by Chris Ewan
‘You want coffee?’ Alain asked, some time after 8 p.m.
‘Sounds good,’ Trent told him.
Alain stacked their dishes and glasses onto the tray beside the carafe of wine. They hadn’t consumed much. Just a glass each. If the circumstances had been different, Trent could have finished the bottle. The wine had knocked the ragged edge off his nerves. It had soothed him. But there was no telling what might happen next or when. There was no knowing how he might need to react.
He waited until Alain had carried the tray of things from the study and passed along the glazed corridor before moving around behind the desk and crouching over the laptop. The internet browser was open. The temporary email account they had set up was the only page loaded on the screen. He minimised the window and accessed the file directory.
Jérôme’s documents were arranged alphabetically in a long list of sub-folders that ranged from Aventure to Solaris. Names of yachts, Trent guessed.
He moved the screen pointer over the first folder: Aventure. He clicked on it and a new window ballooned out of the middle of the screen. A password prompt. The folder was protected.
Trent cancelled out of the window and tried to access three more folders. He got the same result every time. He closed the file directory. Restored the browser with the brand new email account. There was one unopened message. A welcome from the account provider.
He turned and faced one of the shelves of green leather books behind the desk. He rested a finger on the top of a spine. Prised it out.
And surprised himself.
The case was a fake. There was no doubt about that. But there was a real book inside. It was about two-thirds the size of the green leather sleeve. The threadbare jacket was a faded red. The binding was shot and the pages were loose. Trent opened it carefully to the first page. It was some kind of dusty historical text. Not something Trent had read before and not anything he felt like reading now.
He replaced it and took his fingers for a walk along the next set of shelves. More history. He moved on, trying the shelves on the other side of an intervening window. He stumbled across a volume of poetry. Getting colder. He kept looking, kept levering the green leather sleeves from the shelves and inspecting the hidden books they contained. Kept putting them back.
He was still searching when Alain returned. Trent recognised the jug of coffee on the circular silver tray he was carrying.
Alain grinned sheepishly. ‘Promise you won’t force this down my throat?’
Trent smiled back. He promised. Then he fixed himself a mug of coffee, no cream, and spread out on the chesterfield where Philippe had sprawled the previous night. He drank his coffee. He scanned the uniform ranks of green book jackets.
But he wasn’t taking anything in. His mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about Xavier. Thinking about Jérôme and what he might be able to tell him about Aimée. And he was watching Alain from the corner of his eye. Alain was drinking some coffee of his own and he was crouched forward over the laptop, his face and hands lit from the screen glow.
The two of them had fallen into a companionable silence. Truth was, Trent liked Alain. He was a capable guy to be working with. He asked sensible questions. He’d challenged and tested Trent’s reasoning. He’d shown himself to be reliable. And though he was clearly loyal to Jérôme, willing to do what was necessary to raise the cash to free him and prepared to stand up to Stephanie and Philippe when it mattered, he was also prepared to act independently when he thought it was the right thing to do.
It was obvious that he’d been looking out for Stephanie for some time. Maybe that was because he was attracted to her. Maybe he was aware that Jérôme beat her and he believed that helping her was the right thing to do. Or maybe he just preferred to do whatever he could to avoid the fallout that would come from Jérôme openly acknowledging his wife’s affair with his son. Whatever his true motivation, he’d demonstrated to Trent that he was able to think for himself. He’d shown compassion. And Trent was pretty confident that he’d gained his respect, even if he was still a little way short of securing his trust.
So what he was asking himself was whether he should mention Aimée’s name to him again. And, if he did, he was debating how far he should go. Should he just refer to her as his colleague and see how Alain responded? Or should he say more?
Would he end up with an ally, or an enemy?
Was it worth the risk?
He sipped his coffee. He ran his eyes over the rows and columns of matching green book covers, every one identical, every one concealing its true contents. After a time, it got dark enough outside for the automatic sensors to click in and the security lights to power up and he watched Alain go around the octagonal room, drawing the luxurious curtains against the startling glare. And all the while he kept asking himself the same questions: What did the man sitting opposite him really know? And what might he be prepared to share?
