Names of the Dead

by Mark Leggatt

  “I know the feeling. I’ll call him when I get back. Give him the good news. Then we can visit that bistro you mentioned. I’m looking forward to it.” He turned towards the door.

  “Kurt, would you mind?’ Kessler looked down at the leather bag. “I only found out about this yesterday. I’d love to see them. After all, it’s the stuff of dreams, no?”

  Shit. I really don’t need this. “Of course.” Montrose dropped the leather bag onto a nearby chair, pulled back the zip, then popped the studs of the canvas bag.

  Kessler made as if to plunge his hand into the diamonds but stopped. “Magnificent!” he said. “Quite magnificent. Shechter! In here!”

  Montrose felt his legs start to shake. He shoved a hand in his pocket for the penknife.

  Shechter stood in the doorway. His shoulders brushed either side of the frame.

  Fumbling in his pocket Montrose tried to flick out the blade, though he reckoned it would be as much use as threatening a killer whale with a cocktail stick.

  “Shechter,” said Kessler, “accompany Herr Reinhard to the South African Embassy and wait for him there. Kurt, I believe you’ve met Herr Shechter, our Head of Security.”

  Montrose let the penknife slip out of his hand. “I’ll be back soon, Jacques,” he said and closed the bag.

  “I’ll see you out.”

  Montrose followed the chauffeur into the courtyard, with Shechter close behind. This was a guy he wanted to keep at a distance. The chauffeur opened the rear door and Montrose threw his bag onto the seat. Shechter walked to the other side. Dammit, he’s going to get in the back again. Montrose placed one foot inside, then fixed Shechter with a stare. “The hired help rides in the front,” he said as he stepped into the car.

  Shechter looked towards Kessler, standing between the columns of the porch, then walked around to the front passenger seat. The chauffeur closed Montrose’s door.

  Stopping himself from grabbing the bag and holding it to his chest, Montrose gradually moved it closer to his side. He watched Shechter get into the front of the car. Was he armed? Of course he was, he could take that for granted. And now he doesn’t like me. And all I’ve got to stop him is a Swiss Army penknife. Hell, I should have a Masters Degree in Hindsight and the Goddam’ Obvious. He slipped his hand into his pocket and fumbled for the penknife as the words of his CIA tutor came back to him. If it looks like it’s gonna get physical, don’t take a knife to a gunfight or you’ll need a shitload of chutzpah and a titanium ass. The oak gates swung open and the chauffeur pulled out into the alley, taking a sharp right. “How far to the Embassy?” asked Montrose.

  “Around three kilometers, Herr Reinhard,” replied the chauffeur. “It should take around ten minutes.”

  Ten minutes? That’s all? Better break out the chutzpah. Montrose settled back, trying to give the impression that he was relaxed as he braced his feet against the chauffeur’s seat. The fast traffic might be a problem. And Shechter. The Mercedes reached the end of the alley and pulled into another narrow road with medieval passageways either side. They would do − the more medieval the better − I could twist and turn and lose him. The guy was big, but maybe not too fast. He looked down for a moment, remembering his brogues. Shit. New shoes.

  Jacques Kessler watched from his office window as the gates closed, then sat behind the desk. He opened his father’s box of cigars and took out a Cuban Montecristo, drawing it under his nose, savoring the honey and coffee notes.

  A doorbell rang in the hallway. He listened for a moment and relaxed. It was too soon for the police to call with the terrible news concerning the death of a wealthy customer and two of his most respected members of staff in an armed robbery. He picked up a gold cutter, clipped the end of the cigar and slowly placed it in his mouth. The phone rang on his desk. “Jacques Kessler.”

  “This is Reinhard in Rome. Where’s my son?”

  The cigar dropped from his mouth and he sat bolt upright in the chair. “Ah, Herr Reinhard. Your son is on his way to the Embassy, he said he’ll call you on his return.”

  “I see. Make sure he does.”

  “Of course, Herr Reinhard.” The doorbell to the gate was still ringing. Kessler looked up with irritation as a secretary burst into the room. “One moment, please.” He cupped the receiver in his hand. “What’s going on? I’m in the middle of an important call!”

