Codename Files Nos.1, 2 & 3

by Mark Arundel

  I checked in my bags and went through security into the departure lounge. I walked slowly and scanned the other passengers. Charlotte and her grandfather were sitting at a table sharing a pot of tea. I kept my distance, but even so, she looked up and saw me. After saying something to her grandfather, she stood and headed in my direction. She was wearing a long faux fur coat that made her look like a wealthy Russian. I moved over against the wall and waited for her to reach me.

  ‘Did you know I was on this flight?’

  I nodded my reply.

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  I told her the name of the hotel.

  ‘That’s close to me,’ she said.

  ‘...and a friend of yours,’ I told her.

  ‘Oh, what’s the latest?’ she asked.

  Before I could answer, the loudspeaker called our flight.

  ‘I’ll talk to you on the plane,’ I said and walked away.

  We took-off in a snow blizzard and were probably lucky to get away as the runway was quickly disappearing under a rapidly deepening white layer that showed no sign of letting up. I sat by the window and looked out as we climbed through the dense cloud. The jet engines seemed to be roaring with annoyance at the extra effort needed due to the heavy snow. We broke through the cloud and the roar settled and became a contented hum.

  Charlotte abruptly appeared next to me and sat down. She’d removed her coat and was wearing a tight woollen top that showed off her breasts.

  ‘What’s the latest then?’

  ‘Does your grandfather ski?’

  Charlotte smiled and said, ‘Yes, a little.’

  ‘That’s good for eighty-one.’

  ‘He doesn’t go up for long; just a couple of easy runs in the mornings and then back down for a long lunch and a nap.’

  ‘What’s your skiing like?’

  ‘You’ll soon find out,’ she said. ‘Now tell me the latest.’

  ‘You probably know everything already.’

  ‘Well tell me anyway. I like listening to your voice.’

  A pretty stewardess appeared beside us and asked if we would like anything.

  ‘Nothing for me, thank-you,’ Charlotte said.

  I ordered tea and biscuits. We sat silently while the stewardess served me. Once she had moved away Charlotte said, ‘Did you have to order something?’

  ‘I’m thirsty and the biscuits will help keep my strength up.’

  She ignored me and said, ‘So tell me the latest.’

  I sipped at my hot tea and ate a biscuit.

  ‘You’re not going to tell me, are you?’

  ‘Yes, I am, give me a chance.’

  There was silence while I sipped more tea. Charlotte playfully poked me and I smiled.

  ‘Okay, Bazzer thinks Casanova is in the resort.’ Bazzer was the name we called Bartholomew Meriwether when it was just the two of us. Well, security is always paramount as Meriwether is often reminding us. Codenames are important for everyone’s safety.

  ‘Why does he think that?’

  ‘I don’t know except Mrs. Casanova and her two daughters are there for Christmas, staying in a catered chalet almost next door to yours.’

  ‘My friend,’ Charlotte said. I got the impression this wasn’t news to her. ‘What else?’ she asked.

  ‘The police already have him as a suspect in their murder enquiry; his DNA was on the database.’

  ‘What are they doing about it?’

  ‘They know he’s disappeared and they want to go public.’

  ‘What does Bazzer think about that?’

  ‘We’ve managed to persuade them to hold off for thirty-six hours while the helpful agent from Interpol tries to track him down for them.’

  Charlotte smiled and said, ‘Good boy, well done.’

  I sipped more tea and stared at her breasts. She saw me and smiled. ‘Wait till you see them in a tight thermal vest,’ she said. I looked away and tried not to think about it. It may have been Christmas, but we still had work to do.

  Sensing my thoughts Charlotte asked, ‘Do we know any more about the hole at the bank?’

  ‘I think Bazzer does, but he’s not saying. I’m pretty sure he’s got a team working on it.’

  ‘Do we know how big it is yet?’

  This question made me consider telling her about Bradshaw and the ST. I thought about it for a second or two and then decided to keep it to myself for now. Charlotte was waiting for an answer.

