Casanova (9 page)

A handful of other skiers had gathered and was making preparations while they waited for friends. It was still early enough to avoid the rush. I saw Charlotte’s chalet driver pull over. She got out and saw me. Her gloved hand waved and then she headed towards me, moving with that distinctive heel-to-toe ski-boot walk. She held her skis balanced together over her shoulder.

‘What have you done with your grandfather?’

‘It’s okay; he wanted to stay at the chalet. He’s spending today acclimatising.’

I knew how he felt.

‘Are you ready?’

We passed through the barrier like racehorses leaving the stalls. Our climb up the two flights of rubber covered concrete steps inside the stark lift-house reminded me of the energy and technique required for moving about in ski boots. At the top, we had slowed to a more sensible pace. Charlotte said something about moving like a gorilla but I ignored her.

The wheelhouse made all those usual mechanical noises as it turned and powered the winch. The bubble cars hung from the thick cable like sleeping bats. We selected one and slotted our skis into the box on the outside so they stuck up at an angle as though they might be waiting to receive a radio message. Charlotte moved in time with the conveyor belt, then stepped inside, and quickly sat down. I followed and sat opposite. The cable spun us round and we lifted off. A steep rise through the snow covered fir trees and we were soon climbing fast. Below, the village fell away. The view was a black and white canvas that reminded me of a Scandinavian painting I’d once seen. An abrupt silence fell except for the occasional clatter when the car passed over the support pylons. The higher we climbed the lower the temperature fell. The window was down and I could feel the air on my face like icy mountain breath. Charlotte adjusted her cashmere hat and fastened her jacket at the neck so it made a collar that hid her chin. Her gloved hands reclaimed her ski poles from between her legs. She looked at me and smiled. I couldn’t read it.

‘Can we ski a couple of runs before we go to the chalet?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘We better go straight there; work first, play later.’

She smiled at me again. This time I
could
read it.

I checked my K106. The satellite reading showed we had travelled above the chalet. The lift was ending. Charlotte looked over my shoulder. ‘We’re here,’ she said. The cable braked making the bubble swing sharply. We entered the winch house and slowed to a crawl. The automatic doors popped open and Charlotte stepped out. I followed her. We both reclaimed our skis from the box and headed for the exit. The snow crunched below our feet. We dropped our skis, knocked the snow from the bottom of our boots with our poles and then snapped shut the bindings. I checked my K106 again.

Charlotte watched me. ‘Which way?’ she asked.

‘East,’ I said. ‘We need to ski this run and then pick up a trail that traverses east through the trees.’ I pointed with my ski pole at the signpost. Charlotte positioned her goggles and pushed off. She gathered speed by lifting one ski after the other like a skater. I followed.

At the top of the run she glanced back briefly before disappearing at pace. She had seen me close behind and decided to test me. I’m sure it wasn’t a race but we weren’t going to be stopping until we reached the trail.

I put in one brief turn to test the snow and my edges. It was fast and icy. I tucked and pointed diagonally across the run to where the first brow hid a steep turn. As my skis slapped back down from the jump, I was close enough to see Charlotte’s smile and hear her squeal. She dipped with natural ability and took the turn at speed with her edges spraying snow like ice from a champagne bucket. She straightened with confident balance and then glanced to see where I was. Fortunately, the slopes were almost empty of other skiers. At the speed we were going, I wasn’t excited by the prospect of having to take evasive action. Another brow came up fast and Charlotte pulled her knees to her chest and took a
Breecher’s Brook
amount of air. I followed. On landing, I almost caught an edge and fought to hold my left ski. Charlotte put in a turn across the slope to break her speed. I came up alongside her. She was still smiling.

‘There’s the trail,’ she said. She had turned and was skiing backwards. I went passed her. At the end of the run, I braked to a stop on the edge of the flat trail. Charlotte was a second behind me. She sprayed me with snow from the edges of her skis as she skidded to a stop beside me. She lifted her goggles and laughed.

‘You
can
ski,’ she said. Her cheeks were pink and she breathed in hard.

‘Downhill racing is dangerous,’ I said.

‘It is if you catch an edge,’ she agreed. ‘For a second there I thought you were going to take a tumble.’

I ignored her and pushed off down the trail. Charlotte caught me up and tapped her ski poles together as some downhill racers do just before they go through the gate.

An easy glide led us along the path. The narrow trail zigzagged and dropped below the tree line. The fir trees held fat deposits of snow that deadened the sound. The Alpine air pressed on my senses like a Wolfgang sonata. When the mountain steepened and the ledge narrowed, I stopped to check my K106. Charlotte stopped beside me. The cabin was close.

