by Seeley James
“Whoa, this is incredible,” Tania continued gushing. “Look at that, Monique; they got a red marble fireplace in every room. The red kind is the most expensive, comes from Egypt or something. And did you see those bathrooms? Marble tub, marble sinks, marble showers. Hey, Pia, you sure know how to live. What do our rooms look like?”
“You can stay in here if you’d like,” Pia said. “I’ve got the room across the hall next to the elevator.”
“You shittin’ me?”
Pia dismissed the bellman with a generous tip.
“If the bad guys get ahead of us, they’re going to come in here and shoot up the place,” she said. “Sleeping in here, nice as it is, could be bad for your health.”
“I’m OK with that,” Tania said. “If I have to die, may as well be on sheets like this. What about you, Monique? There’s two bedrooms in here. Hell, the beds have those four poster curtain things on them. You could rip off a triple before they even stumble across a couch in the dark.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Pia said. “Hey, Monique—you OK? You look a little green.”
“I can’t do this,” Monique said.
Pia stepped in front of her and looked down. She said, “You sent two teenagers to kill me and they failed. That means le Directeur is going to kill you before she comes after me. At least, she’s going to try. You’re going to pull yourself together and help me win this.”
Monique sank into a silk-covered chair, her face in her hands. She looked up, panic-stricken, her voice near hysterical. “I can’t do it! I’m scared. I’ll ruin it. She’ll kill me! I can’t—”
“You think these guys were planning to let you live?” Tania said. “You’re what killers call a loose end. If they win, you’re dead. It’s just a matter of time.”
Monique stood up, trembling, terrified—and defiant. “I’ll run.”
Pia put an arm out and held Tania back.
“They already told you they would kill you if you didn’t kill me. They were going to kill you anyway, maybe your family too. You’re not going to run, you’re going to lead us to le Directeur. I’m going to take them down and turn him or her over to the police. After that, you can go back to Douala and live the rest of your natural life without looking over your shoulder.”
“I should have killed you myself—”
Pia grabbed her hand and jerked hard. Monique’s body twisted and flew over Pia’s right hip, sending the woman crashing to the floor. “You can’t. And neither can they.” She gave Monique a hand up. “I only play to win.”
Monique got to her feet, turned her back and hid her face in her shoulder.
“You’re going to make a couple calls, sit in a coffee shop for twenty minutes, and I’ll do the rest,” Pia said. “I broke up the gang in Limbe. Now they’re weak and wounded I’m going to mop them up here in Vienna. I’m your best chance at staying alive. Just do your part and you’re on the next flight back home.”
Monique stared at her. Tears welled and rolled down her cheeks.
“Go ahead, have a cry,” Pia said. “Then pull yourself together—Tania and I have to find Kaffeehandles and figure out some details.”
Monique sniffed, wiped her face on her sleeve, and headed for the bathroom.
“See, that’s what most people do when they know they’re going to die in a couple hours,” Tania said. “Fall apart. Monique is normal. She’s freaking out. That’s what Eric was talking about. But he was wrong about you. You know you’re going to die and you’re all chill. You got a gift, girl.”
“Shut up,” Pia said.
Half an hour later she strolled up Karntner Strasse in a black T-shirt, black leather jacket, and black jeans. Tania wore a Bundesliga hoodie pulled up over her hair. After asking around, they determined the Kaffeehandel never existed—it was a general term, not a specific shop.
They found a bench in the shopping district. Pia told Monique how the call should go, what she should say. Monique nodded like the condemned and pulled out her phone. Pia and Tania linked into the call, but le Directeur sent her to voicemail. Pia took Monique’s phone and sent a text.
Am in Vienna. Where do we meet?
Several minutes later the reply came back.
You failed.
Pia texted:
No. Delayed. Will finish tonight. You can verify. Final payment required.
They waited twenty minutes for the reply:
Instructions coming at 10PM tonight
“What took le Directeur so long?” Tania asked.
“Guess they had to confer,” Pia said.
They went to the hotel and ordered dinner. Silver service arrived in the suite’s dining room with all the pomp and ceremony one would expect from a top hotel. Tania ate with abandon, Monique picked at her food.
“What am I going to tell her?” Monique said.
“We went over this,” Pia said. “If they want to kill me you can lead them to me. I’ll be looking up and down Karntner Strasse for a place called Kaffeehandel.”
“Then le Directeur will kill me?”
Chapter 33
* * *
Geneva, Switzerland
27-May, 4PM
Aquamarine skylights and windows marked the architecture of the most modern gendarmerie the Major had ever seen. She and agent Miguel were ushered through its long hallways by a short middle-aged man who introduced himself as Lieutenant Berardi. He’d been asked to translate for Capitaine Carla Villeneuve.
He led them to her office. It was an interior space that might have been a utility closet pressed into service for her temporary assignment. Capitaine Villeneuve sat at her desk, typing furiously on a laptop. Berardi took up a position beside her desk. Fluorescents filled the space with both light and a low buzzing noise. Villeneuve nodded at two steel chairs and the Major took a seat. Agent Miguel stood to one side, slightly behind her, mimicking Berardi’s posture.