Chapter Thirty-six
Trent must have fallen asleep because he was roused by the bleat of the telephone. It was shrill and tinny. The plastic casing vibrated against the desk.
He sat upright and cradled his forehead in his palm. He checked his watch. It was gone 4 a.m.
Alain was standing over by the telephone and the recording equipment. He was white-faced, staring at Trent, waiting for him to react.
The telephone pealed again.
‘Ready?’ Alain asked.
Trent waved a hand. He got to his feet and peered out at the room. His neck ached. He must have crushed it in his sleep.
‘Should I answer?’ Alain said.
The telephone rang some more.
Trent groaned and stretched his back. His spine popped. He winced. Staggered across the room.
The telephone rang once again.
Trent punched the speaker button.
‘We read your email,’ Xavier said. His mighty voice rumbled through the speaker. The bass hummed. The unit buzzed. He sounded curt. Aggressive. ‘We told you five million.’
Trent bent down towards the phone. Placed his hands on either side of it and bowed his head. ‘The family don’t have five million,’ he replied. ‘They’ve made you a good offer. You should accept. You won’t get more. I guarantee it.’
‘Where is the wife? I speak with her.’
‘You speak with me now,’ Trent told him. ‘You always did. Why pretend otherwise? That’s why you put the package in my car. That’s why I sent you the email.’
‘We can make you wait.’
‘You could. But you won’t. Waiting means more risk for you. More danger for your gang. And three million is a fair payment. You know it. I know it. Let’s cut the deal.’
There was a pause. A long one. The speaker droned very faintly, some kind of background resonance.
Finally, Xavier spoke again. ‘You have the money?’
Trent looked at Alain. He motioned towards the speaker.
Alain cleared his throat. ‘We just need to collect it.’
‘When?’
‘In the next couple of hours.’
‘Where from?’
‘Not something you need to know,’ Trent told him.
There was more silence. More consideration. Trent was done with giving Xavier time.
‘We need proof of life. Let us speak with Jérôme.’
‘I have the answer to the wife’s question. He told her he loved her at a villa he has, a place near Cassis. It was in a bedroom there. A special room. She danced for him. They were alone.’
Trent’s arms went weak. He felt his elbows give. His hands blurred in and out of focus, fingers bulging and swaying.
His temples were burning up. His tongue had bloated. It was fat and rubbery in his mouth.
He raised his head. It took a lot of effort. It felt like his head weighed more than it should have done.
Alain stared at him. He pouted and showed him his hands, palms out, like a guy emptying his pockets. He didn’t know. But then he leaned his head to one side and he wi
nced a little and he waggled a hand in the air. As if it sounded likely to him. As if he didn’t know for sure but he knew enough about Jérôme – enough about his coastal villa and the customised room with the wall of mirrors and his particular sexual peccadilloes and preferences – to believe that Xavier’s response had a reasonable likelihood of being accurate.
Trent’s palms slipped on the desk, wet flesh squeaking against polished lacquer. He swallowed. Swallowed again.
‘That was yesterday,’ he mumbled, his tongue sluggish, like he’d taken an injection in his gum for some dental work. ‘This is today. For three million we get to hear his voice.’ Nothing. No response. Trent gathered himself. He focused hard. ‘You know why I ask this. We’re both professionals. Stop stalling. Put him on and—’
‘Allo?’
A puff of air escaped Trent’s lips. That voice, the one he’d been waiting to hear for too long now, the one he’d been imagining for so many tortured days and nights, sounded nothing like he’d expected. It wasn’t calm, collected or measured. It wasn’t formidable or imposing at all. It was high. It was timid. It was shaky.
‘Allo?’ The voice also sounded constricted in some way. As if someone was holding him by the throat. ‘Stephanie? Alain?’ The breathing was fast and shallow, more like a pant.