  ‘It’s big enough to interest Bazzer,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ Charlotte agreed and gave a slow astute nod of her head.

  ‘He insisted I bring this and made me agree to use it.’ I showed her my new K106. She ran her index finger over the screen and across the buttons.

  ‘This means he’s expecting you to go active,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought.’

  Charlotte was quiet for a moment while she considered the implications of that new information. Then her face lightened and she said, ‘Well if you don’t want to join the mile-high club with me then I’m going back to sit with my grandfather.’ She stood up and left with a backwards glance over her shoulder and a grin, which she thought was sexy.

  I looked down at my K106 and ran my finger over the screen and across the buttons just as Charlotte had done. The satellite phone made me remember Tenerife, and Charlotte’s words replayed themselves in my mind: This means he’s expecting you to go active.

  We touched down on a clear, dry runway at Geneva airport and taxied to the terminal building. There was more snow in London, I thought. Outside, an icy blue December sky gave up its fragile sunshine like the weakness of an old man’s smile.

  Inside, I passed through control and then continued into arrivals. The hangar-style structure felt antiseptic and functional. I collected my bags and began to move away when Charlotte crossed my path and made me stop.

  ‘We’re being taken in a chauffeur-driven car,’ she said. ‘Are you coming with us?’

  ‘No, I’ve got a rental booked.’

  Charlotte nodded and moved aside. She looked over her shoulder and said, ‘Don’t be a stranger,’ and then continued on her way. I saw her grandfather waiting for her and watching. He saw me, but his eyes moved quickly to Charlotte and he probably didn’t see me raise my hand.

  The rental was a white German saloon, which, as the friendly sales assistant told me, came fitted with snow tyres, which are a requirement of Swiss law during the winter months.

  I loaded my bags, programmed the sat nav, switched the radio off and drove out of the airport. The low down torque of the big diesel engine had the pulling power of a small tugboat. I was soon on a sweeping dual-carriageway heading east and cruising effortlessly. Everything was going well. It felt like being on holiday.

  An electronic rendition of “Rule, Britannia!” broke my peaceful contemplation. For some reason, the K106 has it pre-programmed, not that a reminder was necessary.

  I answered the call in good spirits.

  The young man’s voice on the other end said, ‘This is Hoagy. We have some new information.’

  I didn’t respond.

  Hoagy continued and said, ‘We’ve had a small team working non-stop on the hole at the bank. The team is a mixture of computer experts and forensic accountants. They’ve made an initial report. It doesn’t look good for Casanova.’

  ‘Is Bazzer there?’

  ‘Bazzer,’ he repeated. ‘Who’s Bazzer?’

  ‘He wanted to call you Sundance.’

  ‘Oh, yes, umm, no, he’s not here. He knows I’m talking to you. He told me to call you.’ There was a pause. ‘Why did he want to call me Sundance?’

  ‘...because you look like a young Robert Redford.’

  ‘Oh yes, I see.’

  Perhaps he didn’t know who Robert Redford was, but he wasn’t going to admit that to me. He didn’t ask anything further.

  ‘Why doesn’t it look good for Casanova?’ I said.

  ‘Oh yes, well, b
ecause the money was transferred electronically using a senior clearance code. Someone has deleted all the files subsequently and the security records that the system should generate automatically are missing from the network log. However, a second imprint of the clearance code needed to authorise the transaction was stored on a duplicate system, used as a backup in the event of a primary system failure. The senior clearance code used was Casanova’s.’

  ‘Does it have to be him?’

  ‘Well, all senior employees at the highest level have a unique code that they create personally and are supposed to keep completely confidential. The security system culture is taken very seriously at the bank.’

  ‘Where did he transfer the money to?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. The team are still working on that.’

  ‘Do we know any more about his possible location?’

  ‘...umm, no we don’t; not that I’m aware of anyway.’

  I ended the call. Hoagy was starting to spoil my good mood.

