by Mark Leggatt
A guard appeared with a tray in his hand. Montrose ran up to the bars and bent over, clutching his stomach. “Monsieur! I need your help!”
The guard ignored him and slid the tray under the bars.
“Wait!” said Montrose, between gritted teeth. “I need medication. It’s my stomach ulcer. It’s killing me. Can you get me a doctor?”
The guard shrugged. “Eat,” he said, and walked away.
Bastard. Montrose looked down. The tray was a plain wooden board. No knife. No surprise. The coffee cup was chipped and missing a handle. The plate was plastic and flexible. They were all useless. He stood for a moment, head bowed.
The tray. It might work.
He lifted the tray onto the bunk and sipped the coffee. It was good. Grabbing the bread, he tore it into pieces and stuffed them in his mouth, then gulped down the croissant and finished off the coffee.
Water would help. The faucet creaked as it turned. He wasn’t sure whether it was drinkable. France had a reputation. Not that it mattered.
The reek of chlorine stung his nostrils. Three cups was enough. He cleared the tray and held it up to examine the edge. It was smooth from a thousand hands, but the wood was old and brittle. Holding it before him, he searched around the cell. The plaster on the wall would be useless, but the concrete on the floor could work. Kneeling down, he tore the edge of the tray across the floor. He put his whole weight onto his arms and dragged the tray back and forward. The wood powdered under the force and cracks sprang up along the grain. Digging his fingernails into the wood, he pulled back a sharp splinter and ripped it from the tray. He touched the tip. It was dry and sharp.
He dropped onto the bunk and placed the empty cup by his side, then poked a finger under his tongue, searching for a pulse. The spongy feel of a bulging blood vessel throbbed against the end of his finger. He brought up the splinter and placed the sharp tip against the blood vessel. No hesitation. Just do it.
He jabbed the splinter in hard. Tears burst from his eyes with the pain and his mouth flooded with blood. Grabbing the cup, he leant forward, filling it halfway with one mouthful, then held the cup aside as blood spilled from his lips, splashing in fat drops on to the floor.
In for a penny. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth and rammed his fingers down his throat. His stomach slammed back into his spine and he vomited over the filthy floor and through the bars into the corridor. Wiping away tears, he grabbed the cup and emptied the blood onto the vomit. He took a few deep breaths and retched at the stench. The vomit stuck behind his nose and the back of his throat was raw with stomach acid.
“Help me!” He threw the cup through the bars. It smashed against the wall. Pieces of china bounced and scattered along the corridor. He stood for a moment, blood dripping from his mouth.
Footsteps. Boots, running.
In for a pound. He collapsed into the pool of blood and vomit.
A guard slid to a halt in front of the bars. “Merde!”
Montrose tried to speak and let the blood gush from his mouth, then dropped his head into the vomit. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see the black boots of the guard. Do something, you prick.
He heard a slow hand clap. Another pair of boots appeared at the bar. And then a deep belly laugh. “Alors, monsieur! That is a good effort! What do you think, Henri?”
Montrose looked up.
The other guard nodded in approval. “Best I’ve seen for some time. He really went for it.”
Are you serious? He tried to grab the bars and drag himself towards them. “Please, get me a doctor!”
“Back off, you idiot. I’m not getting covered in your shit.” He turned to the other guard. “So, what do you think? Did he go for biting his own tongue or cutting his cheek?”
“Tongue,” replied the second guard. “Got to be. Very impressive. Oscar-winning performance.”
“Putain!” The first guard saw the blood oozing towards his boot. “There’s always one. Henri, get a hose to clean him up. I’ll find him some clothes. I’d leave the idiot naked for a week, but he’s got visitors.”
The other guard reappeared with a fire hose in his hand. “Do you think it’s Steven Spielberg?” Visitors? Montrose looked up as a jet of water caught him full in the face.
Corbeaux stood with his arms wide as Montrose stepped into the office. “Mr. Connor Montrose of Interpol! At last I have a place for you on my database!”
Montrose tugged the front of his shirt, peeling the cloth from his soaking skin. I’m CIA, you asshole. And you know where you can shove your database. Two figures leaned over Corbeaux’s desk, signing several sheets of paperwork.