Trent raised his eyes to Alain again. They were hot and swollen in his head. The bodyguard nodded.
‘Please. Pay them the money.’ Jérôme was making a hurried nasal whine, like he was in pain. Maybe they were pulling his hair. Maybe they were holding a knife against his throat. ‘These men are serious. They will kill me. They—’
Trent heard a grunt. A moan, like Jérôme had been punched in the gut.
Then breathing on the line. It was measured. Patient.
Trent said, ‘Do we have a deal?’ There was no response. Just the ragged inhalation and exhalation of air. The pop and hiss of the speaker. ‘What do you say?’ The quiet persisted. The breathing went on.
‘Relax, Negotiator.’ Xavier was smirking when he finally responded. Trent could tell. It was there in the amused, sonorous rumble of his voice. ‘You have your deal. And we have further instructions for you.’ He paused. Not to compose himself but to enjoy his triumph. To relish it. ‘You will find them inside your home. Your apartment in Marseilles.’
Chapter Thirty-seven
They left the Moreau estate in the high-powered BMW. Alain drove fast, speeding down the narrow escarpment with the confidence of a guy who knows a road intimately. Trent gripped the sides of his seat and had to fight the urge to stamp his foot on a phantom brake whenever Alain swooped into a looping curve. The BMW’s headlamps seemed always to be playing catch-up with his manoeuvres.
It was dark, the air chill and fresh. Not quite five in the morning and Trent could feel a gritty fatigue in his eyes. He freed one hand from his seat and readjusted the fit of his Beretta in his waistband. He’d fetched it from the Peugeot before climbing into the BMW. Alain hadn’t been comfortable with the move – he could tell from the disapproving grimace on his face – but he was in no position to argue the point. He was armed with his weighty Ruger, worn in his holster under the familiar grey jacket he had on.
‘Nervous, Englishman?’ he asked.
Hell, yes, Trent was nervous. Here he was, being driven to an unknown location to collect three million euros from what was likely a criminal source. Trent wasn’t aware of many banks that opened before dawn. Fewer still that carried cash for withdrawal in million-euro sums. And assuming he got through the pick-up unscathed, he had Xavier’s latest threat to contend with. First the gang had left a package in Trent’s car. Now he claimed that they’d accessed his home. If it was true, there was no telling what they may have seen.
So naturally, he was anxious. But more than that, he was preoccupied. He was thinking again about what exactly Alain might know. In particular, he was thinking about Alain’s response to the proof of life information Xavier had provided. There was no way Alain had been certain that Xavier’s answer was correct – he obviously hadn’t been told by Jérôme or Stephanie precisely when or where his employer had proclaimed his love – but he clearly knew enough to think it was plausible. That suggested he understood that Jérôme had a thing for ballerinas. It implied that he was aware that Jérôme liked them to dance for him in private. And it indicated that he was familiar with the room Jérôme had customised inside his villa for personal performances.
Plus, he was Jérôme’s bodyguard. His job was to shield his client wherever and whenever his protection might be required. Alain’s role was to be a permanent shadow. Discreet, where appropriate – such as when Jérôme was beating his wife – but close by whenever he might conceivably be vulnerable.
Like, for instance, at his place in Cassis. Like, for example, when a new and untested girl was due to dance for him, or when an attractive female exec was scheduled to drop by with some paperwork for signature. The dancer might not have seen Alain, but there was every chance that he’d been on the premises.
All of which suggested the following:
Alain was probably near by when Jérôme had attacked the dancer who refused to sleep with him.
Alain was probably close by when she ran away.
Alain was also probably there when Aimée showed up, just as Jérôme’s unsated lust and anger and aggression were bubbling over. Just as he would have been primed to vent his frustration.
Therefore, Alain probably knew what had happened to Aimée and Alain probably also suspected that Trent knew, or suspected, that Jérôme was somehow involved in whatever had been done to her.
