by Mark Leggatt
She dumped her leather jacket on a low bed in the corner. “I’ll tell you who I’m not. I’m not your enemy. I’d like to keep it that way.” She blew the dust from a coffee pot and filled it from a sink.
“Okay,” Montrose sighed. “Who do you work for?” From her look, he could see he’d wounded her pride.
“I work for no one. Although I help certain people.”
“Who?”
“People who have been searching for something for a very long time. The diamonds, Monsieur Montrose. Now, take your clothes off.”
“What?”
She shrugged. “You stink, you’re dressed as a prisoner and your clothes are either burned or covered in blood. Wash in the sink. There’s a towel by the bed. I’m going to get you something to wear.” She stopped at the door and turned. “I’m not your jailer, Monsieur Montrose. I’m told the whole of the Paris gendarmerie are looking for you. Not forgetting the people you met earlier. But I can help you. And you can help me. So I’d appreciate it if you stayed put until I return. Make some coffee.” She closed the door behind her.
Her footsteps on the stairs became faint. Montrose stood for a moment and the pain returned, shooting spasms from the back of his neck to his balls. Blood was clotted hard in the back of his nose, but the bleeding in his mouth had stopped.
He walked to the skylight and took a few deep breaths until the pain subsided. He gazed out over the rooftops. In the distance he could see the dome of the Sacré Cœur on the hill of Montmartre.
He pressed his forehead against the glass. Whoever the girl on the bike was, she saved my life. Those bastards would have chased me through the streets and shot me down like a dog. Though the girl didn’t behave like a spook. She couldn’t be police. Not on her own, and not on a bike like that. But whoever she worked for, she could lead them straight here.
He tried the door. It was unlocked. He bent over the guardrail of the stairs. She didn’t look up, just squeezed past the Norton and tugged open the door to the alley. I could get out right now. But it’s going to be tricky. The police would be everywhere. And I look like a prisoner covered in shit. Not the best disguise.
There was another door to the right, at the top of the landing. It was locked although the handle was shiny with use. Montrose moved down the stairs trying each door, but none would open. Standing at the bottom of the steps, he could hear nothing except the ticking of the engine. He caught the smell of hot oil dripping from the Norton’s crankcase. A stained piece of cardboard across the flagstones told him that the bike was normally parked there. It’s not a safe house. Maybe she did live here.
He checked the bike. The tax disc was registered to Paris Arrondissement Four. Le Marais. He flipped up the seat and saw papers wrapped in plastic, then pulled out a flimsy registration document. The owner was clearly marked. Charlotte Marceau. Rue de Rose Croix. Seemed like she was telling the truth. Unless it was a helluva good cover. Mossad were experts at that.
Montrose stuffed the papers back in the plastic and closed the seat, then squeezed past the Norton and slowly opened the door. People passed by at the end of the alley. He stepped out and looked up. Maybe an eight foot jump from one roof to the other. On ancient, mossy slates. Not the easiest of options.
He hurried to the end of the alley and stood back from the corner. No cars, the street was too narrow. Arab grocers, a video store, tobacconist. People walked past without giving him a second glance. No curtains twitched, no one looked over. He ducked back down the alley.
Whoever she was, she’s the best thing that has happened to me for a long time. He climbed the stairs, keeping his feet to the side.
The coffee pot bubbled on the stove. He lifted the lid and threw in some grounds from a paper bag. The label said pure Colombian. Yeah, if only they stuck to making coffee.
He poured a cup, wincing when it hit his tongue, but it was hot and good. Now it was all down to her. There was nothing else he could do. He looked around the room. Nobody had been here for a while. He guessed she wasn’t accustomed to bringing people back. He opened the skylight onto the roof. She was right. It’s a death trap. Turning away, he took the towel hanging by the sink and ran it under the faucet, then wiped his face and hands. A knife and fork lay in a drawer under the sink. He slipped the knife into his pocket and left the door open as he crossed to the top of the stairs.
