She lay dazed on the floor as he banged the doors shut. She heard the front driver’s door slam as the man got back in and drove off quickly.
By then she was sitting up, shouting for help, and kicking the rear doors and sides of the van as hard as she could. There was nothing to hold on to; the van was being driven fast, and every time it went round a corner, she slid across the metal floor. But she kept up the noise, though she thought it unlikely that anyone could hear her, and from what she’d seen of the neighbourhood, even if they did hear, they probably wouldn’t report it.
After about five minutes the van stopped abruptly, and Liz found herself slammed against the hard wall separating her from the driver’s cab. She heard what sounded like a metal garage door opening and closing. What would happen next? Sensing this could be her only chance of escape, she got up awkwardly, crouched under the roof of the van, ready to launch herself out and run for it.
One of the back doors suddenly swung open and a harsh light from a powerful torch shone in Liz’s eyes, briefly blinding her. A voice behind the light said, ‘My other hand is holding this,’ and the light moved down to shine on an automatic pistol pointed right at her.
‘Now lie on your stomach,’ he ordered. When Liz hesitated he jabbed the pistol at her. ‘Do it or I will kill you right now. There’s a silencer on this gun so no one will hear me fire.’ The English was good, but strongly accented.
Liz did as she was told, pressing her face against the cold metal floor of the van, her back crawling as she wondered what this man was going to do to her. He must have put the torch down; there was less direct light on her now.
‘Put your hands together behind your back,’ he said, and she obeyed. A moment later Liz felt plastic cuffs go round each of her wrists, then snap shut.
Then he pushed her legs together and what felt like rope was wrapped around her ankles, and tied quickly but tightly with double knots. The man roughly turned her on her side, then on to her back, rolling her like a trussed turkey. She could just make out his features and thought again that she recognised them. From where? Whenever it was, it seemed ages ago.
Leaning forward, he grabbed Liz by the front of her blouse, and hauled her up to a sitting position. She tried to catch his eye, but he ignored her, and reached into the side pocket of his leather jacket, bringing out a roll of surgical tape. ‘Stay still,’ he said as he tore long strips off the roll, attaching them temporarily to the side wall of the van. He then took them one at a time, pressing them against Liz’s mouth and wrapping them all the way around her head. He worked methodically, layer by layer, until the whole area from her chin to just below her nose was sealed tight with tape.
He stared at her, listening to her breathe through her nose, then nodded to himself, satisfied. ‘I’ll be back in a while and then we’re going for a bit of a ride.’ He backed out and closed the van door, leaving Liz again in darkness.
With her hands manacled behind her back, she couldn’t see her watch, and it was hard to gauge how much time had passed when she heard the garage door open and the man climb back into the cab and start the engine. An hour, she guessed, maybe more.
The van reversed and stopped, then the driver got out and closed the garage doors. When he got back in he drove at speed through the streets, while Liz tried to keep herself from banging against the inner sides of the rear compartment. They paused occasionally for what she assumed were traffic lights, and she could hear street noises from outside. But bound and gagged, there was nothing she could do to let people know that she was being held inside the van.
They drove for almost half an hour, she reckoned, speeding up on what must have been a main road, then slowing and manoeuvring through smaller roads. The man’s driving was erratic. He would speed up then suddenly slam the brakes on and turn abruptly, so Liz rolled around like a puppet, sometimes smashing into the sides and the rear doors of the van, unable to protect herself .
At last they slowed down, and then braked so sharply that again she was hurled forwards. She waited for the driver to turn off the engine and then . . . what? If he were going to kill her, wouldn’t he have done it in the security of the garage, then taken his time disposing of the body? The body? My body, thought Liz, filled with sudden fury. For a moment her fear receded as she determined to get away from this man, and make sure he was caught and punished. She tried to ignore the small voice in the back of her mind that was telling her she’d been brought somewhere private, far from the hubbub of the city centre, away from the eyes of the public or the police, where at his leisure the man could . . .
