by Mark Leggatt
The leather bag weighed heavy in his hand. The diamonds could be stashed. Maybe I should just bury them.
No. I need them close by. They’re my only bargaining chip.
He moved quickly along the line of cars. Something old. The last thing I need is deadlocks and immobilizers. A French car would be best. The French always had to carry papers. It would work. Three years studying Modern Languages might be useful after all. I could do the mannerisms. Wave my arms and shrug my shoulders. Sandie always said I was a good mimic. More French than the real thing, she said. But this time I won’t be trying to make her laugh. He scanned the license plates. Nothing. Next floor.
As he reached the top of the steps, he spotted a yellow headlamp sticking out from behind a BMW. Didn’t the French use yellow? He squeezed between the cars and saw a Renault sedan with French license plates. The fender and body panels looked as if it had been driven by Stevie Wonder.
He dropped the leather bag. The hood was cold and he prayed for some gas in the tank. He took out the penknife, pulled out the screwdriver attachment, then jammed it into the lock and wrenched it around. The lock popped up. He pulled open the door and threw the leather bag across to the passenger seat. Kneeling down, he made to tear away the plastic cover of the ignition switch and then stopped. If it worked for the door, maybe I don’t need to hot wire it. He reached for the penknife, then turned the screwdriver to ninety degrees before hammering it into the ignition and twisting it sharply. The lights came on and the fuel gauge showed three quarters full. He jumped into the seat and grabbed a bunch of papers from the glove compartment. On top was a grey wallet with the car registration papers and a service record from a garage in Les Octrois. A map stuck out of the door pocket, folded open at the page showing the border. He found Les Octrois on the map and traced a route back towards the airport. One hour. Maybe two. But Germany was the nearest border. There was no choice.
Jacques Kessler stood in the doorway. “Herr Reinhard, would you join me in the study, please?”
“You’d better have some good news.”
“That I cannot guarantee. My father wishes to speak to you.”
Kurt Reinhard rose from the chair and followed him into a study filled with leather-bound books on shelves that ran from the polished stone floor to the ceiling. A phone with a loudspeaker sat on a long, walnut veneered table.
“This is Kurt Reinhard. Who am I speaking to?”
“Herr Reinhard, this is Wolfgang Kessler in Rome. Jacques has told me of the incident.”
“Incident? Someone walks in and steals a fortune in diamonds from your bank and you call it a
fucking incident?”
Jacques Kessler gestured to a chair. “This will not help the situation. Sit down, Herr Reinhard, my father has some other news.”
Reinhard spun around, his eyes ablaze.
“Please, Herr Reinhard. It’s about your father.”
“What about him?” Reinhard dropped onto the chair.
“Your father,” began Wolfgang Kessler, “was found in his apartments a few minutes ago. I’m afraid he is dead. A heart attack. I am so sorry.”
Reinhard leant forward and covered his face with his hands. Jacques Kessler opened his mouth but snapped it shut again, suddenly realizing this was not the time for condolences.
“Find him,” said Reinhard, without lifting his head. “And when you do, bring him to me.”
The parking lot exit was dead ahead. Montrose stopped the Renault at the top of the ramp. He ruffled his hair and pulled his overcoat down at one side, then made a show of searching his pockets. Winding down the window, he drove forward to the booth. The bored young attendant continued to read a paperback. “Do you speak French?”
The attendant looked up. “A little, monsieur.”
“I’ve lost my wallet. Over two hundred euros. I think a pickpocket took it. I just got in from Rome and I’ve no money or parking ticket. I’ve spent nearly an hour in the airport trying to sort it out. What can I do? I can’t wait any longer, I have to get home. The police said you might know a way I can pay later.”
“Do you have any way to pay, monsieur?”
“I only have this American money.” Montrose took a hundred dollar bill from his overcoat. “Look, I know it’s crazy, but this is all I have. I’ve got to get home, it’s my wedding anniversary. All her family are coming. She’ll kill me if I’m late.”
