Bruno controlled his surprise at the name he’d heard from Gilles, and said nothing. Goirau explained that this was Stichkin’s way back into Putin’s favor. A shrewd man who had long since realized that the Kremlin’s favors came at an ever-higher price, he had quit Russia in 2007, during Putin’s second term. He left his wife in Moscow but took with him his daughter and as much of his money as he deemed prudent. He bought himself Cypriot citizenship and a house in Limassol, an apartment in Monaco and a luxurious yacht to cruise back and forth from one to the other. Unless you are a French citizen, there is no personal income tax in Monaco, Goirau explained, but the corporate taxes are quite high. So Stichkin kept his investment trusts in Cyprus and Luxembourg and took his income in Monaco.
“This neat solution was devised for him by the ingenious Monsieur Sarrail, and the European context is important to this,” Goirau went on, tapping a finger on the table for emphasis. “We larger countries are having more and more trouble with the little ones: Malta, Cyprus, Monaco, Luxembourg, each of which seeks prosperity through the financial sector and making life easier for the rich.
“Then we came across a PowerPoint presentation that Sarrail delivered to an investment conference in Luxembourg which we found interesting,” Goirau said, before pausing as the first course of foie gras arrived with a small glass of Monbazillac to accompany it. The conversation turned to the food, and Goirau did not resume his account of Sarrail’s presentation until the plates were cleared.
Sarrail’s lecture had stressed that European demographics would shape the future. Europeans had almost stopped breeding. Only Ireland, France and Britain were anywhere near reproducing themselves, and even there, growing life expectancy meant that for the foreseeable future the fastest-growing age group would be the over-sixties. There would be fewer and fewer young people to pay the taxes to finance the pensions and health care of the elderly. Since the European welfare states could therefore no longer afford their traditional generosity, catering to the elderly would be a huge growth business for the private sector. High-quality retirement homes offering comfort, good food, health care and an interesting social life would be an excellent investment.
“Stichkin decided to invest in a pilot project, the one near Sarlat that interests you, Bruno,” said Goirau. “Stichkin’s investment funds financed it, and Sarrail can’t afford to let it fail. Stichkin would never forgive him.”
“It sounds like a reasonable and legal investment idea,” Bruno said, cutting at the flesh that had been rolled around the veal tongue and then cooked for at least five hours. It was a classic dish that he seldom ordered, but today, with his companions choosing it, he’d felt in the mood for it. To his delight, instead of the conventional sauce ravigote, it was served with the rich broth in which it had been cooked.
“Yes, but they may have their timing wrong,” Goirau said, putting down his knife and fork and fixing Bruno with a sharp eye. “France’s health and retirement model may be under pressure, but it’s a long way from collapse. And their target market of wealthy old people has other options. A lot of them have second homes in the sun, Morocco or the Caribbean. They have airports nearby so they can come and go, and their children and grandchildren can visit them easily. They have doctors and hospitals on hand, golf courses and a choice of restaurants. Above all, they like to mix with their own familiar social circle rather than take their chances in a retirement home full of strangers.”
“So the project is failing?” J-J asked, dipping a chunk of bread into the broth before popping it into his mouth.
“It’s not doing well, maybe sixty percent occupancy, and some of their new customers may not have quite the level of culture and manners that they’d hoped for.”
That would probably apply to Driant, Bruno thought. “Are there any other cases of customers taking out this insurance policy like Monsieur Driant and then conveniently dying?” he asked.
“Not that we know of, but I’m hoping you might help us. I should add that Stichkin, as you can imagine from his past, has a reputation as a very hard man. There are rumors about people who have crossed him simply disappearing, perhaps from that yacht of his.”
“Who were these people who disappeared?” J-J asked.
“A couple of foolish burglars in Cyprus who made the mistake of breaking into his house when he was away,” said Goirau. “There’s no proof, of course, and the Cyprus police don’t seem very concerned about the burglars’ fate. They were just two of the fifteen thousand refugees who washed up on the island, mainly Syrians. The island has had more refugees per capita than Italy or Greece.”
