Names of the Dead

by Mark Leggatt

  “If you are going to France, why are you taking this road?”

  “I heard at the office that the access to the autoroute is completely blocked. Some security alert. I thought I’d save time going through here. It’s our anniversary tonight, ten years of blissful marriage. Or not, if I don’t make it home in time.”

  The second guard approached with his cell phone in his hand, checking the screen. “What is your name, monsieur?”

  “De Villiers. Luc de Villiers.”

  “Can you show me the papers of your car, monsieur?”

  “One moment.” Montrose leant into the car and opened the glove compartment. “They’re in here somewhere,” he said, rummaging around, then pulling out the papers.

  “I have to search your car,” said the first guard.

  “Of course. What’s all this about? Did someone break out of jail? The border barrier is usually wide open.”

  “Just a security check. We do them from time to time.”

  Montrose tucked the garage invoices inside the log book and handed them to the guard.

  “Where do you live, monsieur?” The guard began to flick through the papers.

  “Les Octrois. South of Mulhouse.”

  “And the address?”

  “72 Rue du Duc D’Anjou.”

  “Open the hood of the car.”

  “Certainly.” The only European car he’d ever driven before was a Mini in London, and he’d never had to lift the hood. Montrose reached under the steering wheel and groped around. “I think it’s down here. I never look under the hood myself. I leave that to my garage.”

  “Do you know a good garage in Les Octrois?”

  Nice try, fella. “Yes, Calvert Motors in Rue Barry. They’re not bad. Mind you, I think they stiffed me for an oil pump last month. I’m not convinced there was anything wrong with the original.”

  The second guard tapped the screen of his cell phone.

  The first guard flicked through the papers as Montrose’s fingers found a lever and he gave it a sharp tug. The guard slipped his hands under the hood and released the catch, then held the hood in the air and looked around the engine bay. Montrose saw the fine layer of oily dust around the engine block and air filter. Anybody trying to hide something would leave fingerprints, but there was nothing. The guard dropped the hood.

  Montrose walked to the rear of the car, glancing at the clipboard of notes that the guard had placed on the roof. One handwritten word stood out. Montrose. His guts turned to jelly and he threw out a hand to support himself against the car.

  He forced himself to keep on walking, then leaned against the trunk. Stay cool, cowboy. If they had worked it out, you’d already be face down in the gravel.

  The second guard removed the spare tire and gave it a hard shake.

  The passport. If they search the Crombie, I’m done. “Did you discover any contraband?”

  “Just normal procedure, monsieur.” The guard replaced the tire and closed the trunk. “Do you mind if I lift the seats?”

  Montrose glanced at the guard’s cell phone screen, and saw he’d Googled the garage. “Be my guest, if you know how. Apologies if stinks a bit, my son gets car sick.” He didn’t know what to do with his hands so he shoved them in his pockets.

  The guards moved to each side of the car. One took his overcoat and gave it a shake, then dropped it on the rear seat and helped the other guard pat the front seats. They leaned into the back and popped the cushions from their mountings, then repeated the procedure, pushing hard into the fabric. The first guard retrieved the toy car from between the seats.

  “Very thorough,” said Montrose. “I’ve been through the border many times, but I’ve never seen a real search. I’ll bet you find a lot of stuff that people have lost!”

  The guard closed the door and handed over the toy car.

  “Thanks. You know, I don’t even remember buying this. Kids, eh?”

  “That will be all, enjoy your evening.”

  “Much appreciated.” Montrose gathered the papers and shoved them in the glove compartment, then stepped into the car.

  The guard leaned into the window. “One last thing. Which road will you be taking to your home? Where was it again?”

  “Through Mulhouse to Les Octrois. I’ll take the E54 then get back on the autoroute. I should make it home in time for the party to begin.” Montrose held the penknife below the door and flicked out the screwdriver.

  “Have a safe journey, monsieur.”

  The barrier lifted.

  “Thanks.” His fingers found the ignition slot. He pushed the screwdriver in and twisted. The motor rumbled into life and he crunched the gear shift into first.

