Names of the Dead

by Mark Leggatt

  The Mercedes slowed almost to a halt before it turned left and entered a narrow alley at walking pace. Cobblestones rattled under the tires and medieval walls towered above on each side. The car stopped beside two huge wooden gates. A shiny brass plaque was fixed to the wall. Kessler and Son.

  The gates swung smoothly open in a very un-medieval fashion, giving the impression they were backed up by something more substantial than wood. The Mercedes pulled into the graveled courtyard of a large town house. The high walls and surrounding buildings shielded it from the sun and Montrose could see bright chandeliers through the windows. A sunny morning and they had all the lights on. A cold chill stabbed his guts.

  Holy shit, this is the heart of darkness.

  CHAPTER 15

  The huge oak gates swung shut as Montrose stepped from the car. A wall of ancient rough-hewn blocks of sandstone surrounded the courtyard. He reckoned they were about two feet thick and maybe fifteen feet high. There was no way out, except through the gates.

  “This way, sir,” said the chauffeur.

  Montrose headed towards the house and up the steps of a grand portico, framed by marble ionic columns. The door was open. He followed the chauffeur into a hall then stopped for a moment, taking in the oak-paneled walls and a large carved fireplace where a log fire burned.

  “Herr Reinhard!”

  To his left, a tall, young man appeared from a doorway. Expensive suit, happy smile. This had to be the son of the banker. Montrose strode forward and offered his hand. “You must be Herr Kessler. A delight to meet you.”

  “Jacques Kessler, at your service. It’s also a delight for me, to meet the son of one of our most prestigious clients. Our family histories go back together many years. I am told that like myself, you were unaware of this, no?”

  Montrose shrugged. “Well, it came as something of a shock, but then again, nothing about my father would surprise me.”

  “I had no idea he was keeping such a secret. It seems we have had an eventful and prosperous past, so I’m sure that bodes well for the future. Please come into my office.” Kessler held out a hand towards the doorway.

  “Thanks. You don’t mind if we speak English? My German is rather rusty.”

  “Not at all! I took my degree at Oxford. After all, it’s the international language of banking. Can I offer you some lunch?”

  “Thanks, but no. I’d like to attend to business immediately.” Montrose placed his leather bag on the floor. “I want to get our property over to the South African Embassy, and then perhaps we can sit down to eat. The food on the flight was appalling.”

  “So let’s get this out of the way and we can enjoy a good meal. We’ll have plenty to talk about. Do you have the identification?”

  “Of course.” Montrose pulled the Nazi pass from the inside pocket of his suit and shoved his passport down deeper.

  Kessler carefully opened the faded card and examined the yellowing photograph. “I think you have the eyes of your father.”

  Then you’re a fucking idiot. “So I’ve been told and I would like to think some of his ingenuity as well. We never stop learning from our fathers.”

  “They are great men. To be able to manage their affairs so effectively during the past troubles of Europe and still maintain a legacy for their sons.”

  What the hell are you talking about? “Absolutely. Let’s hope we make them proud.”

  “I’m sure we will, Herr Reinhard.”

  Montrose tried his most convincing smile. The one that Sandie said made him look shiftier than a fox with a feather hanging from its mouth. “Please, call me Kurt.”

  “Thank you, Kurt. Now, perhaps I can show you to our vaults? I think you’ll find them very interesting.”

  Montrose felt his pulse quicken. Vaults? Just hand them over, for Christ’s sake.

  Kessler crossed to a door in the corner of the room. “The bank has two sets of vaults. One is very modern and contained in another part of the building, for those who are impressed by high technology. However, your family box is contained in the original vault, built over six hundred years ago when the bank was established. It is reserved for our oldest clients.”

  He took a small key from his pocket, turned it in the lock then pulled open the door to reveal a bookcase. “A precaution from a few hundred years ago, created by one of my more entertaining ancestors. It’s full of rare and valuable books to deter the opportunist thief.” Kessler curled his fingers around the door frame. With a sharp click the bookcase swung back. “Rather melodramatic, no?”

