Geneva Connection, The (34 page)

The guard placed cuffs around Baumgart’s ankles then shouted the all clear to his colleagues up front. Shortly before eight fifteen, the security gates slid open, and the van drove out of the courtyard, heading north on Route de Mauvoisin toward Verbier.

This time of year, the snow was thick on the ground, but the main roads were largely clear. The driver still needed to concentrate on the winding route descending two thousand meters down the mountain to the valley floor. The two guards in the front were chatting and listening to the radio while there was no conversation at the back. Baumgart just closed his eyes and thought about the nightmare of the months to come. He had no real defense to his crimes. He’d been greedy and had allowed himself to be seduced by the money and lifestyle. He knew the authorities were going to throw the book at him. No doubt, they’d use him to set an example. This thought, and the rolling motion of the van, made him feel nauseous.

Ten minutes into the journey, the vehicle approached a one hundred and eighty-degree bend on the mountain road. The driver pumped the brakes in plenty of time, anticipating this dangerous stretch and the sharp curve ahead. The shiny new patches of steel barrier provided ample evidence of those who’d underestimated the danger and had careered down the side of the mountain.

About a hundred yards before the bend, the driver lightly touched the brakes again. A large truck careened around the bend from the opposite direction, going far too fast and straddling both lanes. The guard slammed on the brakes and tugged furiously at the steering wheel, trying to avoid a collision. The van skidded to a halt moments before impact with the truck. Baumgart and the guard at the back were thrown against the front of the rear compartment and then hurled back onto the wooden bench.

Two heavily armed henchmen jumped out of the truck, spraying bullets from their machine guns. The two guards in the front cab were dead within seconds as the van was holed with rapid fire. Baumgart and the remaining guard threw themselves onto the floor. They were not injured due to the heavily strengthened metal cage surrounding the rear compartment of the van.

When the shooting was over, Kulpman stepped out of the black Mercedes which had pulled up behind the truck. He ordered his men to move their truck while he walked over to the rear window of the prison van and looked in. Baumgart and the guard were cowering on the floor. Baumgart lowered his forearms from his face, looked up, and then stumbled to the window once he realized who was out there.

“Franz. Thank God it’s you. Get me out of here, quickly,” Baumgart shouted.

Kulpman smiled, but said nothing.

“The other guards have the keys,” continued Baumgart, pointing to the front of the van.

Kulpman walked to the front of the van, dragged out the body of the dead driver, and sat in the driver’s seat. He put the gearbox into neutral and released the handbrake. As the vehicle began to roll down the road toward the dangerous bend, Kulpman jumped out. He watched as the van accelerated and hurtled toward the steel barrier. Baumgart was still at the rear window, thumping on the door in desperation. The vehicle smashed through the metal fence and flew three thousand feet to the bottom of the valley, bursting into flames on impact with the ground.

Kulpman and the two henchmen jumped into the Mercedes and sped off in the direction from which they’d come. The whole thing was over in less than five minutes.

Chapter 51

B
ILL
G
RENDON
L
OVED
E
VERYTHING
about his gleaming new Honda CRV all-wheel drive. For years, he’d bought cars made by US manufacturers, refusing to consider any foreign-built vehicle for his private limo business. Mostly, he’d stuck to GM or Chrysler, much the same choices as his father had made. Then, recently, he’d watched a TV documentary on PBS and learned his “American” car was actually made in Mexico. He felt robbed, but it gave him permission to consider the Honda when he came to change his vehicle a couple of months back. He’d always secretly liked the styling. The truth was, but for the “buy American” rhetoric he kept spouting to his friends, he’d have bought one much sooner.

The car was now exactly five weeks old, but was still receiving all the tender loving care Grendon could lavish on it, including parking it in his garage overnight rather than leaving it out on the drive where it would attract the dust and bird shit. After maneuvering it into the garage at the end of another long working day, he remained in the car checking his diary and reviewing his bookings for the following day.

Grendon was in his mid-fifties and sported a gray mustache, which had become bushier over the years as his hairline had receded. He’d run a limo business for the almost thirty years since he’d left the army. He much preferred the freedom of being his own boss, out and about and answerable to no one, rather than being stuck behind a desk. He was not ambitious. He was his company’s only employee, but he’d won a few prestigious long term driving contracts over the years, mainly on the strength of his strong reputation for reliability and honesty. People trusted Bill Grendon.

It was seven thirty p.m., and Grendon was hungry. It had been a tough day, with three airport runs back to back and, worse still, no time to stop for lunch. He was looking forward to his wife’s homemade dinner. Barbara Grendon was an excellent cook, and sooner preferred to make dinner at home rather than eat out. He was always disappointed with the quality of the fare on the rare occasions they did go out for dinner. Nothing beat Barbara’s home cooking, not even close. After thirty-five years of marriage, his expanding waistline was living proof of his appetite for Barbara’s cuisine.

He entered the modest ranch-style property from the internal garage door.

“Barb.”

As usual, Grendon had called and spoken with his wife about an hour before, to let her know when he was likely to arrive. She’d confirmed his dinner would be ready when he got home, but there was no smell of cooking.

“Barb, I’m home.” Still no reply.

He walked into the kitchen and had to turn on the light. There was no sign of his wife and no note. Barbara always left him a note to avoid worrying him if she had to go out.

“Barb. Where are you?” There was a hint of concern in Grendon’s voice.

When he drove up to the house he’d noticed the light in the main lounge was not on either, so he knew she couldn’t be in there. He ran to the master bedroom, but there was still no sign of her. Sitting on the bed, Grendon called his wife’s cell phone, but it went to voice mail.

