The Freiburg Cabinet

by Thomas Charrington

  She gestured toward Tarquin.

  “He wasn’t interested … like all English people, he pretended it wasn’t happening.”

  Tarquin looked across at her without saying a word.

  “Then another friend of mine, who is also Romanian, pointed out that nine and five can sound quite similar on a bad line, and we figured that it was possible your operators had misheard your …”

  “Very good,” Zoltan said, feeling vindicated, but instantly frustrated that he’d let it show.

  “And this turned out to be the case … as you have just shown us. You see, I worked out pretty quickly that Tarquin was last guy on the planet to be involved in funny business. You know, he’s just not the type. So there had to be a mistake.”

  “Okaaaay …,” Zoltan said, slowly drawing the word out. “But this doesn’t really explain how you came to know where the cabinet is.”

  “So Tarquin here is thinking that I am talking nonsense, and goes about his life as normal. This is until you push another letter through his door. Then he wakes up and realizes this is serious, and I am not so stupid. So he agrees to let me put someone into Oliver’s house to take a look around and … and perhaps find some stuff that might give us some clues.”

  “You got someone into his house?” Zoltan said incredulously.

  “It’s not so hard for some people. I’m Romanian, don’t forget, but it wasn’t me, it was my friend. That is when we realized that he was your man. He left some information on a notepad, which we took. It mentioned a cabinet. It had the itiner …” she hesitated. “The schedule of a trip to France. So we had no choice but to follow Oliver to France to discover what he was doing; what else could we do? Wait for your guys to kill us? And that is what we did. And, as you know, your idiot guys attacked us on the way to Dover.”

  “By the crazy wolves of Khrushchev, it’s making sense now!” Zoltan said, now fully realizing that he was talking to two allies, not potential corpses.

  “So in France, we tracked Oliver to a certain destination where his … schedule said he would be, and we followed him to this huge house. This is where the cabinet is now.”

  “The cabinet is in France in a huge house? Did you see it?” Zoltan said, trying hard to mask his excitement.

  “Sure, we have loads of photos of it, and of Oliver and his helpers and of the house. But not here. They are in Romania with my friend, because we figured that it was only a matter of time before you came for us.”

  “Mmm …” Zoltan said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Can I see some of these pictures?”

  “Of course,” Constanta said, “but once you believe this is the cabinet, we want a payment. You have made this man’s life hell for the last months, and I have suffered as well—had to give up my job to help him—and look at my hair, all over the floor!”

  “Okay … okay …” Zoltan said, studying her. “But be very careful of smart tricks with us; my father is ruthless and has many people at his disposal. You would not last long.”

  “I hate the police,” Constanta said with feeling. “I look after myself, thank you, and I stick to my word.”

  Tarquin, who’d been almost silent until now, lifted his head and addressed Zoltan.

  “I … er … have listened to everything that’s been said,” he said hesitantly, “and let her do all the talking—she’s much better at this than me … but, erm … I want to make it clear to you that I will not be in contact with the police either. At the beginning I was sure this was the best way forward … but she,” he nodded at Constanta, “she told me it would be useless, and would backfire on me. She’s right. They would start digging into my affairs … asking questions … wasting precious time. I was frightened, and to be frank, I just want this over with.”

  Zoltan stared at Tarquin as though making a series of judgements.

  “Yes, you’ve been caught up in something you shouldn’t,” he said with a hint of apology. “But if what you’re telling me is true, then there may be a better ending. I want to see photos; photos of the cabinet, of the house, of Oliver. Then we can be certain. I’m going to send you my contact details, or should I say, contact details specific to you. This will be an email address and mobile number. I will need your email address and a mobile number to send them to. I will send the password to your mobile. You will transmit this password to your Romanian friend and he can load the photos, save the draft, and we can open it here. Are you familiar with this technique?”

  “Yes … I think so,” Constanta said, whilst Tarquin looked on bemused.

