The Freiburg Cabinet

by Thomas Charrington

  Oliver fumbled for some glasses and then peered down at the map with Melvyn by his side.

  “Right, Mel, here’s Paris,” he said, pointing with a biro, “and down to the southeast a little is our destination, Troyes. And you pronounce it like the French three. ‘Trois,’ not Troy!”

  “Oh, okay,” Melvyn said, stroking his chin.

  “So we arrive right over here at St Malo at seven tomorrow morning, having come from Portsmouth. We then drive over to here, Laval, and just outside is a little village called Argentre … which is where Frederic lives. You’ve been there before, so you’ll recognize it. I reckon we’ll be there around ten, and that gives us an hour or so to check out his stock and have a cup of coffee before heading on. We then take this road east and head towards Troyes, and as you can see, it’s a fair old way, so you’ll have to take the wheel for a bit. I’ve got you insured.”

  “Right, that’s no problem,” Melvyn mumbled.

  “Good!” Oliver said, standing up and folding the map. “We then pick up Fabien from the train station and take you to that most wonderful house which I briefly mentioned before … Chateau Clery. And then, my friend, we go about the business of altering history!”

  He looked at his watch.

  “Okay, it’s five to four, so we have five minutes. I’ll go out to the van and wait for you. Oh, and do please check you’ve got your passport, Mel.”

  * * *

  Tarquin and his companions sat in a secluded part of the main refreshments lounge on the Dover Princess as she ploughed her way towards Calais. Percy stayed in the car with a large bowl of water and some treats to calm him down. Constanta and Petru sat opposite each other, chatting incessantly in Romanian whilst gazing out of the windows in awe at the glittering sea.

  Tarquin sat a little apart, seemingly engrossed in a copy of the Telegraph. But he was not reading. He was in fact reliving again and again the recent events on the road and the ghastly humiliation of being saved by a beautiful young woman, half his strength, from a pair of thugs, and then being virtually thrown into the backseat of the vehicle he had been so thoroughly in command of moments before.

  Absently turning the leaves of the paper, he pondered his situation with an increasing sense of panic. Who exactly was Constanta? Obviously a woman fully conversant in hand-to-hand combat, that was for sure; and why was it that her appearance in his life dovetailed so neatly with his rude introduction to two men who seemed intent on killing or maiming him? Were they linked, or was this just the weird coincidence he had presumed it to be all along? Perhaps they were all actors working in cahoots to lure him abroad for some dark reason, and he had fallen, hook, line, and sinker, into their trap?

  But for what purpose? He wasn’t excessively rich, or a diplomat, or a member of parliament, or in MI5, or a scientist, or even a powerful businessman with international interests. He was just a normal guy with a fairly normal life and a dog. What possible reason could there be to make him a target?

  He lifted his eyes discreetly over the newspaper and watched Constanta for a few moments as though trying to find some sign on her that would give credence to his newly hatched suspicions; like a barely visible gesture or subtle signal to Petru that might indicate a hidden game … a tacit alliance. But there was none; just a girl having fun and intrigued by her trip on the sea. She was the arch opposite of furtive or underhand; everything about her was genuine.

  In his shame, Tarquin now felt an overwhelming desire to sulk or cry or unleash an act of extreme violence on somebody or something. He felt like storming the bridge, wresting the wheel from the captain whilst punching anyone who tried to stop him, and then ramming the bloody Dover Princess at full speed into the nearest super tanker. His head throbbed, one of his ears was badly cut, and he boiled with rage at himself and his pathetic antics in front of these two young people. Folding the newspaper noisily, he thumped it down next to his coffee cup, livid blotches showing on both cheeks.

  Constanta turned towards him with a look of concern.

  “Are you all right, darling, or are we annoying you with our chatting?” she said affectionately. Her words acted like a lightning conductor under a crackling thunder cloud, pulling the negative energy out of him and earthing it in an instant.

  “Oh … I’m okay … I think … just a bit hyped up,” he said, managing a tight smile. “Just annoyed with myself, I suppose. I’m always being caught on the fucking hop!”