The attendant looked at the money. “How long has the car been parked?”
Like you care, now you’ve seen the cash. “Only a week. Here’s my passport and ticket from Rome.” He watched the attendant look down at the Renault. Yeah, who would steal this pile of shit?
“That won’t be necessary,” said the attendant, taking the money. “Enjoy your anniversary.”
“Thanks, thanks a lot.” The barrier lifted, and he drove out into the morning sunlight.
Wolfgang Kessler ignored the view over the streets of Rome, lost in thought. The men in Moscow and London had made their position very clear. Montrose had to be taken out. By any means. Or Kessler’s clients would disappear overnight to another bank.
He rubbed his face and turned back to the apartment. The thought of his peers gloating in the private clubs and restaurants around Zurich was insufferable. The network of fixers would put out the word. His reputation would be in tatters. Then they would come for him.
He watched a paramedic lift old Reinhard’s body onto a gurney and cover it with a red blanket. His eyes fixed on the plain door in the corner of the room. Behind it was all the information he required. But without the bag from the vault it was useless. He jammed his mouth shut to stop himself from roaring in frustration. He heard the door close, and pounded his fist against the wall. Who was in that car? And where is the bag?
The phone rang on the desk. He snatched up the receiver. “Jacques? Have you found them?”
“Mr. Reinhard?”
“No, Mr. Reinhard is not here. Who is this?”
“This is a friend. I need to speak to him urgently.”
Kessler listened to the static bouncing on the line. Whoever was calling was using encryption. “Then I’m sorry to inform you that Mr. Reinhard has just passed away. I believe it was his heart.” His hand tightened on the receiver. “Who is this?”
“You know who I am. Just don’t say my name, understand? Like I say, think of me as a friend. You might want to know that Connor Montrose is in Zurich. He’s used a credit card at a Bureau de . . . ”
“Montrose?” No, he thought, it couldn’t be possible.
“Yeah, why am I getting the feeling this is news to you? Did Herr Reinhard keep that one to himself?”
“Herr Reinhard did not . . . ”
“That’s too bad. Really, you need to get on top of this. Montrose is just an IT geek. I’m disappointed, Herr Kessler. Looks like you need some assistance. I’m sending some details through to Reinhard’s number.”
Kessler heard a click behind him and saw the pages lying in the tray of a fax machine.
“You get them?”
Kessler jaw muscles spasmed as he tried to talk. “Yes. They . . . are here.”
“Good. Listen. You’re a capable man, Kessler. If you happen to find Montrose, I suggest you deal with him in any way you see fit. For example, if he was to meet with some unfortunate accident, I don’t think anybody’s gonna be too concerned, yeah? And like, right fucking now would be good.”
The line went dead. Kessler dropped the phone and tore the pages from the fax machine. He scanned the details, his grip crushing the paper.
Montrose was an IT geek? The man had evaded every security force in Europe. Robbed his own bank and escaped assassination. No, Montrose was more than some technical assistant. He was a seasoned agent. A killer. And yet Spinks taunts me down the phone.
He scrawled across the first page, ‘It was Montrose in the car. I am returning to Zurich. Call all the specialist teams. I want the very best.’ He packed the papers back into the fax an
d dialed the bank.
Reinhard sat at the table, his hands in his lap and head bowed.
Footsteps came from the hall. Jacques Kessler ran into the study, waving a sheaf of papers. “It was Montrose. Muller is sending his details over to the Chief of Police. We know he returned to the airport. The CCTV is being checked as we speak. Every airline is on alert and all the railroad stations. There’s no way out of Switzerland for him. We’ll have copies scanned and sent to all units in the city. When he’s brought in, he’ll tell us everything.”
Reinhard stood up and grabbed the papers. The black and white facsimile of Montrose’s face stared back at him. Jacques Kessler stood by the window, looking out so that Reinhard could not see his face.
