“Come alone.”
The click of the line silenced him. He put the phone away and clenched his fist.
“Chagnon’s going to meet with me. I need to find out where Lyon Park is.”
Nick found the map of Geneva and laid it out on the bed.
“When are you meeting?” asked Jessica.
“One hour,” replied Nick, glancing at his watch. He ran his finger across the map. “Maybe we won’t be flying home empty-handed after all.”
“Just so long as you fly home,period. Why do you think you can trust this person?”
“Common enemies,” replied Nick. He jabbed at the map. “Here it is—all the way on the other side of town. Nice and desolate, I assume.”
Jessica grabbed his arm. She said, “And you’re not concerned about meeting with some stranger in a desolate park? How do you know he’s not going to put a bullet in you?”
“I don’t know, but I’m a lot more scared of what will happen if I don’t meet with him. Once he hears what I have to say, he should see I pose no threat. Remember that conversation my partner had with him a couple of days ago? This guy hates Taylor.”
She shook her head, hardly convinced. She sat on the bed and brought a pillow up to her chest. “If you’re wrong, you’ll be all alone there. No gun, no nothing.” She shivered. “I don’t think you should go. Why take the risk?”
“Everything I’ve done for the past week has been a risk,” said Nick, finding a notepad and pen. “How’s this any different?”
He began scribbling an addition to his trip log, acting as if Jessica’s words hadn’t stayed with him. If he was wrong about Chagnon, the chase was going to come to a rapid—and very final—end. But that was already the case for two unfortunate people by the names of Rose Penn and Matt Von Rohr. It was a risk he had to take. Whether he wanted to or not.
Beneath an oppressive gray sky, the seasons were changing in Geneva. The colors and life of summer were fading, a collage of decaying foliage and greenery. The air hung warm and dry, trying unsuccessfully to breathe life into the last remnants of summer. Nature had begun its solemn slide into the bleakness of winter.
Nick had walked for nearly five minutes, encountering only two pedestrians along the wooded path. The young man and woman seemed to be enjoying the ambience of the changing seasons, a state of mind Nick found impossible to duplicate. He was feeling guilty about Alex. He had chosen not to let her know about this latest development, but his secrecy was not meant solely to assuage her fears. The nervousness and doubts she would undoubtedly have expressed over the meeting would only have fueled his own reservations, which at the moment were nagging at him yet again.
He considered the proper approach with Chagnon. He needed to be concise, yet there was so much he needed to include. He shook his head at the thought of it all. No matter how eloquent he was, there was no guarantee Chagnon would buy a shred of his story. He could scarcely believe it himself, and he had witnessed it all firsthand.
He rounded a corner and abruptly stopped. A bench, forty yards from him—first one off the southbound path. He paused and glanced about cautiously. Somehow, just striding up and taking a seat didn’t seem very prudent, but he saw little alternative. He stood for a moment longer, then stepped out into the open. He walked quickly, tensed to react at the first sign of anything unusual. He wondered if he was being watched. Reaching the bench, he looked around, then forced himself to sit down. Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he took a careful look about. There was no sign of anyone else, just the quiet serenity of the park. It seemed an unthreatening, neutral place to meet.
Nick leaned against the back of the bench. He felt as calm as he could possibly feel under the circumstances. Chagnon would want to hear him out. The banker had nothing to risk by listening. But just because he would listen didn’t mean they were going to be exchanging gifts. From what Muend had told him, Chagnon was on edge, a virtual recluse hiding from professional killers who had already done away with his father. Nick frowned. Every word out of his mouth needed to be spoken carefully. He wouldn’t grovel, but if playing to the man’s ego would get him the information he sought, then he wouldn’t hesitate.
Ten minutes passed. It was nearly a quarter after the hour and no one was in sight. No sound except the occasional lonely cry of a bird. Nick rubbed his legs and felt his anxiety building again. From what little he knew, Chagnon didn’t seem like the kind of person who would normally be late. Had something gone wrong, perhaps scared him off? How skittish was this man?