A rock overhang hid the turn. The trail opened out. It was an undulating sloped basin with trees and rocks pushing through the snow. I saw the wooden cabin. My K106 confirmed it was the right one. We pulled off the trail and released the bindings on our skis. The cabin was above us. We trudged up together with our boots sinking in the snow.

‘What’s the plan?’

‘Let’s just knock on the door and see what happens.’

Our stiff boots clumped up the wooden steps. I used the heavy metal doorknocker. The old man had a friendly, enquiring expression. We never heard what his voice sounded like. We both felt the bullet. It distorted the cold mountain air between our heads. It made us instinctively flinch. It had come from a sniper rifle. The blood splatter and the sound were the two things I remember clearly. The old man dropped. His head was leaking badly. He was dead.

I pulled Charlotte down beside me and scanned the view for the most likely vantage point. Charlotte tried to speak but her voice didn’t come out. I stared into her eyes. She was in frightened shock. There was a ridge. Fir trees gave it thick cover. It was a professional hit. The assassin had been waiting for the old man to come through the door. I made an instant decision. I shook Charlotte.

‘Stay here. Go inside and close the door. Find Casanova and keep him inside. I’ll be back.’

I left her. I went down the wooden steps as fast as my boots would allow. I knew the assassin would flee. Professionals always plan a vanishing act. The village would provide cover and time to escape. The village—I had to make an interception before then. There were only two ways to get down, either along the piste trail or off-piste, through the trees. I stamped my bindings shut, grabbed my poles and pushed away towards the trail. The assassin had been above the cabin. There was every chance I could make a sighting. I skied out, searching and then stopped on the edge where the mountain fell away into deep snow and wooded fir trees. I scanned through the flat light and the silence. I reasoned it most likely the assassin would be on skis, although I didn’t dismiss the possibility of a snow-cat. I listened for an engine but there was only silence. I listened for the sound of skis. The mountain seemed to sigh and settle into a deeper slumber. I waited, searching all the time. I couldn’t ski uphill. I considered taking my skis off. Then, as I began to think I wouldn’t see anyone, I caught a glimpse of movement. It was a figure dressed in white and carrying a rucksack. It lasted for only a moment. The figure was travelling on foot and had crossed the trail at the very top of my vision before dropping into the deep snow and trees, and out of sight.

I couldn’t give chase uphill. My only chance of making contact was to drop into the trees myself and hope to force an interception lower down. I looked over the edge. It didn’t look inviting. It was steep and densely wooded. The virgin snow showed no one else had bothered to ski it; there were just too many trees. I dropped over sideways, keeping all my weight on the lower ski and slid between two hefty tree trunks. I pushed down with my outside pole and jumped one-eighty degrees to maintain control. The skis held and I balanced with my knees deeply bent. The snow fell away below me and I slipped lower. I pushed forward and traversed between the next obstacles of trees. I slowed, jump-turned again and then used the cover from another hefty tree trunk to stop. I listened and searched. Higher up, across the steeply sloping copse, I heard the faint sound of movement. I held my position and watched. The hooded figure, clothed in white, appeared for a moment between the trees. The figure was stepping carefully and moving downwards. There was something in the athletic movement of the body, something I thought I knew. I waited. Then there was a second glimpse. Lower down this time. I pushed away from the solid tree trunk and traversed carefully until another tree offered cover. I stopped. The hooded figure was now below me, moving with haste and balance in the difficult conditions. I followed silently, dropping sideways through the deep snow. I searched ahead and saw a track below, which crossed the slope at an angle towards the village. It was a track used by walkers. The hooded figure was closing in on an easy route back to the village. I needed to make my move. I skied away from the tree and searched for a fast route to the bottom. With my concentration taken elsewhere, I lost my balance and had to perform a hasty and noisy turn to avoid falling. The hooded figure stopped and half glanced back before continuing onward at a quicker pace. It was time for me to intercept.

I broke cover and turned between the trees, dropping quickly. We reached the level track together. The white figure began to turn but on my skis, I was much too fast. I dipped and pushed. My skis shot me forward. I leaned out and made a controlled body slam. We went over together. My arms pulling downwards like a rugby player making a tackle. The snow on the track was compacted and we slid right across and fell off the other side. I ended up on top, half buried in the deep, soft snow. Both my skis had come off. I felt struggling below me. It was small yet powerful. I felt strength and determination. I exerted my superior force and the struggling stopped. The head turned but I couldn’t see the face. I freed my hand and pulled the hood down. Black shiny hair fell out as if wet coal tipped from a scuttle. Her eyes and my eyes were only inches apart. My surprise was total. It was Xing.