  “Don’t be hard on yourself, Mr Tarquin,” Petru said earnestly. “You are not used to these things … you have no experience of it, whereas me and Constanta grew up with it and know the signs of trouble. That’s why we are here … to protect you!”

  “He’s right, Tarquin,” she said. “Don’t kick yourself. I know I was a bit angry back there, but you have to act quickly in those situations, so don’t take it the wrong way. In England the girls are expected to be girlie and the men expect to take charge in physical situations. But Romanian women are tough bitches … they can’t afford to be girlie, and if they’ve been put through what I have in my training, they’re tough bitches with attitude and moves!”

  She leant forward laughing and gave Petru a high five.

  “But that doesn’t mean I don’t like being treated ‘girlie’ sometimes,” she said, turning to Tarquin, putting a finger on her chin and fluttering her eyelashes. She cocked her head teasingly. “I’m young … helpless … I need a daddy!”

  Against his wishes, Tarquin was forced to laugh out loud at her histrionics and the residue of his anger evaporated.

  * * *

  “Slow down, Gus,” Zoltan said down the telephone as he sat reading a legal document on Sasha’s sofa. “Just calmly tell me what has happened.”

  Gus resumed.

  “As I said, we followed them out of town, expecting them to be heading west, yer know, towards his country place Bristol way, and he seemed to be going in the opposite direction … yer know … towards the southeast … along the south circular. I couldn’t work out what the geezer was playing at. There was three of them in the motor. but we thought no problem, we could handle it,” Gus said nervously. “There was Oliver, a blond girl … possibly his bit of fluff, and another huge geezer. We thought we had to go for it once we realized where they was heading.

  “We just put two and two together and realised they was heading for Dover and a cross-channel ferry. We decided to stop ’em before they reached the terminal. I didn’t think the bastard was going abroad, so we didn’t have our passports.”

  “Mmm … okay,” Zoltan said, sounding displeased.

  “I mean, yer said he’d be heading to his gaff in the countryside, so no way did I expect this,” Gus said imploringly.

  “So what did you do?” Zoltan said coldly.

  “Well … we … er. decided to ram their motor once we got off the motorway; you know, once we was on a smaller road, and force them to stop. And that’s what we done. We gave them a right could shunt from the back—no damage to our motor so don’t worry—and as I thought, they pulled onto the hard shoulder. So me and Bob jumped out to take control.

  “I handled Oliver no problem … flattened him straight away, but then,” he hesitated, “the tall blond girl who I told Bob to go easy on, did a sort of … well, judo kick at me and caught me bloody head. I went down, Zoltan … simple as that. Bob then grabbed the bitch, and fuck me she does a number on him ’n all, and kicks him like a frigging donkey in the nuts!”

  “This was woman?” Zoltan said sarcastically.

  “Was she and some, Z!” Gus said, reddening. “I reckon she was Eastern European … I know the accent; no offence … and she was tall, well tall. We wasn’t expecting it, Z, not from a woman.”

  “Okay.”

  “When I got me senses back, they was already back in their vehicle and driving off. We chased them like the bloody clappers all the way to the ferry terminal, and then we had to stop or it would have been suicide. I’m not a pretty sight, though. Bloody great bru
ise on me left cheek. Bob’s knee took a nasty hit n’ all. I’m real sorry.”

  “Mmmm … I see,” Zoltan said slowly. “This is bad news … but it is also good news.”

  There was a pause.

  “It is?” Gus said tentatively.

  “Think about it, my friend. The amount of protection a man hires is in direct balance to the value of his business. What your little adventure has told me is that Oliver’s business is very valuable indeed! This is not so bad … and though I do not like my men being, well, outgunned, I can handle this little humiliation for what will be rich rewards at a later date!”

  “Er … well … yes … yes … I like your way of thinking, Z. I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Gus said with a great sense of relief.

  “As you know, my friend, Viktor has very considerable resources, very considerable indeed, but he doesn’t want to use these with every encounter. In other words, we don’t use a grenade to kill a fly!”

  “Of course not, Z … that would be stupid,” Gus agreed eagerly.