  “Very.” Montrose peered into the gloom. A steep flight of worn stone steps led into darkness, tracked by a bronze handrail.

  Kessler flicked a switch. Strip lights buzzed into life. “Please descend behind me, but do not touch the handrail at any time. If you do, the roof will collapse. A medieval device, but very effective. It is designed to stop anyone who manages to get past the door. Also, on the way down, there is what we call a ‘thief-catcher’, an irregular-sized step designed to catch an intruder unawares, causing him to grab the handrail. With obvious results.”

  “Quite ingenious.” Montrose glanced up at the huge granite slabs lining the roof then followed Kessler through the doorway. Do what you have to do. Play the game.

  “I will be silent until we reach the bottom, Kurt. It’s best to stay focused.”

  With both hands holding the leather bag tight to his chest, Montrose started to descend, stepping carefully over the thief-catcher. Before him was a low stone corridor. He bowed his head.

  Kessler turned his head and smiled. “I’m afraid our ancestors were a little smaller in stature, though not in wealth.”

  Spare me the guided tour. “Are there any more surprises waiting for me? Whirling blades or shark pits?”

  “Ah, very good. No, just iron and stone from now on. We can’t fool ourselves that any bank is impregnable, but when your vaults are set in solid igneous rock and you own the land for two acres on all sides, you can make breaking in so difficult that it becomes near impossible. But not impossible, you understand, that’s when mistakes happen.”

  Like right now, although it might be me who’s making a big mistake.

  They stopped in front of an iron gate.

  “Combination locks.” Kessler spun two dials simultaneously. “Any other lock can be picked, including electrical. No matter what you see in the movies, you cannot hear the tumblers. These have been made by the finest Swiss watchmakers. Any interference and they lock permanently. They are very sensitive.”

  Tell me about it. Montrose tugged the cuff of the Crombie to cover his old Omega, then followed Kessler through the gate and down another narrow corridor which led to an arch containing a steel door.

  Kessler spun a dial on the wall. The door slid silently up into the stone to reveal a small room carved out of solid rock. On each side were the polished steel doors of safe deposit boxes. “Your family box is middle and far right. Number eighteen. Turn the dial clockwise and counter-clockwise alternatively for each number. It will allow three attempts, after which you must wait for several hours.”

  Number? Montrose stared into the vault. What fucking number?

  “I shall wait at the top of the stairs to give you some privacy. And remember the handrail. Don’t touch it.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ll remember.” He pressed the identity pass between his fingers to stop his hand from shaking.

  “One last thing.” Kessler pointed to a dial on the wall. “This allows you ten minutes. If you are not out by then, the door will close automatically. Is that sufficient time?”

  Montrose cleared his throat. “Yeah. Sure. This won’t take long.”

  “Then I shall see you in the office.” Kessler turned away through the arch.

  Montrose faced door eighteen and held out the Nazi pass.

  Spinks sat open-mouthed, scrolling through the police report on his screen. He knew enough Italian to work it out. He looked up from his desk, to see Ferguson standing b
efore him. “You know?”

  “I just heard. It’s . . .ˮ

  “Jesus, I knew Richmond for over twenty years. What the hell are the Italian cops and Interpol doing about this psycho? Listen, whatever happens, we’ve got to shut this guy down before . . .ˮ He jabbed a fat finger at Ferguson. “Shut him down. With extreme prejudice. You get me?”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “What are you standing about for? Don’t tell me you’ve found the bastard?”

  “No, sir, we found his phone. It was in a taxi going to Interpol in Lyon.”

  Spinks sat bolt upright in the chair. “He’s back in Lyon? Call the team. Get him!”

  “No, sir. Montrose planted the phone in a taxi in Rome and then sent the driver to Lyon. It was tracked to a motel. We thought we had him. We sent in a SWAT team, tear gas and dogs. All we found was the taxi driver holed up with two Russian whores and an ounce of coke.”

  Spinks slammed his hand down on the desk. “Holy Christ!” A knock came at the door. “What the hell now?”

