by Mark Leggatt
Montrose leaned forward.
“If you come with me to the police station and plead guilty to the charge, then you will be under my personal control, and the control of the Department of Justice. You will be remanded in custody until an appearance before a judge.” Bonsergeant looked over at the station. “If you do not, if you try to run, then I have no hold over you and you will be ‘armed and dangerous’. I have no doubt that they will try to kill you.”
Montrose stared into his coffee. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I am a policeman, monsieur. I live by the law.” Bonsergeant jabbed a finger towards the station. “The men in there. They have been told to take no chances. I have seen their orders. That means the likelihood is that you will be shot. Someone is trying to use the Paris police to do the dirty work they failed to do in Zurich.”
Montrose let his head drop and felt his legs weaken. This guy just saved my goddamn life. I should be face down on the platform, lying in my own blood and shit. He looked up and saw the intensity in the man’s face. “I know. You can’t let me go. I’ll take what’s coming to me.”
Bonsergeant pulled a slim notebook from his jacket. “Your name, monsieur?”
No way. I might as well slit my own throat. “I cannot tell you.” He felt the passport in his back pocket. Fuck. I should have left it in the station with the wallet.
“Ah, monsieur, you have the right to remain silent, but your fingerprints will be more revealing.”
Montrose slumped forward. I’ve sat in his seat. I know how it works. Strip search and inky fingers. Then it’s over. Even if I somehow ditch the passport, my prints will be on the system tonight. The Interpol database will pick them up tomorrow morning. And then a whole world of shit is going to come down.
A blue police van pulled up at the curb. The driver’s door opened, but Bonsergeant held up a hand. The policeman closed the door and sat patiently behind the wheel.
When I appear before a judge, the feeding frenzy will start. If this guy is right, I’ll be safe until then. Maybe that’s all I need. Like I’ve got a choice. Montrose took out his passport and penknife and held them under the table. “Destroy the passport if you wish, but please take it. It might buy me some time before they come for me.”
“Monsieur, the Paris police won’t kill you for a bad French accent. On the other hand, whoever owns the diamonds . . . ”
“If my name remains unknown, I will confess to the robbery in Rue Lamont. But the people who are looking for me make the Gestapo look like boy scouts.”
Bonsergeant shrugged. “I’m not surprised, monsieur. You seem to lead an interesting life.” He closed his notebook. “If you choose not to tell me your name, that is your affair.” Bonsergeant took the passport and penknife and slipped them into his pocket.
“Thank you.”
“Come with me.”
CHAPTER 22
The van slowed then came to a halt. He tried to lift his hands, but the shackles were too heavy. Fatigue washed over him and he leaned against the metal wall of the van. There was no way out of this one. I should have run. Taken the shot.
His head dropped forward and he looked down at the heavy chains, dragging his arms to the floor. Game over.
The doors opened and the guard pulled him to his feet. A floodlight lit the interior of the van. Montrose shielded his eyes, but he could see a brightly lit doorway and a uniformed guard approaching.
“Welcome to La Prison de Haute Surveillance de Versailles,” said the guard as he unlocked the chain. “I am Superintendent Corbeaux.” He grabbed Montrose’s handcuffs and pulled him from the van.
Montrose shuffled behind him into the office.
“Stand on the line in front of the desk,” said Corbeaux. “Listen carefully.”
Montrose dropped his head.
“I said, listen carefully,” repeated Corbeaux and sat down at the desk.
Montrose looked up.
“You are being detained for armed robbery. Since you have failed to identify yourself, you will forfeit all rights. Other than the arresting officer, no one knows you are here and there is no name on any records. Until you tell us who you are, you will be kept in solitary confinement. When you have something to say, you will speak only to me. We will become better acquainted later.” The door of the office closed behind him and Montrose heard the van drive off.
“Bon,” said Corbeaux. “We are alone.” He examined a sheet of paper in front of him, then pushed it aside. “I don’t know who you are, but I can tell you’re not the usual scum we have here. However, I have my instructions, and I shall follow them to the letter. An armed robber? You look more like a travelling salesman. And not a very good one. Keep yourself clean, eat your food and do what you are told. And when you’ve had enough of our hospitality and delightful French cooking, I am here to listen.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Because you give me a big problem, monsieur.” He pulled open a drawer, and lifted out a laptop. “You have no name. Or are at least, not one which you are willing to share with us. And that upsets me.” Corbeaux pointed to a dark corner of the room.
Behind a smoked glass door, the lights from a rack full of blade servers twinkled in the gloom. Montrose felt his mouth drop open. All the shit I’ve been through and this asshole is worried about his computer records.
“Every prisoner is here,” said Corbeaux. “Every personal detail indexed. Family, friends, visitors, cell mates. Any entry can be cross-referenced.” He tapped the laptop. “Knowledge is power. My relational database is the envy of the French Prison System.”
Montrose let out a low whistle. “Yeah. I can see why they’d be jealous.”
“Then you turn up with no name? Mon dieu! What do I do?”
Get a fucking life.
“C’est impossible! So where do you go?”