The Major took a quick look around the office where medals and certificates were propped on shelves. The awards were in French with recognizable words like Sauver and Alpinisme. As Mme. Marot had warned them, Villeneuve was a decorated mountaineer, not a murder investigator.
Villeneuve stopped typing with a flourish and looked up at the Major.
“What can we do for you?” Berardi asked.
The Major spoke slowly, allowing Berardi time to translate.
“We came close to catching Mustafa Ahmadi yesterday, known to you by the name al-Jabal. We followed a slim lead and discovered a good deal about his associates. We’re here to offer our services to the canton of Geneva.”
Berardi talked with Capitaine Villeneuve at length, more than the Major’s preamble warranted. Once they settled things, Villeneuve smiled at her guests.
“As a matter of formality, we need to confirm the arrangement,” Beradi said. “We understand Sabel Security is offering assistance free of charge?”
“Sabel’s fees will be paid for by Ms. Sabel directly.”
“Why?”
The Major explained Pia’s anger at the attempt on her life as well as her desire to remain independent. The two officers conversed. Again the conversation seemed longer than necessary. Then Capitaine Villeneuve smiled and leaned back.
“The canton gratefully accepts your generosity,” Berardi said. “We look forward to working with you. Naturally, there are some ground rules. First, you will work independently and not with any officers already investigating the tragedies. Second, you will report directly to the Capitaine at ten in the morning every day to disclose what you have learned. Third, you will not act on behalf of the canton or as officials in any capacity. Is this understood and agreeable?”
The Major looked directly to the Capitaine. “Yes, ma’am.”
Capitaine Villeneuve glanced at Berardi, then dropped her eyes to her desk. After gathering her thoughts, she looked up and spoke.
“One last thing,” Berardi translated. “She hates to mention this, but it is important to Switzerland th
at your agents be careful. The last time Sabel Security helped Geneva, a store owner was beaten and shots were fired indiscriminately in an alley and later from the bridge.”
“No shots were fired by Sabel Security personnel,” the Major said. “Mustafa fired on Ms. Sabel on the bridge. I returned fire using only darts. Sabel Security personnel caused no damage and presented no public danger. And your store owner was aiding the fugitive.”
Berardi hesitated, a cloud of confusion crossing his face, before translating.
Villeneuve drummed her pencil on the table and thought for a minute before responding. She sat up, smiled and responded.
“These things are in the past,” he translated. “We look forward to your informative and helpful assistance. If you would interview the survivors that would be most helpful. We have already finished those interviews but could have missed something. Thank you and good evening.”
The Major rose and turned to leave.
Agent Miguel stopped in the doorway and looked at their translator. He said, “You’re good. You moonlight? We might need a native translator, and Sabel is generous.”
Berardi handed over a business card.
The Major marched through the gendarmerie’s lobby. Miguel caught up, and out they went.
“What do we do now, Agent Miguel? Does the Grand Duchess of Sabel listen to you? ’Cause I don’t think she hears me.”
Miguel kept silent.
“And we have no official capacity except to tell Villeneuve things? That’s nice—we come up with something, hand it over, she gets credit. We cause problems and she’ll say she doesn’t know us.”
“You guys acted like vigilantes last week,” Miguel said. “Did you expect a free hand?”
The Major gave him a stern look, then said, “Why did you get that guy’s card?”
“He was surprised about something you said. I’ll ask him about it later.”
“Did I miss anything in there?” she said. “They talked a lot more than he translated.”
“Nope. You got it. She was trying to figure out how to get credit for our work.”
“OK,” she said. “Let’s see what the next of kin have to say.”
They made a list of the victims’ survivors and made calls. Most of them were anxious to discuss the investigation. Anxious to get it moving forward, anxious for an arrest, and unhappy with the police for their lack of results.
The first person available was Marina Bachmann, sister of Sandra Bachmann, VP of Banque Genève International. Sandra was the second victim, killed upon returning home from the ill-fated dinner party. Marina, a cordial older woman, had come to live with her sister five years earlier after both went through divorces. They had a quiet social life, involving themselves in a charity and attending the Lutheran church once or twice a month. Marina hadn’t worked since moving to Geneva from Zurich but had considerable savings. She could think of nothing in Sandra’s life that would precipitate murder. But they rarely talked about business.
“Did you know anyone named Mustafa Ahmadi?” the Major said.
“No,” Marina said.
“How about Elgin Thomas or Conor Wigan? Calixthe Ebokea?”
Marina shook her head.
“Ever hear the term le Directeur?”
“Yes, every company has them.”
“I meant more like a nickname. Someone people refer to as le Directeur?”
Marina shook her head.
When they were ready to leave, she saw them to the door.
Agent Miguel pointed to a crystal sphere with a French inscription. He said, “The award for charity. Which one are you involved in?”
“La Crèche de Tangier,” she said. “They aid abandoned babies until they’re old enough for an orphanage. A great cause.”
