want to search me? You never know what you might find.” She pinned back her shoulders and her breasts jutted out through the thin cloth.
“Enough,” said Montrose.
She let her arms drop.
A man approached from one of the doors. “Your bag.”
Montrose opened his bag and the man felt around inside.
Kirsty held her bag open and he glanced in, rummaged around then pulled his hand out and turned away.
“Follow me.”
From behind the high wooden door, Montrose heard a lock snap back, like a bolt action rifle. The door opened and another guard in an identical suit and haircut stood to the side.
He stepped through the door. The frescoed roof was thirty feet high, hung with sparkling chandeliers. The long, high windows each side of the salon were covered in thin, translucent curtains, diffusing the light. It occurred to him he’d seen photographs of similar rooms. They were usually fin-de-siècle Parisian brothels. The room was full of silver gilt furniture, lined with red velvet. It was a monument to bad taste. It would suit the Russians perfectly.
The door closed behind them. The guard positioned himself with his back to the door, facing the room. Two more men stood at a marble-topped bar at the side of the room, sipping water. The white-coated barman looked straight ahead.
The room was several degrees warmer than the hall. At the far end, below a fading medieval tapestry, a short, fat man sat perched on a chaise longue, wearing an expensive crumpled suit. His left arm was draped over the back of the couch and he held a fat cigar in his right hand, trying to give an air of louche sophistication, while his stubby legs barely reached the carpet. He regarded Montrose through half-shut eyes. In each corner of the back wall there was a low archway, leading to identical dimly-lit corridors.
Montrose lifted his chin into the air as he walked.
“Jeez,” whispered Kirsty, just behind him, “we’ve walked into Madonna’s knicker drawer.”
Blokhin got to his feet, splaying his legs wide and thrusting out a hand.
“Oohh,” murmured Kirsty, “it’s handshake power play time. You men are so impressive.”
Montrose ignored her and stepped over, taking Blokhin’s hand in a tight grip. “Robert Nohmark. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Blokhin. I appreciate your time.” Blokhin began to pump his hand up and down and Montrose freed his little finger to tap twice on Blokhin’s wrist.
Blokhin let go of Montrose’s hand.
Work that out, thought Montrose. You’ll be thinking P2 Masonic Lodge of Rome, and I’m thinking Long Island Cub Scouts. “If I may introduce my secretary, er, Scarlett.”