After changing into some casual clothes, he tried her cell phone again. Straight to voice mail. As he walked into the lounge and reached to turn on the light, he thought he heard a moaning sound. Had Barbara fallen and injured herself?

The truth was much worse. When the light went on, facing him in the middle of the room was his wife bound to a dining chair. She’d been gagged and had clearly been struck in the face several times; she had a bleeding nose and badly bruised left eye. Behind her chair, staring at Grendon, were two muscle-heads.

The one with a deep scar on his right cheek spoke first. “Welcome home,” he said, tapping his palms on Barbara’s shoulders.

Grendon hurled his body at the man. “What have you done to my wife?”

Scar-face punched Grendon to the ground and kicked him hard in the stomach. “Shut the fuck up.”

Grendon curled up in pain, and Barbara tried to scream.

“If you do exactly as we say, then your wife won’t be harmed.”

Grendon crawled over to an armchair and heaved himself into it. He could see the men meant business, and he knew he was no match in any physical fight. They were a good twenty-five years younger than him and much fitter.

“What do you want? We don’t have much money,” he said, holding his stomach.

Scar-face slapped Barbara hard in the face then glared at Grendon. “I told you to shut up.”

Grendon raised both palms in the air. What in God’s name did these animals want? “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt her again—please.”

“We’ll be staying here tonight.”

The other intruder tied Grendon to another dining chair and gagged him. After the men turned off the light and left the room, the Grendons sat trembling in the dark. As their eyes grew accustomed to the poor light, they could see each other. Barbara motioned with her eyes to her husband, drawing his attention to the telephone near his chair. He rocked his seat around, but the phone line had been cut right through.

These people couldn’t be thieves. If they were, they’d have taken what they could by now and left. What did they want? As he looked at his trembling wife, Grendon made a poor job of hiding his own terror from her.

Chapter 52

A
FTER
A L
ONG
, S
LEEPLESS
N
IGHT
for the Grendons, the two intruders came back into the living room.

“Listen to me very carefully,” said Scar-face, standing over Grendon, his tone calm and business-like.

Grendon nodded to indicate he was paying attention.

“This morning, you’ll pick up your regular client at eight o’clock. The difference is once you’ve collected her, you won’t follow your usual route.”

More nodding from Grendon.

“Instead, you’ll follow my friend here, in his car.” Scar-face pointed in the direction of his accomplice. “Do you understand?” He pulled down the gag from Grendon’s mouth so he could respond.

Grendon took a few deep breaths. “I understand, but my first client is a schoolgirl. There must be some kind of mistake?”

“There’s no mistake. We know exactly who your client is.”

“But how—”

Scar-face slapped Grendon across his cheek. “Just follow our instructions. If you don’t, your wife will be killed. Is that clear?”

Barbara moaned through her gag and rocked in her chair.

“I understand. Please. Don’t harm my wife. I’ll do exactly what you want.”

“Now you must get ready for work. We leave at seven thirty.” Scar-face led Grendon to the bedroom to get changed while the other watched his wife.

Shortly before seven thirty, he pulled Grendon back into the lounge. The other man was no longer there, but Barbara was still bound to the chair.

“I’ll be staying here with your wife.” Scar-face pointed toward the window. “My friend will be following you in the silver Nissan across the street.”

Grendon went pale at the thought of being separated from Barbara. “What do I do when I get there?” He flinched, expecting to be struck again.

“As soon as you pick up your client, you must follow the Nissan and stay closely behind it. If my friend loses sight of you for one moment, he’ll call me and your wife will be killed. If you follow our instructions exactly, then I promise your wife will be safe, and you’ll both be free later today. Is that clear?”

“I’ll do exactly as you wish. Please don’t hurt my wife. I beg you.”

“Her life is in your hands. Now, you must leave.”

Grendon kissed his wife on the cheek and squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry, Barb. I’ll do exactly as they say. You’ll be safe. I promise.” He kissed her again. She said something through the tight gag still in her mouth. Grendon didn’t catch what she said, but he knew from the look in her eyes what she was trying to convey. “I love you, too,” he said.

Once in the garage, Grendon reversed the Honda onto the drive then looked at the silver Nissan across the street in his rear view mirror. When he pulled away, the Nissan followed closely behind. Grendon toyed with the idea of using his car phone to call the police, but when he looked down at the handset, the cable had been cut. His captors must have disabled the phone overnight. Who were these people and what did they want with his client?

Just before eight, Grendon pulled up outside the detached, colonial house in Herdman Park. The Nissan parked fifty yards behind, but Grendon could still see it. He honked his car horn once and, a few moments later, the front door of the house opened. Patti Merriman and her youngest daughter, three-year-old Erin, stood in the driveway, waving good-bye to seven-year-old Emma. She ran down the path and climbed into the Honda.

“Good morning, Mr. Grendon,” said Emma as she fastened her seatbelt. “Mom says hello.”

“Good morning, Emma. Are you all set for school?” Grendon smiled and waved to Mrs. Merriman as he moved the car away from the curb. She waved back, as she did every weekday.

A knot tightened in his stomach when the Nissan drove in front of his Honda. All he had to do now was follow the vehicle if he was going to keep Barbara safe. But how was he going to go through with this? Were these animals going to harm Emma?

For security reasons, the DEA sometimes arranged for the children of sensitive personnel to be taken to and collected from school by trusted limo companies. As one of the most respected drivers, Grendon had the contract to collect Mark Merriman’s eldest daughter. Grendon didn’t know what Merriman’s work involved exactly, only that he held some senior position working for the government, but he knew enough to realize he was now involved in some sort of kidnap attempt.