  “But I reiterate what I just said. If it turns out you have the police involved, you will shortly be dead … that is a promise. You only have to look in the newspapers to see how we Russians operate; surgically.”

  He turned towards the front of the house.

  “Sergei!” he shouted at the imposing bulk on the sofa. “Release these people, please.”

  To Tarquin’s surprise, as Sergei stood up, he noticed that Percy had been nuzzled against him on the far side. He now stretched briefly before slumping back down against a large cushion.

  Sergei came over and did his duty with the adept use of a flick knife. Even Tarquin appeared small against him. Both he and Constanta flexed their fingers repeatedly once released, and stood shakily to their feet.

  Tarquin shuffled stiffly into the kitchen and picked up a pen. He jotted down the details. He handed the note paper to Zoltan, who repeated it all before folding it and putting it in his jacket pocket.

  “Could I have your … er … name please,” Tarquin stammered, “or a contact name?”

  “Yes, call me David. You will receive an email from us in the next twenty-four hours.” He then hesitated for a few moments before asking a final question.

  “Can I ask if … if you have discovered what Oliver intends to do with this cabinet?” he said, looking at Constanta.

  “We think he sells to important clients from that house … it’s like his French showroom for international dealers,” Constanta said quietly.

  “Is this a guess, or did you find information suggesting this?” he enquired.

  “No … there was no information in his house about that. We just figured it out,” she said confidently.

  Zoltan gave her a long hard look.

  “It’s possible,” he said with an enigmatic smile. “But things are not always what they seem.”

  With that, Sergei swung open the door, and the two men left the house and disappeared down the street to join the others.

  After the door had slammed shut and the sound of their footsteps had retreated, Constanta sank to her knees and held her head in her hands. Tears began to flow freely down her cheeks. She was a sad sight. Her once luxuriant blond hair, now hacked off in ugly clumps, left her looking like a scarecrow in a cornfield. Percy trotted over wagging his tail and licked her face, imagining this was a new game for his benefit. Tarquin squatted down awkwardly next to her.

  “I’m so sorry, Constanta,” he said softly, whilst gently caressing her shoulders with his large hand. “I know I shouldn’t have gone out. I … I just felt I owed it to Percy to …”

  “Don’t kick yourself,” she said, trying to control her voice. “It wasn’t your fault. I felt bad about Percy as well. They were going to get us somehow. I don’t know why this has affected me like this …”

  Tarquin got up and collected a paper roll from the kitchen.

  “Thanks. I think … I think having that guy lying on me … so aggressive … I think it reminded me of my father … he used to drink and would get close to me. Used to terrify all of us when we were young; we were powerless. My mother couldn’t protect us either; she would be beaten.”

  “Blimey,” Tarquin mumbled, struggling to process what she was saying. “Well, it’s over now. You’re safe, and those two guys are going to get a lashing. They really buggered up! Did you see the anger on that Russian; he was ready to explode. But sweetheart, you were absolutely brilliant! So cool. I was asto
unded. You told the story brilliantly in the circumstances … and with some attitude!” he said with a small chuckle, whilst kissing her head.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “I was fired up as well. It wasn’t difficult.”

  “And now we have contact … at last. Well, that’s assuming he sends us the email.”

  “He will. Did you not see the look on his face when I said we knew where was the cabinet!” Constanta said, beginning to gain control. “His eyes … they were full of excitement. I knew we had him then!”

  “Yes … smart of you to say the photos were in Romania,” he said, stroking the back of her neck affectionately. Suddenly she twisted her head and kissed him long and hard on the mouth. The emotional turmoil of the last hour had somehow released her.

  He was completely taken aback. Her kisses were usually so shy, reticent, almost reluctant, and here she was, utterly different in appearance and metamorphasised in character. Without hesitation, he gave himself to the moment and pushed her back on the rich Persian carpet where her face was framed by smoky reds, ochres, and French blues. He kissed her again, more passionately, until she pushed him roughly aside. Rocking back, she adroitly unfastened her shorts, pulled her knees to her chest, and wriggled free of her under clothing. She then unbuttoned her small chemise and removed her bra.

