Liz Carlyle - 07 - The Geneva Trap (23 page)

‘Is there a spare coat back there?’ he asked Antoine. René had been so insistent on leaving straight away that he hadn’t even had time to grab a jacket.

‘Nope,’ came the curt reply.

When Marcel tried to break the tension by asking René how his trip to England had gone, he only received a grunt in reply. So he gave up, and sat in silence, wondering why they wanted him along on this expedition and what on earth it was about.

When the lights of night-time Marseilles could be seen in the distance, René seemed to grow more alert and Antoine sat up on his bench in the back. Several miles short of the city boundary they turned off the main road and drove through a suburb of modern apartment blocks and shopping malls. A few miles further on René turned the van sharply down a narrow road with no streetlights or traffic and suddenly they were out in the countryside, with dark fields on either side and no sign of houses.

René drove slowly, peering through the windscreen, looking for something. After a few miles a small building, no bigger than a caravan, showed up in the lights and they swung off the road into a large empty gravel yard with an aluminium barn at the back. It could have been the premises of an agricultural merchant, but in the dark Marcel could not be sure. Whatever it was, he knew he’d never be able to find the place again.

René drove the van to a far corner of the yard, reversed it so that it faced the barn, and parked under the branches of the tall trees that lined the border of the property. He turned off the engine and extinguished the lights.

‘Now,’ he said to Marcel, ‘I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. In a few minutes two men will arrive. We’ll get out and talk to them, then they’re going to give us some goods. If these goods are okay I’ll pay them some money, and then we’ll all go home. Got it?’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Not a lot. When I get out, you get out too and come with me. You don’t need to say a word – in fact, make sure you don’t open your mouth.’

‘What about …?’ he began, wondering what Antoine was going to do.

‘I said, don’t open your mouth. Starting now.’

They sat in silence after that. A few minutes passed, and then Marcel heard the low rumble of an approaching vehicle. Lights flickered from the road, then suddenly swept across the gravel yard. The vehicle pulled in and stopped by the barn. After a moment they heard two doors open then slam shut.

René suddenly turned on the camper’s lights full beam, and Marcel saw two men standing in front of a Range Rover, shielding their eyes from the lights until René turned them off again.

‘Come on,’ he said, and they both got out.

René had a torch in his hand and he turned it on as they walked towards the Range Rover. One of the two waiting figures did the same, and as they approached each other all four were bathed in a honey glow of light. The two visitors wore military-style gilets and combat trousers with heavy boots. They looked to be North African, probably Algerian, Marcel thought. The taller of the two had a ragged beard, and smiled now, revealing prominent teeth. ‘
Bonsoir
,’ he said cheerfully. He pointed at Marcel. ‘This is not the same colleague you had last time.’

‘No. The other man is unwell. Anyway, let’s get down to business,’ said René. ‘Have you brought the goods?’

‘Of course.’

‘We need to see them.’

‘Ah, and we need to see the money.’

‘Goods first,’ said René.

The Algerian hesitated, looking at René and Marcel. Then he shrugged. ‘As you wish.’

He led them to the back of the Range Rover, opened the rear door and shone his torch on to a long flat cardboard carton that lay wedged carefully between two bricks. The Algerian turned to René. ‘Before I open this, I need to see the money.’

René reached into his jacket and brought out an envelope. ‘Four thousand Euros. It’s all there.’

‘Of course.’ The North African pointed to the back of the Range Rover and, when René had put the envelope down next to the cardboard box, reached into one of the pockets of his gilet and produced a Stanley knife. He grabbed the end of the box and slit it down the side in one quick movement. Using his other hand to hold the box in place, he ripped it open and flipped the lid back.

All four of them stood there, looking at the contents – two Uzi machine-guns, parts highly oiled, their charcoal metal buffed to a sheen. They were clearly brand new.

René broke the spell. ‘Beautiful, but there’s something missing.’

