Damnation

by Peter Beck

  Winter felt the cold metal of the pistol and the leather grip. Anne had slid her gun beneath the seat so nobody could see it. Winter took out the pistol.

  It was 3:00P.M. and time for the hourly news bulletin. Winter listened with one ear while he checked the weapon. The magazine was full and the gun clean. The newsreader said something about an opposition party calling on someone to resign. Winter wasn’t listening properly and suddenly felt the urge to get out of the underground car park as quickly as possible.

  Then he sat up and focused on the voice coming from the radio: ‘… the oil rig sank in a few minutes. There are no clues yet as to who might be behind the attack. The authorities estimate that up to thirty people have died. The Canadian prime minister has interrupted his holiday to visit the site of the atrocity. In a statement, Greenpeace has expressed its concerns about the leaking oil. Stock markets have reacted to the news with significant falls in share prices. Berlin: today the German chancellor welcomed the Russian president…’

  Winter put the pistol in his pocket and switched off the radio.

  He leaned back, exhausted, and laid his head on the low headrest. He took a deep breath. Was he seeing ghosts or was he just tired? His eyes were burning; he probably looked ghastly. The rings under his eyes must be dark black. He flipped down the sun visor for its mirror. An envelope fell into his lap.

  It was white, rectangular, made of quality paper and folded once in the middle. He turned it around. It said ‘Anne’ in elegantly looped handwriting.

  Winter was wide awake again. He carefully opened the unstuck envelope. Inside was a piece of paper, folded twice, written by hand. Smoothing the letter flat, Winter held it beneath the courtesy light. He thought he recognized the handwriting. Five paragraphs. A love letter to Anne, an unequivocal love letter, signed, ‘All my love, J.’

  JULY 31 – 18:19

  Winter took the motorway to Lake Geneva. The engine purred at 3,000 rpm, complementing U2’s Rattle and Hum. The evening sun shone into his face and he put on his sunglasses.

  The letter had stirred his hunting instinct. He was determined to find out who had been bugging him and who had sent the helicopter with the photographer. Counter-espionage.

  Winter had a busy afternoon behind him. He’d been writing too, but not a love letter. In an internet café he’d sent himself a message from an anonymous email address he’d set up. In bad German, shot through with French expressions. Sender: a nameless banker who was shocked when he’d heard about the crash and was desperate to talk to Winter. But only in private, because the information he had was sensitive. Highly sensitive!!! Three exclamation marks. They should meet at ‘Le Baron Tavernier’ above Montreux.

  Tibère, a colleague from Geneva who’d become a friend over the years, had been earmarked for the role of the Geneva banker. When Winter called him, he agreed at once, but on two conditions. He insisted first on paying and second on choosing the restaurant himself. He knew one above Montreux with a good view and excellent food. Winter was sceptical. Normally the rule was: the better the view, the worse the food. And vice-versa. But he trusted his friend. Moreover, the restaurant and its setting were right for the purpose.

  Later, back home, Winter agreed by email. The little box in his connection would do the trick. The bait had been laid. Winter was certain that his opponent would be waiting for him and, more importantly, for his pretend informant. He would turn the tables.

  The motorway dropped steeply, ‘When Love Comes to Town’ was banging out and Lake Geneva stretched out before Winter. The water was turquoise, the French mountains beyond Évian dark blue and the sky, light blue. Playground of the beautiful and rich. Only platinum record sellers and Formula 1 world champions could afford the astronomical property prices here. Or Charlie Chaplin.

  Leaving the motorway, Winter drove across the terraced hillside vineyards. Arriving at the restaurant car park five minutes later, he turned off the engine and the music. Tibère had been right about the view.

  Before Winter got out he switched from relaxed driving mode to hunter mode. He studied the parked cars and made a note of the registration numbers. Most were parked forwards. Only two drivers had made the effort to reverse into their places.

  Le Baron Tavernier had an open lounge outside for drinks and a glass-covered area for eating. The guests met outside for an aperitif or two, then sat in the weatherproof section for dinner. It was still early evening and both terrace and restaurant were only just half full.