“A for anonymous?”
“Très drôle. No, but I have an idea. I am a big fan of the American movies and your TV cop shows.” He pointed a thumb and forefinger towards Montrose. “Eat the earth, you fucker of mamas!”
I’m going to lose it. Montrose clamped his jaws together.
“Therefore, I shall call you Jean Doe. Clever, eh?”
“I see what you’ve done there. Outstanding.”
“Bien. You’ve already had the haircut. When was the last time you had something to eat?”
Montrose shook his head. “I can’t remember.”
“Then go through to the office next door. You will be given a uniform. I’ll have some food sent down. When you want to tell me your name, I will be here. Understood?”
“Understood.”
The air was thick with the reek of disinfectant although it couldn’t mask the underlying stench of piss and stale sweat. Montrose stepped into the cell. He checked the bunk and decided against bouncing on the thin mattress. A small, cracked sink with a bucket below seemed to be the only en-suite facilities. The barred door clanged shut behind him as the guard walked away without saying a word.
Montrose stared at the small window near the ceiling. Once my fingerprints hit the system tonight, I’ll have to get a PA to handle my calls.
He turned as a tray slid under the bars. He managed to get a glimpse of the food before the lights went out. The smell made him salivate despite his thirst, and he gulped down the water from a plastic jug. He picked up a forkful of meat and shoved it in his mouth, savoring the taste.
A beam of moonlight entered the corridor outside his cell. The names. The accounts. The victims of the death camps. Stripped of their wealth and sent to die.
The world would know. I’ll make damn sure of it. But not yet. Reinhard would have to wait. It would be worth it. This wasn’t over.
The chandeliers rattled as the office door burst open and Kessler threw his briefcase to the floor. “Where’s Kurt Reinhard?”
Jacques Kessler jumped up, knocking a pile of papers across the desk. “Father! I didn’t hear you arrive.”
“There are a lot of thin
gs that seem to have escaped you. Like the fact that Montrose looks nothing like Erwin Reinhard!”
“Father, please, the ID photo was over seventy years old.”
“I don’t want excuses.” Kessler thrust his finger towards his son, his face creased with anger. “Listen to me very carefully. There are men in London and Moscow who are holding me personally responsible for Montrose. I accepted an assignment to get rid of him and I have failed to do so. We have a very short time to get this right or they will withdraw all their business. And that includes any deal in Afghanistan. We’ll lose millions of dollars in commission.” He didn’t mention what would happen next. No country in the world would be safe from their vengeance.
“But, don’t they understand . . .?”
“All they understand is that Montrose is killing their chances of a trade deal. The Afghans are stringing them along. They want Montrose dead and they want blood money. It’s the way these savages do business. They’re not going to sign anything. And then the Chinese will keep us out of Afghanistan for fifty years.” He bowed his head, shoved his fingers hard through his thinning hair. He looked up at his son. “We have one last chance.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I am going to go to the Afghani ambassador in Rome to convince him I am in control of the situation. What you are going to do is go to Paris. Get the team. Kill Montrose. Then hand over a briefcase full of diamonds to the Afghani ambassador in Paris. Take the jet and fly him to Kabul. He can distribute the favors and then the Afghanis will be satisfied. Then they’ll sign the deal. Do you understand?”
“Of course, I . . . ”
“Where’s Kurt Reinhard?”
“He’s in Paris, as you instructed. He left this afternoon with the two English guards. But why Paris?”
“Montrose. He’s locked up in a Versailles prison, nine kilometers west of Paris.”
“Versailles?”
“He rode his luck a little too far.” Kessler strode over, kicked the office door shut. “Thanks to the Paris police, his fingerprints are now on every system in Europe. Including the Swiss.” He picked up his briefcase and pulled out a small envelope. An object rattled around inside.
“What’s that?” asked Jacques.
“This is what Montrose desires. A video that exonerates him from the murders in Rome. Tomorrow we’ll see how much he really wants it.”
“A video?”
“Just do as you’re told. Where’s the Swiss team?”
“They’re at the border, waiting for instructions.”
“They’ll need paperwork. Tell them to meet me at the Zurich Police Headquarters. I’m about to pull in a few favors.”
“I’ll tell them.” Jacques picked up his cell phone and began to text.
He thrust the envelope under his son’s nose. “Take this with you. Montrose is locked up for the night. We can’t get access until the prison office opens. The French and their bourgeois bureaucracy won’t let us near him until then.”
“I’ll do it, Father.”
“And when you get to Paris, don’t get involved with Reinhard. Let him do the dirty work. Then you can clean up.” Kessler stood in the middle of the office, staring out into the courtyard. “Jacques. Look out of the window.”
In the courtyard, security lights shone down on the rear of a panel van. A line of bank staff unloaded document boxes and carried them inside.
“That bag, Jacques, contained more than just diamonds. Locked in Erwin Reinhard’s apartment were the personal details of every Jew he interrogated before they were sent to the death camps. And he only chose the wealthiest.”
“Their bank accounts?”
