by Mark Leggatt
The assistant looked past Montrose to the waiting taxi. “But there is one waiting . . .”
“Yeah, but he ripped me off. I want another. Took me the tourist route, you know?”
“Of course, sir. Where to?”
“Maybe the Coliseum.” Why not? “Yeah, the Coliseum.”
“Of course, sir,” replied the assistant, but Montrose was already heading for the exit.
The store bag swung in his hand as he stood before the waiting taxi. The driver looked expectantly as Montrose checked his iPhone was set to silent, then lifted it to his ear.
Listen carefully, buddy, this call is only for you. “Yeah, I’m in Rome. What? Lyon?” He pulled open the door and dropped onto the rear seat. “The bag? You got to be serious, I can’t get to Lyon today. I’m in a taxi on the way to headquarters. And I’m not putting this bag on a flight. If we lose this, the whole case could go under. We’ve been chasing them for months! Those damn bankers are going down for this, one way or another.” He caught the driver’s eye in the rear view mirror, and began nodding vigorously. “Yeah, yeah. What? The taxi? Yeah, that could work. It’s got to be the fastest way. It’ll be eight hours by road. The judge ain’t gonna wait.” He leaned forward and read out the taxi number from the license plate on the dashboard. “Rome. CO50702. It has to work − we can’t lose this. Yeah, I’ll send it direct to you.”
The taxi driver began to turn around.
If you’re looking for your fare, you’re in for a big surprise. “Okay, hold on. Driver, you take Visa, yeah?”
The driver looked relieved. “Of course, we take Visa, MasterCard, Amex. This is Rome, signore, we’re ahead of the times.”
“Yeah, very good.” Spinks was gonna love this. If it worked. He pulled out his Interpol badge and held it up in front of the driver. “Write down my name and number. You’re gonna need it.”
The driver squinted at the badge then began scribbling on a pad.
“Listen, I need this bag delivered to Interpol Headquarters in Lyon, France. Address is 200 Quai Charles de Gaulle. Write that down too.”
“Lyon? France?” The diver scribbled down the address. “You want to go there now?”
“Not me, the bag.” He held up the Brookes Brothers’ store bag stuffed full of his old clothes.
“Just the bag, signore?”
He ain’t looking convinced. No surprise. “This is Interpol business. I could get another taxi?”
“Signore, that’s going to be very expen . . .”
“Whatever. Tell me how much. I’ll pay for it now.” The driver’s eyes lit up and he grabbed his phone.
Thought you’d like that. He pulled the Visa card from his wallet as the driver spoke fast Italian into the phone. Montrose leaned over and tapped his watch.
“Si, si, Lyon.” The driver held the phone to his chest. “They say two thousand euros, signore.”
Robbing bastards, it’s nowhere near that. “Fine, let’s do it.”
The driver grabbed the Visa card and slotted it into the machine. “I will have to call my wife, and tell . . .”
“Do it later. This is crucial evidence. Interpol are counting on you. Don’t let them down.”
“Si, si, importante.” He handed over the machine.
Montrose keyed in his PIN code. “I’ll need the receipt.”
“Of course, signore.” He tore the ticket from the machine and read the price to make sure.
Enjoy, it buddy. “One more thing.” Montrose patted the store bag. “You can look inside the bag, but don’t touch anything. You don’t want to get your prints on this stuff. Understand?”
“Si. I won’t touch it.”
Yeah, let’s make sure, my friend. “You ever been in trouble with the police? Had your fingerprints taken?”
The driver shrugged and held out his hands.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Don’t worry about it. Remember, you can look but don’t touch. Your prints come up on these clothes then the Carabinieri will be around to kick your door down. They won’t be there for coffee and cake. Do you understand the mission?”
“Mission! Yes, but this one is possible, no?” The driver grinned.
For the right price, anything is possible. Even buying Afghanistan. “Yeah, you’re Tom Cruise. Only taller.” Montrose slipped the iPhone between the cushions of the back seat and felt it drop into the trunk. “And don’t get stopped for speeding. No delays, okay?”