  The sun bounced sharply off the dry, salt stained tarmac and forced me to pull down the visor. I searched for my sunglasses and pushed them on.

  The lake appeared; flat and glassy, dotted with painted wooden houses along its banks stepped between the fir trees like strings of decorative lights.

  I followed the road beside the water, sweeping back and round until the flat gave way to the rising terrain. The slow gradient took me higher with deceptive ease. I caught a glimpse of a snowy peak high in the distance through the trees and realised the mountains were not far away.

  Before long, I began the ascent in earnest. Gently at first, with a sweep and a rise, and then tighter turns, zigzag hairpins with long drops that encouraged concentration and respect.

  An occasional house or shop or garage appeared. They were built where a level step naturally allowed or someone had persuaded to allow.

  At this height, the ground was white with snow and the roofs of the buildings held a thick wedge that glistened in the sunlight, but luckily, the road was still clear. It obviously hadn’t snowed recently and even when it did, the snowploughs were always quick to get things moving again.

  The diesel engine pulled easily, even on the steepest slopes and I began to enjoy the constant winding of accelerate, brake, accelerate. Just as my rhythm was displaying all the balance of an Icelandic rally driver, the road straightened and I was there.

  The village was compact as though squashed by the enormity of the mountain. Shops, restaurants and hotels lined the main road and for some reason, made me think of a Wild West town from an old cowboy movie. I half expected to see the town Sheriff step through a pair of swinging saloon doors and rub his silver star with pride. What I actually saw, of course, were people dressed in thick, colourful skiwear. Some of them walked with that unmistakable gait caused by the rigidity of their ski boots, some carried boards and walked easier because their boots were soft, some balanced their skis on their shoulder and almost everyone wore a hat of one type or another.

  The gauge inside my warm car showed the outside air temperature was minus five degrees Celsius. That was cold enough, even at this level, to need a hat. Higher up the mountain on the ski slopes where there would be a wind chill factor, not wearing a hat was not an option, not if you liked your ears and wanted to keep them.

  The main road was long and narrow, lined on both sides with iced snow; it ran across the mountain through the village and rose gradually all the way. The sat nav was indicating my arrival. I was almost at the farthest end of the road before I saw the hotel sign. I slowed and looked. There was parking down the side and to the rear. I continued on, deciding to drive to the end and come back. I wanted to see the rest of the village to get my bearings and to look at the chalets beyond the main lift. The road swung in a U-turn, which the surveyor had designed for the buses to make an easy return. Beyond the bus stop and the lift was a track that turned beside apartment blocks and then continued beyond. I drove on towards the dense area of fir trees and a dozen or so large ski chalets built into the steep slope. I stopped the car and reversed into an access track between the trees. It was much quieter at this end of the village away from the shops and the restaurants. I realised people only came this far, beyond the lift and apartments, if they were staying in or working at one of the chalets.

  My phone rang. It was young Miss Marple.

  ‘Have you got any news?’

  ‘No, not yet, but Lyon has begun the database search.’

  ‘I should learn to be more patient,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll call you as soon as there’s any news.’

  ‘Yes, of course, thanks. Where are you?’

  I didn’t know what kind of telephone system she had, so I answered truthfully. ‘I’m in Switzerland, working on a case.’

  ‘Nice—the glamour of Interpol,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Maybe you should consider applying.’

  She gave a huffy laugh.

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ she said. ‘Okay, I’ll wait to hear from you.’

  We ended the call. She obviously didn’t have anything new her end, so I hadn’t needed to ask the question.

  I drove back to the hotel and parked at the rear. Inside, I checked-in and went to my room. The hotel was small and friendly; top quality with an expensive Gallic feel. The staff spoke French, which was the language in that part of Switzerland, near to the border with France.

  The bed in my room was big and comfortable. I sat on the edge and then let myself fall backwards. I closed my eyes and thought about Charlotte. I opened my eyes and decided to call her. I used my pay as you go phone.

  ‘We’ve just arrived,’ she said.

  ‘When can I see you?’

