by Lin Anderson
If Angele had been taken aback by Patrick’s choice of hideaway, she hadn’t shown it. Patrick had deposited her there, promising to return when his plan had been set in motion.
Having descended the steep hill by the gravel track, he parked alongside the main building, then headed for the kitchen, where Jean Paul was busy at the stove.
He was the cook in this establishment, his English wife Joanne serving the food, with help from students at the height of the season. The aroma of herbs, meat and wine met Patrick on entry and he found his mouth watering in anticipation. Whatever Angele had sampled on the Heavenly Princess, here she would sample good Provençal cooking.
Jean Paul looked round on Patrick’s entry and answered before he’d managed to pose his question.
‘One surprise guest. An English lady. A writer, I believe. Come to admire the Île d’Or.’
Patrick wasn’t too happy about that. ‘You said there were no bookings.’
‘She’s harmless and she likes my cooking.’
Patrick observed the stubborn expression and reminded himself Jean Paul was doing him a favour.
‘Anyone tries to harm the little lady …’ Jean Paul made a slice across his throat with the knife currently in his hand.
Jean Paul’s grandfather, a famed resistance fighter during WW2, had an alley named after him in Le Suquet. His father had been a member of the French Foreign Legion. Jean Paul, although now a restaurateur, had served in the French army. Patrick reminded himself that Angele was in safe hands.
When he asked where she was, Jean Paul motioned him outside.
Patrick found her sitting at a table on the decking above the beach, gazing out towards the little island that lay offshore. When she turned on his approach, he thought he was mistaken and it was the English lady. Patrick came to a halt, ready to apologize for his intrusion, then realized it was Angele, although only the smile she shot him was recognizable.
Her hair under the wide-brimmed hat was now dark. The heavily made-up face looked older. Even the body had changed shape, appearing thicker, the narrow waist no longer visible, her long slim legs hidden by dark-blue trousers.
‘Will I do?’ she said in a cut-glass English accent.
‘If you don’t smile.’ Patrick was impressed and told her so.
She regarded him disdainfully. ‘I am an actress.’
He took a seat across the table as she turned her eyes back to the island. A craggy outcrop of red rock, it had featured in Hergé’s Tin Tin adventure Île Noire. In bright May sunshine the stone seemed to glow like fire. Privately owned, it was guarded by a four-storey circular stone tower, the iconic image used on the cover of the book.
‘Leon?’ she said.
‘He’s meeting me at the Les Trois Soeurs later.’
‘And Chapayev?’ She spat out the name.
‘Progressing.’
He could see this displeased her. She would have to learn patience.
‘Revenge is a dish best served cold,’ he reminded her.
‘Not too cold, I hope.’
She seemed to relax then, the tension in her neck and shoulders dissipating. She flashed him a wide smile. ‘I’d like to become Angele for a while. At least while you’re here.’
Patrick didn’t see a problem with that and told her so. She stood up and held out her hand. Once inside the cabin, she locked the door, then went straight to the bathroom. Patrick heard the shower come on and the sounds of undressing. The louvred shutters were part closed and in the strips of daylight he noticed a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket.
He poured two glasses, drinking his quickly, then refilling.
When she emerged, she was the mermaid of the film, water trickling between and over her breasts. He handed her a filled glass. She took it in her right hand, and unzipped him with her left. As she ran her tongue round the mouth of the champagne glass, her finger traced the same movement below. Patrick played along, enjoying the anticipation of what she would do next, before he took charge.
Later, he rose and showered the slick sweat from his body. Glancing through the open door, Angele appeared to be asleep, but actress as she was, she could be faking it, just as her passion had seemed rehearsed.
She’d played the part of his lover very well, but it changed nothing. The deal remained. He would have a share of the pearl and his revenge. Leon, Patrick guessed, had been easier prey, his narcissistic nature revelling in the sexual attention Angele had undoubtedly bestowed, although he was still unsure why Angele had chosen Leon as a partner in her enterprise in the first place.