Corbeaux took each one and filed it in a separate pile. “Now I understand why you were so reticent about your name. If I was a policeman, I would keep very quiet if I was invited to stay in this particular hotel. You would win no popularity contest.”
One of the men at the desk gave him a sideways glance.
Montrose shivered.
“These men are from the Swiss Justice Department, Mr. Montrose. Your fingerprints were very illuminating. Given the seriousness of the allegation against you, they have arranged with the authorities to have you transferred immediately to Zurich for questioning. You must be very popular. These orders come straight from the top.”
Yeah, I’ll bet Kessler has got friends in high places. One of the men approached with handcuffs. Montrose held out his hands and the steel bands clicked into place.
Corbeaux placed the paperwork in neat rows in front of him. He stood up and crossed his arms. “I hope you understand, Mr. Montrose, that it is a good thing if I say that I hope to never see you again.”
Montrose nodded. They were ready. He walked forwards towards the door and the two men fell in behind him.
The door opened into bright sunshine and Montrose bowed his head and half-closed his eyes against the glare. He caught the shape of a black Citroën.
One of the men whispered in his ear. “Get in the back, you piece of shit.”
Maybe 400 miles. They’ll have to stop for fuel. Or food. Maybe by plane. Whatever, I’m out of that cell.
A man’s hand enveloped the back of his head and shoved it down hard, then bundled him into the back seat.
She lifted the Ray Bans and pushed them through her auburn hair. The prison gates opened and the Citroën pulled out. She glanced up when the car flashed past, then pulled out her cell phone and brought up the grainy photo from the pawn shop. Was it him?
She pivoted on the ball of her foot and threw her leg over the seat, then grabbed the handlebars and hauled the bike upright. The side stand shot back into place and she jabbed the starter button. The bike coughed into life and thrummed beneath her.
The Citroën disappeared around a bend. She paused for a moment then edged out on to the road. The front of the Norton rose up as she dumped the clutch and twisted back the throttle. The roar of the exhausts bounced off the houses of the village. She squeezed the tank between her legs and held on tight. It had to be him.
CHAPTER 25
The blood was starting to slow. Montrose kept his tongue pressed firmly down into his jaw. I’m out. Not the way I wanted, but I’m out. Time to lose the Zurich pigs. He could feel the heat from the men on either side as their legs pressed against his. He lifted his cuffed hands.
“You can take these off, guys. You know I didn’t shoot anybody in Zurich.” The car slowed for a junction and stopped before the main road. A stream of commuters flashed past. “C’mon, I was in the Mercedes. They were trying to shoot me! Are we going to go all the way to Zurich for me to be a witness? You don’t need to cuff me for that.”
“Zurich?” said the man on his left, his mouth drawn into a thin sneer. He pulled a snub-nosed revolver from his raincoat and jabbed it into Montrose’s stomach. The rush hour traffic slowed and the Citroën came to a halt. “Don’t even think about it. The doors are locked.” He smacked the barrel of the gun against Montrose’s cheek.
A cold sho
ck of fear shot through his body. These ain’t cops.
“You’ve made a lot of enemies,” said the man, “The Italians, the French police and Interpol for a start. But when they heard what we had in mind, they were only too glad to help.” He thrust a bunch of official-looking papers in Montrose’s face. “The Prefét of Police was very helpful. Says here you’re being transferred to Zurich. Before that, we’re going to have a little chat. Can you guess what we want to talk about?”
Montrose’s breathing became ragged. They’re Kessler’s men.
“Listen to me, I knew Shechter. We served together in the army. And believe me, I’d rip your fucking tongue out just for fun, but you’ll need it to talk.”
The traffic cleared and the Citroën accelerated towards Paris.
Montrose dropped his eyes for a moment. Snub-nosed revolver. Handy for concealment but shit for accuracy. If the trigger was pulled, the shooter might take me out and the guy sitting next to me. A .38 slug would make a big hole and they couldn’t talk to a dead man. Helluva gamble. They might go for a flesh wound, but if I make it out the car, I’ll take my chances. The way the guy in front was driving might help. Make a grab for the door. Hitting the road would be a damn sight better than what these guys have in mind.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Do it. And do it fast.