The girl was real. The way she had handled that big bike through the streets of Paris. She had a fire in her belly. Damn it, if she is Mossad they could have the diamonds. I’m not in much of a position to say no. Old Reinhard is dead. And the video died with him. At least the diamonds would find their way back to the families, if any of them were still alive. I just need a way out. A ticket to London in exchange for the bag. It wasn’t a bad deal. Mossad had to go for it. Though I’ll have to play it tight. She said they’d been looking for something. It had to be the diamonds.
She hadn’t mentioned the list, or safe deposit boxes. Maybe Mossad had no idea. It didn’t matter. They could have the list. Then Mossad could go after Kurt Reinhard. The bastard would get what was coming to him. If I don’t get him first.
He looked back to the room. The skylight was wide open. He fingered the knife in his pocket. Nothing to do but wait. If anyone else other than the girl comes through that door, then slippery tiles or not, I’ll be out of the skylight and across the roof like a cat on amphetamines. Fatigue washed over him again. He sat down on the top step and rested his head against the wall.
A wry smile crossed his face and the dull ache in his jaw returned. Doesn’t matter what I do with the diamonds. Mossad are going to unleash hell. His smile faded. Old Reinhard is dead. The chance to clear my name died with him.
A hum from distant traffic drifted through the stairwell and the light breeze from the skylight cooled his aching face. He blew out a long slow breath as the fatigue took hold. His shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes. Just for a few minutes.
CHAPTER 28
The sound of a door opening. His eyes shot open. Christ, how long have I been out? He jumped up and grabbed the handrail.
Get ready. He held the knife in his pocket.
Peering down the narrow shaft of the stairwell, he saw the girl struggling past the Norton, her arms full of store bags. She began to climb the stairs. The door to the alley closed behind her. She was alone. Guess I won’t be doing a rooftop escape. He turned back into the room and closed the skylight, then slipped the knife in the drawer under the sink.
She reached the top of the stairs and had to shuffle sideways to squeeze through the attic door with the bags.
Montrose watched in amazement as she dumped them on the floor, each one emblazoned with a designer name.
She shrugged. “I have friends in the fashion industry.”
“You know my size?”
“My father and grandfather were tailors. I picked it up from them.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this.”
“I do. What you’ve done is incredible. But I think you have no idea.”
“I guess not.” He extended a hand. “Connor Montrose.”
She looked down, struggling with a decision. “Charlotte Marceau.”
Her hands were tiny, but her grip was warm and firm. “Charlotte?” he said. Her hair hung over her shoulders. She was beautiful. Though he got the impression it was singularly unimportant to her. “Why you? And, if I have to be honest, why me?”
She shrugged. “You are not important.”
Montrose grinned before she held up a hand. He thought she was in danger of actually smiling.
“You know what I mean,” she said. “You have the diamonds. Who you are is irrelevant.”
Maybe, but Mossad might think differently. “Is that the only reason you’re helping me?”
“Yes. Because I want you to give the diamonds back.”
“Back? So they’re yours?”
“No. To the families that lost them. To their chi
ldren.”
Montrose heard the passion in her voice. She didn’t have to be told about how the diamonds were taken. For her, this was personal. “Charlotte? Who are you?”
She tossed aside her hair with a hand. “You have my name. That’s all you need to know.”
“Can you prove it?” He gave her a wry smile. “Perhaps we can take a walk to the Israeli Embassy?”
“I’m French. I’m not a spy for Israel. I have no business at their embassy. Not even the French government know about me. Not that they care. Of course, I report back to a contact. And it would be quite naive to think that they are anything other than some . . .” She looked up at the low ceiling, searching for the words. “Well, intelligence agency, I suppose. So if it’s Mossad, or another part of the Israeli government, I don’t know. But the operation is global.”
“I’m sure.” Mossad had been clever. Just set up a network of contacts, keep them talking, keep them watching, and then the results would come in. Mossad never give up. They must have been waiting over seventy years for this moment. But her poker face was slipping. She was practically skipping with excitement. “So, how did you know?”