A silence fell and Bruno wondered what was becoming of this Europe that had been launched with such high hopes and idealism. After a while, he asked, “Constant, this insurance guy who shares offices with Sarrail, doesn’t he have to have some kind of license? Doesn’t he have to file his taxes? Doesn’t his paperwork leave a trail for you to follow?”
“Yes and no,” Goirau answered. “He’s an agent, not an insurer. He should supposedly be looking for the best deal for his clients. He can pick any insurer who is licensed to operate in Europe, from the giants like AXA and Allianz to smaller, local ones. There are more than a hundred in Luxembourg alone, where Constant is officially resident and where he pays his taxes. And there are more than two hundred in Cyprus. Stichkin himself has one, or rather some of his investment trusts have minority shareholdings which combined together could give him effective control.”
“What’s the problem with Stichkin?” J-J asked. “You said he pulled out of Russia with his money and became a European citizen. When you first mentioned him to me, I checked, and he’s not on any of our sanctions lists. Do we assume he’s fairly clean?”
“I certainly don’t assume that,” said Goirau. He explained that Stichkin had left a lot of money in Russia, but he didn’t abandon it. He still had important shareholdings in banks and insurers, in a big nickel company and in a major car distributor.
“He must have close to a billion euros there, if not more. That gives the Kremlin a great deal of leverage over him if they want to use it, which may explain his sudden enthusiasm for Ukrainian politics,” Goirau went on. And he had family there, a younger brother, nephews and nieces. More leverage. But since he was born in Ukraine, Stichkin was not officially listed as Russian, so he appeared clean, at least on the surface.
“That gives Stichkin a freedom of action in the West that the Kremlin may well find useful,” Goirau added. “I’d be surprised if he isn’t still doing them some discreet favors, just to make sure his Russian funds don’t get confiscated. That’s standard Kremlin procedure for oligarchs who don’t toe the line. There are lots of precedents. In certain cases, they go to jail or die, sometimes in suspicious circumstances. But Stichkin still seems close to Putin. Like most dictators, the older they get, the more they trust only immediate family or their oldest friends.”
“You make it sound as though this Stichkin business is about much more than a retirement home,” said Bruno.
“Of course, and it’s about much more than French taxes. We don’t like the way some of these small countries like Cyprus and Malta sell residence visas and passports for suitable sums. But if we’re going to be able to do some clearing up and tighten the rules at the European level, we’re going to need evidence that will persuade our partners.”
“How do you expect to get that evidence?” J-J asked, in a way that made Bruno suspect that J-J and Goirau had rehearsed this. Perhaps others would be given similar briefings to the one Bruno was receiving.
“There are a number of ways. Perhaps Stichkin could be made to worry about the Kremlin’s attitude toward him and comes to us for protection. He might then tell us all that he knows. Or if we found sufficient evidence of money laundering or other offenses, we could put pressure on him. Or if a member of his team were to start secretly helping us and telling us Stichkin’s e
very move, that would be ideal. Delicate certainly, and dangerous perhaps, but perfect for us.”
Goirau paused to take a slow, appreciative sip of wine, and then glanced from J-J to Bruno. “Finally, there is the personal angle. He has an only child, a daughter, who is studying music at the Paris Conservatoire. And young people these days seem to lead such unruly and wayward lives.” Again he paused, shaking his head and glancing meaningfully at Bruno. “Sex and drugs—so many risks.”
Mon Dieu, I know what’s coming, Bruno thought, and I don’t like it. Goirau could only mean Galina. Rather than mention her, he said, “This is France, a law-abiding country where we don’t target the innocent. So I presume you must be thinking of his tame notaire, Sarrail. You want him to turn informer?”