8

MONDAY, 10:20—19:35

Out of everyone I’d ever met, the one person I never thought I would ever see again was Xing. I felt the astonishment. It grabbed me and twisted me with huge inert force. It was so soon after Tenerife. How was it possible? What the hell was she doing in the Alps killing a Swiss banker?

‘I can’t breathe,’ she said.

Her voice brought me back from my thoughts and I focused.

‘Shut up,’ I said.

‘This is pleasant,’ she said, ‘but we can’t stay like this forever.’

My immediate thought was to kill her. Unfortunately, my next thought was to realise I needed answers; answers that only she could provide.

‘Please get off me.’

‘Shut up.’

I found my phone and called Charlotte.

‘Where are you? What’s happened?’ Her voice sounded shaky but at least it was working again.

‘I’m a little way down the mountain. I have the assassin. Are you in the cabin?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Is Casanova there?’

‘Yes, he’s here. The dead man is Ulrich, the Swiss banker.’

‘Yes, that’s what I figured. Is there anybody else there?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Stay there, I’m going to come to you, okay?’

‘Okay,’ she said.

Getting back to the cabin was not simple. I had to consider Xing and the prospect she might not want to come with me.

‘I need answers,’ I said to her. She didn’t reply. ‘Who paid for the job,’ I said, ‘and why?’ She still didn’t reply. I breathed out deeply. ‘How’s your wound?’ I asked. ‘Did it mend okay?’

She turned and looked at me. She nodded her head. ‘How’s your cut and your heart?’ she asked.

My heart—what did she mean by that?

‘We’re going back to the cabin,’ I said. I didn’t have a weapon. I pulled her rucksack from her back and looked through it. Inside was the dismantled sniper rifle she had used. She had broken it down into five pieces. It was custom-built, just like the one in Tenerife. A purpose made case held the pieces neatly. The barrel was wound with white tape like an old tennis racket handle and the butt was crudely painted with white paint. I took it out and successfully managed to reassemble the parts while still holding Xing securely in the snow with my knees. I didn’t bother with the suppressor, which sat camouflaged inside two white, elastic wristbands, the type tennis players wear. The small magazine held four bullets. They too looked purpose made. Three bullets remained. I checked the rifle was ready to fire and then tucked it under my arm.

‘We’re going to climb back up to the cabin. You’ll be in front. You can try to make a run for it, but if you do, I’m going to try to shoot you in the leg. You might get away but I reckon odds are I’ll hit you before you do. I’m a good shot. So, what do you say?’

Xing nodded her head.

‘Okay, I’ll go with you to the cabin,’ she said.

‘Good,’ I said.

I got off her.

We both stood up. I held the rifle against my hip.

‘You’re going to carry the skis and poles,’ I told her. ‘I’m wearing ski boots and I’m carrying the rifle. I’ll bring your rucksack.’

I told Xing how to put the skis together and balance them on her shoulder. She held the poles in her other hand. I slung the rucksack over my back. ‘Okay, let’s climb back up.’ She turned and looked up at the climb we had ahead. ‘Xing,’ I said, ‘there’s no need for anything desperate. I just want to talk and the cabin is the best place to do it.’ I didn’t get a response. She had already begun the climb.

At the top, back on the trail, four skiers went by. I held the rifle flat against my side, out of sight.

During the climb, Xing hadn’t looked back once. While we climbed, I had had time to think. I had formulated a list of questions I wanted the answers to. Some of them were about Tenerife. I shook the Tenerife memories from my mind and focused on the present. We arrived at the cabin.

‘Leave the skis and the poles there,’ I said.

Xing dropped them on the snow. I held the rifle pointed at her. I called Charlotte. ‘Let us in.’

Charlotte peeked through a crack in the door and then opened it wider and we went in. We had to step over the dead body of Ulrich. He still lay where he had fallen.

Charlotte stared at Xing. Neither of them spoke.

‘Where’s Casanova?’ I asked.

‘Through there,’ Charlotte said.

We entered the main room. Casanova sat quietly in a high-backed chair in the corner. His normally ruddy features were as white as the mountaintop. Looking at his shock and discomfort made me even more convinced of his innocence in the death of the girl back in Soho. He stared at me first and then Xing and finally the rifle. He didn’t speak.

Nobody spoke so I said to Xing, ‘Sit down there and put your hands on your head.’ She obeyed. All three of them were staring at me. Then I realised something, I didn’t know what to say.