“You can rely on me, signore.”
“Go for it.” Montrose laid the store bag flat on the seat and stepped out on to the street. The driver waved and sped off into the traffic.
“Mr. Montrose?” The shop assistant stood in the doorway. “Your taxi is here, sir.”
He looked up as a taxi pulled into the curb. The assistant opened the door and Montrose got into the rear seat. “Thanks.”
The driver looked around. “The Coliseum?”
“No.” Montrose slid down in the seat and tugged up the velvet collar of the Crombie. “Airport. Fast as you can.”
CHAPTER 12
The doors of the First Class lounge were mirrored and he stopped to admire the Crombie. He looked like a million dollars but felt like shit.
The receptionist smiled as he approached. “Good evening, sir.”
Montrose handed over his ticket. He caught a row of clocks behind the desk. The cops will be tracking a phone to Lyon, running up and down the autoroute looking for me. But I ain’t there. They’d work it out, but not yet. Not just yet.
“Your boarding begins in ten minutes, sir. Enjoy your flight.”
“Thanks.”
It was too dark in the lounge to wear sunglasses without looking like a dick. He slipped them into his pocket and walked slowly through the lounge. Six foot, maybe. Fair hair. He stopped to pour himself a coffee from a free bar. Some of the occupants of the room busied themselves with papers, others dozed in their seats or chatted with colleagues around low tables.
I can’t picture the face. The face in the corridor when it all went to shit.
He scanned the lounge. Around him some passengers dozed in their chairs, others chatted in groups. Fifty people, tops. Forget the groups. He’ll be on his own. A few businessmen sat apart, reading papers or working on laptops. Montrose let his eyes rest on each one for a second. Too fat. Too old. Too small. He’s got to be here.
A row of high-backed recliners faced the windows. Above one was a crop of fair hair, just visible over the edge of the headrest. Montrose approached, checking his reflection to make sure the passenger couldn’t see him coming. There was a flight case beside the chair. Closer now, the reflection in the window sharpened. Well dressed. Yuppie clothes that looked old but cost more than a working man’s monthly salary. The kind of guy women love to be with, and the kind of guy that men would never tire of punching in the face.
It’s got to be him. Old Reinhard’s identity pass. That was the key. The son must have it. But where? Only one way to find out.
He turned back to the lounge. A phone booth was set into the wall at a corner of the room where he could get a view of the reception desk. Pulling a few coins from his pocket, he opened the door of the booth and ran a finger down the numbers printed on the wall. He grabbed the handset and dialed, shoving in coins when the voice spoke.
“Aeroporti di Roma, Sicurezza.”
Shit, my Italian ain’t that good. “Hi, this is, uh, Bobby Spinks, Interpol Rome. Do you mind if I speak English?”
“Yes, this is Airport Security, how can I help you?”
“Thanks, I’m calling with some security information. We’ve got a tip off that a gang of pickpockets is working the departure lounges. Could you put out a warning to the passengers? We’re still trying to track the guys down.”
“Of course, I’ll do it right now.”
“Grazie. We’ll be in touch when we have more information.” He had to see what happened next and pulled open the door of the booth. Bet they start with First Class.
The receptionist picked up a phone and listened to a short conversation, then leaned over to the PA microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a message from Airport Security. There are pickpockets operating in the airport, please be careful with your belongings. Thank you.”
Everyone started jumping up and down like Pavlov’s dogs. But just one doggy will do. The figure at the window stood up like the others, patted his hip pocket and shoved a hand inside his overcoat. Montrose moved to the side to get a better view as the man opened a paper ticket wallet and took out a faded piece of card.
Around him, passengers checked their pockets and bags. He scanned the faces. Some six footers, but no fair hair. It has to be him. Montrose took a chair behind the man and watched him pick up some travel brochures from a nearby stand. Montrose squinted at the covers. They were for Ireland, like the ones at the reception desk. The man tucked the card into a brochure then slipped it into the zipper pocket at the side of his flight case. It’s him.