She was trying to stop herself shuddering when the van moved forward again, this time very slowly and deliberately. She felt a sudden jolt when they hit something – something big enough to jar the whole vehicle. Was it an accident? she asked herself hopefully. But it couldn’t be – not crawling forward as they were, and Liz listened as the van’s front bumper made a high-pitched grinding noise as it pushed against some large object. Slowly but surely, the van seemed to be winning against this inanimate obstacle, and suddenly it seemed that the impediment had been pushed away and they moved forward freely for several yards.
Then the van slowed and stopped, only to reverse suddenly at speed. This time the jolt came from the rear. Liz found herself pitched into the air, and thrown against the partition. She hit it with the back of her head, then crashed on to the floor of the van, knocked out cold.
Chapter 54
The receptionist, a pretty brunette with ruby-painted nails, stared wide-eyed as an armed, uniformed police inspector led a team of officers into the building, followed by Fézard, three plain clothes officers, Martin Seurat, Isobel Florian, and a mechanic in overalls and stout boots.
‘Stay where you are and don’t touch the phones,’ the inspector ordered the frightened girl, while Fézard and his group crossed the atrium to the stairs and the mechanic set about disabling the lifts. Three police officers were despatched to guard the back exit and disable the service lift.
Fézard and his team took the stairs to the fifth floor two at a time, stopping on the landing to catch their breath; even Isobel, slim and fit as she was, was panting slightly. Fézard, neither slim nor particularly fit, was puffing hard.
Two doors led off the landing. One was half-glazed and bearing the sign: ‘Beauchêne et Fils: Négotiants en Vin’. The other, on the opposite side of the landing, was a strong-looking black windowless door with a security keypad beside it, and a small laminated sign on the wall that read ‘Technomatics Inc.’
One of Fézard’s officers stepped forward and applied a small device to the keypad. After a few seconds the door opened with a click and a buzzer sounded inside the offices. Fézard drew his gun and led the way into a small ante-room furnished with two chairs and a low table piled with a stack of Time magazines. Behind an unmanned reception desk an open doorway led to the rest of the offices.
Fézard stood tensely, waiting for a response to the buzzer. But no one came through the doorway and no sound came from within. Covered by his officers, who had now all drawn their weapons, Fézard took three slow steps to the doorway. He stared into the silence, and gradually the expression on his face changed, from alert to puzzled.
Then, jerking his head sideways to his officers, he said quietly, ‘Follow me,’ and walked through the doorway. As Martin followed behind, he saw in front of him a large open-plan office. Roughly the size of the briefing room at the Préfecture, it held about a dozen desks, each equipped with a black leather swivel chair and a glowing television-sized computer monitor. Soft beige carpet ran wall to wall, and the ceiling was lined with sound-deadening panels in which long lines of lights were recessed. The effect was like the hi-tech trading floor of an investment bank, but instead of shouted phone calls and frantic activity, the room was silent and apparently deserted.
‘Where is everyone?’ Isobel whispered to Seurat. ‘Is it an Asian holiday or something?’
Overhearing her, Fézard said, ‘N
o one’s gone anywhere.’ He sounded puzzled. ‘They all came in this morning and we haven’t seen any of them going out. We’ve been watching the place all day. He started suddenly. ‘Wait a minute!’ he said, and pointed to the far corner of the room. A young man dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and black trousers sat slumped forward on his desk, his head pillowed on his crossed arms. He looked as if he was taking a catnap, but he must be very sound asleep not to have been woken by the commotion of their arrival. On the screen in front of him a satellite image showed an area Seurat recognised as the Gulf – on one side the sandy shores of the UAE with Oman beneath, on the other Iran north of the Strait of Hormuz.
Fézard walked over to the desk and shook the young man’s shoulder. ‘Monsieur?’ he said gently. There was no movement. ‘Monsieur,’ he said again, shaking the man more sharply. This time the head rolled slightly on the arms but the man did not sit up.