  In the rear-view mirror the border post slipped out of sight and he slammed the stick into third. There was only one way the Swiss could have got my name. Interpol and the CIA have declared open season on my ass.

  In the distance the Black Forest spread up and over the low hills and stretched to the horizon. He floored the throttle, ramming the stick up through the gears and throwing the car around the bends.

  A tight pressure squeezed the breath from his lungs. What now? I’m on the run from the biggest spook agency on the planet. If Reinhard doesn’t play ball, I’ll have to hide. For the rest of my life. “Yeah,” he murmured, “Good luck with that, you fucking idiot.” His hands tightened on the wheel as it hit home. Not just Langley. It wouldn’t be long before every cop shop in Europe was looking for a psychotic murderer. Yeah, and a diamond thief. If it all went wrong, Reinhard would catch up with me. The CIA would be a picnic compared to those psychos.

  Signs for France appeared in the distance and he swung left for the road to Mulhouse, then dropped a gear and pointed the Renault at the apex of the bend.

  It was a long way to Paris.

  Spinks replaced the phone, the static from the encryption still buzzing in his ear, and felt the adrenalin thumping through his veins.

  Montrose was lucky to be alive. The chair frame squeaked in protest as Spinks’ bulk rocked back and forward. Both the Director and the Senior Risk Analyst hadn’t taken long to work out the worst case scenario.

  He chewed his lip as he worked out the next move. The thought of Montrose standing up in court was unthinkable. The bastard was one of only ten people in the whole of the US who knew the full scope of the black ops flights from Mexico. All the flights from Pakistan, Afghanistan and the Gulf. The Muslim conclaves of Eastern Europe. Or the heart of the EU, the secret facilities in Poland and the UK. There was no Guantanamo for these passengers. Just a black cell in the hills across the border, south of San Diego, and when they had finally given up their secrets, a grave in the desert.

  Spinks wiped his face on his shirt sleeve then buried his head in his hands.

  What else had Montrose seen? The analyst had spent all day double-checking the files. How deep did he go? The files had contained the history of the flights from South America in the eighties. The C130s that had landed, full of Argentinean dissidents for interrogation, then flew home with a full human cargo, bound in chains, over the ocean, to land empty. And the Learjets full of cocaine from the Venezuelan Generals to fill their private warehouses in Miami, in support for the putsch on Hugo Chavez. The DEA had been ready to strike when they found out the warehouses were rented by Langley.

  The Director had been very clear on what was to happen next.

  Ferguson knocked and stuck his head around the door frame.

  Spinks stood up. “You better have good news, ‘cos I am sick of this shit. Langley wants Montrose shut down. Period.”

  Ferguson swung the door closed behind him. “There’s been a shooting in Zurich.”

  Spinks jumped to his feet. “Jesus! Who? Did they get Montrose?”

  “No. Montrose shot up a bank car from Kessler’s bank. Two security men dead. Then the Swiss lost him.”

  “You fu . . . ” Spinks came out fast from behind the desk, advancing towards Ferguson. “You better be joking.”


  Ferguson held out his hands. “It’s straight from our team in Zurich. It looked like a real professional hit. He also stole whatever the guards were carrying. Could be cash or gold. Rumor is that Montrose was targeting Reinhard, but he wasn’t in the car.”

  Spinks held his head in his hands for a moment then sat on the edge of the desk. “Fuck Reinhard. What about Montrose?”

  “They tracked him to the airport, searched the whole place and all the flights, but he wasn’t there. Turned out he stole a car and headed for Germany.”

  “Germany?” Spinks left to his feet. “We’ve sent the Afghan there for specialist treatment.”

  “The Afghan?”

  “Keep up, you idiot! The guy that survived Montrose’s bullet is the brother of the Afghan Oil Minister! Half his skull was left in a hotel corridor and his life is hanging by a thread. We’ve sent him to the best brain surgeon in Europe. And that’s in Berlin. It’s no secret. Half the Diplomatic Corps know about it. And now you’re telling me that this sick fuck Montrose is in Germany? When did he cross the border?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “An hour . . . Call the German team and . . . Holy Mother of God, he’s going to finish off the Afghan.”