Goirau winced. “I don’t like to use such loaded terms. I prefer to think of inviting him to do his civic duty by helping the French authorities.” His keen blue eyes turned toward Bruno.
“That’s where I think you might be best placed to help us, Bruno,” he said. “Your role will be to pursue your inquiries on behalf of Driant’s children and demand copies of every relevant document. What I’d really like is some indication that Sarrail is involved in the ownership of the retirement home. If we can find that, while he was also acting as the notaire for the sale of Driant’s land, the conflict of interest could lay him open to a lawsuit from Driant’s children for breach of trust.”
Goirau leaned forward and gripped Bruno’s hand that was resting on the table. “I should add that I greatly admire your own imaginative use of the livestock regulations in this business so far. But you haven’t gone far enough. This gives you an excellent lever, and I count on you to use it.”
“In hunting terms,” Bruno said, “you want me to flush the game toward you while you wait for a good shot.”
“Somewhat dramatic in expression, Bruno, but yes, that is pretty much what I’m expecting you to do. Not just me and not just the finance ministry—the interior ministry is equally interested in Stichkin from a security aspect. Bearing in mind his role in Ukraine, your friends in the piscine are also interested,” he added, using the slang term for French intelligence because its traditional building was near the pool of the French swimming association.
Goirau sat back, a smugness settling over his features before he spoke again. “It turns out we have a mutual acquaintance in General Lannes.”
“Our old friend the brigadier,” said J-J, rolling his eyes at Bruno as if to indicate this involvement of General Lannes came as news to him as well.
“Feel free to call him, Bruno,” said Goirau. “And Lannes asked me to let you know that the usual letter seconding you to the minister’s staff has been sent to your mayor, with his best regards to you, of course. That means you’ll be covered under the emergency regulations. You won’t need to lose time applying for search warrants.”
Bruno sat back, took a deep breath, looked from J-J back to Goirau and sighed. Then he picked up his glass and sipped, gaining time as he thought about what to say.
“You’ve confirmed many of my own suspicions about Sarrail and Constant, so of course I stand ready to help,” he began. “But there are some things I need from you. I want every security camera in the rue du Président Wilson checked for film of a young woman, tall, slim, dark hair, probably Arab origins. She gives her name as Lara Saatchi and she works for Constant. She drives a blue VW Beetle convertible, and I would bet she regularly parks it in the underground garage around the corner, and you have surveillance cameras in there. I have a witness who saw her with Driant at his farm not long before his death, supposedly from heart failure. I need that film to show it to my witness because she could be the last person who saw Driant alive. I also want a forensic team to go over the Driant farm to see if any trace of this young woman can be found.”
“But Driant died of natural causes, a heart attack,” said J-J. “And he was cremated.”
“That’s why I want a full forensic search of his farm.” Bruno tore a page from his notebook, scribbled down the number of Driant’s mobile phone and handed it to J-J. “I also want a full readout of Driant’s phone for the three months up to his death. His phone was missing from his house. I asked a magistrate in Sarlat to apply for the warrant, but apparently the livestock regulations aren’t sufficient for such a telephone search. As for Constant, here’s the number of a company credit card, issued to Lara Saatchi.”
He added her name and mobile number to the page torn from his notebook and saw Goirau’s eyes light up.
“That should help you look into Constant’s accounts. And one last thing,” Bruno added. “There’s a young Ukraine-born student at the Paris Conservatoire, a very gifted flautist named Galina. She has just turned up in St. Denis with a bunch of student musicians to play in some concerts at local festivals. She’s accompanied by a cousin who looks to me like a professional bodyguard. Could she be in any way related to this inquiry of yours?”
“She’s Stichkin’s daughter, his only child,” said Goirau. “How interesting that you know her.”
“Her boyfriend is a friend of mine, a fine musician and a decent guy. So if you want my cooperation, you’ll leave Galina out of this,” said Bruno, folding his napkin and rising from the table. “Thank you for lunch, and now if you’ll excuse me, I have to visit a sick friend in the hospital.”
