The Exile

by Allan Folsom

  There was a sharp knock at the door and then it opened and Taylor Barrie, Kitner’s fifty-year-old executive secretary, stepped inside.

  “Dr. Higgs, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Higgs entered and Barrie left, closing the door behind him.

  “Well?”

  “You had raised concern that Alexander Cabrera would be attending the economic forum at Davos,” Higgs said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “He is not on any of the guest panels, nor has he registered to attend any discussion groups. However, a mountain château outside of the city has been rented by a Zurich-based attorney named Jacques Bertrand.”

  “Go on.”

  “Bertrand is a middle-aged bachelor who shares a small Zurich apartment with an elderly aunt.”

  “So?”

  “The château he has rented is called Villa Enkratzer. Taken literally it means Villa Skyscraper. It has sixty rooms and an underground garage for twenty cars.”

  “How does that bring us to Cabrera?”

  “Helilink, a private helicopter firm based in Zurich—”

  “I know Helilink. What about it?”

  “The firm has been hired to provide twin-engine helicopter service from Zurich to the château in Davos, Saturday, two days from now. The booking was made by the private secretary of a Gerard Rothfels. Rothfels is in charge of Cabrera’s European operation.”

  “I see.” Kitner turned slowly in his chair, then stood and walked to the window behind him to look down at his formal garden, stick-bare on this January day.

  So his fears had not only been confirmed, they’d become infinitely darker. Yes, it had been Cabrera who’d taunted him at the Crillon about Davos. But his purpose had been more than to taunt. Cabrera was telling Kitner that he knew what was to happen there. Now Higgs had confirmed Cabrera would be there when it did.

  That left little doubt the Baroness would be there, too.

  What had originally been conceived by a Swiss professor of business administration as a kind of annual weeklong think tank for top European business executives to discuss international trade in the isolated Swiss alpine resort of Davos had evolved into a colossal coming-together of world political and business leaders to, in essence, work out the future on a world scale. This year would be no different except that Russian president Pavel Gitinov was to make a major announcement about the future of the new Russia in an increasingly electronic and global world. And Kitner, with his huge media reach and expertise, was to be a key player in what that future would bring.

  That was what troubled him, and deeply.

  Cabrera knew of the announcement, and that was information that would only have come from the Baroness herself. How she knew was another subject altogether because it was secret—a decision reached only days earlier at a meeting between Kitner, President Gitinov, and top Russian leaders at a private villa on the Black Sea. But the how of it made little difference. The fact was, she knew, and Cabrera knew, and both would be in Davos when the announcement was made.

  Abruptly Kitner turned to Higgs. “Where is Michael?”

  “In Munich, sir. And then Rome tomorrow. Later in the day he will join you and your wife and daughters in Davos.”

  “Do they have the usual security?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Double it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Higgs.”

  Higgs nodded sharply, then turned and left.

  Kitner watched him go, then went to his desk and sat down, his thoughts wholly on the Baroness and Cabrera.

  What in God’s name were they doing? The Baroness had nearly as much money and influence as he did. Cabrera had become a very successful businessman. That Neuss and Curtay were dead and the knife and film were the only things taken from Curtay’s safe made him assume the Baroness was not only responsible for their deaths but had both items in her possession. If that was true, both of them were safe. So why the taunting at the hotel, and why were they coming to Davos—what else did they want?

  It was something he had to find out and quickly, before the forum at Davos even began. Immediately he pressed a button on his intercom. Seconds later the door opened and Taylor Barrie entered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want you to arrange a private meeting for tomorrow morning, somewhere away from Paris. It is to be between me, Alexander Cabrera, and the Baroness Marga de Vienne. No one else is to be present. None of their people, none of mine.”

  “You will want Michael to be there.”

  “No, I do not want Michael to be there. Or even to know about it,” Kitner said harshly.

  “What about Higgs and me, sir?”

  “No one. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir. No one, sir,” Barrie said quickly and then turned and left, closing the door behind him. It was the first time in his ten-year employment he’d seen Kitner filled with such grave intensity.

  54

  THE PARIS METRO. STILL THURSDAY, JANUARY 16. 11:05 A.M.

  Nick Marten held on to a handrail in the swaying subway car praying he had taken the right Metro line from the railway station. Apart from the sweater, jeans, sports jacket, and running shoes he wore, all he had was his wallet with his English driver’s license, Manchester University student ID, a photograph of Rebecca taken at Jura, two credit cards, and about three hundred dollars in euros. Enough for an enjoyable student week in Paris perhaps, but hardly enough for a man already in trouble with the police and now in the country illegally. Yet that part of it was something he couldn’t think of. His job, first and foremost, was to get to the rue Huysmans, find the alley behind Armand’s apartment, and then find the wall behind his courtyard. And then hope to God Lenard’s men had left without finding the trash bag.