So far as Trent was aware, Alain didn’t know that he was engaged to Aimée, though it wouldn’t be inconceivable that he could have found out. They’d always been a relatively private couple. Outside of their business and the dangerous world it required them to confront, they lived comparatively quiet lives. But a resourceful person like Alain could find people to speak to. There was always someone available. An unsuspecting friend. A neighbour. Plus there was the photograph in Trent’s wallet. The shot of Aimée in her bikini. True, she was wearing sunglasses in the picture, but Trent didn’t think he was the only guy in France likely to find his fiancée memorable, and he doubted the glasses would have been enough to disguise her from Alain.
So assuming Trent’s logic wasn’t flawed – something, regrettably, he felt increasingly confident about – the only possible conclusion was that Alain had been suspicious of him from the beginning because he knew what Trent was searching for, he knew Trent was a potential threat, and at some time, somewhere, once Trent’s present usefulness was outweighed by the latent danger he represented, Alain would probably act. He would seek to neutralise him. One way or another, sooner or later, there’d come a point down the line where the two men would clash.
‘Hey, pay attention.’ Alain was snapping his fingers in front of Trent’s face. ‘I said, do you still have your phone? The disposable one?’
Trent blinked. ‘In my pocket.’
‘Good.’ Alain reached into his jacket, same side as his Ruger, and Trent’s heartbeat lagged and stuttered. But Alain didn’t go for his revolver. He withdrew his black notebook and offered it across. ‘You look worried.’
Trent swallowed. He jerked his thumb towards the wing mirror. ‘I thought I saw someone following us. I was afraid it could be one of Xavier’s gang.’
Alain switched his gaze to the rear-view mirror. He frowned. ‘There’s no one there. I would have seen.’
‘Guess I’m a little jumpy. It might help if I knew where we were going.’
Alain ignored the suggestion. He freed a hand from the steering wheel and tapped the notebook. ‘There’s a number on the top page. Dial it.’
Trent’s palm was damp. The phone squirmed in his grip. He flipped his mobile open and punched in the number. Raised it to his burning ear.
‘It’s ringing,’ he said.
‘Pass it to me.’
Terrific. S
o now his own personal stunt driver was making a call while he slalomed down the asphalt slope.
If there was one consolation, it was that the call didn’t last long. Alain spoke only to let the person on the other end know that he was on his way and that he expected to arrive inside the hour. He made no apology for calling so early. He didn’t acknowledge the time at all. And he didn’t mention the location of their meeting.
‘So where are we headed?’ Trent tried again.
Alain tossed the phone back into Trent’s lap. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll find out soon enough.’
‘We’re a team, remember?’
Alain grunted. ‘That didn’t stop you holding information back from me.’
Trent didn’t respond. There was no telling for sure what information he was referring to. It might be any number of things. It might be the fact that he’d faced off against Xavier previously or that he’d contacted Girard. Or it might be much more fundamental.
‘Open the glove box,’ Alain said. ‘Pass me what’s inside.’
Trent dropped his mobile back into his shirt pocket and tugged on a plastic catch moulded into the dash. The glove box hinged downwards and the interior bloomed with light.
There was only one item inside. A slim, unmarked white cardboard container. Trent lifted it out. It was heavy. Felt like it was lined with lead.
And in a way, it was. Trent loosened a flap on one end and tipped the box up over his palm. He allowed the first cartridge to roll out. A .44 Remington Magnum. It looked like a small missile. It was tapered and contoured and potentially deadly. This was a round that would kill instantly. Kill messily, too.
Trent fitted the cartridge back into the space at the top of the box. Looked like there were twelve or so rounds inside. And he was pretty sure the Ruger Alain was wearing was fully loaded with matching rounds. Was he being warned? Was this something Alain wanted him to see?
Trent resealed the box and handed it over. Alain stuffed it inside his jacket, on the right, opposite side to his Ruger.
‘Expecting trouble?’ Trent asked.