The Geneva Trap

by Stella Rimington

  As they reached the track Martin said to her, ‘I’m not sure what to say, except thank you. No one’s saved my life before.’

  She gave a little laugh. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll try not to make a habit of it.’

  Chapter 49

  Bech was tired. It had been a long week, full of meetings and business dinners – and his trip to Zurich. The discovery that Russian Intelligence was moving money out of Switzerland then circuitously bringing it back was still unexplained. Herr Kessler clearly thought he had done his bit and had come up with nothing more. What Kubiak was up to remained a mystery, and as the man himself seemed to have disappeared from Geneva, it was likely to stay that way

  Bech was about to pack up and head home when there was a tap at his door. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Leplan stuck his head round the door.

  ‘What is it?’ Bech asked crossly, certain it could have waited until Monday. Leplan was good at his work but far too cautious – he checked in with Bech much more often than the other senior officers.

  But now he came in without his usual hesitancy, and there was no apology for intruding this late on a Friday afternoon. ‘I’ve got some news I think you will wish to hear,’ he announced. He was clutching a folder of papers.

  Bech knew what this would be about. Leplan had been non-stop in his pursuit of Kubiak in the past weeks, ever since he’d watched the Russian supervise the forced repatriation of Sorsky at Geneva airport. ‘Have you found him?’

  ‘No,’ said Leplan, but it was clear from his face that he had found something. Bech motioned the younger officer to sit down. He was impatient now not to get home, but to hear what Leplan had to say.

  ‘We’ve had the tests back from the forensic mechanics,’ Leplan announced. ‘They demonstrate irrefutably that the paint on Steinmetz’s car came from a Mercedes that was sold to Kubiak six months ago.’

  ‘Perhaps. But he may not have been driving it at the time,’ Bech said mildly.

  ‘It’s his personal car. A special order he put in; it’s not an official vehicle. It is very unlikely anyone else was driving.’

  ‘Okay. But that’s still not enough to connect him to the accident that killed Steinmetz. He could just say that he’d scraped the car on the street in Geneva.’ Bech was becoming annoyed now – was this all the officer had to tell him?

  But Leplan pressed ahead. ‘He might have more trouble explaining this.’ He opened the folder and pulled out a paperback book, which he put down on the desk.

  Bech peered at it, mystified. It was in English – To Kill a Mockingbird. He hadn’t read it himself, but his children had. It was a staple of English classes in the Swiss school system. And even Bech had seen the film; in black-and-white, with Gregory Peck defending a beleaguered black man facing a false charge of rape. But what did this have to do with Kubiak?’

  Leplan laughed, a rarity in Bech’s experience. ‘Don’t worry, Herr Bech, I haven’t gone mad. You see, I had a visit today from Steinmetz’s widow, Mireille.’

  ‘How is she coping?’ Bech asked automatically.

  ‘As well as can be expected. I think she’s OK financially. She has her widow’s pension and a generous gratuity, but of course her life in future will be very different, especially when her daughter Anna goes to university. But that’s not why she wanted to see me. She brought me this,’ he said, pointing to the paperback. ‘Apparently it was returned to her by the police along with Steinmetz’s wallet and watch.’

  ‘Was the book his?’ It seemed unlikely.

  Leplan shook his head. ‘No, it belongs to his daughter. She’d left it in the car the day before he was killed, when Mireille picked her up from school. It’s a set text apparently, and she had made lots of notes in it – so Mireille said her daughter was glad to get it back. But then she found this.’

  He picked up the book and opened it, then handed it to Bech, open at a blank page at the back. On it was scrawled GE 672931.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Bech. And then he understood. ‘A licence-plate number.’

  ‘Exactly. It’s the registration for the Mercedes saloon belonging to Anatole Kubiak. Steinmetz must have written it down when he was following the car.’

  ‘Didn’t you say he had been part of the surveillance on Kubiak once before? Maybe he wrote the number down then.’