  ‘Later; I’m getting a ride to the ski shop to collect the equipment, and I’ll ask the driving service to return it to the chalet. I’ll call in on you at your hotel. I want to see your bed.’

  ‘It’s big and comfortable,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ she replied. We ended the call.

  I opened my bags, but I didn’t bother to unpack. Back in reception, the girl behind the counter gave me my ski pass. It was like a credit card with a registered chip. She explained to me in French how it worked. All I had to do was keep it in my jacket pocket to get automatic wireless access to the lifts.

  Outside, the high street was busy. I felt the raw coldness of the thin air and zipped my new fleece higher. It was part of my new ski wardrobe from the bag Bazzer and Hoagy had supplied.

  After a short walk along the high street, I found the ski shop. At street level, it was just a clothes shop. I went in and saw there were two floors. They kept the skis below, down a wooden staircase.

  An assistant fitted me with a decent pair of rental skis and a good pair of boots. He handed me a chart and asked me to indicate my height and weight. I pointed on the chart and he nodded and then adjusted the bindings.

  I left with the boots hanging from one hand, poles from the other and the skis flat together balanced over my shoulder. I stored my equipment back at the hotel and returned to my room.

  I took a shower, ordered tea from room service and waited for Charlotte. It wasn’t long before she knocked on the door and I let her in.

  ‘Have you spoken to home yet?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, briefly; Casanova has been confirmed as the one responsible for the hole, but there’s nothing new on his location.’

  ‘So there’s nothing for you to do except wait. Have you got your skis yet?’

  I didn’t answer and instead said, ‘Can I come for dinner?’

  Charlotte seemed surprised and said, ‘Yes, all right, if you want to.’

  She was wrong about me not having anything to do except wait. Dinner was an excuse to visit her catered chalet. It would give me the opportunity to take a close look at her neighbourhood.

  ‘Canapés aren’t being served for another two hours,’ she said, and then looked at the bed. ‘You’re right, it is big.’ She jumped on it a
nd bounced up and down as though she had a springy tail. ‘And comfortable too,’ she added.

  ‘Don’t break it,’ I said.

  She stopped bouncing and widened her eyes. ‘Let’s test it properly,’ she suggested.

  Some time later, we left the hotel and went out onto the main street. It was snowing. A layer already covered the road and the pavement. Tyre tracks from the cars showed as two black lines running away into the distance. It was colder than before. The air temperature was heading down faster than Casanova’s share price.

  We both took our gloves from our pockets and pulled them on. Wearing our hats, thick coats and boots with good treads, Charlotte took my arm and we walked slowly along the path. She held on firmly, unsure about how slippery it might be.

  An impenetrable covering of heavy grey cloud pushed down and tried its hardest to block out what remained of last light. The shops, bars and restaurants, and hotels had all switched on their lights and it was impossible for it not to affect all except for the hardest or cynical. The village had a mountain charm and exclusivity. I could almost feel Charlotte’s happiness radiating from her body where she pressed against me.

  ‘If this keeps up, the skiing tomorrow will be excellent,’ she said. ‘Fresh powder snow is the best.’

  ‘Can we call in on Mrs. Casanova on our way? I asked.

  Charlotte turned sharply and looked at me. ‘So that’s why you wanted to come for dinner,’ she said.

  ‘Have you seen her yet?’ I asked.

  ‘No, not yet,’

  ‘Do you know which chalet she’s in?’

  ‘Yes, it’s just behind ours.’

  ‘Good; well, it’s still early enough for a social call and I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you; it can’t be easy for her.’

  I felt Charlotte concede. ‘Yes, very well, but just a quick visit.’ There was a pause and then she asked, ‘You don’t think Mr. Casanova is there, do you?’

  ‘No, but I think he’s been in contact, and if I’m right Mrs. Casanova will be anxiously waiting to hear from him again. If he is in danger, and the dead girl back in London suggests he just might be then it’s better for everyone if I get to him quickly before anyone else does.’