Something snapped behind him, instantly bringing him to his feet. There was movement deep in the brush-something big—and what sounded like the steady hum of an engine. He backed up several steps, ready to move if need be. He squinted through the foliage. There was a large black car coming, following a dirt path so rough and overgrown he hadn’t even noticed it.
Despite his wariness, Nick again felt comforted. Chagnon was probably going to take him to another location, and that was fine as long as they got the time they needed to talk face-to-face. The more he thought about it, the more confident he felt. Chagnon would have to be impressed by his story. Maybe they could even work together somehow.
The car emerged from the brush, dusty and leaf-laden. Nick could see the driver but little else. A side door flew open, and an average-sized man in a gray sport coat emerged from the car. Nick stood still, waiting for some indication of the agenda. He took a step forward and heard a voice.
“Raise your hands.”
Another man had stepped from the trees behind him, a pistol held at arm’s length. Nick paused, not having expected to see guns drawn.
“I don’t have a weapon,” he said, lifting his arms.
The man from the car descended on him quickly. He patted at Nick’s clothes, then ran a handheld metal detector over him.
“I’m not armed,” Nick repeated.
The two of them drew back and studied him. The armed man had lowered his weapon, but the barrel still pointed directly at Nick’s stomach. Nick began to drop his arms slowly.
“Up,” said the man, flicking the barrel of the gun upward.
Nick quickly obliged. The two of them were gruff and angry looking. Apparently they had been given the job of screening him.
“I don’t mean Mr. Chagnon any harm,” Nick said softly. “I just want to talk.”
The gunman frowned, his eyes narrowing distrustfully. He made a short sweeping motion with the gun in the direction of the car.
“In the front.”
Nick did as he was told as the two of them entered from opposite rear doors. He glanced at the driver, an older man who didn’t acknowledge him. The car instantly did a tight U-turn and moved up the path it had arrived on.
Nick tried to concentrate on his script as he watched the branches scrape against the side windows. He could understand their caution, but somehow he hadn’t expected to be brought to Chagnon at the point of a gun. Armed bodyguards certainly weren’t a surprise, but they were making him feel more like a prisoner of war than a courier of valuable news.
The car did not drive for long. It was difficult for Nick to gauge exactly how far they had traveled, but it was easily within walking distance from their meeting point. The second the vehicle stopped, he heard the rear doors open.
“Step out.”
Nick forced his door open against some bushes and slid out. They were under a canopy of low-hanging branches, thick enough to block out any direct sunlight. Again the gun was trained on Nick. The other man walked to the edge of an embankment and looked back at him.
“Go,” said the gunman, using the pistol as a pointer. “Follow him.”
“I don’t have a weapon,” said Nick, a bit angry now. “I don’t think you need the gun.”
The barrel was redirected at Nick’s face.
“Walk.”
Nick walked. The sooner he made it to wherever they were taking him, the quicker he could get away from the goons. Chagnon surely had to
be more reasonable than his hired help.
The path was steep, with loose, dry dirt that broke away easily. The ground gave twice under Nick’s feet, forcing him to a knee. Behind him the gunman followed, maintaining a safe distance. Nick reached the bottom of the hill, trotting down the last few steps. Thirty yards in front, two men waited.
Nick immediately guessed which one was Chagnon. He was a gray-haired, bearded man of about fifty seated on a fallen tree trunk. He wore a white button-down shirt and black slacks, but seemed somehow disheveled, three to four weeks beyond a good haircut. A burly bodyguard stood at the ready near him.
The older man instantly stood at the sight of the newcomers. Nick drew to within twenty feet of him and stopped.
“Mr. Chagnon?”
The man’s stare didn’t show a trace of warmth. He snapped his fingers at his bodyguard. A brief, rapid conversation was exchanged in French.
Nick was about to speak when someone shoved him firmly in the back. He took a few momentum-driven steps, then looked at Chagnon, confused. Before he could speak, he was blindsided again. He stumbled to regain his balance.
“Hold on here,” he said.