The hotel trick. Montrose tightened his grip on the leather bag. It was the only way. He’d tried it in training, but not for real. The best chance to steal a briefcase was in a hotel, just as the target was checking in. They had observed a businessman walk to the reception desk, then place his briefcase at his feet, out of his line of sight. It was a simple trick to walk up quietly behind the sucker and pick up the briefcase while he was busy writing down his details or trying to catch the eye of an attractive receptionist. Some criminals made an industry out of it, but all he needed was the contents of the zipper pocket.
He’s on edge. Got to be. He’s not going to fool easily. Unless he’s distracted. Montrose checked his watch, and reckoned there was about five minutes before they were called for boarding. If it didn’t work there might not be another chance until the flight. But I’ll know for sure.
He opened the phone booth and lifted the handset, glancing back through the glass panel. The receptionist was engrossed in her Nintendo, holding it in front of her burgeoning chest. Her breasts jiggled as she thumbed the controls hard, straining the buttons on her silk shirt. Sweet Jesus, that chick is stacked. Super Mario would have a big smile on his face. She couldn’t be more perfect. He hit redial on the phone.
“Security?”
“This is Spinks, from Interpol, I called a few minutes ago. I need to speak to a colleague in the first class lounge, I think we may be on to something. Can you put me through?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll let you know if we find them. But if I don’t call back, it’s a dead end.”
“Do you want me to send a security team?”
“Nah, we’re not sure yet. But when we are, you can come and take them down. What’s your name?”
“Paola Cabrelli, Security Officer.”
She sounds sweet. “Thanks, Paola. If we nail them, I’ll buy you dinner to celebrate.”
“Grazie, Mr. Spinks. I’ll think about it.”
“My pleasure. So, can you put me through to the First Class Lounge? I need to speak to . . . ”
“Oh, of course. One moment.”
The line buzzed and clicked. He watched the receptionist drop the Nintendo and pick up the phone. Apologies, Mario.
“Sala d’attesa Prima Classe?”
“I have an urgent call for Mr. Reinhard, who’s in your lounge. Can you bring him to the phone?”
“One moment, sir.” The receptionist flicked the button on the PA. “Telephone call for Mr. Reinhard. Reception desk, please.”
Montrose pressed his face against the glass.
The blond guy stood up with a puzzled look, checked his Blackberry and then hurried to the desk. He took the phone from the receptionist and dropped his bag on the floor. “Reinhard speaking.”
You freak, I’m going to put a bullet in your heart. “Mr. Reinhard,” said Montrose. “I have an urgent call for you, please wait while I connect.”
This has to be damn quick. Reinhard didn’t look like the patient type. Montrose laid the receiver on a ledge, then pulled open the door and crossed to the reception desk. “Hi! Say, can I change my seat to an aisle? I like to stretch my legs. Gotta get my shut-eye!” He placed his leather bag beside Reinhard’s flight case, then picked up a travel brochure from the desk and grinned at Reinhard. “How are ya doing, buddy?”
Reinhard turned away with barely concealed irritation, leaning on the desk and pressing the phone to his ear.
Don’t you remember me? Maybe if I was wearing a hooded top and carrying a Glock? How ‘bout then, asshole?
The receptionist held out a perfectly manicured hand. “May I see your ticket, sir?”
“Sure, yeah.” Montrose patted his pockets. “Hold on a moment, it’s here somewhere.” He bent down to the leather bag and stole a glance at Reinhard, who was listening intently to the call and trying to catch a glimpse of the receptionist’s impressive décolletage. Couldn’t be better, just keep an eye on those sweater puppies. Montrose slipped back the zipper on the travel pocket of Reinhard’s case, pulled out the brochure and slid in his own. He stood up, exasperated.
“I can’t seem to find . . . Ah, here it is!” he said and palmed Reinhard’s brochure into the Crombie then pulled out his own boarding pass.
The receptionist scanned the details. “This is an aisle seat, sir.”
“Really? Great! Hey, my bad, I thought that was a centre seat.”