The answer came after dinner, which had consisted of a rich savoury stew eaten outside on the terrace, with a bottle of local red wine. During the meal, Angele continued to play the part of coquette, licking her fingers suggestively, causing Jean Paul to raise an eyebrow as he’d replenished their plates.
Meal over, a glass of brandy before them, Patrick indicated to Jean Paul that he wished to speak to Angele.
Alone now, Patrick studied Angele closely.
‘What?’ she said, leaning teasingly towards him, her mouth a pretty pout.
Patrick ignored the ‘come hither’ look.
‘It’s time to tell me where you hid the pearl.’
Angele sat back, a look of annoyance replacing the pout. ‘Kill Chapayev, then I’ll tell you.’
Patrick caught her by the wrist. ‘You’ll tell me now.’
Her glance shifted from his face, to the island and back again, before she revealed Leon’s part in the plan.
‘I needed Leon to get the pearl back.’
‘Whatever you needed Leon for, it is my job now.’
Patrick tightened his grip briefly, then released her.
Angele made a show of rubbing her wrist, contemplated Patrick for a moment, then appeared to come to a decision. ‘Leon is a diver.’
Something Patrick had already figured out.
‘Luckily, so am I,’ he said.
She observed him coolly. ‘OK, I’ll tell you.’
The incident tape had gone from Les Trois Soeurs, and as far as Patrick could tell, there was no longer a police presence on the gunboat. An earlier text from Police Nationale headquarters had indicated they’d finished collecting forensic evidence and that Patrick was free to board.
He opened the hatch and climbed inside.
The normal scents of leather and wood had been overlaid with the stale smell of sweat and chemicals. Patrick stood for a moment surveying the cabin, his sense of violation overpowering.
The old gunboat was the nearest he’d come to a permanent home for some years, and the thought of Moreaux and his gang invading it sickened him. Then he remembered why they’d been there, and went through to the bathroom.
The bath had been drained. A black dusting indicated fingerprint testing on the mahogany surface. A momentary flashback of the place as he’d last viewed it brought a cold sweat to his brow and a stab of anger to his heart.
With that thought in mind he made his phone call.
‘I want to speak to Chapayev,’ he said in Russian.
‘Who is this?’ It was the gruff voice of the bodyguard he’d seen talking to Chapayev aboard the yacht, the day he’d swum out there.
‘Patrick de Courvoisier. Tell him I know the location of the black pearl.’
Seconds later, Chapayev was on the line.
‘Monsieur de Courvoisier. I believe you have my property. Come to the Heavenly Princess. We’ll talk,’ Chapayev said.
‘Tonight at ten,’ Patrick told him.
A background discussion ensued.
Eventually, Chapayev came back on the line. ‘Unfortunately I have a prior engagement.’
Patrick knew exactly what that engagement was. ‘That’s too bad.’ He made as though to hang up.
‘My deputy Korskof will be here,’ Chapayev offered.
‘I only deal with you,’ Patrick said firmly.
There was a brief pause, then Chapayev said, ‘Come at nine. We�
��ll discuss terms.’
‘The terms are two hundred thousand euros.’
There was a grunt at the other end. The price was high. Maybe too high. Natural black pearls of quality were rare, particularly one the size featured in the movie, but they weren’t in the same league as other precious stones. Patrick was simply goading the Russian, testing the strength of his desire to retrieve the pearl.
‘I’ll expect you at nine,’ was the terse reply.
Patrick rang off, then went in search of Stephen.
The Diving Belle wasn’t at her mooring. The advertising board on the quai indicated she was on a dive trip and would return around six, which would give Patrick plenty of time to make arrangements before his visit to the Heavenly Princess.
Back at Les Trois Soeurs, he took up residence on the top deck under the awning and waited for Leon. From here he had an uninterrupted view of the old port and its comings and goings.