  “There’s a man at the gates, sir. He says he’s Kurt Reinhard.”

  Kessler’s mouth opened in surprise. “Where’s the car?”

  “There’s no car, sir.”

  He jumped up from his seat then remembered the phone. “If you would please hold the line, Herr Reinhard.” He handed the phone to the secretary and hurried from the room, ran through the hall and down the steps to the courtyard where a guard stood at the gates. “Let him in!” The gates swung back and a tall figure marched into the courtyard. Kessler folded his arms across his chest. “So, you’re Kurt Reinhard?”

  The man dropped his bag on the gravel. “Of course I am, you idiot. Why wasn’t there a car at the airport? Who the hell are you?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.” Kessler turned to the guard. “Muller, take him inside. Shut the gates.”

  Muller pulled a gun from his coat.

  The man spun around. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Inside.” Kessler flicked his head towards the house and followed them both up the stairs to the front door.

  Muller nudged the man into the office with the nose of the gun.

  “So, you think you’re Kurt Reinhard?” said Kessler. “Then perhaps you can explain to your father why you’re late?” He snatched the phone from the startled secretary and thrust it under the man’s nose.

  “Father? What? No, I’ve just got here.”

  Kessler tore the phone from his grasp. “Herr Reinhard? Was that the voice of your son?” The blood drained from his face.

  “Give it to me,” Reinhard snarled. “Father, what’s going on? I was almost arrested at the airport.” His features twisted as he turned to Kessler. “Where are the diamonds?”

  “They . . . they’re on the way to the Embassy. In my car.”

  “Get them back. Now!” Reinhard jammed the phone to his ear. “Father?” There was no reply, only the sound of crashing furniture and his father struggling for breath. “Father!”

  CHAPTER 17

  The shoes were a good fit. They’d have to be. Montrose flexed his feet and checked the soles. The leather had hardly been marked and they’d be damn slippery. If the embassy district was like every other one he’d seen, it would be full of big houses and high gates. Not what I need.

  Whatever. Make it happen. Time to leave these suckers behind. Then Old Reinhard would be like a fish on a hook. When the time was right, just reel him in.

  The Mercedes turned into a wide boulevard as they left medieval Zurich behind. Crap. Now it was open ground. The traffic lights a few hundred meters ahead showed red. They slowed past a line of cars on the right, blocking Shechter’s door. Montrose glanced in the rear view mirror. A taxi pulled up behind them. Shechter’s door was only inches from a parked car. The big bastard would never be able to get out. It had to be now. He edged forward. To his right, he saw the taxi pull away. Get ready.

  A phone trilled and Montrose jumped at the sound. He looked up. The traffic lights were green.

  “The telephone, sir,” said the chauffeur. “It’s in the armrest.”

  Oh shit, maybe they’ve worked it out . . . The limo began to edge forward. Montrose pulled up the armrest and lifted a slim handset. “Y . . . yes? Kurt Reinhard here.”

  “Ah, Herr Reinhard. Jacques Kessler speaking. Just to let you know that your father called again and insists you call back immediately. I promised I’d pass on the message.”

  Bullshit. “Sure, yeah, no worries, I’ll call him right away. The old man, eh? What can you do?”

  “Of course, I understand completely. Now, if you would be so kind as to pass the phone to
Shechter. I’d like a quick word.”

  I’ll bet you do. Montrose glanced at the door handle. “Of course. It’s for you, Herr Shechter.”

  Shechter’s huge hand reached behind and took the phone. “Ja?”

  The limo began to pick up speed. Montrose stared at the back of Shechter’s head. Maybe he’s giving Shechter the good news. Maybe not. Montrose pushed his feet apart and grabbed the door handle. I’m not hanging around for the answer. Get ready. He looked out of the windshield for a moment and saw the car in front brake sharply, stopping suddenly. The limo squealed to a halt too late and slammed into the back of the car.

  “Scheisse!” The chauffeur threw the stick into park and jumped out. The car in front rolled forward a few meters and stopped.

  Now! Montrose opened the door, but a car shot past and caught the edge, crashing the door shut again.

  Shechter dropped the phone, drawing his weapon as he attempted to spin his huge bulk around in the seat. “Do not move!”