One of the three bodyguards kicked him hard in the stomach, doubling him over. A fist slammed his cheek. Nick staggered sideways and looked about wildly.
“Wait a second,” he said. “You need to listen to me—”
He dodged another fist thrown at his face but fell to his knees as another hit him in the back of the neck. A powerful kick smashed him in the kidneys, then another sent him to the dirt. Dazed, he felt a knee pressed into his back. His head was twisted roughly around, a gun barrel stuck to his temple. The older man was suddenly stooped on a knee, barely three feet from him.
“Please,” Nick blurted out. “Let me explain . . .”
“I’m Victor Chagnon,” the man said. “Tell me who you are. Keep in mind your life may depend on your answer.”
The weight on his back was pressing the side of Nick’s face into the soft soil. He swallowed, tasting dirt, and began talking, much faster than he had originally intended.
“My name is Merchant—Nick Merchant. I’m a private investigator who knows about Holtzmann. Ludwig Holtzmann. I’m just trying to share information that may help us both.”
Chagnon’s face was tired, his eyes bleary. But he was listening. Nick stammered on before he could speak.
“I’ve learned that Holtzmann was involved somehow with your father. All I’m—”
“Do you think I’m a fool?” said Chagnon. “Do you want to die there in the dirt? I know all about Holtzmann. And I know who you work for.”
Nick was breathing fast. With a man on his back and a gun to his head, he couldn’t put his thoughts together. Being beaten nearly senseless hadn’t helped. But their viciousness couldn’t be this random. He had to figure out who they were mistaking him for, and quick.
Chagnon stood and strolled out of sight. Nick’s cheek was pressed to the ground so tightly that he couldn’t watch where the banker went. He felt paralyzed. His story was coming out fragmented, bits and pieces that weren’t adding up. He licked his lower lip and forced himself to slow down.
“Let me tell you how I know about all this, Mr. Chagnon. I got involved with Holtzmann when an old man by the name of Gerald Jacobs died recently in New York. Jacobs had an estate worth millions of dollars. What I was trying to do—”
“Enough,” said Chagnon, walking back into Nick’s line of sight. His face was flushed with anger. “I know who sent you, and I don’t want to hear any more. You need to listen to me now, if you want to live.”
Nick fell silent. He was desperate to get his story out, but if Chagnon’s plan included keeping him alive . . .
“Why were the others killed?” asked Chagnon. “Every one of Holtzmann’s accounts were released, every requirement was met. Everything agreed upon was done. Why is Taylor doing this?”
Nick’s eyes darted about the ground. He wasn’t sure what the safest answer was, especially now that he had run his mouth off about Taylor and Holtzmann. If he denied any knowledge, he would only infuriate Chagnon further. But playing along could get him killed just as quickly.
“Answer me!” shouted Chagnon.
“Because he didn’t trust them,” Nick exclaimed. “He needed to insure their silence.”
“Their silence?” Chagnon asked. “What reason would we—would I—have to talk of our dealings with Holtzmann? By talking we would have only indicted ourselves!” He shook his head, his cheeks purple with rage. “Taylor knew. He knew if he came for us that we would have nowhere to run. Where could we go—to the police? They would have imprisoned us for life!”
Nick felt a chill as the pieces came together. Chagnon had his hands in it then, as all the murdered bankers did. Once Taylor had milked the accounts, the bankers had become a liability, so the arrangement was voided, the accessories targeted. The conspirators had turned upon themselves. He was dealing with another criminal then, a crook at the end of his rope, someone no better than Taylor and Holtzmann. And probably no less dangerous.
“We let our greed take over,” said Chagnon, reaching into his coat. “It killed the rest, but I won’t let it kill me.” He removed a thick manila envelope and tossed it near Nick’s face. “Let him free,” he said to his henchmen.
The pressure on Nick’s back was removed. Painfully he got to his feet, brushing the dirt from his cheek.
“Pick it up,” said Chagnon.
Nick stooped for the envelope and brought it up with unsteady hands.