Chapter 17
Bruno took from his van the bag with clean clothes, tracksuit and sneakers that he’d picked up from the baron’s home, and found his friend sitting by his hospital bed in a dressing gown. His face was badly bruised around the eyes and nose, but he’d been given a clean bill of health and a lunch he described as “tolerable.” To the baron’s annoyance, since he hated the white whiskers that revealed his age, the doctors had ordered him not to shave until the facial swellings went down. Bruno waited while the baron dressed in the bathroom.
“Thanks for picking me up,” he said as Bruno drove back through the city center. “I’d have waited for hours for an ambulance to take me home.”
“No problem, I had a meeting in town anyway.”
“You’re on a new case? Still involving Driant’s death?”
“In a way. I should have asked how well you knew him.”
“We went to school together, played on the same rugby team. One by one, the friends of my youth are going. He and I weren’t bosom pals, but even the ones you weren’t close to, you miss them.”
“You know he hadn’t been speaking to his daughter?”
“Because of her sex life? I’d heard that. He was old-fashioned that way. Are you suspicious about his death?”
“I’m not sure. He did have heart problems. I’m certainly curious. There are some open questions, including about his own apparently active sex life.”
“Lucky him, at his age. I remember he told me Viagra had changed his life.”
“It might have ended it,” said Bruno. “Gelletreau refused to prescribe it because of his heart condition. But Driant got hold of it anyway. I saw some of those blue lozenge-shaped pills in his bedside drawer when I searched the house.”
“It’s easy enough. I often get ads on the Internet for it. They must know my age.” The baron paused. “If it helps, there was a massage parlor in Bergerac he talked about.” He paused again. “Evidently you suspect something. Can you tell me about the case?”
Bruno gave a guarded summary, without mentioning the fisc. He started at the beginning with the visit from Driant’s son, and describing his and the mayor’s visit to the retirement home before explaining his difficulty in reaching the elusive Sarrail and Constant.
“Why don’t I try?” the baron asked. “I’m a likely candidate for this Château Marmont home of theirs. I’m the right age, wealthy enough. They’d jump at the chance to sign me up, and I can go in wearing a wire, if you like. I owe that much to Driant’s memory and all the time I knew h
im.”
“Let me think about that,” said Bruno. “We seldom use wires these days. They’re clunky, too easily spotted, and legally speaking that requires authorization from a magistrate.”
When Bruno got back to his office in St. Denis after dropping off the baron at his home, he found an e-mail from J-J with an attachment of the list of calls to and from Driant’s phone. Almost all of the numbers were identified by the registered name of the subscriber, the only exceptions being those phones using prepaid phone cards that were bought over the counter, but at least the point of sale was listed. Most of the calls were predictable, connections to Driant’s son, the St. Denis medical clinic, to other farmers, feed suppliers and vets. Several calls had been made to and from the offices of Constant and Sarrail and to the new retirement home. But there were two kinds of calls Driant had made that seemed odd. The first was regular calls to an 08 number, which carried a premium charge. Bruno called it and found it was a sex chat line. The other was four calls to a massage parlor in Bergerac. It was probably the same one the baron mentioned. Bruno called a colleague, an inspector in the Bergerac police, who laughed when Bruno asked what was known about the place.
“It’s not what you’d call a medical establishment, more personal-relaxation massage,” he was told. “And you know what that means. Don’t tell me you’re interested, Bruno.”
“No, I’m working on a case of someone who died in possibly suspicious circumstances, and he made several calls to the place. Is it on your map?”
“Not really. It’s discreet, not known as a brothel, seems to be well run, causes no trouble, so we turn a blind eye. Was this guy elderly, living alone?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s the usual clientele, old guys getting a little personal service. The place is run by a local woman, middle-aged, used to be a nurse, no criminal record. Most of the girls seem to be foreign.”
The Shooting at Chateau Rock Page 14