  “Nein!”

  They both heard the panicked cry of the chauffeur and watched as a man got out of the car in front, holding a silenced pistol. He shot the chauffeur twice in the chest and turned. He stood in front of the car and leveled the pistol at Shechter. Two shots pierced the windshield, hitting Schechter in the face and neck. A thick gout of blood sprayed the windshield from a severed artery, obscuring the shooter’s view.

  I’m next. Montrose leapt between the seats, grabbed the auto stick and pulled it into drive. Shots pierced the windshield, spraying glass and blood throughout the car. The car leapt forward and caught the shooter, slamming him onto the hood.

  Montrose lunged for the door handle and kicked the door open. A car shot past and took the door with it. He dived out and tumbled onto the road, a shower of glass blasting over his head. He grabbed the leather bag and started running, his shoes slipping on the smooth paving stones. He glimpsed an entrance to a shopping arcade and ran over, careering through the door into a passageway. There were shops either side of him but he needed the cover of people. And an exit. He skidded to a halt on the polished floor. Dead end. He felt his legs shaking and squeezed them together to keep them still. Make a move!

  There was a French restaurant opposite him. It must have a kitchen exit for loading. It’s got to. He forced himself to walk over to the door. Don’t make a scene. You’ll leave a trail. The place was about half full. No one looked his way. Get to the kitchens.

  He weaved past the tables to the rear of the restaurant but found only a high wall with a gaudily painted frieze. Where the . . .? He spun to his left. A white-coated man opened two small wooden hatches set into the wall and removed plates from a dumb waiter.

  Downstairs. He saw a narrow staircase set into an alcove and ran down the steps, stumbling into a corridor. A waiter rounded the corner. “I need your help!” said Montrose.

  “Monsieur?” replied the waiter. “Ah, the restrooms . . . ”

  “No, no. Not the restrooms.” Chill. This guy is not going to help if I look like trouble. “It’s a woman.”

  “A woman, monsieur?”

  “Yes, my wife. She’s just walked into the restaurant and I’m supposed to be in Berlin, not with the beautiful young lady at table two.” Montrose pulled a hundred dollar bill from his pocket. “I need to get out of here.”

  “Ah, monsieur, of course.” The waiter grinned and took the money. “Please follow me.” He turned and led Montrose through a swing door to a noisy kitchen. There was an open loading bay at the end of the room and an alleyway beyond.

  “Merci!” Montrose dodged past the staff and bolted through the doorway. He glanced back, but only the amused face of the waiter was looking his way.

  At the end of the alley he emerged into a busy shopping street; cars crawling in the traffic and pedestrians ambling past. Take a taxi here and I’ll be a sitting duck. Straight ahead there was another alley and a hundred yards down, past a crowd of shoppers, he could see cars speeding by. He crossed the street, pulling the leather bag up to his chest. The walk along the alley seemed to take forever. He’d know if he was seen. There would be a bullet in his back.

  Who the hell was the shooter? The Mafia? Trying to take out Reinhard? No, can’t be. They’d want their money first. Or maybe they know about the diamonds. But how could they? I only knew when I opened the vault. But someone was trying to take out Reinhard. Spinks? No way. They wouldn’t have missed. Spinks would have had a team of goons, not some lone shooter. Or the banker? Kessler? And kill his own staff? He felt the weight of the bag. No, it’s got to be the Mafia. No one else is so fucking crazy. They must have an inside man. Christ, for this amount of ice, any one of them would do it.

  The alley opened into a wide boulevard lined with department stores. A taxi pulled away from the curb and Montrose stuck his arm in the air. “Taxi!” It swerved towards him and he jumped in. “Airport, fast as you can.” He pushed the leather bag to the floor and slid down in the seat, pulling up the collar of the Crombie. The taxi swung out onto the street and joined the fast moving traffic.

  “He’s lost him.” Jacques Kessler slammed down the receiver. “Muller, get the Chief of Police. Tell him . . . tell him a messenger has stolen a shipment of diamonds and a two man security team has been murdered. They are to use any force necessary. This criminal is armed and dangerous. I want the city locked down. Tell him that there will be a very substantial reward when the thief is apprehended. Give the necessary information but don’t drag this bank into a scandal.”