  “But now that Oliver has chosen to pull out his pop gun … it seems only sensible that we … that we … bring out our cannon and show him just who is in charge here!” Zoltan said, raising his voice to a hysterical level suddenly, and causing Gus to jump.

  “Q … Quite true, Z … I’m right with yer there!” he said placatingly. “We’ve got to show him the difference between the … the pussies and the proper bad cats in the jungle, and you and Viktor are the ones to do it!”

  “Good … we’re on the same page. Now take a few days off, rest up, and I will be in touch,” Zoltan said impatiently.

  “Sure thing, Z … nice speaking to yer,” Gus said, waiting for Zoltan to hang up before snapping his own phone shut and letting out a huge sigh of relief.

  Chapter 23

  Safely on board the ferry to St Malo, Oliver closed the door of his small cabin with a flex of his shoulder and threw his overnight bag onto the bed. Unzipping it, he pulled out his wash bag and pyjamas, some fresh underwear, and an alarm clock. He then rezipped it and placed it in a corner before taking off his shoes, plucking a book from his briefcase, and slumping back on the pillow.

  He read and dozed for the first hour in a state of euphoric relaxation. They had made it at last, left the shores of England with their precious cargo without so much as an anxious moment. The plan was working with almost perfect precision. The only shadow in his mind was passing through French customs in the morning. Never in his long career as an antique dealer had he ever had more than a cursory glance in his vehicle during these crossings, and it was this which imbued him with confidence. But was this going to be the moment when everything changed?

  By a horrible fluke, was there a new customs regime at the port, headed by a thrusting ambitious upstart, eager to prove himself? As he considered the scenario in the darkness of his cabin, his calmness began to evaporate. Images of the cabinet being confiscated by armed officers with him and Melvyn in handcuffs plumed up in his mind. His career would be over, his life really. Absolute humiliation.

  The alarm beeped suddenly and snapped him from this wave of uncertainty. After a quick shower and freshen up, he made his way as prearranged to the carvery, where Melvyn was already waiting for him.

  Oliver was completely at ease with Melvyn in virtually every respect, having known him for so long, but there were some settings where he felt as though Melvyn was almost a stranger. Seeing him sitting there at the starched linen tablecloth in a tweed jacket and tie was just such a moment. He felt uneasy, shy almost, as though Melvyn had morphed into someone unfamiliar. He’d seen him in a jacket and tie on many occasions, but these tended to be antiques trade fairs where the hustle and bustle around them diluted the effect. Perhaps it was simply that Melvyn suddenly had the appearance of his equal as opposed to his scruffy artisan employee, and at some deep psychological level this jarred. In addition to this, Melvyn himself felt oddly transformed as though he was now expected to make conversation on more lofty affairs than the mere curve of a cabriole leg, or the book matching on a pair of doors. Arriving at the table, he pulled out his chair and sat down.

  “Well, we’re here at last, Mel,” he said with a jaunty spin. “I’ve been so looking forward to this moment, knowing that when we reached it, everything would be in place. Did you have a doze? It’s been quite a hectic day, hasn’t it?”

  “No,” Melvyn replied, gazing out on the sea. “I was doing some reading on the French Revolution and trying to get my head round why it all happened. My Mary gave me a book about it.”

  “Oh, really, Mel, that was very studious of you!” Oliver said, sounding faintly patronizing.

  “It’s all about the ‘haves’ and the ‘have nots’ to my way of thinking,” Melvyn said with a very stern expression. “And that Mary Antoinette was a spoilt little madam, if you want my opinion. She thought she could do what she darn well pleased whilst half the population was starving; and the king was no better either, hunting crazy … didn’t give a monkey’s … so it’s no surprise that that Robbis Pier took charge … you know … took control of the situation.”

  “Sorry, who, Melvyn?”

  “That Robbis Pier man … who …who had the aristocrats’ heads off by the bucketful.”

  Oliver looked at Melvyn for a few moments with a blank expression and then twigged.

  “Oh … you mean Robespierre! Yes, he was a repulsive creature if ever there was one. Now, Mel, let’s get the waiter’s attention or we’ll be here all night,” he said looking over his shoulder and sticking his hand up.