  Winter sat in a square, thickly cushioned wicker chair, ordered a glass of the local white wine and waited for his friend. It was a grand panorama, but Winter was working.

  The restaurant was nestled on the hillside and only accessible via steps. Restaurant and terrace were shielded from nosy onlookers by walls and hedges.

  Studying the guests, Winter wondered how he would try to shadow someone here. The people who had him under surveillance knew the time and place of his meeting. They would play it safe and have arrived earlier.

  They were probably within a radius of twenty metres.

  Someone was probably keeping a watch on the car park.

  Probably near the entrance.

  They had probably reserved a table.

  The problem for his pursuers was that they didn’t know the informant and couldn’t be certain if the restaurant was just meant to be the meeting place or whether they’d stay there for the evening. To cover all options the tails would be positioned so that they could move quickly in any direction.

  Winter reckoned it would be a man and woman posing as a couple. That would look most natural in the lounge. Or two men pretending to be out on a business dinner.

  Winter focused on four people. A young man in a suit, with gelled hair, sitting in a wicker chair beside the entrance, a bunch of red roses on the table in front of him.

  Sitting at the neighbouring table were two elderly men in suits and loosened ties, both with paunches and briefcases. Salesmen. Winter had picked up scraps of German when he stepped onto the terrace. One was drinking Coke, the other had a glass of whisky.

  The fourth candidate was an elegantly dressed woman in the entrance area, around thirty years of age. She was pacing up and down on her mobile, gesticulating with a Latin temperament. Winter couldn’t see the expression on her face. Was she liaising with a partner keeping watch over the car park? These days a woman on the phone was the man reading the newspaper of yesteryear. Conspicuously inconspicuous.

  The wine arrived with a bowl full of exotic nuts. Winter insisted on paying immediately. A first test. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that the woman was still on the phone, the two old men hadn’t interrupted their conversation, while the young man picked up his mobile. Was he calling his girlfriend or informing his partner?

  Winter made a bet. Favourite was the young guy with gelled hair, second place the woman on the phone, and third the two businessmen.

  The young, white wine was refreshingly cool and effervescent. He took a second sip and put the glass on the table.

  Time for test number two.

  He got up, took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair to mark his territory. He wandered to the restaurant. When he opened the glass door he saw that the woman on the phone had taken a few steps in his direction and turned her upper body towards him. She was interested in him. Whether professionally or otherwise he couldn’t yet tell. He went to the toilets. As he was washing his hands, one of the two businessmen with a paunch came in. The race was wide open again.

  Back on the terrace he saw Tibère coming down the steps. He seemed in a good mood and was wearing a light, linen suit, an open-necked, white shirt and pointed leather shoes. Elegant as ever. Tibère was at home in the clubs and bars around Geneva. They shook hands, gave each other a clap on the shoulder and both said how happy they were to see each other again.

  The young man with gelled hair and the woman at the entrance were both on the phone. The businessman was back on the terrace.
In French, Winter said, ‘Come, I’m sitting at the back.’

  Placing a hand on the arm of a passing waitress, Tibère ordered a cocktail that Winter had never heard of. Tibère explained in detail to the pretty waitress what he wanted, then sat down with Winter.

  ‘How lovely that it worked out this time!’

  Winter could see that a young woman had joined the man with gel in his hair. He half rose from his deep armchair. They kissed. From a distance it all looked genuine. He handed her the flowers. Either they really were together or the woman had been responsible for monitoring the car park.

  Tibère told the anecdote of a client who had put his valuables and identity documents into a deposit box, lost the key and forgot his code and then couldn’t prove his identity because his passport was in the safe. A dilemma. Listening with one ear, Winter grinned and watched the woman talking to the waiter by the glass door.

  After a while they went into the restaurant. Tibère had reserved a table to the rear with a view. Winter had a good sight of the guests and divided his attention three ways: one third for Tibère, one third for the view and one third for his tails.