  “Sir, I’ll call Berlin . . . ”

  “Lock the place down! And get on to the German cops, tell them he’s wanted for murder in two countries. Don’t mention anything else, understood? He’s an hour inside the border. Tell them he’s armed and they can shoot on sight. Whatever it takes. Then get me a flight to Berlin. If Montrose makes it to the Afghan or the hospital, there’ll be a bloodbath.”

  CHAPTER 20

  The engine started to cough as Montrose passed the Porte d’Orléans. The fuel gauge had been buried in the red for some time. The diamonds would be lying on the bottom of the tank. There had been no point making a float for the sacks, there was nothing left to float on. The car has to go.

  He glanced down at the ashtray beside the gear stick. There had been no smell of cigarettes when he got in, so perhaps the owner was the only man in France who didn’t smoke. He popped open the lid of the ashtray to reveal a handful of coins.

  Old Reinhard will do what he’s damn well told. The Cosa Nostra will be closing in on sonny-boy. That should focus his mind. He’s got too much to lose. Yeah, and I don’t? Whatever happens, I’ve got to stay under the radar until I get to Reinhard.

  The Renault slotted into a line of traffic at the lights. He rubbed his face hard and felt the tension slacken in his shoulders. It’s good to be back in Paris. Worst case scenario, he could hide out for a while then head for the coast. He knew the streets and the cheap hotels around Clichy and the Moulin Rouge where no questions

  were asked.

  The lights changed. The Renault edged forward. The cops would work out I’ve made it over the German border. Don’t matter. I ain’t there.

  The engine spluttered and missed a beat. He turned into the main drag of Boulevard Raspail. The Parisian rush hour had started to kick in. There was a gas station to his left and he slowed down, swung into an alley next to the pumps and pulled over. He took the coins from the ashtray and held them in his hand. Apart from those, all he had was some euros and two hundred dollars, stuffed in the back of his wallet. A trip into town to change the money then get back to the car was out of the question. By that time, the traffic would be solid.

  Then what? He cut the engine. A few hundred bucks won’t go far.

  Unless there was a way to get his hands on more cash. He ripped the penknife from the ignition. I’ve got a gas tank full of diamonds. Could I sell one? No, I need a pawnbroker. The dodgier the better. They won’t ask questions. But word was gonna get out. Damn risky. Yeah, got any better ideas? Just one diamond. That’ll get me enough.

  He got out and opened the trunk, then pulled up the liner and rapped his fingers against the bare metal of the gas tank. It must hold about forty liters, and it didn’t look like there was anywhere he could get enough water to float them out. He dropped to his knees and stuck his head under the rear of the car. There was nothing to cut through the metal, and he wasn’t going to ask a mechanic to use a cutting torch without blowing him and the garage through the roof. The car was going nowhere. The jack and tire lever lay at the side of the trunk. He could hammer away at the tank for hours, but it would be pointless. The muscles in his neck tightened as he stood up and looked over at the gas station. The grass around it was bordered with jagged rocks, dug into the earth. The rocks. It could work.

  Taking the wheel wrench from the trunk, he loosened the nuts on the offside rear wheel, then pushed the jack under the hoisting point and began to crank hard until the tire was a few inches clear of the road. He undid the nuts from the wheel and rolled it to the curb, then crossed to the gas station and dug the screwdriver around the edge of the sharpest rock. Wrenching it from the turf, he maneuvered it under the car, turning it until the jagged point was below the gas tank.

  This is going to be noisy. Pedestrians hurried across the main street without giving him a second glance. He placed his hands firmly on the roof and began to rock the car on the jack, then pushed hard. The car toppled off the jack and crashed onto the road. The jagged rock punched through the gas tank, and the fumes blew out with a whoosh. Pulling the jack to the side, he spun the lever to wind it down, then jammed it under the hoisting point and started to crank once more. The metal screeched as the rock tore out from the tank and dropped to the road. He stuck his head under the car and saw a fist-sized hole in the tank. He rolled up his shirt sleeve and shoved his hand inside. The gas stung his arm where it scraped against the ragged metal and spreading his fingers wide, he brushed against wet plastic. He turned and looked under the car to the end of the alley, watching the feet of pedestrians rushing past. I’m just a guy fixing a car. No one gives a shit.