  An assistant thrust a piece of paper through the door towards Ferguson and disappeared as fast as he could. Ferguson briefly scanned the message. “It’s from American Express. He used his Interpol card to pay for a flight to Zurich.”

  “Give that to me.” Spinks tore the message from Ferguson’s grasp. “Check if he was actually on the flight. It could be a feint. My guess is he’s back in Lyon. Maybe he thinks Interpol will look after him. And once we found the taxi driver, he thinks we’ll look elsewhere. Check Zurich, but concentrate on Lyon. Now get out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wait. Have you heard from the director in Langley?”

  “They’re considering your request for more information. I’m told you can expect a phone call.”

  Spinks spread his hands on the desk. What the hell did Montrose know? One thing was for sure: when Montrose stopped using his cards he’d be off the grid. Tracking him across Europe would be impossible without mobilizing the entire CIA. The whole operation was supposed to be kept under the radar. Interpol had handed him the mother of all clusterfucks. Why the hell did they keep him on the streets? Montrose following the Afghans all the way to Rome and then shooting one of the bastards in the face should have been a clue.

  He grabbed the phone. “Ferguson? Concentrate on Lyon. Leave Zurich to me.”

  The crime scene photos flashed up on the screen. “You sick fuck,” he murmured as he scrolled through the files.

  He shook his head in disbelief. Zurich? Would he really go there or was it a feint? The only reason Montrose would go there was to arrest Reinhard. Or beat his brains out to get a confession. And he was crazy enough to do it. But if the Swiss cops found him it could take days to cut through the red tape. Unless someone else got to him first. He scrolled through the on-screen report, looking for a phone number. The call was answered immediately.

  “Ja?”

  “Mr. Erwin Reinhard?” asked Spinks.

  “Speaking. And you are?”

  “I am a friend, Mr. Reinhard. I am aware that your son is currently traveling to Zurich, His business there is his own, but you should know that Connor Montrose is still unaccounted for.”

  “Please identify yourself.”

  Spinks leaned back in his chair. “As I said, I am a friend. There is some evidence that Montrose bought a ticket to Zurich. Do not approach him. He is now wanted for two vicious murders. Consider him armed and extremely dangerous. If fact, if I were your son, I would disappear until Montrose is off the streets.”

  “I ask again, who are you?”

  “Keep him well away from Montrose. Or your son might be his next victim.” Spinks replaced the receiver.

  Erwin Reinhard dialed, his hand shaking. Kurt’s cell phone wasn’t picking up. The flight to Zurich should have landed.

  Old Kessler had always dealt swiftly with anyone who got too close, but Kessler’s son would know what to do. Montrose would be no exception.

  “Kessler and Son.”

  “This is Erwin Reinhard in Rome. Get me Jacques Kessler.”

  “Please hold the line.”

  Reinhard heard a click when the call was transferred.

  “Good afternoon, Herr Reinhard, this is Jacques Kessler. How may I help you?”

  “Is my son with you?”

  “My dear Herr Reinhard, I’m delighted to say that your son arrived a few moments ago and is attending to the matter of your private vault as we speak.”

  “I need to talk to him immediately.”

  “I’m afraid he cannot be contacted in the vault, it’s too deep for a phone signal. Shall I ask him to call you on his return?”

  Reinhard felt a tremor in his hand and pushed his palm flat on the desk. There was no guarantee that Montrose was in Zurich, but the information should come from Kurt. It would earn him some respect. “Yes, make sure that he does. I shall speak to him then. Goodbye, Herr Kessler.”

  “Goodbye, Herr Reinhard.”

  A dull ache spread across his chest and he bent forward for a moment until it eased, then took a small white pill from a silver box on the desk. Kurt was safe, he thought. Kessler’s security would see to that. If Montrose showed his face, he would join the others at the bottom of Lake Geneva.

  CHAPTER 16

  The strip lights buzzed and crackled above him. Sweat gathered in beads on his upper lip. Montrose dropped the leather bag on the floor. Old Reinhard had said that only the pass was needed. A combination number? He stuck his thumb in the card and opened the fold. The black and white photo of Reinhard stared back at him.