The fast-food restaurants were busy, in particular the popular pizza place next to the Police Municipale, where the usual queue had formed outside. Festival-goers had no respect for normal French meal times, such as practised by Le Pistou. Patrick doubted whether they even tasted true French food during their sojourn in Cannes, preferring instead to eat exactly how they did at home.
The Irish bar looked quiet. Its clientele tended to surface late and party into the small hours. A glance seaward established the black outline of the Heavenly Princess still anchored in the bay, the water a little choppy from an onshore wind, although not too rough for a dive.
Patrick checked his watch, registering the fact that Leon was late. He wondered if Angele had been in touch with her former lover. How much had Leon been told of what had taken place since their meeting on Rue Panisse?
He suspected Leon would be dispensed with as soon as the pearl was recovered. Once it was back in Angele’s possession, Leon would be surplus to requirements. As would he.
It was then the replay happened.
She was walking along the quai towards him, but this time she had no need to check the names of the yachts along the way. Camille Ager glanced up, spotting his presence under the awning. Without greeting her, he lowered the walkway. She hesitated for a moment before coming aboard.
‘May I speak with you?’
He gestured to the seat beside him.
‘In private, please.’
Patrick acquiesced and led her into the cabin.
She looked pale and frightened out of the sun. He said nothing, waiting for her to explain her visit. Eventually she did.
‘Angele isn’t my sister. Vasily Chapayev made me come to see you.’ Her voice faltered.
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Patrick countered harshly.
‘I wanted to explain why I did what he asked.’
Patrick glanced pointedly at his watch. ‘I’m not interested.’
She blanched and sagged. Patrick caught her before she crumpled to the floor, and eased her on to a seat. Her face was so white, he went and poured a brandy. She accepted it gratefully and drank it down.
He was keen for her to leave, but couldn’t throw her out until she was at least able to stand. Despite his reaction, he was curious as to why she’d chosen to work for Chapayev, although whether she would tell the truth was another matter.
She regarded the empty glass as though wishing for more, so he took it and poured another shot. She grimaced as she swallowed it, but it brought colour to her cheeks.
‘I owe him a great deal of money. He gave me a choice. The lesser evil was to come here and pretend to be looking for my sister. I had no idea it would lead to … all this.’ She ground to a halt.
‘You mean Marie’s murder,’ Patrick said sharply.
The colour drained from her face again, then she appeared to steel herself.
‘I’m so very sorry about that.’
He ignored the expression of sympathy. ‘How much do you owe him?’
Her answer was a whisper. ‘Almost half a million euros.’
Patrick drew breath. It was a hell of an amount, by any standards.
‘He financed the shop in Rue d’Antibes. The interest payments are very high.’ She hesitated as though unsure whether to say more. ‘There was a problem in sourcing the diamonds at one point and he stepped in to help.’
Now this was news.
‘Chapayev supplied you with diamonds?’ Patrick repeated to be sure.
Camille nodded.
‘And where does Chapayev source these diamonds from?’
She looked embarrassed. ‘I don’t know.’
Patrick gave a grim smile, as at least part of the puzzle became clearer.
His best guess was that Chapayev was smuggling the diamonds into Europe, probably from North Africa, possibly via his yacht, and laundering them through an independent jeweller’s shop on Cannes’s high-class Rue d’Antibes. No wonder the Russian wanted to buy the Villa Astrid. He obviously required a suitable base in Cannes to carry on the good work.
The Kimberley Process had resulted in helping to stem the flow of blood diamonds from conflict zones, but there were plenty of places where it didn’t apply, the most recent being the Marange fields of Mugabe’s Zimbabwe.
Patrick cast his mind back to his visit to Chapayev’s dinner party. There had been a tall distinguished black gentleman there. He’d been speaking French, but with an African accent.
It was all beginning to add up.
He wondered if Lieutenant Moreaux knew anything about the Russian’s diamond deals and whether he was choosing to turn a blind eye, which might explain his being entertained on board the Heavenly Princess.
At that point there was a noise like someone landing on the deck. Seized by fear, Camille dropped the glass. It met the table and shattered like ice on the hard surface.
