by Lin Anderson
Bach motioned one of the three men over.
‘It’s time to remove Miss Lucca.’
At that moment, music blared out like a blast of thunder. The national anthem of the Third Reich, Horst Wessel Lied, resounded round the chamber, drowning any attempt Grazia might have made to scream. In moments, she was hustled behind the display and through an opening in the wall.
Patrick entered the room as the music filled it. He took in the splendour of the brightly lit display as his eyes roamed in search of Grazia. He spotted Marco and then Bach, even Jonas on duty beside the golden Madonna’s shrine, but there was no sign of Grazia.
The marching song, complete with the sound of strutting German boots, resounded round the room. It seemed history was repeating itself within these four walls.
‘Ah, you’ve arrived.’ Bach approached him. ‘We were afraid you might be too late.’
‘Too late for what?’ Patrick said.
‘Not the auction. That has already begun.’ Bach paused. ‘I refer to Miss Lucca’s demise.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘But there may just be time to view the proceedings.’ He gave a signal summoning the remaining bonehead.
‘Remove Mr Coburn’s weapon and take him to Miss Lucca.’
Patrick didn’t argue as they took his gun from his waistband. He had no idea where Grazia was, and the cavern might prove to be part of a labyrinth in the rock. This way they would take him straight to her.
He allowed himself to be bundled roughly beyond the display and through an opening in the back wall that led into a dark passageway. From behind him, the bonehead’s torch beam lit their way. It was as though they were back in the underwater cave, but this time it wasn’t sand underfoot and they were breathing real air.
Patrick stole a quick glance at the illuminated dial of his watch.
Where the hell are you, Moreaux?
A sudden, desperate thought occurred to Patrick on the steep walk down into what felt like the heart of the mountain. Moreaux wanted his operative alive, but he wouldn’t be so concerned about Patrick. If the detective chose to search the hotel for Grazia before coming here, he might lose them both.
Eventually the passageway levelled out. Patrick guessed they’d travelled at least twenty metres down through the rock. During the Middle Ages Èze had become a centre for piracy, and vaulted passageways and storerooms had been created to store booty. Patrick suspected they were headed for an opening in the cliff face from which the booty had been lowered to men on the valley floor. Such an opening, he feared, had also been used for throwing people to their death.
Grazia had hung back as they pushed her towards the opening, fearing there was nothing beyond but a sheer drop. In that, she’d been proved wrong. The opening fed on to a metal platform, two metres in width and waist high. It was a place you might bring someone to gaze at the stars and the sheer magnificence of the deep-blue Mediterranean far below, provided that person didn’t suffer from vertigo.
Having deposited Grazia out there, her guard returned to the safety of the passageway, to wait. But for what?
Eventually she marshalled enough courage to check what lay beneath her, and discovered the rock was so sheer that no vegetation was brave enough to cling to its smooth face.
I couldn’t climb down there, even in daylight.
Out on the platform, she was as much a prisoner as if she’d been locked in a cell. She sat down in the corner and hugged her knees, as the cool night breeze sent shivers through her thin dress.
Each time Patrick stumbled on the uneven floor, the bonehead jabbed the muzzle of the gun further into his back. Patrick suspected he wanted to do much more with it than that, but was under strict orders from Bach not to. Which begged the question, what exactly did they plan to do with him? And what had they done to Grazia?
They turned a corner in the tunnel and there it was. An opening on to the ravine. The man who stood on guard turned and, seeing the bonehead, exchanged a few grunts with him.
‘Where is she?’ Patrick demanded. ‘Where’s Grazia?’
‘Through there,’ the bonehead said with a smile. ‘Want to join her?’
‘Patrick?’
The voice was faint, but it definitely belonged to Grazia.
Patrick stepped through the opening and was relieved to find his feet touch metal rather than thin air.
The tunnel had been pitch-black, their way made possible by the bonehead’s torchlight. Out here, the light came from a part-moon and a sprinkling of stars. As his eyes adjusted to it, Patrick made out a figure huddled in a corner of the platform.