“We heard someone had stolen a shipment of diamonds from Zurich. From someone called Kessler. A big shipment. For us, it could mean only one possibility.”
Montrose shook his head. They were way ahead of me.
“And an Interpol agent goes missing. Your name was all over the Swiss police radio.”
He began to laugh, but his jaw hurt like hell. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“I couldn’t work it out. Why would Interpol try to steal diamonds from the Holocaust? Besides, you don’t look like a diamond thief.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She moved closer to him and held her head to one side. “Why did you steal them? Is Interpol working with Mossad?”
“No. Charlotte, the diamonds . . . Well, I can’t tell you why, but Interpol are not with me on this. I work for someone else. I stole them for my own reasons. That’s why I went to Zurich.”
She stepped back. “You did this yourself? Who do you work for?”
Montrose could see it written all over her face. “Relax, I don’t want the diamonds. You can have them. I don’t care. I just want to get out of France.” And the rest of the world can go to hell.
“Where are they?”
“They’re here. In Paris.”
She threw back her head. “I can’t believe it. We’ve been looking for so long. For me, all my life. This means everything. Mon dieu! I haven’t told my grandfather!”
“Your grandfather?”
“He’s from Antwerp. He lost everything in the war. It nearly destroyed him. He’s spent half his life looking for the diamonds. When he became ill, it fell to me.” She looked up. “Where exactly are they?”
“Not far. They’re in a safe deposit box. First we have to get to Gare du Nord. I’ve left my ID there. I’ll need it to get the diamonds.”
She nodded, her chin bobbing up and down. “I picked up some more information. Every flic in Paris is searching for an escaped prisoner. It’s come straight from the Prefét de Police.” She took a bottle of dark liquid from a bag and gave it a hard shake. “We have to change the way you look. I’m going to stain your skin. Just your head and neck, and your hands. You look too Anglo-Saxon.”
Montrose grinned. “Yeah, a flic pointed that out to me.” A thought nagged at him. “Charlotte? How did you know I was in Paris?”
She shook her head and poured some of the liquid onto a soft cloth. “I wasn’t expecting you to turn up here. We heard about the pawn shop. He was supposed to keep you busy until someone arrived, but he panicked.”
He wasn’t alone.
“He said you could have killed him, but that you threw away the bullets.”
Maybe that’s why I’m still alive. I owe that old nutjob a beer.
“Then some of Kessler’s men were tracked to Paris and I was told that a thief had been taken to a prison in Versailles. No trial. No name. Why? So I was sent to observe. I followed Kessler’s men to the house in the seventh arrondissement and found you.”
Montrose had to laugh. “I’m glad you did.”
“Coming over the wall was quite a surprise. Now, take off your top.”
His shoulder ached when he tried to he removed his shirt. He caught her cheeks reddening.
“I’ll color your hair and eyebrows.” She dabbed the cloth against the dark stubble on his jaw and neck, then smoothed it across his cheeks. “My friends in the fashion industry use this for photo shoots.”
He flinched as she wiped the cloth across his nose.
“Excuse me,” she said.
Montrose held his arms out in front of him and she brushed the liquid over his hands, then stepped back. “It’ll dry in a few minutes. Then we’ll do your hair.” She looked up at his buzz cut. “That won’t take long.”
The breeze from the window felt good on his skin. He stood, arms outstretched, examining the color of his hands.
“Was it bad?” she said. “In that house?”
He could see the concern in her eyes. She had no idea. “It could have been worse.” Being repeatedly beaten and half-drowned, face down in cold water, for hours on end. It broke the strongest men. I don’t want to think about the urologist. I might never sleep again. “It was a lot worse for them.”
“Kessler’s men?”
“Yeah.” Montrose looked away.
“All that time,” she said. “We had no idea. Switzerland? I couldn’t believe it, but then it all made sense.”