  As he and Tibère ordered, the young couple entered the restaurant and were allocated a table two rows away from them. The woman on her mobile had vanished and the two portly men were still on the terrace.

  The red wine arrived after the salmon carpaccio. Tibère tasted it, nodded and the waiter filled the balloon-shaped glasses one third of the way up. They toasted and wished each other the best of health. Winter sniffed the glass and took a sip. ‘Excellent choice, Tibère.’

  ‘Thanks. The owner of the vineyard is one of our clients. I buy a few boxes off him each year. He managed to modify the land-use plan of his commune so that part of his vineyard fell in the construction zone. Now he’s a gentleman of independent means. But he’s one of the unluckiest fellows I know, because he’s terribly bored.’

  ‘Well, money on its own never makes you happy.’

  ‘But it is a comfort.’ They laughed, then Tibère asked seriously, ‘Have you found anything out yet?’

  Winter outlined his research and they discussed their plan for the evening. Winter described the behaviour of the people he suspected. Tibère was sitting with his back to the tails, but didn’t need to turn around. Out of professional habit, he too had made a mental note of the people in his vicinity. He recalled having seen the young woman who’d been given the flowers in a car in the car park.

  ‘A VW Passat with Zürich plates?’ Winter asked.

  ‘Yes, parked backwards. She looked like she was putting on make-up.’

  The steaks arrived. Rumours were circulating that Tibère’s bank was aiming at taking over a specialized part of the financial group behind Winter’s bank. Rumours were rumours, fuelled by speculation. The conversation moved to Winter’s house, his unfinished terrace. When the double espressos arrived the two friends were up to date with each other’s news and looking forward to the special dessert.

  The couple had decided against pudding and were now having coffee too. The businessmen had only moved into the restaurant half an hour ago and were waiting for their main course. Winter wondered about the woman with the mobile. Was she lurking in the car park?

  After much discussion Winter was finally able to take the bill off Tibère. Today his arguments definitely carried greater weight. After all, Tibère was working for him in a sense. As they left the restaurant, joking, out of the corner of their eyes they could see one of the businessmen stand up. And the young man was waving his wallet.

  Tibère and Winter slowly climbed the steps. Once at the top they had an unhurried look around. The sun had set around half an hour earlier. A lost cumulus cloud glowed pink in the sky.

  The two of them took a post-dinner walk. They strolled along the narrow road that snaked through the vineyards high above the lake. The asphalt radiated the sun’s warmth stored during the day. An emerald lizard darted past, disappearing between the limestones. On either side, amongst the sea of leaves, Winter could see wine grapes already well formed, but still small and solid. They smelled of summer.

  The wine-growers had terraced every conceivable patch of ground. The head-height vine stocks stood in rank and file, fastened to wires tensed between metal posts. The terraces covered the gently curved slopes like a patchwork quilt.

  The two friends were enjoying a leisurely chat. With each footstep Tibère’s elegant shoes made a clicking sound. They stopped at a viewing point, leaned against the railing and gazed down at Lake Geneva.

  Behind them they saw the young couple, arm in arm. They were walking fairly slowly, not wanting to overtake Winter and Tibère.

  Simple, Winter thought.

  The couple stopped about thirty metres away and started kissing passionately. The bunch of roses rocked back and forth.

  They waited.

  A small, noisy motorbike came from the opposite direction and chugged past.

  The two men looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Romeo and Juliet. Had they been mistaken? Was it a genuine couple kissing for real? Or were they just pretending? In the twilight they couldn’t make out the faces. The man had put his arm around the woman and his summer jacket tightened. The outline of a holster was visible at the man’s lower back. Romeo was armed.

  The couple stopped kissing. They leaned on the railings and looked out at the lake. The man pointed with his right hand to the far side of the lake and whispered something to the woman. A right hander.

  Otherwise not a soul to be seen on the road.

  Winter wanted to keep the momentum. He motioned to the restaurant with his chin and they slowly got moving.

  The couple made a point of ignoring the men.