Fézard turned to the others who were watching him and shook his head; there was no point in trying to wake the man – he wasn’t asleep, he was no longer breathing. Martin took in the implications and suddenly felt sick. What did this mean for Liz?
At this end of the room there was a little archway, leading to a short corridor with three doors opening off it along one side. Fézard motioned to two of his men to check the rooms. The first contained toilets with no one inside. The second door was kicked open and the two men went in. There was a pause, then one came out and gestured for Fézard. Isobel and Martin followed.
This was a small meeting room. Round a long table sat six young Korean men, all dressed in black turtleneck sweaters and black trousers. They too seemed to be asleep – some sat upright in their chairs, some were slumped on the table. Most had mild expressions on their faces, as if they were dreaming. On the table in front of them were small teacups, all empty or nearly empty. In the middle of the table sat a large Chinese teapot. There were four empty chairs and, stepping into the room, Martin saw two more bodies sprawled on the carpet at the far end.
He counted the teacups around the table – there were eleven. Eight bodies here, one in the open-plan office; that left two unaccounted for. And where was Liz?
‘Inspector!’ one of Fézard’s men said from the door. ‘I think you’ll want to see this.’
Dreading what they might find, Martin and Isobel followed Fézard down the corridor. The third and final door led to a small kitchen, fitted with a wall cupboard containing glasses and plates, a counter top with a microwave, a fridge, and a sink. The tap on the sink was running in a desultory stream.
On the linoleum floor a man was lying flat on his back. His eyes were closed and he wasn’t moving. He also looked to be Korean, but he wasn’t wearing the office uniform of black turtleneck and trousers – he was dressed in a suit and a shiny silk tie. It became obvious that he wasn’t breathing either.
Crouching down, Martin carefully reached into the inner pocket of the dead man’s jacket and drew out a wallet and a passport. The wallet contained 400 Euros and several credit cards. The passport was French and named the holder as Dong Shin-soo Wong, a French citizen. The photograph was of the same man who lay on the floor.
Fézard was on the phone, summoning a forensics team, when another of his men appeared in the doorway. ‘Sir, we’ve searched everywhere now. There’s no one else in these offices. All we’ve found is a safe, in a cupboard off the corridor. It’s locked.’
‘All right. Let’s get it open; maybe that will tell us who these people really are.’
It took forty minutes, by which time the silent mortuary was humming with activity. It seemed plain that someone else must have been here and administered the poison. Unless it was a suicide pact, which was possible but seemed unlikely. But how did the killers get in and out without being noticed by the surveillance team? Fézard had sent one of his officers to collect the surveillance logs and photographs, and while the forensics team, pathologist and photographers all went about their business, Fézard himself converted one end of the office into an interview room.
The owner of the building, summoned from his office in the town, said that as far as he knew, Technomatics Inc. was a South Korean computer consultancy. They had had good references and always paid their rent on time by direct debit on an account at a bank in Marseilles. There had been no problem with their tenancy.
The younger Monsieur Beauchêne, the wine merchant from the adjoining office, said he knew very little about his neighbours. He occasionally met one or two of them going in or out. He had the impression that they started work earlier than he and his father did and that they did not leave the building at lunchtime. He did know that they convened in the afternoon in their boardroom – ‘I called on them one afternoon when my water supply had stopped working, to see if they had the same problem. They hadn’t – it was something to do with our pipes. I found them all sitting around the table like the Apostles, sipping tea from tiny cups.’
The safe, opened at last, was empty except for two large envelopes. One contained 40,000 Swiss francs and $30,000 in hundred-dollar bills. The other held a number of passports. Martin examined them, sorting them into two piles. ‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘There seem to be two passports for each person. One is South Korean all right but the other looks to me as though it’s North Korean. The photos in them are identical and the names seem to match, but I guess one is real and the other’s a fake. It doesn’t take much imagination to work out which is which. This isn’t a South Korean computer consultancy at all, it’s something to do with North Korea.’
‘Bizarre,’ said Fézard. ‘They claimed their head office was in Seoul.’