  If they had, it was a simple matter of scaling the wall and retrieving the hidden trash bag from the fountain. It was a process that should take no more than ten seconds, fifteen at most if he had trouble climbing the wall. Simple enough if he had taken the proper Metro line and could find the rue Huysmans. Beyond that were two major obstacles. First, what to do if Lenard’s men were still there. Second, what to do if they weren’t and he was successful in retrieving the bag containing the files. What then? Where would he go? Or stay? And, after that, and most difficult of all, how to get a copy of the fingerprint Dan Ford’s killer had left from the Paris police? But for now he had to address the first of his problems—finding the alley and retrieving the trash bag.

  BOULEVARD RASPAIL. 11:27 A.M.

  Marten emerged from the Metro station in bright sunlight and stopped to get his bearings.

  Down and across the boulevard he could see the imposing buildings of what appeared to be a university. He walked toward them until he could make out an identifying sign—COLLÈGE STANISLAS. His heart jumped. Lenard had driven past it when they had come in from the Seine and dropped him off at Armand’s apartment. Another twenty feet and he saw a familiar street to his right. Rue Huysmans.

  He walked quickly down it, part of him alert for the police, another looking for a walkway that would lead to the alley behind. He passed one building and then two and then saw a narrow opening between buildings. He turned down it and a moment later was in the alley.

  He started forward cautiously. A blue car was parked to the side halfway to the end, and beyond it, a delivery truck. No one seemed to be in either. He picked up his pace, looking for a courtyard wall separating buildings with trash cans stored against it. A dozen paces more and he saw them. Instinctively, he stopped and looked back at the alley behind him. There was no one, not even a dog.

  Three steps and he was climbing on the cans, then pulling himself up the wall. At the top he stopped and peered over. As quickly his eyes went wide and he jumped back. It was a cold January day, and yet a completely naked young couple was making love on a courtyard bench. He recognized neither of them. Who were they? How long would they be there? At the same moment he saw something from the corner
of his eye. A police car had turned into the alley and was slowly coming toward him.

  He started and looked around. There was no place to go. Nor could he simply turn and walk away without drawing attention to himself. What to do? Then he saw several cardboard boxes stored against the wall in the shadows behind him. Pulling back, he ducked behind them and knelt down, trying to get out of sight. Five seconds passed, then ten. Where was the police car? Had the uniforms seen him and stopped? Were they already out, guns drawn, approaching him? Then the car’s front bumper passed and then the entire car rolled slowly by. He let out a breath and counted slowly to twenty and then eased forward and looked down the alley. The car was gone. He glanced in the other direction. Nothing but the blue car and delivery truck beyond it. Then he saw several more trash cans stored against another wall. They were the ones he remembered seeing before. That was Armand’s wall.

  Boldly he went forward. Five seconds later he was at the wall, once again using the trash cans to climb up. He hesitated at the top as he had before and carefully peered over. He recognized Armand’s courtyard immediately. Hurriedly, he scanned the apartment windows for signs of movement inside. He could see none. Taking the chance, he eased up and looked down into the fountain nestled in the winter-dead ivy covering the wall. He could see the trash bag covered with a layer of leaves, just as he had left it. One last glance at the apartment and he reached down. His fingers grasped the cold plastic. In a split second he had the bag up and out and was back over the wall. His feet touched the trash cans and he stepped down into the alley. Just as he did, the driver’s door of the blue car opened. A man stepped out.

  Kovalenko.

  55

  “Three freshly broken twigs in the ivy stalks,” Kovalenko said as he drove them quickly off, turning down the Boulevard Raspail and then onto the rue de Vaugirard. “Lenard’s men came into the courtyard, looked around for a moment or two, then went right back into the building. City people, I think. Not like a Russian brought up with the beauty and hardships of life in the country, or Americans who like to watch western movies. Do you like westerns, Mr. Marten?”

  Nick Marten didn’t know what to say or think. Kovalenko had simply shown himself and asked politely if Marten would get into the blue car, which, considering his lack of alternatives, he had. Now Kovalenko was obviously delivering him to the French police.

  “You found the bag and saw what was in it,” he said unhappily.

  Kovalenko nodded. “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you give it to Lenard?”

  “For the simple reason I found it and Lenard did not.”

  “Then why did you leave it there, why not just take it?”

  “Because I knew that at some point the person responsible for hiding it would want to retrieve it. And now I have both the person and the evidence.” Kovalenko turned onto the Boulevard Saint-Michel and slowed for traffic. “What did you find or think you might find in Detective Halliday’s appointment book that was so important you risked arrest, not once, but as we have seen, twice? Evidence that might incriminate you?”

  Marten was startled. “You don’t think I killed Halliday?”

  “You turned away when you saw him in Parc Monceau.”

  “I told you why. I owed him money.”

  “Who is to corroborate that?”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Nor did you take his appointment book.” Kovalenko looked at Marten directly, then turned back to the traffic in front of him.

  “Let’s assume for the moment that you did not kill him. Either you or Mr. Ford exhibited not inconsiderable bravado by snatching a piece of evidence from under the noses of the police at a murder scene. Which means you either knew, or believed, that what was in it had considerable value. Correct? And then, of course, there is the other piece that was in the bag, the accordion file. Where did that come from and what is its value?”

  Marten looked up. They were crossing the Seine on the Pont Saint-Michel. Directly ahead were the headquarters of the Paris Prefecture of Police.