  When he reached Romeo’s blind spot, Winter took a few silent and rapid steps towards him. ‘Good evening!’ he said, tapping him on the shoulder.

  The couple spun around and Romeo aimed a matt silver pistol at Winter’s head. For Winter, the next few moments passed in slow motion. He knew exactly what he was doing because he’d practised these movements ten thousand times.

  With a smile, Winter turned his head towards the lake and the young man’s eyes automatically followed his gaze. This split second was enough for Winter to grab the barrel of the pistol.

  His left hand wrenched the barrel down and outwards. Any shot fired would miss. Then his thumb dug into the pressure point of the hand holding the pistol and, with a circular movement, Winter’s right hand seized the gun. He waited for resistance, then with both hands locked the man’s wrists, elbows and shoulders.

  Romeo was disarmed, bent forwards and in a painful lock. If necessary, Winter could dislocate his shoulder with a little jerk. The shoulder capsule was full of sensitive nerves.

  Juliet shrieked and launched an attack with the bunch of roses. Tibère had no wish to end up with a scratched face. He ducked beneath the roses and used the momentum to put the woman in an arm lock. The flowers were on the floor and Tibère announced, ‘Sorted.’

  Winter tossed the young man’s pistol into the roadside ditch, manoeuvred him to the railings and forced his head through them. With his free hand Winter grabbed the gelled hair and yanked the head back. Romeo had a great view but couldn’t enjoy it.

  ‘If you lie I’ll break your wrist, followed by your elbow, then shoulder and finally your neck. Is that clear?’ To give emphasis to his threat, Winter slightly increased the pressure each time on the pertinent body part. The young man nodded as best he could. Winter heard a rasping ‘Yes’.

  ‘Right, then. First question: What’s your name?’ Always good to start with a simple one.

  ‘Romero.’

  His guess had almost been spot on.

  ‘And?’ A little tug on the hair.

  ‘Sanchez.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Zürich.’

  ‘Address?’ The man gave the address of a working-class district of the city.

  ‘Who do you work for?’
>
  ‘I’m a freelance PI – private investigator.’

  ‘Who’s your client?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Without any warning Winter broke the man’s wrist. When the tendon snapped it made a noise like a guitar string breaking. The cartilage between his forearm and the back of his hand crunched. The man let out a stifled scream.

  ‘Second attempt,’ Winter continued. ‘Who is your client?’

  ‘Please don’t!’ Romero panted and with his hand in the man’s hair Winter could feel sweat streaming from his head. He waited. He had all the time in the world.

  The man gasped and mumbled something.

  ‘Louder, please.’

  ‘This afternoon I got a call from the detective agency Schmitt, Berger & Partners.’ Winter had heard of them; they specialized in financial crime, charged horrific fees and operated within the grey areas of the law. ‘If they’re short on people I sometimes work for them. They get the jobs I find hard to come by.’ Under gentle pressure it suddenly all came spurting out of the young man. ‘Schmitt said he had a simple but urgent job in a large case of financial espionage. He wanted to know who you were meeting. I agreed and Schmitt emailed me a photo of you and the address of the restaurant. That’s all.’

  Winter said nothing. He wanted to sense if the young man was deliberately withholding something from him. He shifted his weight and increased the pressure on Romero’s shoulders.

  ‘Please let me go. I’ve told you everything,’ the whining detective said.

  ‘Where’s the photo of me?’

  ‘In my inside pocket.’

  Winter let go of his hair, wiped the sticky residue of the gel on the man’s shoulder and felt in his inside jacket pocket. The photo he pulled out had been substantially enlarged. It was from the brochure for an international conference on fighting financial crime. Anybody could find this photo. Winter put it in his pocket.

  From the man’s back pocket he took out a wallet. A driving licence in the name of Romero Sanchez. Cheap business cards. A loving photo of Romero and his girlfriend in a bikini on some beach. Winter stuffed the wallet back into Romero’s back pocket and said, ‘So she’s your girlfriend?’