  Curling his fingertips around the edge of the sack, he moved it towards him and out of the tank. It was untouched. He pushed his hand in again. Nothing. Shifting his weight forward, he slipped his arm in past the elbow and reached the second sack, then gently pulled it out onto the road. Both sacks looked intact. Cradling them in his arms, he carried them to the trunk. The gas vapor stung his eyes. He dried off the plastic with some newspaper, but it made little difference. There was no way he was going to blend into the crowd carrying a bag reeking of gas. Wrapping the sacks in the last of the newspaper, he placed them in the leather bag, closed the zipper and laid his Crombie on top, then replaced the wheel. Grabbing the leather bag, he threw the jack in the trunk, slammed it shut and headed for the gas station.

  Montrose passed a display of chocolate and cookies on the way to the cash desk and his belly gave a plaintive rumble. He hadn’t eaten since he’d picked at his food on the flight in from Rome. Adrenalin wouldn’t last for ever.

  “Please,” Montrose said, barging his way to the front of the line. “I need to use your restroom.”

  “It’s for customers only.”

  “Look, I have a stomach upset, I really need to go.” He caught his reflection in a security mirror at the rear of the cash desk. The face staring back at him was pale and tired.

  “Here’s the key.”

  “Thanks.”

  The stench in the tiny room was overpowering. He locked the door and dumped the leather bag on the floor. He jammed the plug in the sink and turned the taps then looked at the stinking hole in the ground. This was a nuclear nation and they still used medieval toilets. He hung his jacket and Crombie on the door and took the plastic sacks and held them under the water. His fingers tore through the plastic. Diamonds spilled out and sparkled at the bottom of the filthy sink and he worked along the sack until there was nothing left. He threw the empty sacks into the hole in the ground and pulled the chain. A measly trickle of water flowed from the stained pipe. Picking up the grimy soap, he washed the gas from his hands and arms then spread his old shirt over the bottom of the leather bag. He scooped handfuls of diamonds onto his fresh shirt, wrapp
ed them up and dumped the sneakers on top.

  Taking a few euros from his pocket, he snatched up the leather bag and pulled open the door. In front was a payphone and a tattered phone book hanging by a chain. He dropped the bag at his feet and grabbed the phone book. Half of the pages were torn out. Guess they run short on toilet paper. What’s the word for pawnbroker? Try the pages beginning with ‘P’. He flicked through until he saw adverts accompanied by a motif of three golden balls. Prêteur. He scanned through the names. Adubi– that’s got to be Arabic. Paris was full of North Africans. He’ll do.

  His back ached as he stood up and he could feel a blister swelling on his heel where the edge of the shoe had started to cut in. It would have to wait. He had an appointment in the Ile Saint-Louis.

  The train began to pull away and Montrose counted the stops to Saint Michel on the map stretched along the top of the carriage windows. He held the leather bag closer to his chest.

  The names. The envelope. He pushed his hand into the leather bag, past his shirt bulging with diamonds and pulled out the envelope from underneath. The thin, yellow sheets crackled with age and became transparent under the harsh lights of the carriage. He scanned the text. It seemed to be a list of Swiss banks with a column of numbers beside them. He flicked over to another page. The heading simply read Antwerp. A list of account holders’ names and numbers. Beside them was a column of figures. They were in Swiss francs. Millions of Swiss francs.

  It struck him like a knife in the chest. All the names are Jewish. He skipped a paragraph of German at the bottom and read the signature.

  Heinrich Himmler.

  The names of the dead. The diamonds were tarnished by blood.

  His hands shook as he slid the papers back into the envelope. The train began to slow. Signs for Saint Michel flashed past the window. He stuffed the envelope deep into the leather bag. Not just the diamonds. An unbelievable fortune. And the Swiss banks had been hoarding the cash all along. Over forty years of interest. It could make the diamonds look like chicken feed.