The Exile

by Allan Folsom

  Then, twenty more minutes into it, Marten suddenly remembered what Kovalenko had told him about Cabrera’s background; he had been raised in Argentina by the sister of his deceased mother, a European of great wealth. If she was European, why would she raise her sister’s son in South America even if she could afford to?

  Abruptly he crossed to where Kovalenko was hunched over a file case. “Cabrera’s aunt, who is she?” he said quietly.

  Kovalenko looked up, then, with a glance at Inspector Beelr studiously going through a stack of files behind him, took Marten by the arm and led him to a corner of the room where they could talk.

  So far all the Zurich police knew was that Kovalenko was following up on murders of expatriate Russians that had taken place in France and Monaco. He had introduced Marten as a material witness and explained what they were looking for, but had said little else. In particular, he had said nothing whatsoever about Alexander Cabrera.

  “Do not bring up Cabrera,” he said quietly but directly. “I don’t want Beelr asking about him and then having it get back to Lenard. Do you understand?”

  “Who is his aunt?” Marten ignored him.

  “Baroness Marga de Vienne, a prominent and exceptionally influential European socialite.”

  “And wealthy, you said.”

  “More than wealthy.”

  “That would explain the charter jet sent to help Raymond escape from L.A. It would also explain how he managed to have a death certificate filed, got out of the hospital and probably onto an air ambulance, and had a John Doe taken from the morgue and burned up in his name at the crematorium. But it doesn’t explain Argentina, and why he was raised there.”

  Abruptly both men looked up.

  Beelr was coming toward them accompanied by a middle-aged man with a short haircut who was wearing a printer’s apron.

  “Excuse my interruption. This is Helmut Vaudois. He was a close friend of Hans Lossberg and had known him for some time. It seems that before Lossberg took over the firm he was a printer himself. From time to time he enjoyed doing work on the side, especially if the order was small. So it is possible Lossberg took on this menu job outside of the company.”

  “Would he have done it here?”

  “No,” Vaudois said, “he had a small printing system at his apartment.”

  78

  257 ZÜRICHBERGSTRASSE. 10:15 A.M.

  Maxine Lossberg greeted them at the door of the small apartment a block and a half from the Zurich Zoo. Her hair obviously quickly put up, a housecoat pulled around her, Hans Lossberg’s forty-year-old wife was still clearly in shock and disbelief. It was only the presence of Lossberg’s friend Helmut Vaudois that comforted her at all, and she took his hand and held it the whole time they were there.

  Carefully and sympathetically, Inspector Beelr explained they had come looking for information that might help find her husband’s killer. Did she happen to know if her husband had recently done any printing work on his own? he asked. A private order perhaps, or a favor to a friend?

  “Ja,” she said and led them down a narrow hallway to a back room where Lossberg had an old-fashioned printing press and racks of type, and which smelled of ink.

  Hurriedly she looked through his file drawers and was surprised to find nothing.

  “Hans always kept a copy of whatever he printed,” she said in German.

  Beelr translated, then asked her, “What was it that he printed?”

  “Ein Speisekarte.”

  “A menu,” Beelr translated quickly.

  Marten and Kovalenko exchanged glances.

  “Who did he print it for?” Kovalenko asked.

  Beelr translated. Again she replied in German. Again Beelr translated.

  “A business acquaintance, she doesn’t know who. All she knows is that there were exactly two hundred menus to be printed. No more, no less, and then the proofs destroyed and type disassembled. She remembers that because her husband told her.”

  “Ask her if she knows when the print order was made.”

  Once more Beelr translated. Once more she replied in German and Beelr translated.

  “She doesn’t remember exactly when the order was placed, but her husband did a proof some time last week and then did the printing itself last Monday night. She wanted him to go out to a movie, but he refused because he had the print order. He was very busy, and the order had to be done quickly.”

  Marten and Kovalenko exchanged glances. Ford and Vabres were murdered early Wednesday morning. Vabres could easily have picked the menu up from Lossberg on Tuesday.

  “What was on the menu?” Kovalenko pressed.

  Again Beelr asked; again Maxine Lossberg replied. She didn’t know. A man had come to the apartment Sunday, and she had seen him briefly as Lossberg took him into the back room, probably to show him the proof. After that she had never seen him again.

  “Kovalenko.” Marten touched Kovalenko’s sleeve and motioned him out of the room.

  “Show her,” he said when they were out of earshot.

  “Show her what?”

  “The photos of Cabrera. If it was him, she’ll tell us immediately. It would be enough for you to request his fingerprints.”

  Kovalenko hesitated.

  “Are you afraid to find out?”

  Maxine Lossberg sat at the kitchen table as Kovalenko opened his laptop, then sat down beside her and pulled up the Russian Ministry of Justice photo file on Alexander Cabrera.

  Marten stood behind them, looking over Kovalenko’s left shoulder, while Beelr and Helmut Vaudois looked over his right.