“Montrose must have planned this. He got away, didn’t he?” He turned towards Reinhard, confident that that the deception had worked. “Who knew where you were, Herr Reinhard? Who expected you to be in that car? What can you tell us?”
Reinhard jumped to this feet. “I can tell you if I was in that car, I’d be fucking dead. Only my father and your father knew about the diamonds. Get Montrose!”
“We will. And then he can tell us everything.”
“Oh, he’ll tell us everything,” said Reinhard. “Before I personally cut the bastard into pieces.” He glared at Kessler, who looked down at the files on the table.” What’s wrong? You think I won’t do it? Don’t underestimate me, just because you don’t have the balls.”
Kessler shrugged. “I would never do such a thing. I leave that to my staff.”
Montrose slammed the gear shift through the grinding cogs and into third. The houses had started to thin out and the rich, green countryside opened up before him. Switzerland was part of the Schengen agreement. Open borders across Europe. No passport, no controls. But they also had the right to close the border any time they liked and the cops were allowed to pursue fugitives into another country. Reckon this might be one of those times.
Fourth gear slipped in more smoothly. He scanned the map to his right then stuffed it in the door pocket. A French guy on his way home would have no need for that. The leather bag lay on the seat beside him. Any stop at the border was going to involve a search. A bag of diamonds in the car wasn’t going to help. Ten kilometers to go, he’d have to stash them somewhere. On both sides of the road were patches of trees and open fields, leading to the hills. Without a spade, it was going to be difficult. If he was taken at the border, they’d only have to trace his journey. The diamonds would be worth the effort. There’s no time. I need them. The only way is to get out of the country. With the diamonds.
He dropped the gear shift into third and saw the turning for Sudschwarzald. The Black Forest. Germany was closest. The autoroute would be crawling with cops and an eye in the sky. It had to be the back roads and the cover of trees. He took the exit and saw the long stretch of asphalt in front of him heading directly north.
A motorhome was parked at the side of the road. The driver got out and dumped some litter in a roadside bin. Montrose checked his rear view mirror and stood on the brakes. The garbage cans. They were lined with plastic bags. The man got into the motorhome, unscrewed a thermos and poured himself a drink.
The last thing I need is a witness.
A sign told him the border was around ten minutes away. Up ahead, a rig pulled into a rest area. Montrose snicked the transmission down the cogs, having finally mastered the stick shift, then swung off the road and parked behind the rig. On the shoulder were three large garbage cans. Walking down the side of the rig, he saw the curtains were drawn across the windows. The driver had gone to sleep. He headed to the garbage cans and opened the first, then stepped back from the acrid stench of stale food and cigarette butts. He tipped the contents into the next can and took the empty plastic sack over to the car and opened the trunk. There was nothing apart from some old newspapers, a bottle of water and a small tool wallet. He unwrapped the tools to reveal a pair of pliers and electrical tape. The tape could make the difference. He pushed aside the flaps on the canvas bag and stuck his hand deep into the diamonds, pulled out a handful and threw them in the stinking sack. He made sure that they were secure in a bubble at the bottom before twisting the bag and sealing it with tape, then moved around to the gas filler cap. There couldn’t be any rips in the sack, it had to be smooth. He fed the plastic bubble through the hole, then carefully pulled it out. It’s going to take another sack.
He worked hard and fast and his shirt stuck to his back despite the breeze. He leaned on the car and bowed his head. This had to be done right now, before a whole world of shit came down.
He took off his overcoat and threw it on the rear seat. The first sack was complete, and the long plastic sausage of diamonds lay in the trunk.
The last of the diamonds dropped into the sack. He gagged as he put the end of the sack to his lips to inflate a bubble, before twisting it off and sealing it with tape. They wouldn’t lie on the bottom of the tank,with a float and he could hook the damn things out. The last thing he needed to do was block the fuel filter.
The traffic was light. No prying eyes. He carried both plastic sausages around to the filler cap, then fed them in slowly until they slipped down into the tank.