“Not in First Class, sir, it’s all aisles and windows.”
“Even better, more legroom for me!”
She gave him her best professional smile for dealing with idiots. “Glad to be of help, sir. I hope you enjoy your flight.”
“I think I will.” He hurried back to the phone booth, kicked the door closed and grabbed the receiver. “Kevin!”
“What?”
“One of my buddies spotted your name at check-in. There’s only one K. Reinhard who goes whoring in Rome!” Montrose turned his head just enough to peer through the glass, and saw the face of Reinhard crease in disgust.
“You have the wrong Reinhard,” he replied and almost threw the phone back to the receptionist.
“I don’t think I did, buddy,” Montrose murmured and took a small notebook from his wallet. It was time to give Zurich Customs a call.
CHAPTER 13
First class was starting to fill up. Montrose gave his overcoat to the stewardess, threw his leather bag in the overhead locker and settled into the seat. He stood with his back to the aisle and pulled out the travel brochure, holding it inside his jacket. He thumbed the pages and they fell open to reveal a faded brown card. His breath caught in his throat when he saw the eagle and swastika stamped on the cover. He felt someone behind him pushing past. He clamped the brochure to his chest and dropped his gaze for a moment as Reinhard passed by.
Old man Reinhard was about as Swiss as Osama Bin Laden’s ass.
Glancing over his shoulder, Montrose caught Reinhard sitting a few seats behind and watched a businessman attempt to make conversation, but with little success. Good news. That would keep the bastard quiet. Reinhard wouldn’t go looking for a Nazi pass with a nosy neighbor sitting next to him. That would make for a very interesting conversation piece.
“Nervous flyer, sir?”
He jerked his head around to see the stewardess looking concerned.
Jeez, wear the face, you’re just a tired businessman. “Only a little. Once take-off is over, I’ll be okay.”
“We’re approaching the runway so it won’t be long before we’re in the air. Perhaps you could read a magazine? It would help pass the time.”
“Thanks.” In the seat pocket was a well-thumbed copy of Time magazine. The cover was emblazoned with “The Poppy Fields. The Harvest of Death.” He dropped the magazine and rubbed his face to mask the tension. Now the Taliban were weaker, the poppy fields were back at full strength. Production had doubled since the first GI boots had hit the ground. Maybe that’s part of the deal. Makes sense. Wikileaks had already published the emails, al
leging President Karzai’s brother was an international opium dealer. And the DEA had been told to back off while US soldiers patrolled the poppy fields, keeping the Taliban at bay.
He stuffed the magazine back into the pocket and tightened his seat belt. Holy shit. They think I’ll go to Wikileaks and tell them about the flights and . . . Christ, they’re never going to let me live. A burst of energy made his skin prickle as the thrust from the engines pushed him back in the seat. Whatever happens, I’m saying nothing. He rubbed his wet hands on his pants and felt the shape of the lighter in his pocket. I have to do this. He tugged at the seatbelt as his chest tightened and pushed his head back. Focus. It will be over in a few hours. One way or another.
The hotel window stretched the length of the room. Wolfgang Kessler gazed down at the heat haze nestling between the seven hills of Rome. He looked out to the street and watched a black Mercedes pull up at the curb. The security guard held out a hand, but a tall, stooped figure thrust his cane from the back seat and knocked it aside. Erwin Reinhard stepped slowly out onto the sidewalk, his chin stuck in the air.
Kessler closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window. Montrose was history. He felt the blood pressure building in his neck and moved his head so that his cheeks pressed against the glass. In the old days Erwin Reinhard would have dealt with Montrose. No one would have been left alive. But the old man had come running to him.
In the near distance he could make out the Via Nableone and Reinhard’s apartment. There was no point waiting any longer for the old man to die. The Russian and Chinese markets were now open. Glasnost and the rise of the yen had seen to that. And the networks and contacts were ready. The oil deal with the Afghans would bring in hundreds of millions of dollars. But Reinhard held access to wealth beyond the dreams of ordinary men. And his idiot of a son had provided the key.