  There was a click and Marten saw the photo of Cabrera getting into a limousine outside his company headquarters in Buenos Aires.

  Kovalenko looked to Maxine Lossberg.

  “I can’t tell,” she said in German.

  Another click and Marten saw the photo of Cabrera in overalls and hard hat looking at blueprints spread out on the hood of a pickup truck somewhere in the desert.

  Maxine shook her head. “Nein.”

  Click.

  Another photo came up. One Marten had never seen before. It was taken outside a hotel in Rome. Cabrera stood beside a car, talking on a cell phone. To his immediate right, a chauffeur held open the car’s rear door. A very attractive young woman with dark hair was sitting in the backseat, apparently waiting for Cabrera.

  Suddenly Marten froze at what he saw.

  “Nein.” Maxine Lossberg stood up. That was not the man whom she had seen with her husband.

  “Kovalenko,” Marten said abruptly, “enhance that.”

  “What?”

  “That photo, enhance it. Bring up the woman in the backseat.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it!”

  Kovalenko looked over his shoulder at Marten, wholly puzzled. Beelr stared, too; so did Maxine Lossberg and Helmut Vadois. It was Marten’s tone. Astonishment, rage, fear all in one.

  Kovalenko turned back.

  Click. He enhanced the photo; the woman became clearer.

  “Again,” Marten demanded.

  Click.

  The woman’s face filled the screen. It was a profile. But there was no doubt who it was. No doubt at all.

  Rebecca.

  79

  “Jesus God!” Marten grabbed Kovalenko by his jacket and dragged him out of the room and down the hallway.

  “Why the hell didn’t you show me that before, when we were in Paris?”

  “What the hell are you talking about? I asked you if you wanted to see more, you said no.”

  “How did I know you had that?”

  Now they had reached the living room. Marten shoved Kovalenko inside, slammed the door, and pushed him against it.

  “You stupid bastard. You follow Cabrera everywhere. But you don’t know who he’s with?”

  “Let go of me,” Kovalenko said coldly.

  Marten hesitated and then stepped back. He was white, trembling with rage.

  Kovalenko stared at him, perplexed
. “What is it, the girl?”

  “She is my sister.”

  “Your sister?”

  “How many more photos do you have of Cabrera with her in them?”

  “None here. Perhaps a half-dozen more on the master file in Moscow. We never learned her name or where she lives; he’s kept her quite protected. The hotels she stays in, he always takes care of the room. She meets him often. To us it was of little importance.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “We have only been covering him for a few months, since we learned about Kitner. What happened before that I don’t know.” Kovalenko hesitated. “You had no idea she was seeing someone?”

  “None.” Marten crossed the room and then turned back. “I need your cell phone.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Call her, find out where she is, make sure she’s alright.”

  “Okay.” Kovalenko reached into his jacket and took out his cell phone, then handed it to Marten. “Don’t tip your hand, don’t tell her why you are calling. Just find out where she is and make certain she’s safe. We’ll decide what to do afterward.”

  Marten nodded, then lifted the phone and dialed. It rang four times and then a recording came on in French telling him the customer he was trying to reach was away from the phone or out of the area. He hung up and dialed a second number. It rang twice and then someone picked up.

  “Rothfels résidence,” a female voice said with a French accent.

  “Rebecca, please. This is her brother.”

  “She is not here, monsieur.”

  “Where is she?”

  “With the Monsieur and Madame Rothfels and their children. They are spending the weekend in Davos.”

  “Davos?” Marten glanced at Kovalenko, then turned back to the phone. “Do you have a cell phone number for Mr. Rothfels?”

  “I am not permitted to give it out, I’m sorry.”

  “It is very important that I reach my sister.”

  “I apologize, monsieur. It is the rule. I would lose my job.”

  Marten looked to Kovalenko. “What’s your cell number?”

  Kovalenko told him, and Marten turned back to the phone.

  “I’m going to give you my number,” he said to the woman on the other end of the line. “Please call Mr. Rothfels and ask him to have Rebecca get in touch with me right away. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Marten gave her the number, had her repeat it, thanked her again, and hung up. He was still stunned. The idea that Rebecca was having an affair with Cabrera shocked him beyond anything he could imagine. No matter how she looked or dressed, or the languages she had learned to speak so fluently, or her sophistication in public, to him she was still a child barely recovered from a terrible illness. Yes, at some point she had to experience life and men. But Cabrera? How had they met? The chances of them even passing on the street were between nil and none, yet somehow they had.

  “Curious how things work,” Kovalenko said quietly. “The information was available all along and neither of us could have guessed. Curious, too, that it is Davos where your sister is.”

  “You think Cabrera could be with her?”

  “Davos, Mr. Marten, is where Kitner will be, where the announcement is to be made.”

  “And if he’s after Kitner—” Marten paused; there was no need to fill in the blanks. “How far is it to Davos from here?”