  ‘No. The book was only put in the glove compartment the day before the accident. Mireille told me that she stopped at the supermarket on the way home from school. Anna stayed in the car, and took the book out of her bag to read while her mother shopped. When Mireille came out of the shop with a trolley full of groceries, the girl got out to help her put the bags in the boot – only she didn’t put the book back in her bag, she just stuffed it into the glove compartment and forgot about it. The next day Steinmetz took his wife to the airport, and for reasons I still don’t understand, ended up following Kubiak towards Lausanne. At some point he wrote down the Mercedes’s licence plate, probably in case he lost the tail; that way he could still trace the ownership of the car. Instead he was run off the road. Only now we have the number.’

  ‘And the two match?’

  ‘Of course.’ Leplan looked annoyed by the question. ‘Why else would I be bothering you, Herr Bech?’

  Bech sat back in his chair, and breathed out noisily. ‘You realise it would never stand up in court.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. And even if it ever came to a charge, I know that the Russian would simply claim diplomatic immunity and skip home. But at least we now know he did it.’

  Chapter 50

  Liz had left a message on his phone, but when Edward phoned her back on her mobile he only got her voicemail. But there had been nothing worrying about her message; she’d said that the Cahors commune had been raided and René had been arrested. Antoine had not been there, but Liz had sounded confident that he would soon be picked up. Apparently, after hours of searching, a cache of liquid explosive, half a dozen handguns and two Uzis had been found. Evidence enough to put René away for a long time.

  What a relief. Now, Edward hoped, Cathy would sense what a close call she’d had, cut all ties with the communards and settle down to creating a secure life for herself and young Teddy. Maybe a suitable chap would turn up one day so she wouldn’t have to be a single mother for ever – or maybe he wouldn’t; the important thing, he felt, was to get Cathy and Teddy settled.

  When his daughter opened the door Edward was relieved to find her smiling, and he was pleased when she gave him a big hug. She led him into the kitchen, from where he could see Teddy playing in the garden. When Cathy started to open the back door to call the boy, he stopped her. ‘Hold on a moment. I’ve heard from Susan’s daughter – you know, Liz, the woman you met here.’ He was glad when she didn’t frown. ‘It seems René and his friends have been raided by the police down in Cahors. They found weapons and explosives at the commune.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you’re not. But it means they won’t be coming here and bothering you for money. From what Liz said, it sounds as if they’ll be in jail for a long time.’

  Cathy nodded. ‘They’re not all bad, you know,’ she said. ‘Some of them are my friends.’

  But Edward could see she was relieved. It must have been the most tremendous strain for her. He said cheerfully, ‘Why don’t I go out and see my grandson?’

  When the doorbell rang Edward was still in the back garden with Teddy. Reassured that she was no longer under threat, Cathy went and opened the front door, expecting to find the postman or a delivery from Amazon. Instead a familiar bulky figure was standing on the doorstep. As the door opened he lunged at her.

  It was Antoine.

  ‘Help—’ she started to shout, but he clamped a hand over her mouth.

  As Cathy found herself pushed back from the door, Antoine hissed, ‘Tais-toi!’ He pressed his other hand on to the back of her neck, and pinched the tendons there until she nodded obediently. Anything to stop the pain.
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  He half-propelled, half-dragged her into the small sitting room, kicking the door closed behind him as they entered. ‘I will take my hand off your mouth if you promise not to scream. If you do, I will hurt you. Compris?’

  Cathy nodded, and he took his hand from her mouth, though the other one stayed gripping the back of her neck, keeping her close to him. His breath was a nauseating mix of cigarette smoke and hamburger. She turned her face to the side and breathed in, trying to calm her nerves.

  ‘Now, first things first. Where is your boy?’

  ‘He’s not here,’ she said, keeping her eyes averted. Just then a boyish yelp came from the garden. Antoine tightened his hand on the nape of her neck. ‘Do not lie to me again. So, he is in the garden?’

  Cathy nodded weakly.

  ‘Good, then we both know what can happen if you do not cooperate. I am here for the money. Do you have it?’

  Cathy was too terrified to say no, but saying yes would be equally dangerous – she had six pounds in her purse and that was all. ‘I have to give you a cheque.’

  Surprisingly, Antoine did not seem disconcerted by this. ‘I did not expect you to have ten thousand in cash. So let’s get your cheque book.’