‘More likely to be Pyongyang.’
‘But who murdered them?’ asked Isobel. ‘I realise they must have been poisoned, and probably by the tea they drank. But how could anyone do it without being spotted?’
‘Easily,’ said Martin. ‘Come have a look.’ He led the way down the hall to the conference room. From the doorway he pointed at the teacups on the table. ‘There are eleven cups.’
‘Yes,’ said Isobel, and looked at him a little curiously.
‘But only ten bodies.’
‘You think we’re missing a corpse then?’
‘No.’ He pointed at the table. ‘One of those cups is full. I think our killer was joining these unfortunate gentlemen for tea. Somehow he managed to put poison in the tea, and didn’t drink any himself.’
‘Oh, at first I thought you meant––’ And Isobel stopped.
He got her meaning. ‘I don’t think Liz was ever here. But the killer was, and I’d bet even money he’s the same person who’s grabbed her.’
‘If you’re right, why didn’t the surveillance see him?’ asked Isobel.
‘The pathologist says these men have been dead only a very short time,’ interrupted Fézard. ‘The logs and photos have arrived, so let’s get that receptionist up here and see what she has to say.’
The pretty receptionist looked a mess. She had been crying and her eye make-up was smudged. She had heard what had happened in the building and was shaking with a mixture of excitement and fear. Told by Fézard that her information would be of the utmost importance, she tried to pull herself together.
The Koreans had all arrived before nine o’clock when she started work, and had been let in by the night guard. She had not seen any of them go out again. She looked carefully at the surveillance pictures and was able to identify the workers in the other offices. The pictures showed that at 10.02 a delivery man had entered the building carrying a refill for a water cooler. Yes. That was for one of the offices on the second floor, she said. He had left it in reception to be collected. She had signed for it.
‘Were there any other deliveries?’ asked Martin. At about two o’clock, she told them, another delivery man had arrived with a parcel for Technomatics. ‘Did he leave it in reception?’ asked Seurat.
‘No, Monsieur. I rang through and they asked me to send him up.’
‘How long d
id he stay?’
‘He left not long before you all arrived.’
Isobel was already sorting through the photographs. 14.03. A short stocky man in a cap, worn pulled down over his eyes, was going through the door, carrying a square brown box. At 16.13, he was coming out, without the parcel.
‘That must be him,’ said Isobel, spreading the photos out on the table.
‘Have you seen this man before?’ she asked the receptionist.
‘Yes. Once or twice, bringing deliveries.’
‘It could be Kubiak,’ said Martin.
‘We have photographs of him which the Swiss sent when they asked us to put surveillance on him, and we have some we took ourselves during the surveillance,’ Fézard put in.
Martin nodded grimly. They would wait for the photographs to provide confirmation, but he was already certain of the identity of the delivery man. It didn’t help to think that Liz had been abducted by a man who in Switzerland had proved he wouldn’t hesitate to dispose of anyone who got in his way.
Chapter 55
It was 6.30 in the evening in London, an hour earlier than Marseilles, and Andy Bokus’s expression said I told you so. Geoffrey Fane suppressed a sigh. It was difficult enough trying to make sense of this business – Liz Carlyle was missing, ten Koreans were dead in an office in Marseilles – without having to deal with his American colleague’s ego. He said curtly, ‘I don’t know why you’re looking so pleased with yourself, Andy. We’ve got a crisis on our hands.’
‘I appreciate that, Geoffrey. It’s just that I was thinking, this is a scenario you and I have seen before. The bloody Russians are at it again. One of our drones went out of control and blew itself up. Fortunately no one got hurt – believe me, we’d be retaliating if they had.’
‘Steady on––’ Fane began.
Bokus was having none of it. ‘I know you’re all excited about this supposed North Korean connection, but I think this guy Park Woo-jin has been working for our friends in Moscow, not Pyongyang. I know Carlyle thinks she got the truth out of him, but it may be that he himself didn’t even know who he was working for.’
The Geneva Trap Page 24