  “If we have no more snow, two hours by car.”

  “I guess we’re going.”

  “I guess we are.”

  80

  DAVOS, SWITZERLAND, VILLA ENKRATZER—LITERALLY VILLA

  SKYSCRAPER. STILL FRIDAY, JANUARY 17. 10:50 A.M.

  Tsarevich Peter Kitner Mikhail Romanov woke from a deep sleep, much deeper, he thought, than normal, almost as if he had been drugged. But the day before had been long and emotional, and he laid it to that.

  Sitting up, he looked around. A light curtain was drawn over a large window at the far end of the room, but there was enough light to see that the accommodation was large, filled with antique furniture, and in every other way comfortable and well appointed. Unlike most hotel rooms, it had a high ceiling with large open beams, and he wondered what kind of place this was. Then he remembered Colonel Murzin telling him as they rode in the limousine convoy across Paris toward the waiting helicopters that they were going to a privately owned villa in the hills above Davos. It was safe, literally a mountain fortress, built in 1912 for a German arms manufacturer with entry through guardhouse gates and then up a winding five-mile forested drive to the château itself. It was where he was to be taken and where, later in the day, his family would be brought to join him—and where that same night he would dine with Pavel Gitinov, the president of Russia, to discuss the protocol for the pronouncement Gitinov would make in front of the political and business leaders gathered at the World Economic Forum.

  Kitner threw back the covers and got up, his head still heavy from sleep. He was about to enter the bathroom for his toilet when there was a sharp knock on the door and Colonel Murzin came in dressed in a business suit.

  “Good morning, Tsarevich. I regret to tell you I have bad news.”

  “What is it?”

  “Grand Duchess Catherine, her mother, and her son, Grand Duke Sergei, along with their bodyguards—there was a fire in their leased apartment in Paris. They were trapped on the top floor.”

  “And—”

  “They are dead, sir, all of them. I’m sorry.”

  Kitner was stunned, and for a moment he said nothing, then looked directly at Murzin. “Does President Gitinov know?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Would you like some help dressing, sir?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You are expected in twenty minutes, sir.”

  “Expected? Where, and for what?”

  “A meeting, sir. Downstairs in the library.”

  “What meeting?” Kitner was completely puzzled.

  “I believe you requested it, sir.”

  “I requested—?”

  “A private meeting between you and the Baroness de Vienne and Alexander Cabrera.”

  “They are here? In this building?” Kitner felt as if a blade had suddenly been run through him.

  “The château was taken for the weekend by the Baroness, sir.”

  “I want to telephone my office right away.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir.”

  “Why not?” Dread rose in Kitner, but he tried not to show it.

  “It’s an order, sir. The Tsarevich is to make no contact outside of the residence until the formal announcement is made tomorrow.”

  “Who gave this order?” Kitner’s dread suddenly turned to disbelief and then outrage.

  “President Gitinov, sir.”

  81

  “Clem, it’s Nicholas. It’s very important. Call me at this number as soon as you can.” Marten gave Lady Clem Kovalenko’s cell phone number and clicked off.

  The highway distance from Zurich to Davos was just over ninety miles and under ordinary circumstances should take, as Kovalenko had said, about two hours. But these were not ordinary circumstances, and the weather had little to do with it. The World Economic Forum increasingly drew sometimes-violent mobs of antiglobalization dissidents, mostly young and idealistic, protesting global economic tyranny by the rich and powerful countries, and the corporations that allegedly funded them. As a result highways, railway lines, and even mountain footpaths were blocked by hordes of Swiss police.

  Zurich Kantonspolizei Inspector Beelr had given Kovalenko a pass but had warned that he couldn’t guarantee it would work in what was bound to be a very difficult and hostile situation. Still Kovalenko had taken it and thanked him and both Maxine Lossberg and Helmut Vaudois for their cooperation. Then they were gone, with Marten at the wheel of the ML500.

  It was just pa
st eleven when they left Zurich, and the weather had cleared to puffy clouds with a bright sun drying out the roadway. The snow-covered Alps shimmered postcardlike in the distance.

  Kovalenko looked over at Marten and saw his attention fixed almost trancelike on the roadway ahead, and he knew he was thinking of his sister and how and why she had ever come to be with Alexander Cabrera. It was a bizarre twist of coincidence that made Kovalenko begin to think about the idea of sudba, or fate. It was a concept carved deeply into the Russian character, but he’d always taken it with a grain of salt, a folk-myth from another time to be believed or not, if it was convenient. Yet here he was wholly entwined with an American he’d first seen only days ago in a Parisian park abruptly turn away from a police investigation, an act that immediately put him under a cloud of suspicion. In no time at all they’d been brought to the point where they were now, riding in the same car, hundreds of miles from Paris, rocketing toward a common destination with this man’s sister as much the focus of their attention as their prime murder suspect, Alexander Cabrera. If that was not fate, what was it?