The car turned onto a two-lane blacktop. A sharp corner would work. Dive and roll. Montrose glanced to the right. The door locks were down. The gun was hard against his guts. The bastard might be a professional, but he was holding the weapon too close. Go for the gun with the right hand, then roll over, throw the locks and out the door. If the goons want to follow me out, that’s their problem.
The driver began cutting up the traffic. Montrose was thrown to the left and put out his hands to stop himself falling, holding on to the edge of the front seat. He braced his feet against the transmission tunnel. Next corner. It had to be the next corner. A hand grabbed him around the throat and pushed his head back over the edge of the rear seat.
The man with the gun hissed into his ear. “I’ve had enough of your fucking tricks.”
The butt of the revolver flashed past his face and a sharp pain shot across his skull. Then nothing.
Everything was black. Montrose felt his head being thrown from side to side. He opened his eyes and saw an open hand just before it slapped him across the face.
“Wake up, you piece of shit! Listen to me. We’re getting out of the car. If you try to run, I’ll shoot you in the ass. You’ll live long enough to tell us what we want. Remember that.”
The car stopped. Montrose’s arm was pulled sharply to the right, dragging him across the seat. Tall white terraced buildings towered above him. Paris. Maybe south of the river. Invalides or Montparnasse. He flinched as the gun was pushed against his spine.
“Down the steps. Go.”
Basement apartment. Harder to see from the road. Montrose stumbled to the bottom of the steps. The man grabbed Montrose’s collar and pushed his head down, dragging him along. A door slammed. The man spun him around and kicked him behind the knees. Montrose dropped onto a chair that creaked under the strain.
“Hands behind your back.”
His arms were tugged together and thick rope tightened on his wrists, then around his waist.
The man leaned forward, pushing his face so close that Montrose could feel flecks of spittle against his cheek. “You’ll be glad to know that Mr. Reinhard is on his way, especially to meet you. I don’t think he’s going to be in a very good mood. Funnily enough, neither am I.”
Montrose saw the man pull back a fist. Shit, not again. Then the lights went out.
CHAPTER 26
His eyes took a while to focus, but at least his sight had returned. Followed by the pain. Dried blood crackled in his nose as he gulped down a breath. He tried to move his hands and felt the ropes holding them hard against his back.
Montrose looked down. The ropes were bound around his waist and tied to a gilt chair. Lifting his head, he gazed around an opulent salon decorated in the nineteenth century style
Where the hell am I now? Have I died and gone to rococo heaven?
At the end of the room, two French windows faced onto a paved terrace, leading to a carefully tended garden, bordered by a high stone wall.
Around him, antique furniture was crammed into the room, displaying more wealth than taste. A whirring of cogs made him look up at a carved marble mantelpiece where a lacquer and gold-covered horologe chimed the hour. It was the ugliest clock he had ever seen. Silence returned to the room.
A muted voice came from behind the door.
Kurt Reinhard.
Montrose blew out a breath. Tell it like it is. You’re up to your neck in shit. Reinhard will be desperate, but I’ve got to stall them. Talk, and I’m a dead man. But it was Kessler’s men who picked me up. Who’s pulling the strings here?
Whatever. Either bastard will kill me. Time for a little bargaining. Maybe lead them back to Stein’s. Tell them I need my ID. And I’m the only one who can get the diamonds. Then somewhere along the way, lose them. Old Reinhard will have to wait until I’m clear of these psychos. There’s got to be a way. Play your cards.
The carved rosewood door swung open and smacked against the wall. Kurt Reinhard strode into the room, his face twisted with rage. He ran towards Montrose and jumped with his foot high, catching him flush on the jaw. Montrose heard a crack and flew backwards, crashing to the floor. His head thudded against the carpet and his vision swam before him. He focused in time to see Reinhard’s shoe above his head before it stamped down, the heel grinding into his ear. He gasped as the pain seared through his brain.