  ‘It’s in my bedroom,’ she lied, thinking that might give her an opportunity to shout to her father.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Antoine said firmly. ‘René told me it’s in the desk over there.’ He pointed to a corner of the room where her mother’s small bureau stood. Cathy kept the bills there, and her cheque book. René must have sniffed around during his last visit while she was making tea.

  She tried again. ‘It’s not there now. I was paying bills last night.’

  Antoine moved his hand upwards and suddenly gripped the loose ends of her hair. He pulled them hard and she flinched with sudden pain as her head jerked back. ‘Do you think I am a fool?’ he said angrily, then released his grip. She lowered her chin in relief, and the pain stopped.

  He turned her around until she was facing him and suddenly slapped her hard across the cheek. Cathy struggled not to cry out in pain. ‘If you don’t write the cheque in the next thirty seconds,’ Antoine threatened, ‘I will do it again. And then I will fetch your boy.’

  Outside Edward was doing his best to play football with Teddy. He’d bought him a junior-sized goal a month before, one with a string net so you didn’t have to chase the ball each time a goal was scored. But Teddy couldn’t decide if he wanted to be goalkeeper or striker, and finally they compromised on passing the ball back and forth. Each successful pass elicited a happy laugh from the little boy, and Edward was pleased to see him so carefree – recently Teddy had often seemed subdued, especially when relations between Edward and Cathy had been at their most tense.

  It was when Teddy had kicked the ball towards the back door, and Edward had gone to retrieve it, that he heard the short sharp noise from inside. He paused, listening hard, but nothing followed. He stood there until Teddy cried impatiently, ‘Get the ball, Grandpa. Get the ball.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ he said, still listening hard. Nothing. In two quick bounds he climbed the steps to the kitchen door and opened it. ‘Cathy,’ he called.

  There was no reply.

  Could she have gone out? It didn’t seem likely – he’d only been in the garden for a few minutes with the boy. Perhaps she was talking on the phone. But then what had that noise been?

  He walked through the kitchen, stopping for a second to look at the rack on the wall with its neat line of knives. Should he grab a weapon? It seemed needlessly melodramatic – Cathy was probably in the loo.

  Nonetheless, he walked quietly down the corridor towards the front of the house. He didn’t call out again.

  The door to the sitting room was closed. He slowly opened it. ‘Cathy?’ he said.

  Then he saw her, and the stranger in the room. The man was standing behind Cathy, with one arm drawn across her throat. He was shorter than Edward, a little under six foot tall, but heavily muscled, wearing a T-shirt that showed off biceps that could only have been created by hard work in a gym.

  Cathy looked at Edward with fear in her eyes.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded. ‘And what are you doing to my daughter?’

  Cathy tried to speak, but the man’s arm tightened on her throat and her attempt spluttered into silence.

  Then the man spoke. ‘My name is not your concern. I have business with your daughter.’ His accent was French, but his English was excellent. ‘If you don’t interfere, she won’t get hurt. Neither will you or the boy.’

  Edward had seen his share of trouble. He knew there was no point in cowering in front of this thug; that would only fuel his sense of physical superiority. He said, ‘How dare you? Get out of this house at once.’

  ‘I’d be quiet if I were you, old man.’

  ‘Get out,’ Edward said loudly.

  Suddenly Antoine released his grip on Cathy’s throat. Pushing her aside, he stepped forward. His right hand came swinging quickly through the air – too quickly for Edward to duck. It hit him hard on the side of his mouth. He felt a tooth crack as he stumbled and fell forward, landing on his knees just short of the fireplace. Blood filled his mouth and he spat it out, staining the beige carpet. He sensed Antoine standing over him and the Frenchman said, ‘Don’t get up, or there’ll be more where that came from.’

  Edward looked at the fireplace. He could see the set of fire irons – a bellows, a poker, tongs. He stayed on his knees, and heard the man turn back towards Cathy. ‘Now write the cheque, and make it out to cash. If you try and cancel it, I promise I’ll be back, and this time I’ll get your little boy.’