“Christ, no! We helped ourselves to those years ago, as did every other bank in Switzerland. But in the bag of diamonds was an envelope, containing a list. Your grandfather told me of its existence. It was only years later, when we investigated Reinhard and what he kept in his apartment, that we understood its true significance. That list will unlock safe deposit boxes across Switzerland that could yield a billion dollars. We need the diamonds, Jacques, but get that list. Bring it straight to me.”
Jacques didn’t take his eyes from the document boxes. “My God, Father. It’s all on a piece of paper?”
“Yes. The codes and locations of all the security boxes. Everything the Jews locked away before the Nazis arrived. You want to know where all the disappeared treasures are? Caravaggio? Rembrandt? Da Vinci? Those are only the paintings.” He thrust a finger towards the courtyard. “Can you imagine it?” Kessler placed both palms on the window. “Take Muller and meet up with the English team. Don’t fail me, do you hear? Kill anyone who gets in your way.”
CHAPTER 23
A thin, grey light began to filter through the security glass near the roof of the cell. Montrose lay on his back, hands behind his head, the threadbare blankets tucked under his chin. There was no use going over all the other possibilities again. They’d been running through his head all night. Only one would work.
The faint pealing of a church bell drifted through the cell. Maybe another hour and they would change the guard. Nothing would happen until breakfast. The window was about six inches high and a foot long. Pulling off the blankets, he stood and stretched up with his fingers, but it was out of reach. Behind him the bunk was bolted to the concrete floor. It didn’t matter. Daylight was enough.
He stepped over to the door and gripped the bars then let his forehead rest against the cold metal. Nothing to do but wait. The corridor was still dark. Closing his eyes, he heard the sounds of the prison waking up. The scraping of a chair. Rustling of paper. There had to be a guard at the end of the corridor. Probably writing the night report. All quiet.
Not for long.
Montrose lay down on the bunk. The shift change might be at seven, to allow the handover to take place before the prisoners had to be fed.
The light was stronger now and he began to make a search of the cell. Smooth walls, thin plaster smothered in whitewash. He picked away with his fingers at a crack in the plaster. Behind was solid stone. No good. The bunk was welded together in one piece. No bolts or screws, no springs. The sink was a single unit, its stained and cracked porcelain set firmly into the wall. Where the glaze was broken, the clay powdered away under his thumbnail. It would shatter if he hit it hard enough with the bucket, but there was no way he could do that without alerting the guard. I don’t need the attention. Not yet.
There was nothing sharp enough to make an edge, except the lip of the metal slop bucket. That would take a while. And catching hepatitis wasn’t part of the plan.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Even the buttons on the prison denims were made of wood. There had to be a way. He dropped down onto the bunk and leant forward, his head between his knees.
He looked up. The frosted glass was sparkling in the early morning sunlight.
After a few moments, a faint aroma of coffee penetrated the sour smell of sweat and sleep. He jumped up and stuck his face against the bars. Coffee and croissants. Adrenalin shot through his veins and his heart skipped a beat. Time for breakfast. Shame it won’t do me any good.
The village was waking up. She cut the engine on the motorcycle then leaned forward over the handlebars and glanced around the corner of the alley. The prison was at the end of the street. Too early for visitors. She’d have to wait.
An old man in faded blue denims trudged past, a baguette of fresh bread tucked under his arm. A scrawny dog of undetermined heritage skipped alongside, eagerly looking up at the bread. From the side door of a boulangerie, a baker emerged, shaking the flour from his stained white apron. He leaned against the wall, eyes closed, dragging on a cigarette.
She sat back on the Norton, the tips of her toes barely touching the ground. Prison visits didn’t start until 09:00. If they let her see him. She flicked out the stand and gently leaned the bike over to the side, skipping on one foot as she hauled her leg across the seat. She stood for a moment, stretching the muscles in
her calves.
It was getting easier. The old British superbike had been her dream, ever since that day she had stood, eyes wide open and her arm high in the air, reaching up for her mother’s hand.
‘C’est Grand-père!’ her mother had said.
Her grandfather, astride the Norton and dressed in an immaculate Italian suit, waved as the bike thundered down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. She felt the power bouncing off the windows of the fancy stores.
The first words she learned in English were easy. ‘Eight-Fifty Norton Commando.’
She looked down at the engine, ticking as it cooled. The bike was far too heavy for her. If she dropped it she doubted she could ever pick it up, but once on the move, the famous Isolastic frame was perfectly balanced.
The smell of fresh bread from the boulangerie was driving her crazy. She peered around the corner. A car sped through the village. She stepped out onto the street and watched a long, black Citroën pull up beside the prison. A man got out and pressed the intercom. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked like there were two other people in the car.
The church bell rang seven times. The man at the intercom took something from his pocket and held it up to the intercom camera. The gates opened and the Citroën disappeared inside.
Quiet returned to the village and the sun edged higher above the trees. She pulled a pair of Ray Bans from her pocket and leaned against the wall of the boulangerie.
CHAPTER 24
A clatter of crockery came from the corridor. The squeak of a service cart wheel. It started now.