  He stared for a moment at the impeccable contours of her naked body. The muscular lines of her calves, the long powerful thighs, the small impudent thatch, beckoning at the apex. She giggled, a white-toothed girly giggle, as she watched him devouring her resplendent nakedness with an expression of such awe.

  “Kiss me, you big oaf!” she said unbuckling his trousers and lying back down. “Kiss me, crush me … do it now!”

  Obediently, he crouched down and planted a series of soft kisses onto her navel and across the soft blond down of her flat stomach; then, moving slowly up over her pouting nipples to her face, he kissed the long damp lashes that lay like tiny wet feathers below her closed eyes. He carefully lay down on her, and pressing his mouth gently onto her soft parted lips, he kissed her deeply and passionately. She moaned as he gently pushed himself forward, giving himself to the moment. But suddenly he felt a series of sharp tugs at his ankles. He whipped round irritably.

  “Percy, bugger off!” he hissed forcefully. “Basket!”

  “Oh, don’t be nasty; he’s feeling left out,” Constanta murmured dreamily, whilst twisting to see the small dog. “Come to Mama, Percy.”

  Percy came self-consciously over, wagging his tail. He licked Constanta’s grinning face affectionately, leaving Tarquin and his white naked buttocks feeling vulnerable and distinctly foolish.

  Presently he climbed back onto the sofa and lay down with his back turned towards them, sighing loudly. After a certain amount of convulsive giggling from Constanta, Tarquin succumbed once again to her magnetism, and fell head over heals into the beguiling well of her sexuality.

  By the time he was lying on his back staring at the ceiling, with her soft sleeping skin pressed intimately to his, he knew he was utterly and hopelessly in love.

  Half an hour later, she yawned, sprang to her feet, and wandered over to the gilt-framed mirror hanging above the fireplace.

  “Oh my God!” she exclaimed in horror. “I’m a fucking mess! I need a hairdresser, Tarquin … and fast!”

  “Well, there’s a few at the junction, I think,” he said helpfully.

  “No, Tarquin. In Chelsea, for fuck’s sake! I want someone good.”

  “Oh, right, of course. Kings Road; bound to be some along there. Do you want me to drive you?”

  “I can’t just walk in off the street,” she said, moving back into a familiar gear. “In the land of women, Tarquin … we have to book. I’m going up to have a bath, and I’ll look for a place on the Internet. Hopefully I can get a booking for later … I’ll say it’s an emergency.”

  “Okay. Machine’s on standby, I think. I’ll make us up some lunch,” he shouted.

  There was no reply … she was already upstairs.

  Chapter 36

  Zoltan stood alone in Sasha’s flat, staring out on Beauchamp Place. As his eyes idly watched the bustling people on the pavement opposite, his mind worked through the conversation he was about to have with his father. He had to be careful. If Viktor realized that Gus and Bob had been trailing the wrong target for the past month … well … he, Zoltan, would feel the crushing force of his father’s rage. He had to lie. Honesty in this situation would be suicidal. He turned up the radio so the clarity of his voice was diminished and picked up the phone. Drawing a deep breath, he pressed the appropriate speed dial.

  “Yes, Zoltan … I’ve been waiting for an update,” Viktor said thickly.

  “Sorry, Father,” Zoltan said nervously. “Things have been busy here … really busy. How are things over there? Are the new machines up to the mark?”

  “Get to the point, Zol, what’s been happening?” his father replied petulantly. Zoltan swallowed hard.

  “Well, I think I … er … have some very good news for you,” he began hesitantly. “But I wanted to wait until I was absolutely certain though.”

  “Yuh?”

  “Have you got a few minutes so we can talk?”

  “We are talking, aren’t we?”

  “I meant … uninterrupted by your people,” Zoltan said, his stomach tightening.

  “Just speak, Zoltan. I’m listening,” came the intolerant reply.