Fortunately, Charlotte spoke. She looked at Xing and then back at me. ‘Is this the assassin?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘this is Xing.’

Charlotte repeated, ‘Xing!’

‘Yes,’

‘The assassin, the one in Tenerife,’ Charlotte said.

‘Yes,’

‘...Xing, the assassin from Hong Kong?’

I nodded. Charlotte stared at Xing. Xing sat with her hands on her head. She kept silent.

‘Who paid for the hit?’ She didn’t answer. I realised Xing was as confused as I was. She was trying to understand why I was there and what my connection was to Ulrich, her Swiss target. ‘I’ll swop information with you,’ I said.

Charlotte interrupted. ‘You can’t do that,’ she said, ‘the Official Secrets Act.’

I ignored the Official Secrets Act and said, ‘This man,’ I pointed at Casanova, ‘runs a big UK bank and he’s stolen a large sum of money. I’m trying to get it back.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ Casanova said.

‘Shut up,’ I said.

Xing looked at him and then back at me. She gave me that look of hers. It reminded me so much of Tenerife. ‘The job was paid for by the head of a crime organisation in Macau, you know the organisations by the name triads. It was a standard job. I don’t know anymore.’

‘Standard until I appeared.’

‘Yes,’ she said.

I looked at Casanova. ‘What do you know about this?’ I said.

Charlotte said, ‘I should call...’

I looked at her. ‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘There’ll be time.’

‘Well, tell me,’ I said to Casanova.

‘I didn’t steal the money,’ he said. ‘It was an unauthorised investment. That’s all. We had done it before. It always worked before.’

We were all watching him. He was scared. I might be too in his place.

‘You better explain,’ I said.

‘I transfer the money from my bank using my authorisation code and then it’s returned in under twenty-four hours and nobody knows about it.’

‘Transfer it where?’ I said.

‘To Zurich,’ he said, ‘to Stein’s bank.’ He gestured towards the door to indicate he meant the dead Ulrich.

‘What did Stein do with the money?’ I asked.

‘He lent it to a man in Macau,’ Casanova said.

‘A loan for less than twenty-four hours, why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Yes, you do.’

We were all watching Casanova.

‘Collateral,’ he said.

‘Explain,’ I said.

‘Collateral,’ he repeated. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘the money is used to let someone see you have the capital to make deals, prove you’re a big player, earn respect. The money isn’t spent it’s just for show. You have it in your bank account, people see it and then you transfer it back.’

‘What was in it for you?’

‘I earned a commission.’

‘Yeah, I bet you did. I bet you didn’t pay the tax on it though. Did Stein keep it hidden away for you?’

I didn’t get an answer.

‘How much did Stein make out of it?’

Again, there was no answer.

‘So what went wrong?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. It all happened exactly as before, except this time the money wasn’t transferred back.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘Did Stein know why?’

‘No.’

‘What about the girl in Soho?’

‘...Soho. What girl?’

‘The girl you visited in her flat; the girl who’s now laid out cold in a police morgue.’

‘I didn’t kill her. She was alive when I left.’ His fear level had just jumped two notches.

‘Who did kill her then and why?’

‘I don’t know. They used her as a go-between. She passed me messages, verbal messages. That’s all.’

Then I remembered Meriwether’s words:
in his report, the pathologist has given ethnicity as Far Eastern, Southeast Asia, most likely Macau or Hong Kong. Don’t ask me how he knows I have no idea.
The murdered girl was a messenger for the triad boss in Macau.

‘What messages?’ I asked.

‘Just dates, identity codes, numbers; that’s all. Nothing really, she didn’t even know what it meant, and she certainly didn’t know what it was for.’

‘Then why was she killed?’

‘To clean up,’ said Xing. We all looked at her. She was looking straight at me. It surprised me to hear her voice. Slow and quiet with that particular accent of hers.

‘She was killed to sever the line of communication; to break any connection back to Macau. Dead people can’t speak, can they?’

‘Do you know about this girl; this killing?’ I asked. She didn’t answer. ‘Did you kill her?’ It’s what I thought. I said it without pausing to consider. ‘Did you?’

‘No. I didn’t.’

Did I believe her? Did any of us believe her?

‘I didn’t kill her,’ Xing said again. It sounded like the truth.

‘Then how do you know about it?’

‘I don’t. I know about the triads and their work. Anyway, you thought this man killed her.’

I looked at Xing’s hands. They were small. Were they too small to strangle someone? She was strong enough. That, I already knew.

‘I didn’t kill her,’ Casanova repeated. ‘She was alive when I left her.’

‘Why did you go to see her? The money was already transferred by then.’