‘Grazia,’ he said, overjoyed.
Patrick reached down and drew her to him, enveloping her in his arms.
TWENTY-FOUR
Although the plan discussed with Courvoisier hadn’t been what Moreaux desired, he’d had little choice but to agree. Courvoisier’s suspicions that Grazia had been outed as a double agent put her in grave danger. Courvoisier’s safety wasn’t Moreaux’s primary concern, but Grazia’s was. Unfortunately, their fortunes now appeared to be entwined.
Since the entire operation had been played out under the radar, exposing it now was best avoided if possible. Moreaux had therefore decided to summon backup from Cannes, rather than inform Monaco police what was going on so close to their border.
It was better that way, but reinforcements would take longer to arrive than Moreaux was happy about. He’d brought the marine officers with him, although in his opinion they were better suited to boarding suspicious yachts than storming the Bastille that was underground Èze.
Courvoisier had intimated in his last call that the entire Bach party were assembling in the phoenix house, but he couldn’t verify that Grazia was with them. Moreaux instructed an officer to head for Château Èze and make sure that Grazia wasn’t being guarded in her room. The remaining officers he took with him.
They met no one on their way, although there were a few lights on in the jumble of houses that clung precariously to the hillside. Èze was like Le Suquet, only more maze-like, with narrower alleyways, the climb to the top steeper.
Moreaux had forbidden any talking, ordering their approach to be as silent as possible. If Courvoisier was right and Bach didn’t know about the police’s involvement, then surprise would be their biggest weapon.
Reaching the black door with the red phoenix above it, Moreaux stood for a moment listening. There was music being played inside, a military march by the sound of it. Moreaux smiled, realizing that the strains of Die Fahne hoch would cover their entry.
Moreaux checked to see if the door was locked. When it proved to be, he ordered it to be forced. With one swing, sixteen kilos of hardened steel hit the door and sprang the lock. The marching music enveloped them as the thick door flew open.
Moreaux dropped his cheroot and ground it under his foot, then signalled to his men to enter.
Now Bach had both of them out here, what did he have planned for them? Patrick could see no reason why he and Grazia were still alive, except perhaps to be the centrepiece of some future event, maybe the finale of tonight’s party.
Both Grazia’s betrayal and Heinrich’s death at Patrick’s hands would require revenge, and Bach would want to be the one to take it.
Huddled together against the night air, Patrick whispered to Grazia that help was on its way. Whether she believed him or not, he couldn’t tell in the faint light. His attempt to get a signal on the mobile had failed, so there was no way to find out if Moreaux had reached Èze yet. There was nothing to do but wait.
Or maybe not.
Patrick slipped his hand down to feel for the diving knife he’d removed from Heinrich, which was strapped to his right calf. Now he knew Grazia was alive, it was time to fight back.
A few moments ago, he’d heard what he believed was the departure of Grazia’s guard, which left just the bonehead on duty in the passageway. If so, then it was now two to one in their favour.
Patrick pulled up his trouser leg and showed Gra
zia the glint of metal then, pointing at the opening, signalled that there was only one guard and he was going to try to take him. A few whispered words explained how Grazia might play a part in this.
He was asking a lot of her, and it wouldn’t be possible if she didn’t have a head for heights. Patrick watched her face in the moonlight for signs of fear and found none.
‘Can you manage that?’
Grazia nodded. ‘But not in this dress.’
Patrick blocked the opening with his body as she prepared to play her part.
‘OK,’ she whispered. ‘Here goes.’
Grazia swung herself over the barrier and, dropping down, found a foothold in the lower frame of the platform. Now virtually out of sight, she screamed.
The sound was ear-splitting, so much so that for a moment Patrick thought she had really fallen.
The bonehead was out in seconds, gun in hand, to discover a shocked Patrick bent over the barrier, as if watching in horror as Grazia dropped to her death.