In the trunk the canvas bag was lying folded, its contents gone, and he picked it up and searched inside. A large envelope fell out. He pulled it open, taking out a sheaf of thin, yellow papers. Gothic German script stood out across the top and he scanned what seemed to be a list of names and numbers. It could keep. He slid the papers back into the envelope and threw it into the leather bag. He took a swig from the bottle of water and rinsed his mouth, then poured some onto his hands to wash his lips. He took a last look at the Wehrmacht eagle on the empty canvas bag and stuffed it into the bin. A small metal toy car lay in the corner of the trunk. He stood for a moment, staring at the toy car then picked it up. An old Jaguar XJ-S. I’ve always wanted one of those. He made to put it in his pocket, but stopped. It’s not mine. He carried the toy to the rear of the car and jammed it down between the seats.
The stop had taken twenty minutes, but without it there was no way over the border. The motor rumbled into life and he slotted the gear shift into first. Ten clicks to Germany.
Jacques Kessler picked up the fine bone china cup and sipped the lukewarm coffee. The other cup was untouched. Reinhard’s face was calm. Only the eyes burned.
All they could do was wait. The entire police force had been mobilized. Kessler stood up at the sound of footsteps running across the parquet of the hall.
Muller burst into the room. “Montrose was last spotted at the Bureau de Change in the airport where he was refused cash. It doesn’t mean that he wasn’t successful at a ticket desk, but there’s no mention of a passenger with his name on any departing flight. All the gate staff have been shown his photo. So far, nothing.”
“It’s a trick,” Reinhard grunted. “He knows the security at airports. And he knew he’d be seen there, so he’s left a false trail and moved on.”
Muller ignored him and looked directly at Kessler. “We’ve contacted all the taxi companies. Every driver has been informed by radio to report to a police officer. None have seen him except the taxi that took him to the airport, and he was carrying a bag.”
Reinhard stood up. “Then he’s taken a car or gone to the railroad station. Even a thief can take the airport bus back into town. Think about it. The last place we would look is Zurich.”
Muller turned towards him. “Every hotel is being checked. There are policemen at all the bus and railroad stations and all the taxi stands. CCTV is being monitored in all parts of the city and every train leaving Switzerland has two policemen on board. If he has made it out of Zurich, he will be found. The autoroutes are being patrolled by cars and helicopters and traffic is being stopped at the border. The police are distributing copies of his photo.”
“Then we’ll find him,” said Kessler, as if to convince himself. “It’s only a matter of time.”
&n
bsp; Reinhard stared at him, but said nothing.
CHAPTER 19
The Swiss border post was dead ahead. There were no cars waiting. His grip tightened on the wheel. Two guards emerged from a booth and stood in front of a red and white steel barrier. They had nothing to do but look at him. Maybe a quiet crossing wasn’t such a good idea. A Swiss Police BMW was parked by the side of the booth. Low slung and fat tires.
That’s an M5. Faster than a Ferrari.
The Renault slowed to a halt. One of the guards approached while the second took a good look at the French license plate of the Renault then pulled out a cell phone. Automatic weapons hung at their side. Behind them was Germany and a clear field of fire for about a quarter of a mile. “Don’t even think about it,” he murmured, and wound down the window.
“S’il vous plaît, monsieur, shut off your engine and step out of the car.”
“Certainement.” The penknife was still in the ignition. Montrose leaned forward and jerked it free, then cupped it in his hand. The guy with the phone. License plate check.
“Your papers, please.”
“Of course.” Montrose slipped the penknife into his pocket and made a search of his jacket. Picking up the overcoat, he stuffed his hands deep into the pockets then dropped it on the driver’s seat. He shook his head and walked quickly to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. Boots crunched on the gravel as the guard approached. “Putain de merde!” said Montrose, and rummaged in his leather bag.
“You have a problem, monsieur?” The guard had a thick Germanic accent. His French was good, but not perfect.
“It’s my identity card. I must have left it at home. It’s probably sitting on my kitchen table. Merde!”