  “What good does it do to put me in jail?”

  Kovalenko didn’t reply. In a moment they were at police headquarters. Marten expected the Russian to slow and turn in, but he didn’t. He kept on going, driving along Boulevard de Sebastopol and venturing deeper into the city’s Right Bank.

  “Where are we going?”

  Kovalenko remained silent.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “My reading of English, Mr. Marten, especially handwritten English, with all its uses of slang and shortcuts, is not the best.” Kovalenko took his eyes from the road to look at Marten. “So, what do I want from you? I want you to take me on a journey through the appointment book and the other file as well.”

  127 AVENUE HOCHE. 12:55 P.M.

  Flashlight on, electric power off.

  One screw at the top and then a second and then two more on the bottom and Alexander lifted the cover from the main electric panel. Two more screws and he loosened a large 220-volt circuit breaker. Being careful not to disturb the wires connecting it, he lifted it free.

  Next he opened a canvas workbag and took out a miniature timer with heavy-gauge wire-connectors at either end. Cautiously, he removed a connecting wire from the circuit breaker and attached it to one end of the timer, then did the same with a similar wire at the other end of the circuit breaker, in effect giving the timer control over the entire breaker. He put the breaker back in the panel and screwed it tight, then replaced the panel cover and the original four screws he had taken out.

  Flashlight off, electric power restored.

  Five seconds later he walked up the stairs from the basement, opened a service door, and went out into the alley. Parked outside was a rented Ford van. He got into it and drove off. The blue overalls and blond wig he wore, and the fake electrician’s license in his pocket, had been unnecessary. The door had been unlocked; no one had seen him come or go. Nor had he given anyone time to complain that the lights were out. The entire procedure from beginning to end had taken less than five minutes.

  At precisely 3:17 tomorrow morning, Friday, January 17, the timer would go off, sending an arc of electricity through the entire panel and plunging the building into darkness. Within seconds an intense electrical fire, driven by a phosphorus pellet inside the timer, would erupt inside the panel. The building was wood framed and old, as was the wiring. As with many memorable buildings in Paris, the landlord’s money had been spent on plaster and cosmetics, not safety. Within minutes the fire would spread throughout the structure, and by the time the first alarm had sounded the building would be a roaring inferno. Without electricity its elevators would be useless and the interior stairway, pitch-black. The building had seven floors, with two large apartments to each floor. Only those residents on the bottommost floors would survive. Those higher up would have very little chance to escape. Those at the very top, the penthouse, would have no chance at all. It was the top-floor penthouse at the front he cared most about. It had been rented by Grand Duchess Catherine Mikhailovna for herself, her mother, Grand Duchess Maria Kurakina, and her son, twenty-two-year-old Grand Duke Sergei Petrovich Romanov, the man most suspected would, if Russia allowed, become her next Tsar. Alexander’s work had assured he would not.

  56

  HÔTEL SAINT ORANGE, RUE DE NORMANDIE. STILL THURSDAY,

  JANUARY 16. 2:30 P.M.

  Nick Marten stood by the window in Kovalenko’s cold, ramshackle hotel room listening to the click of the keys as the Russian detective worked his laptop, writing a report on the events of the day that needed to be forwarded to Moscow immediately. On the bed behind the small desk where Kovalenko worked were Halliday’s appointment book and Dan Ford’s large accordion file. Neither had been opened.

  Watching Kovalenko work—big, bearded, bearish, his belly pushing solidly against the blue sweater he wore beneath his suit jacket, a large automatic just visible in a waist holster—Marten again had the sense that he was f
ar from the easygoing, professorial man he appeared. It was what he had felt the first time they’d met in the hotel room with Lenard’s men all around and Halliday’s body on the bed and then again in Armand’s apartment.

  As good a detective as Lenard was, Kovalenko was better; shrewder, more independent, more persistent. He had proven it over and over: his unauthorized stakeout of Dan Ford’s apartment, his early-morning pursuit of Ford into the countryside, his deliberate questioning of Marten on the way back from the river murder scenes; his apparent orchestration of the whole intimidating thing with Clem; his exacting search of Armand’s courtyard when Lenard’s men had turned away, and his subsequent discovery of the hidden trash bag. Then, instead of giving it over to the French police, he staked out the area and waited for someone to retrieve it—someone he was certain would come from the alley side and not from the apartment. Chiefly, Marten himself. How long the Russian had been prepared to wait, Marten had no idea, but it was the kind of canny, forceful behavior Red McClatchy would have loved.

  His intensity and diligence aside, the question was, why? What was he up to? Again came the sense that Kovalenko’s presence in Paris had to do with more than the murder of Alfred Neuss, something he was not acknowledging, even to the French police, and that he was working wholly on his own agenda. Put that together with what he might have learned from the Russian investigators who had been in L.A. shortly after Raymond had been killed and the knowledge that Halliday had been part of the original LAPD investigation team and it made perfect sense to think that Kovalenko had clearly tied the past to the present, meaning he believed what happened before in L.A. had everything to do with what was going on now in Paris.