Swearing in guttural German, he did the same. Which was exactly what Patrick had hoped for. In seconds he had the knife at the bonehead’s throat, its blade breaking the skin.
‘The gun,’ Patrick demanded, digging the knife deeper. He had drawn blood now. Patrick could smell the metallic scent of it, mixed with the bonehead’s sweat of fear and fury.
One deep slice and it’s over.
In his former life he would have done the deed by now and offered the body to the ravine. That would have been clean and easy.
This way was less reliable.
The bonehead’s grip loosened on the gun and he let Patrick take it from him. He would be planning something, his mind figuring a move that would put him back in charge. If that happened, the bonehead’s retaliation would be swift and final. He wouldn’t spare Patrick’s life, regardless of what Bach’s orders had been.
Patrick swung him round and pushed him through the opening. The sudden change in direction, the loosening of the knife from his throat, surprised him.
The butt of the gun met the thick skull in a crunching blow, but it wasn’t enough. The bonehead tottered, but he wasn’t out. Not yet. Patrick repeated the action, this time twice as hard, and the bonehead sank to the stone floor like a rag doll.
Grazia?
She was already up and over the barrier and pulling her dress back on.
‘He’s out cold,’ Patrick said. ‘Are you OK?’
When she nodded, Patrick handed her the diving knife.
‘Take this, and use it if need be.’
The music that drifted down had changed from the anthem of the Third Reich to yet another marching tune. Closer to the main cavern, Patrick could make out Bach’s deep booming laugh.
Someone’s happy. But not for much longer.
Patrick checked his watch.
Where the hell was Moreaux?
The answer came seconds later. Through the opening behind the shrine, Patrick saw the cavern plunge into darkness.
‘Cover your mouth,’ he told Grazia.
By the voices below, Moreaux judged that there were at least twenty men down there, and with the number of officers at his disposal he couldn’t arrest them all. Nor did he have any wish to.
For the moment, he would settle for thwarting their plans and retrieving the goods and his operative safely. Arresting Bach could wait for backup to arrive.
As the power switch was thrown, the tear-gas canisters clanged down the stone steps and rolled into the room, followed by three dive flares taken from the police launch. The mix of gas and orange smoke turned the occupants into mad men flailing around in the darkness of hell.
Patrick flourished the torch he’d taken from the bonehead’s body.
‘Come on.’
He made straight for the painting, lifted it from the display unit, and wrapped it in the Nazi flag.
‘What about the statue?’ Grazia said.
‘That’s Moreaux’s,’ Patrick said as he made for the stairs.
He found Moreaux waiting at the exit with two armed officers.
‘Ah, Courvoisier. How are things down there?’ Moreaux said.
‘Chaos.’
‘Good. My backup team is due to arrive any minute,’ he proclaimed, glancing upwards as a helicopter beam lit up the sky above the lower car park.
‘I’m glad to see you, Grazia,’ he said, his stern face for once softened.
‘I’m glad to see you, Sir.’
‘Courvoisier has treated you well?’
‘He has. Yes.’
‘Then I suggest you leave with your souvenir while I clear up the mess.’
TWENTY-FIVE
On the journey to Cannes, the recovered painting sitting on the rear seat wrapped in the Nazi flag, Grazia explained her role in all of this. How she’d been working undercover among collectors and dealers in Nazi stolen art. Moving between Germany, France and Italy.
‘That’s how you met Marco?’ Patrick asked.
She nodded. ‘Marco was obsessed with finding stolen art. Not to return it to its rightful owners, but to either keep it for himself or donate it to the cause.’
‘Twenty per cent of the Jewish-owned artwork of Europe,’ she continued, ‘was stolen by the Nazis and secreted away. And most of it has never been found. Beautiful paintings taken from their owners, who were then sent to concentration camps.’ She glanced round at Patrick and he saw the tears in her eyes. ‘Did you see the inscription? The gold used to fashion the statue of the Madonna was made from the wedding rings and other jewellery taken from those people. Von jüdischen Gold.’ There was a shudder in her voice.