  Date of Birth? The handwritten entry was barely legible. But it would translate to numbers. Dritte November, 1918.

  Six digits? That would be 031118. Make your move. He wiped his hand and placed his fingers around the dial.

  Shit. It could be eight digits, if the year was written in full. 03111918.

  His mind raced, and he glanced at the Omega. Eight minutes to go. His fingertips trembled where they rested on the dial. Which one?

  Six digits. Got to be.

  He blinked the sweat from his eyes and turned the dial clockwise to the first number, then the others in sequence. He stepped back. Nothing. There was a small button below the dial. He jabbed it with his finger. For a brief moment he hoped it wouldn’t bring the roof down.

  The door didn’t move.

  Christ, it had to be eight digits. He wiped his hand on the overcoat and tried again. He pressed the button and squeezed his eyes shut.

  The door didn’t move.

  The blood was thumping in his ears. What else is there? He scanned the gothic writing. One row of letters and numbers. He knew enough German to work it out. Army Serial Number. Ignore the letters. Just the numbers in sequence. 24695696.

  The Omega said five minutes to go. Last shot. He dialed the numbers. The door clicked and sprang forward a few inches.

  He froze. No alarms. No steel shutters slamming to the floor. Holy shit, it worked.

  The door swung open under its own weight. Montrose saw another handle in the middle of a dull steel plate. He tugged it towards him. The box moved smoothly outwards to reveal a canvas tool bag stamped with a faded Wehrmacht eagle. He pulled the drawer fully open and grabbed the bag, lifting it clear of the edge. It was heavier than expected and he placed it carefully on the floor.

  Maybe two pounds of dope. Not enough for three mill. What the hell is it?

  He knelt, popped the studs on top of the bag and tugged back the flaps. A bead of sweat rolled over his lip and fell amongst the diamonds.

  Holy fuck.

  There were thousands of them. He shoved his hand deep into the bag and pulled out a handful. Smaller ones trickled through his fingers, others rolled off his wet palm and dropped back into the bag. He chose one and held it up to the light, rolling it between his fingertips, mesmerized by the luminescence.

  Get your shit together. It’s time to go. He heaved the canvas bag into his own bag, covering
it with his old clothes. The box slid silently home. He headed for the stone arch.

  The air was still and cool as he stood at the bottom of the staircase. The sweat chilled on his neck. Don’t think about it. Just go. He wiped the arm of his overcoat across his face and throat and looked up the steps.

  Plan A. Shake hands and get the fuck out.

  Plan B? Same as Plan A, only a lot faster and no handshake.

  “Thief catcher,” he murmured. The irregular step was about halfway up and, carrying the leather bag before him, he started the climb. Pausing before the step he threw his head back and exhaled long and slow, then carefully stepped over it and climbed to the top. He ducked his head and emerged from the bookcase.

  Kessler stood up behind his desk. “Excellent. Glad to see you made it. I’m happy to report that we haven’t had any fatalities in the history of the vault. Well, at least not down there.”

  Very funny. Let’s see who gets the last laugh. “I’m sure. Now, let’s get this business out of the way and then we can eat.”

  “Indeed, I know a bistro near here that serves the most delightful Swiss delicacies. Your car is waiting. I’ve called our contact at the Embassy and he’s expecting you. Also, your father called.”

  Montrose’s heart slammed against his ribcage. Time for Plan B. “Really? What did he want?”

  “He didn’t say, only for you to call him when you returned from the vaults.”

  The breath stopped in his chest and he felt the urge to run. He pictured the gate and the walls around the courtyard. He wouldn’t get far. His grip tightened on the leather bag.

  “Parents, huh? They let you go and then you find out you’ve been on a leash all along. Sometimes the old man can be a real pain in the ass. I reckon we can find the South African Embassy without his help.”

  Kessler smiled and shrugged. “My father is the same. I can’t do a deal without him looking over my shoulder the entire time.”