  Cathy walked to the desk, and fumbled in the drawer. She must have hesitated for the Frenchman grew angry. ‘Write it, bitch, before I give your father a good kicking!’

  Edward waited until he heard the scratching of pen on paper. He turned his head very slightly and saw that Antoine was now standing behind Cathy, watching her make out the cheque. Edward carefully reached out his hand until he could grab the poker, then in one quick movement heaved himself to his feet, blood still dripping from his mouth.

  Antoine had turned around. Edward raised the poker. The Frenchman laughed. ‘Who do you think you are, old man? If you swing that thing at me you might get lucky and break a bone or two, but then, I promise you, I’ll take it off you and beat you to death.’

  There was relish in his voice, and looking at his heavily muscled figure Edward realised that what he said was true. Edward himself was tall rather than heavy-set, and while thirty years ago it might have been an equal match, there wasn’t much question of who would win a fight today. But he couldn’t do nothing, not when his daughter was in danger, and little Teddy too.

  He stepped forward, and raised the poker with both hands. Antoine waited with his hands ready and his legs akimbo in a karate stance. Behind him Cathy had turned and was staring at them, fear contorting her face.

  Edward took another step and started to swing. As Antoine raised his arm to block the blow, Edward stopped swinging the poker. He brought it back, this time very low, and crouching down, swept it with all his strength against Antoine’s leg. There was the cracking noise of breaking bone.

  ‘Ahhhh!’ the Frenchman shouted, and fell to the floor, clutching his knee. Agony spread across his face as he lay writhing on the carpet, but Edward was taking no chances. He moved until he stood near Antoine’s prone head, and raised the poker again. ‘If you even try to get up I will split your head in half,’ he said, without taking his eyes off the fallen man. ‘Cathy, go out and ring 999. Tell them you have an intruder in the house, and he’s got your little boy.’ He sensed she was in shock, and said as coolly as he could, ‘Go on, girl, there’s no time to waste. Make the call, then fetch Teddy and run to the neighbour’s.’

  He heard her go, but kept his eyes fixed on Antoine, who had both his hands on his injured knee and was sweating with pain. Edward took a step back; he didn’t trus
t the Frenchman an inch. ‘I repeat: if you so much as lift your hand, I will hit you again. But this time I’ll hit your head. Nod if you understand, or I may hit you anyway.’

  Slowly Antoine’s head moved up and down.

  ‘Well done,’ said Edward, hoping the police wouldn’t dawdle.

  They didn’t. The magic words ‘he’s got my little boy’ did the trick, and within four minutes by Edward’s watch two patrol cars screeched to a halt outside the house. Cathy had ignored the second of Edward’s orders: she sent Teddy running to Mrs Wolfson next door, but stayed behind herself. She opened the door as the police ran up the steps, and explained rapidly that the older man in the room next door was her father, and that the intruder was the heavy-set man lying on the floor.

  It took a good quarter of an hour for Edward to explain things, and required a call to Special Branch and another call to a woman at MI5 in London, but at last the officer in charge got the drift. The ambulance which took the Frenchman to the hospital for treatment for his broken kneecap was accompanied by two policemen, and one of them was armed.

  Chapter 51

  Liz caught the first flight to Marseilles, still shaken by Edward’s phone call of the evening before. His account of the fracas when Antoine arrived unexpectedly at Cathy’s house had been chilling. He’d stressed that both Teddy and Cathy were all right, but she could read between the lines and knew he was minimising the danger they had all faced. It had clearly been a close call with Antoine, and could easily have ended in something horrendous.

  René had been clever. He’d sent Antoine to Brighton three days earlier than he’d said he himself would show up there. His claim when he was arrested at Le Barbot that Antoine had gone to Marseilles had been a completely plausible red herring.

  Marseilles. The place seemed to be the key to everything that had happened recently: to Cathy’s problems with the commune, to the efforts to subvert Operation Clarity; to the meetings with Sorsky; and to the Russian intelligence officer, Kubiak, who had supervised Sorsky’s expatriation and afterwards been seen in Marseilles. Liz gazed out of the window of the plane as they began to descend over the Massif Central towards the Mediterranean, and the pilot announced that in twenty minutes they would be on the ground.