“Kessler was just the banker.” Montrose waved his hands around to help them dry. “He was holding the diamonds for a man called Reinhard.”
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “Lieutenant Erwin Reinhard?”
“That’s him.”
“We know he was involved in the Antwerp interrogations, but he died in battle, no?”
Montrose shrugged. “Apparently not.”
“Where is he?”
“Well, this time he really is dead. It’s a long story.”
Charlotte threw up a hand. “Yes, some other time.” She stroked his cheek. “It’s dry. I’ll do your hair. Bend over the sink.”
The blood rushed to his face when he bowed his head and a trickle of blood came from his nose. He wiped it away before she noticed.
She rubbed the liquid into his hair. “It’s a black dye, but it only lasts a day or so. Stand up.”
Montrose felt light-headed as she smoothed the liquid over his eyebrows.
She stood back and admired her handiwork. “I should have brought a razor. I didn’t think. It’s not too bad. In a few moments you can change. Pick what you want. I’ve gone for brighter colors. More Mediterranean, and less . . . ”
He could see she was searching for the right word. “Anglo Saxon?”
“I was going to say Rosbif.”
Montrose remembered the name. What the French called the English. Roast Beefs.
“Oh, and I got you this.” She held out a white tube. “It’s medical cream. For your skin.”
He glanced down at the raw bands around his wrists where the rope had burned the flesh. “Thanks. Have you got any painkillers?”
She thought for a moment, and then fished around in her purse. “Only these.” She held out a large pink pill. “They are for . . . monthly pains.”
“That’s roughly where it hurts.”
“You can change now,” she said. “I’ll leave you.”
Montrose nodded. “You had better change too, if you’re coming.”
She looked down at her jeans. “Me?”
“Someone may have heard the motorbike when we got out. I mean, I like the biker chick look, but you know . . .”
She stood for a moment, and pulled on her lip. “I’ll think of something,” she said, then turned and left the room.
Montrose tried to see his reflection in the window, but the sun was too strong. The fake tan felt slightly
tacky though it was dry enough. If it was the same color as his hands, it was the best tan he’d ever had.
He pulled a shirt and suit from the bag. It was top quality and a long way from what he normally would have chosen. She’d gone for a caramel suit with padded shoulders. The shirt was electric blue. Must be a French thing. With this tan, it’ll work. He kicked off his sneakers and pulled on a pair of brown Gucci loafers. The girl had friends with taste. At the bottom of the bag lay several pairs of sunglasses. He chose a pair of Ray Ban Aviators and slipped them in his pocket.
The water from the sink was icy cold. He rubbed himself down with a cloth, then pulled on the shirt. It fitted well and since he was going continental, he didn’t need a tie. He took a slug of coffee from the pot to wash down the pill. He could feel his knee stiffening where Reinhard had hit it with the poker. The joint would fill with fluid and swell up. I’ll have to keep moving. Yeah, no shit. There was a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
She stepped in, wearing a mid-length cotton dress covered in a delicate floral pattern. She’d pinned up her hair. Montrose thought it made her look like a teenager, but it worked. She was gorgeous.
Charlotte took in his suit. “Very good. Très chic. I’ve ordered a taxi to take us to the Gare Du Nord. The police won’t be looking for a well-dressed, handsome man.”
“Or his beautiful companion.”
She blushed and turned away.
“Wait,” he said. “You ordered a taxi? From your home address?”
“Of course. Why?”
This girl was genuine. An amateur. “Nothing. Let’s get my ID before the cops lock the place down. And pick up the code for the safe deposit box.”
“You don’t know it?”
A sudden pain in his jaw made him wince. The painkillers only seemed to be working from the waist down. “Remembering a number wasn’t top of my list at the time. I just wanted to put them in a safe place.”
She shrugged. “We’ll go to the Gare du Nord. Then the diamonds. But first, there is someone I want you to meet. This way.” She opened the door at the end of the landing.