  “And that Mary Antoinette just spent her days in the palace, with her lady friends having fun,” Melvyn continued. “You know … in all those fancy clothes and …”

  “Ah, good,” Oliver said to the newly arrived waiter. “We’ll have a bottle of that red, please. Oh, Mel, sorry, would you like wine … or prefer beer?”

  “No, as it happens I like wine at certain times,” Melvyn said, looking extremely stiff.

  “Okay, that’s the one,” Oliver said, closing the wine list. The waiter sloped off.

  “But as I was saying,” Melvyn persisted, “Mary Antoinette was just a good time girl, no sense of responsibilities. Lord knows, the French king and all his cronies were just take, take, take, and when you tax people too much, they eventually get fed up and revolt.”

  Melvyn carried on in this vein for a further ten minutes, divulging snippets from his new book and failing to spot the emptiness of Oliver’s terse replies. “Yes, quite true, Melvyn” or “Really?” and “How interesting.”

  At last the waiter reappeared.

  “Like to try this first, sir?” he said with a bored expression.

  “No, just pour it, if you would,” Oliver said with barely concealed urgency.

  The waiter filled the two glasses and ambled off.

  “It’s something I need to learn more about, wine,” Melvyn said, studying the liquid like it was a specimen in a test tube.

  “Well, we’re heading to the land of wine, my friend!” Oliver said, swilling the wine around his glass in a most accomplished manner before draining it in one protracted gulp. He smacked his lips and let out a long sigh of satisfaction. “Not bad, not bad at all,” he muttered. “But these glasses are tiny!” With that he took hold of the bottle and sloshed more in. “Now, Mel, what are you having to eat? Steak and chips like me, or grilled sole?”

  Melvyn hesitated for a moment.

  “All right then … the steak please,” he said closing the menu carefully.

  “Great … makes it easy. God bless, old fellow! To a fruitful trip.”

  Oliver struck Melvyn’s glass and took another long gulp whilst adopting the manner of an over-enthused bon viveur who isn’t remotely interested in serious conversation. He wanted to unwind, have a loosely coiled conversation about nothing in particular … have a damn good laugh.

  The day had had its tensions, its worries, and this was the moment to just sit back an
d savour their success so far. He needed to humour Melvyn and make him abandon his urge to speculate on the French Revolution as this could make for a dull dinner indeed. And to this end, he began trawling his mind for some amusing anecdotes to put a firm cork in that possibility.

  * * *

  Tarquin and his three companions had arrived in Reims at about nine pm. Having parked the car and deposited their bags and Percy in the Hotel Bristol, they were sitting down to some French cuisine in one of the small noisy restaurants which cluster along the Rue de Talleyrand. Dishevelled and blatantly nonlocal, they looked to the sharp-eyed waiter as rather untrustworthy guests … possibly of gypsy stock. Tarquin’s left ear was a bloody congealed mess despite a cursory cleanup in the hotel, and crimson spots speckled his collar. The cuts on Constanta’s hand and arm were also evident, and a turquoise bruise was beginning to manifest itself around her neck where Bob’s arm had tightened earlier. They were all aware of being scrutinised by the other diners as they settled into their seats.

  “So what’s their fucking problem?” Constanta said under her breath, whilst scanning the other tables with a scowl.

  “Guess we look a bit strange or something,” Petru suggested as he took the menu from the waiter. “We don’t fit in with this French people out for regular evening meal, do we! Look at us!”

  Constanta looked at him for a few seconds. Then she erupted in a loud cackle and broke into fits of hysterical giggles. Tarquin broke away from his menu.

  “Are you feeling all right, Constanta?” he said with a hint of disapproval.

  “Don’t worry, she always been like this, crazy and laughing for no reason,” Petru said, grinning.

  “No wonder they’re looking at us, Tarquin,” she stuttered through spurts of giggling. “We …We come in here speaking half in Romanian, half in English. I look like shit, like I just escaped from the hangman’s noose, and you look like Sherlock Holmes after the hound of the Baskervilles grabbed his ear …” She trailed off with tears rolling down her face.