  Reinhard advanced upon Kessler’s desk. “I don’t give a damn about a scandal. If you don’t retrieve that bag there will be another murder!”

  Kessler hid his trembling hands beneath the desk. “Herr Reinhard, you forget that this bank complied with the identification required. If you have any more threats, please do not repeat them in front of Muller. He is very loyal.”

  A vein pulsed on Reinhard’s temple as he leaned over the desk. “Fuck Muller! Get the bag. Now!”

  The secretary entered. “Herr Kessler, your father is on the line from Rome.”

  Kessler rose, ashen-faced. “I’ll take it in the study.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The taxi eased to a halt. It wouldn’t be long before the airport was crawling with cops. The place was ringed with CCTV. Just stroll in like all the other smartly-dressed businessmen. There were enough of those around. Needle in a haystack.

  The driver grunted when Montrose offered him a bunch of dollar bills, but there was enough to cover the fare.

  Through the plate glass windows he could see a Bureau de Change. I need cash, but if I use the Amex card they’ll know exactly where I am. What the hell, they’ll know soon enough. The transaction would make them concentrate on the airport. The more resources they have tied up looking for me, the better. Might buy a little more time. There is no way I’m flying again today. Sure, I might make it onto a plane, but wherever I land, Spinks would be there, hands extended, waiting to shake me warmly by the neck.

  He closed his eyes and felt a surge of strength. Just go. Find a safe place. Then Reinhard will do exactly what I want.

  He pushed open the doors and strode across to the Bureau de Change, scanning the hall as he joined a line of Japanese tourists,. There didn’t seem to be any unusual activity. Maybe they hadn’t called the cops. They’d have a hard time explaining all those diamonds. He sneered at the thought. Not a chance. Kessler’s bank would call in the big guns and they’d slam the borders shut. If there was one thing the Swiss did well, it was pull together in a crisis. Their whole history had been one of self protection while surrounded by predatory European countries, so they knew how to look after themselves and tell everyone else to go to hell. After all, they held all the big boys’ money.

  A young lady behind the glass beckoned him over. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Hi! Can I buy five hundred Swiss Francs on my American Express card?”

  “Certainly, sir. May I have your passport an
d card, please?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  She checked the photo and swiped the card. “Excuse me, sir, but this card has been rejected.”

  “What? Damn, I must have gone over my limit. Never mind, I’ll call the office and sort it out.”

  “No problem, sir.” She pushed the card and passport under the glass.

  “Thanks.” He looked at the card for the benefit of the assistant, then turned back to the exit. Spinks hadn’t wasted any time. It wouldn’t be long before some faceless spook in the cellars would work it out. I’ve got about a hundred bucks left. Once they work out I’ve been at the airport, they’ll spend a good few hours trying to search the whole place and have a nightmare trying to get their hands on the passenger manifests. By which time I’ll be gone. Unless they work it out. He squeezed his eyes shut. You can’t change the past, only the future. Make sure you’ve got one.

  He pushed through the doors and into the sunlight. Old Reinhard was still out there. Time to be the puppet-master. We’ll see how he likes it when I’m making him dance.

  Above him were the signs to the long term parking lot and in front a waiting shuttle bus stood idling. He took a seat near the front and held the leather bag tight to his chest. The Swiss Army penknife pressed against his leg. He grimaced at the irony. Might just be the thing to get me out of here.

  It was a short ride and he fell in with the other passengers as they struggled with their suitcases and shuffled into the parking lot. A large glossy map of Europe was mounted on the wall. The roads near the airport had been worn away by fingers, but the nearest border was France or Germany. It’s got to be France. If I have enough gas to get to Paris, I can pick up a train to the coast. That would work. Normandy − the port of Caen – near the D-Day beaches, then the ferry to England.

  But what about MI5? The CIA’s favorite bitch. The Cousins would be watching. They’d always be watching. Paris was safe, but London was a different matter. The CIA setup in Grosvenor Square was the biggest outside of the States. It was going to be damn near impossible to stay one step ahead.