‘Missing?’ asked the North African, the smile gone from his face.

‘We are paying for four. I don’t see four guns there.’

‘Perhaps you have misunderstood, Monsieur.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said René, and when he took a step backwards, Marcel did likewise.

But it was too late. With one quick lunge the North African had pressed the Stanley knife against René’s chest. Before Marcel could move, the other African had pulled his own knife – a bigger weapon, the size and shape of a Bowie knife – and pointed it menacingly at Marcel.

‘What do you want?’ asked René.

The North African laughed. ‘Nothing. You’ve paid your money, and you can take the merchandise. We’re all done here.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said René. Marcel wondered what he meant; there didn’t seem to be much chance of a refund.

The North African was starting to smile again when something moved through the air and struck him hard in the face. A bunch of splintered teeth flew out of the man’s mouth, followed by a spray of blood. The North African fell back, hitting his head against the Range Rover’s boot, and shrieking in pain.

Suddenly Antoine was standing beside Marcel, holding the metal pipe. The other North African waved his knife, and Antoine gave a harsh laugh. ‘Try me,’ he said tauntingly, and stepped forward. The North African’s courage suddenly failed, and he ran for the safety of the trees.

The man with the beard was half-lying, half-leaning against the Range Rover, holding his mouth with both hands. Ignoring him, René reached in and retrieved the envelope full of cash, tucking it into his jacket pocket. He nodded at Antoine, who pushed the wounded man brusquely aside, lifted the cardboard box on to his shoulder and walked with it towards the camper van.

Marcel and René followed him, leaving the Algerian still moaning in pain. There was no sign of his colleague. They got into the camper van and drove off quickly, retracing their route. René drove carefully now; Marcel knew that, with Uzi machine-guns in the back of the van, the last thing they wanted was to be stopped by the police.

As they joined the motorway again, heading west, René said, ‘You were right, Antoine. They weren’t straight, those guys.’

‘I didn’t like the look of them when we first met. But you know, two guns are not enough.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll get more.’ René laughed. ‘And at least these two were free.’

Chapter 39

The Bank Difault-Légère was family-owned and famed for its discretion. In recent years, new privacy laws introduced by the Swiss government had forced Swiss banks to cooperate with both their own and other countries’ tax authorities, and reveal a previously undreamed-of amount of information about their clients’ transactions. Inevitably, many banks had suffered, losing clients to the still secrecy-enshrouded environs of Lichtenstein, Andorra, or other countries willing to sacrifice respectability to serve their deep-pocketed depositors.

Difault-Légère had suffered less than most Swiss banks, for though it had not openly resisted the new measures, it had done its best to ignore them. Behind its imposing nineteenth-century façade on Zurich’s fabled Banhoffstrasse, the banking hall continued to operate much as it had always done, safeguarding the interests of its rich international clientele. The bank’s attitude was clear: governments and their regulations come and go, but Difault-Légère and the wealth of its private clients were permanencies.

With this in mind, Otto Bech climbed the short flight of steps to the bank’s grand entrance, feeling wary. He glanced at the two stone figures of Cerberus guarding the door, and remembered that in classical mythology it was the task of these three-headed dogs to keep people in the Underworld once they’d crossed the River Styx. He hoped the Difault-Légère dogs would prove more flexible, as he had a dinner engagement back in Bern with the Justice Minister.

Bech’s appointment now was with the bank’s President, Herman Kessler, whom he knew from years back. When he was running the National Fraud Squad, Bech had dealt with all the senior bankers in Switzerland. A cautious man, with a sharp tongue when displeased, Kessler had never been particularly cooperative, and even now, after Bech had stressed that national security issues were involved, the banker had not been forthcoming when asked for CCTV footage of the mysterious Nikolai Bakowski.

Over the phone Kessler had said, ‘Before we go much further, I have to say that I am somewhat reluctant to help. Herr Bakowski, after all, is a client of ours; he might have something to say about this invasion of his privacy.’