Patrick motioned her to silence and, checking for his gun, went to take a look.
Leon was upright, but only just. His face looked as though it had been put through a meat grinder. Pummeled and bloody, he staggered towards Patrick as a big black limo took off with screeching tyres along the quai. There was no one visible behind the smoked-glass windows.
Patrick caught Leon as he fell. Through his bloodied mouth, he made out the strangled words: ‘They know where the pearl is.’
Patrick half-carried Leon down the steps and into the main cabin, where he laid him on the leather couch. Patrick did a quick body check. Experience told him Leon had a couple of broken ribs and a broken nose. Plus he’d lost a few teeth. His life wasn’t in danger, but Patrick still asked him if he wanted an ambulance.
There was no doubt by the painful shake of his head that he definitely didn’t. As for the police, Patrick didn’t mention them. He set about patching Leon up, giving Camille instructions when he needed help. He swiftly realigned the nose and applied ice to the facial bruising, then stripped Leon’s shirt off and took a closer look at his body. Patrick had been beaten enough himself to know what they would have done to extract the information they wanted.
Pulling down the bloodied trousers exposed the worst of the damage. It seemed Leon valued his manhood more than his good looks. The cigarette burns on his scrotum were various but superficial. Patrick had a more than adequate medical kit. He did what he had to, then covered Leon up and administered a strong sedative and painkiller.
Within a short period of time, Leon was out.
During all of this, Camille had remained calm, although her underlying terror was plain to see. Patrick knew what she was thinking. If whoever had beaten Leon and tossed him on the quai had known she was aboard Les Trois Soeurs, she might well face the same fate.
Patrick didn’t mention what Leon had said about the pearl. There was still a chance Chapayev had sent Camille here with a sob story to try and extract the information they’d tortured Leon for.
‘Go home,’ he told her.
‘What about Chapayev?’
‘He offered you two choices. Maybe it’s time to take the oth
er one.’ It was a cruel remark and he meant it. Camille had been the one to forge a financial alliance with Chapayev. Greed was at the heart of her troubles. Patrick had one goal and one only: to make Chapayev pay for what he had done to Marie Elise.
She left without argument. As soon as she disappeared from sight, Patrick made the phone call. Chapayev answered almost immediately. The supercilious way he said ‘Courvoisier’ only incensed Patrick further.
‘Leon doesn’t know the location of the diamonds, whatever he told you.’
There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Diamonds?’ Chapayev strove to sound puzzled. ‘I am looking for my pearl.’
There followed a rapid background exchange in Russian, from which Patrick translated ‘the bastard knows’. It had been a shot in the dark, arising from his conversation with Camille, but it had been right on target. And it went a long way to explaining what the hell had being going on here.
‘Any information Leon gave you when you burned his balls, it won’t lead you to the stones.’
Patrick heard the background sounds of someone entering the room, then a rapid burst of angry conversation in Swedish. It was easy enough to work out what had happened. Sometime between torturing Leon and dumping him at Les Trois Soeurs, a dive had taken place. One that had not produced the result Chapayev had expected. Whatever Angele had given Leon to hide underwater, it hadn’t been a bag of diamonds – or, Patrick suspected, the black pearl.
‘Leon doesn’t know where they are, but I do, because Angele told me.’
A short icy silence followed Patrick’s declaration.
‘What are your terms?’ Chapayev barked in Russian.
‘Tell the Swede to be prepared for a night dive. I’ll be in touch.’
Patrick ended the call and switched off the phone, then fetched one of the other two mobiles and called Brigitte.
Cutting short the discreet opening she used on prospective clients, he said, ‘It’s Courvoisier. I need you to contact Camille Ager.’ He gave her the number. ‘Tell her I said she has to stay with you tonight. Tell her it’s for her own safety.’
He was impressed when Brigitte didn’t attempt to interrogate him as to who this woman was and why she should choose to give her protection. Brigitte simply repeated the number Patrick had given her, then hung up.