Ramona Wölfli, the young widow of Eren Wölfli, Banque Genève International’s president, answered her penthouse door in yoga pants and stiletto heels. The black tights left nothing to the imagination and her pale blue top clung to every surgically enhanced curve. Her blond hair was cut boyish and short. She led them into a modern white living room and jumped cross-legged onto the couch.
“Why are you interested in this?” she asked in English with a German accent.
“Two reasons,” the Major said. “First, the killers tried to kill our company president. Second, they killed one of our agents, Ezra Goldstein.”
Ramona shrugged. “What can I tell you? I already told the police that I would have killed him if someone else had not beaten me to it.”
Miguel shot the Major a look. She kept her eyes on Ramona and raised her eyebrows.
“They did not tell you this?” Ramona said. “He carried on with his ex-wives as if they were still married. One night with Sylvia, his first, the next night he spends with Eniko, the porn star from Budapest. Then he comes home to me. What do I want with him? He made me sign a contract before we married. I get nothing. Anyway, I made plans to live with my brother in Bern. I will move there next week. Let Sylvia bury him.”
“We were interested in a few people your husband might have known,” the Major said. She launched into the list, Ramona listened to each name and shook her head.
She said she knew nothing of the banking business—she noticed only that her husband became upset after a call from Sandra Bachmann. He left abruptly and went to his office. She had no idea why.
“For most of the night,” Ramona said, “I assumed it was he who did the killing.”
“I thought he and Marot were friends,” the Major said.
“Best friends. That meant nothing to Eren when it came to money. He cheated anyone he could. The only thing he cared about was Banque Genève International. He would never let anything happen to that ancient institution. He would not put up a dime if I needed medical treatment, but nothing was too good for his bank.”
“How did the killer get to him?”
“He hired security guards. They came to our house but he was at his office with Reto. When he went to his car, the killer was waiting.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, no. It was perfect.”
“Was he involved in any charity?” Miguel asked.
“Ha! His libido was his charity, and he was most generous with it. Sandra handled the real charity.”
“Thank you,” the Major said. “Those are all the questions we have.”
“When you get back to the gendarmerie, be sure to tell the French whore I’m leaving next week. She thinks I’m a gold digger, going after the boy, Marot.”
The Major raised her eyebrows again.
“He’s not my type—I need maturity.” Ramona paused. “But if I wanted him?” She snapped her fingers, “I could have him like that.”
Joey Campbell—mid-fifties, handsome and athletic—smelled of alcohol, his knees sagged when he stood, and his eyes were bloodshot. He recounted everything he’d already told Lieutenant Lamartine: he was unemployed since arriving in Switzerland, stood to collect two million euros of insurance following his wife’s death, and had taken no interest in her work. He pointed out that the insurance money was a quarter of what his wife’s income was worth to him had she lived. He was an artist from New York with no following in Europe. None of the pirates’ names sounded familiar to him. His wife had never been involved in any charities, thought church was for fools, read crime novels, and would never have an affair because no one would want her. She’d answered the door after getting a call and was shot in the face. All this he told them in the foyer where Sara Campbell died. He held the door open the whole time they talked.
“She had to have known her killer,” the Major said on the drive to Madame Marot’s estate. “She got a call, expected someone, answered the door, and could see at least a rough shape through the glass. Four bankers were murdered just hours earlier—she’d have been on her guard. Had to be someone from the bank or one of the wives.”
“No police detail,” Miguel said.
“Right, Lena Marot said they were going to
arrange private security. They hadn’t done it yet? Or did the killer present himself as the security? Why were there no police standing by? Is that because there are more banks in Geneva than you can shake a stick at?”
“How many?” Miguel asked. “Thirty? Fifty?”
“Seventy-five,” she said. “With four or five potential targets at each. Yes, guard detail would overwhelm the police.”
“Only two banks involved, though.”
“They didn’t know that in the first twenty-four hours. And Villeneuve couldn’t protect one without protecting all of them. Still, they could have made an effort for Banque Marot’s ranking officer, right?”
“I would.”
“So why did Sara Campbell open the door?”
Maison Marot was a sprawling estate with a stone mansion centered on a rise above Lake Léman. A butler opened the massive oak front door and ushered them into the drawing room.
After a long wait, a sallow young man dressed in black came in. At a glance, it was obvious he’d not slept in days, his face pale, his eyes hollow. At first he said nothing, just stood with his hands on the double doors as if summoning the strength to speak.
“Philippe Marot? I’m Major Jonelle Jackson. We met at the Banque—”
“Oui. Parlez-vous Français?”
Miguel answered him in French and they exchanged brief pleasantries. Philippe explained that his mother had already answered all the questions the police asked of her. He asked that they respect her privacy and check with the police for any information needed. Twice he mentioned she was grieving and needed rest. In the end, he recommended they make an appointment to see her some other time. Miguel got up to leave.
“Wait a minute,” the Major said. “Tell him we have an update on the investigation. Pia Sabel asked me to deliver the update in person.”
Miguel translated. Philippe stood still for a moment, then sighed and went to get his mother. Miguel looked at the Major and waited for an explanation.