‘It’s hardly an invasion. The image you sent us was not at all clear. We need a good look at the man.’

‘Perhaps. But I need to feel confident that you have good reason to do so. Herr Bakowski, as I say, is a valued client.’

‘Doubtless. But, Herr Kessler, what do you know about your client?’

‘Know?’ Kessler sounded affronted. ‘What should I know? The man had references that entirely satisfied me.’ The inference was clear: if Herr Kessler was satisfied, no more needed to be said.

‘I assume you would want to be sure that this client of yours actually exists. So far as we can tell, Herr Bakowski does not. We can find no trace of him anywhere in the cantons, and Immigration could find no record of his entering the country. Which points to this man being an impostor, who established his account with Bank Difault-Légère under a false name, using a false passport.’

‘Can you prove that? Many people lead very private lives, and know how to protect themselves against intrusive enquiries.’

‘Come now, Herr Kessler. I hardly think you mean to imply that I am being particularly intrusive. If you will let me look at the CCTV images, I think I should be able to resolve any doubts.’

‘And if that is not possible?’

‘Then,’ said Herr Bech, his patience suddenly snapping, ‘you will be having a different conversation, with my successor at the National Fraud Squad. You can explain to him why you allowed a foreign national to hold an account with you, knowing that he was not who he said he was. You would not, I am sure, wish the Bank Difault-Légère to be investigated for financing the drugs trade or international terrorism. So I will call on you at two-thirty this afternoon and will expect to see the CCTV pictures.’ And with that parting shot, Bech had put the phone down.

Now a doorman in a tail coat opened the tall mahogany door, and ushered him across the marble floor of the banking hall into a waiting room furnished with antique side tables and a Louis XV sofa and chair. Bech sat and thumbed unseeingly through the pages of
Connoisseur
magazine for the twenty minutes Kessler kept him waiting.

At last another tail-coated flunkey came in and led him out into the hall and up the sweeping staircase to the first floor and Kessler’s palatial office at the front of the mansion house. The banker, a pale, silver-haired, slightly stooping figure in black jacket and striped trousers, rose stiffly from behind his desk at the far end of the room and watched in silence as Bech walked across the carpet towards him. ‘Good afternoon, Herr Bech,’ he said, making no apology for keeping his visitor waiting. ‘Do sit down. Would you care for coffee?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Bech, and watched as Kessler reached under his desk and pressed a buzzer. They made stiff small talk for a moment without alluding to the matter at hand until the coffee was brought in and poured by yet another flunkey in tails. As he left the room, Bech hoped that at last they could get down to business.

Kessler reached into the top drawer of his desk and brought out a manila envelope. Without a word, he pushed it to a point halfway across the desk. Bech took his time reaching for it, then slowly withdrew a series of photographs. These were much clearer pictures than the one he’d seen before, and there was no doubt about the identity of the man caught, variously, at the teller’s cage, turning around after his transaction, then leaving the banking hall.

Bech put the pictures into the envelope, which he slid back across the desk to Kessler. He sat silent for a moment until, unable to contain his curiosity, Kessler asked, ‘Is that helpful, Herr Bech?’

‘Very,’ he replied, thinking he’d let Kessler sweat. But he relented, not wanting to act as churlishly as the banker, and added, ‘Herr Bakowski is in fact a man called Kubiak. He is one of the most senior Russian intelligence officers operating in our country.’

Kessler’s eyes widened. ‘I see,’ he said.

‘You told me last month that the money going into the Bakowski account has been coming from a variety of sources – all of them former republics of the Soviet Union.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Were you able to find out anything more?’

‘As a matter of fact, I have. Not that it was easy. Most of these new countries are entirely unregulated when it comes to finance,’ Kessler said disdainfully, clearly unaware of any irony in his remark. ‘They are disinclined to cooperate with their counterparts in the West, fancying themselves competitors, not colleagues.’