“That’s right—look at it.”
Nick opened the envelope with some difficulty and removed a collection of photographs. He looked at them one by one. Surveillance photos—very similar to the ones he had found in Jacobs’s home. He brought one close to his face. There was one man in the group he definitely recognized.
“Someone you’re familiar with, I see,” said Chagnon. “Take these to him—wherever he is. Tell him I have many copies. If anything happens to me, these will go to your media. Your Washington Post and your New York Times. Tell Taylor it won’t be so easy for him after all.”
Nick folded the envelope and placed it in his pocket. He was going to walk away from this, then, and not empty-handed either. Serving as their messenger—a false one—would save his life. He felt dazed. Surrounded by half a dozen men who probably wanted nothing more than to shoot him in the head and he was going to walk away.
“Take these to him,” said Chagnon. “Tell him everything I’ve told you.”
Nick gripped the envelope with both hands. He slowly nodded. “I will.”
“Now get out of here,” whispered Chagnon viciously. “If I see you again, you’re dead.”
Nick scanned the circle of men surrounding him. No weapons were drawn. They were done with him. He jogged to a clearing, looked back once, then ran as quickly as he could through the park.
CHAPTER
27
THEY ARRIVED AT the airport one hour early and found a dark corner of the airport lounge to wait in. At five minutes before departure they would ease out of the bar separately, hurry through the concourse, find the gate, and walk down the boarding tunnel. It was a short, simple little gauntlet, and if luck was on their side, it probably wouldn’t get either of them killed.
Nick sat with his back to the corner and waited. He was facing Jessica, but his eyes were trained to the walkway beyond her. The Geneva airport was thankfully busy, the concourse bustling with travelers. When boarding time arrived, they would be two of hundreds of travelers passing through. Excellent odds, but the fact that there even were odds was terrifying. He had to assume their pursuers had taken the airport into account. Somewhere, then, they would be part of the crowd, casually checking faces as they moved, making themselves as inconspicuous as possible as they walked back and forth, hoping for that one chance encounter with their targets.
Jessica sat and watched him scan the crowds. Someone from the bar came b
y, and she ordered them sodas and an order of appetizers, strictly for the purpose of making them appear relaxed and unworried. Neither of them touched the food. She watched him, he watched the walkways, and for half an hour they sat and said almost nothing.
The boarding call for Flight 103 to Montreal came in English and French. Nick leaned forward and placed his hand on hers.
“It’s time,” he said softly. “I lead. Give me about a thirty-second head start, then walk to the gate at a normal pace. Stay on the right side of the walkway, right next to the wall so I’ll know where to look for you. When you get to the boarding tunnel, just hustle down it.”
“Why don’t both of us just—”
He shook his head.
“Because they’re looking for me. You’re safer and a lot less conspicuous on your own. If you see a line to board, wait a few minutes in the bathroom until it clears. I’ll be watching out for you. Just move quickly and stay to the right at all times.”
He rose, but she did not release his hand.
“I’ll be waiting for you,” he said. “I’m not boarding until I see you.”
He touched her shoulder reassuringly and eased his hand from hers. The table behind them was a collection of empty beer bottles and dirty paper plates. He took one of the longnecks and exited out to the walkway.
He strode quickly through the crowd, feeling as skittish as a rabbit. The departure gate was only sixty yards away, but it seemed to be retreating from him—a cruel mirage. He picked up his pace. A man’s shout made him jerk his head to his left. A Swiss family was greeting an arriving traveler and being awfully loud about it. He turned away and focused back on their gate. He could see a line now, and a pretty sizable one at that. What the hell was the delay?
He reached the gate, still clutching the beer bottle. People were everywhere—happy faces, tired faces, bored faces. There were far too many people to keep track of. He quickly took a seat against the wall. The line of travelers was slowly filing into the boarding tunnel but not nearly as quickly as he wanted. He put the bottle on the ground and rubbed his hands. The walkway he had come from was packed. He couldn’t see her. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. He stood. He couldn’t see anyone but strangers.
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