Reinhard stood over him. “Where’s the bag?”
Montrose tried to open his mouth. A grating sound came from his jawbone.
White puffs of saliva spread from the corners of Reinhard’s mouth. “Where’s the fucking bag?”
Looked like Nazi boy wasn’t in the bargaining mood. Montrose tried to flex his jaw. It hurt like hell, but it wasn’t broken. Got to turn the tables. “Yeah . . . We should talk about that.”
“You think so?” Reinhard stepped back then turned quickly and booted Montrose in the guts, knocking the chair onto its side.
Montrose pressed his forehead into the carpet and retched. Good answer, hotshot. You have to slow him down. If Reinhard let loose with his boot, it would be game over. The words came out in a rush. “I want to talk to your father. I’ll only deal with him.”
Reinhard grabbed a poker from the fireplace and swung it in a high, wild arc. Montrose pushed his face into the carpet and twisted away, straining against the ropes. The blow whacked the side of the chair and thumped into his shoulder muscle.
“My father is dead!”
Christ, another great move. You’re on a lucky streak. Reinhard is going to beat the shit out of me whatever happens. Just as well he’s losing it or he’d have damn near killed me with the poker. But the old man was dead? “Listen to me, I’ve got nothing against your father, even if he was a fucking Nazi. I don’t care.”
Reinhard stood up and lifted his chin. “He was an officer of the Wehrmacht. Not a Nazi.”
“Yeah, whatever. Nazis, Wehrmacht. Same shit, different hats.” The poker cracked across Montrose’s knees. A howl burst from his mouth and he twisted his wrists against the rope to fight the pain. Stay focused, you have to take control. And less of the smartass. “You’ll never get those diamonds without me and the security video.”
Reinhard stared at him. “What security video?”
Is he serious? He doesn’t know? “Don’t try to bluff me. Get the video and you’ll get the diamonds.”
Reinhard dropped the poker and threw his hands in the air. “Who gives a fuck about diamonds?”
What the hell was he talking about? Montrose unscrewed his eyes.
“There was an envelope in the bag you took from Zurich. Where is it?”
“An envelope?”
“Don�
�t try to fuck with me. Is it in the bag?”
The names. He spat blood onto the carpet. “I’m not sure . . .”
Reinhard dropped his knee onto Montrose’s head then took a Zippo lighter from his pocket and pulled off the brass case. He jammed a thumb into Montrose’s right eye and dragged back the eyelid, then pushed his finger into the cotton wad of the Zippo, squeezing the lighter fluid into his eye socket.
The fluid burned like a bastard. Montrose screwed his eyes shut then blinked hard to try and wash his eye.
“What you did killed my father, so I’ll take great pleasure in burning your eyes, one after the other. You’ll still be able to talk, so I’ll ask you once again. Think very carefully about the answer.” An almost imperceptible tremor crossed Reinhard’s face as he reassembled the lighter and flicked open the lid, his thumb on the flint wheel. “Is the envelope with the diamonds?”
Through a blur of tears, Montrose could see Reinhard playing with the Zippo. Shit, he thought, I can’t get out if I’m blind. It was time to play the game. “Yeah. It’s there.”
Reinhard stepped back and dropped onto the edge of a sofa. He leaned forward and bowed his head.
A picture of the thin, yellow sheets, the list of names, flashed through Montrose’s mind. “You’ll never get access to those accounts.”
“The accounts?” Reinhard laughed and looked up. “They’re empty! The Swiss banks helped themselves a long time ago. After the war, relatives couldn’t get access unless they produced a death certificate. I don’t remember Auschwitz handing out too many of those. Easy pickings.”
It didn’t make sense. Without the diamonds there were no more cards to play. What the hell was in the envelope? Christ, I have to know. It’s the only thing that could keep me alive, and Reinhard wasn’t going to volunteer the information. Unless he was really pissed. Yeah, so how many beatings would it take before Reinhard revealed the real deal? Just make it fast. “You’re talking out of your ass. No diamonds? What’s a parasite like you going to live on? You’re after dead men’s money, you fucking leech.”