  “I … er … felt I’d let you down, Father … over the Dover debacle,” Zoltan said apologetically. “I felt I needed to try a different approach … use my initiative … to sort out this mess.”

  “Mmm. So have you?”

  “Yes … I think I have. I am about to find out exactly what Oliver’s game is. I am also about to receive photographs of the piece of furniture, with incriminating pictures of Oliver and his helpers,” he said, forcing a jaunty twang into his voice.

  There was a pause.

  “And how in hell have you achieved this, boy?” Viktor said, with a mixture of interest and suspicion.

  “Because, Father, I … I … er … used someone to track Oliver in France. This is a woman; a Romanian woman whom I trust completely and who specializes in this sort of thing.”

  There was another pause.

  “What are you talking about? Where did you find this woman, Zoltan? How do you know she’s safe?” Viktor said with an edge to his voice.

  “She came through Sergei … he has connections in Romania,” Zoltan said, bracing himself.

  “Oh? So if Sergei says she’s clean, then that’s fine, is it? For the fucking love of Lenin, Zoltan, have I taught you nothing?” Viktor exploded.

  Zoltan held his cool.

  “He’s known her a long time, knows her mother and sister. He swears she’s completely safe,” Zoltan said, trying to balance a deferential tone with an assertive one.

  “I have never heard him speak of Romanian connections,” Viktor retaliated.

  “With respect, Father, you have not had many conversations with him … ever,” Zoltan said candidly. “You complain you cannot understand what he’s saying.”

  “True, the man speaks gibberish, his accent is so thick. So, you had Oliver followed, eh?”

  “It’s even better than that,” Zoltan replied, feeling a first wave of relief that a major hurdle was being overcome. “We found information in Oliver’s London house indicating where he was going with the item, and when. We didn’t need to follow him … we knew where he was going!”

  “You’ve been into Oliver’s house? You have been busy!” Viktor said, this time with a trace of humour.

  “You have a lot on your plate, Father. Why should I bother you all the time,” Zoltan continued skillfully. “We also found his hideaway.”

  “His hideaway? What do you mean?” Viktor asked, suddenly with more enthusiasm.

  “A place he goes to in France, where he thinks he’s safe.”

  “Where is this place, Zol?
”

  “I cannot tell you this now … It’s coming by email shortly, along with the photographs,” Zoltan said with growing confidence.

  “You mean you both have access to the same account, I presume?” Viktor said, concerned.

  “Of course, Father. We never send emails with this type of information. The photographs will be attached to an email in Bucharest, saved as a draft, and then opened in London. Nothing will be sent.”

  “This is good, Zoltan. You’re an idiot sometimes … but I’m impressed by your initiative on this occasion. You’re showing leadership, boy. Well done. Who is this girl? What’s her name?” he asked as an afterthought.

  Zoltan was momentarily paralysed. What was her name? He hadn’t a clue.

  “We call her … we call her … erm … Anya,” he stammered.

  “Anya? You sounded unsure. A code name, yuh?” Viktor said.

  “Yes, of course. My memory was playing tricks for a moment. I should mention that I haven’t agreed a fee for her work yet,” he continued quickly. “It was difficult to assess the time it would take. I need to discuss this with you when we know what we’re dealing with.”

  “Mmmm, later we can discuss,” Viktor said.

  “The photographs will tell me what Oliver has up his sleeve. If this piece is the copy I think it is, from the Wallace, then we’re playing for very high stakes. But that would seem an impossible task. I cannot believe he could pull that off; it’s one step too far,” Zoltan said, mumbling the last sentence as though speaking to himself.

  “Right. I’m through,” Viktor said brusquely, sensing distractions in his son. “Keep in touch … well done, boy.” The line went dead.

  Zoltan slumped back on the sofa and let out a huge sigh. He noticed the back of his shirt was wet as he called his technical man.

  “Well, Ivor … did you do it?”

  “Yes. The email address, as you instructed, is ‘oliver2gulag’ on our regular network. I sent it over to you twenty minutes ago. I’m sending you the password by mobile now.”