‘What will Moreaux do with it?’
‘We would never have known about the statue had the British not contacted us, in search of it. I suspect Lieutenant Moreaux will be obliged to hand it over, in the interest of diplomatic relations with London.’ She paused. ‘If he does, what do you think they will do with it?’
Patrick found that difficult to answer. The British didn’t generally destroy works of art, even if they gave a poor impression of their former Empire and how it got to be so powerful. Visitors to the House of Lords were shown friezes that portrayed the colonization of Africa. Seeing the plasterwork that depicted black men on all fours with a white man’s foot on their back had shocked even him, but the guide had simply acknowledged everyone’s distaste and pointed out that that kind of thing was all in the past.
‘I think they’ll simply store it somewhere out of sight.’
‘If the recording made tonight appears online, they won’t be able to pretend it doesn’t exist,’ Grazia said.
Patrick had forgotten about the recording. ‘Should we let Moreaux know about it?’
‘If he’s done his job properly, I think it will already be in his possession.’ Grazia smiled and it suddenly struck him why she seemed so pleased.
‘You think he’ll release it?’
‘I think he may use it as a bargaining tool.’
She laughed, a sound that was music to his ears.
‘You want the abbey to have the Madonna back, don’t you?’ she said.
‘The Fragonard belongs to the monks.’
She countered that assertion. ‘My understanding was that it belongs to your royal family. Wasn’t that why we were sent on this mission, to retrieve it for them?’
‘Let them have the forgery,’ Patrick replied.
‘I don’t think Lieutenant Moreaux intends them even to have that.’
Later, on board the gunboat, under the watchful eye of the Madonna, they made love by the light of the moon through the porthole. Grazia’s whispered words of love were sometimes spoken in French, sometimes in Italian, never in English.
Looking down at her, Patrick recalled the first moment he’d seen her, when she’d smiled at his kilt in the diplomatic tent. He’d thought her enticing and had hoped to get to know her, then Charles had spoiled it by revealing why she was there.
‘I was very rude to you,’ Patrick
said, ‘that day at the garden party. And later in the restaurant.’
‘You thought I was there to persuade you to take the job, and you were right. Charles Carruthers is a clever man. And a nice one.’
‘I’m not sure it’s possible to be nice in his business,’ Patrick said.
She laid her head on his shoulder. ‘We said that when this was over perhaps we might be honest with each other.’ She lifted her eyes and regarded him quizzically.
‘OK.’ He kissed her lightly on the lips, before continuing. ‘I am Le Limier, a private investigator working from a gunboat in the old port of Cannes. I am also the scourge of Lieutenant Moreaux of the Police Nationale, who would like to see the back of me from his patch.’
‘Why?’ she asked, raising herself on one elbow.
‘You’ll have to ask Moreaux that.’
‘Perhaps I will,’ she said as she drew him to her.
Patrick woke at dawn to find Grazia had gone, although the painting still stood at the foot of the bed. He rose and showered, fetched croissants from the café across from the gunboat, and made himself a pot of fresh coffee, which he took up on deck along with his mobile.
The Diving Belle was back in its moorings, but with no sign yet of Stephen. Patrick was anxious to know what had happened after he’d left his friends searching the waters off Château de la Croë, so he gave Jean-Paul a call.
Jean-Paul was, like Patrick, an early riser and was swift to answer.
‘We found him,’ he said, before Patrick could ask. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Where?’
‘I told the police divers I’d spotted something under the ledge fifty metres south of the wall. They took a look and confirmed it was a body. When they brought him up, I identified him as Huntington.’
‘So he’s at the morgue?’
‘I assume so. They took him away in the police launch.’
‘Did they find any other bodies?’
‘No, should they have?’ Jean-Paul said.
‘Hopefully, not,’ Patrick said.
‘And what of you, mon ami?’
‘I have the missing Madonna,’ Patrick said. ‘Miss Lucca and I returned with it last night.’