The Stolen (49 page)

Inspector Engels waited by the car as the gypsy families huddled in the cold outside their caravans while the officers searched the vehicles. He'd instructed them to look for either Matthias and his daughter, or evidence that they had been hiding there. So far the search had turned up nothing but some fake Turkish carpets, a few forged working permits and a stolen pig. The gypsies were Sinti, from West Germany, and the leader had explained that they were merely spending the winter there and would move on in the spring when the snow had melted and the roads were clear. The whole place reeked of poverty and moral corruption, Engels told himself; he'd refused to enter the caravans himself, convinced he would get lice or fleas or maybe some other unknown disease. The second-in-command, a young lieutenant originally from the Lausanne canton, stepped out of the trailer parked at the far side of the camp, and began to stomp across the mud and snow towards Engels.

‘Inspector, we've covered all the vehicles now and they're all Sinti except for the group in the yellow caravan. They appear to be a Romanian family, a young girl and her grandmother. The girl is in bed with measles or mumps – I think that's what the old woman was trying to describe – something contagious anyhow. We searched anyway – nothing but a few copper pots and bowls, and absolutely no indication that anyone of Matthias's calibre or anyone
civilised
had taken shelter there, recently or otherwise.'

Engels glanced round the camp. A few of the men forced to stand in the cold next to their shivering families stared over hostilely while one of the dogs tied to an old metal rail barked continuously. Just then the sound of a hunting rifle rang out and a flock of starlings rose from the nearby trees, swerving in the air as one shadow-being.
If Matthias has ever been here he's long gone,
the inspector thought to himself.

‘Tell the leader if the camp's not gone in two weeks I'll send out social services and they'll lose their children. That should get them going.'

He climbed back into the warmth of the patrol car. The question was, if Matthias had never been there, where had he been and where was he now?

 

 

‘Monsieur Tarek, I would like to start the bidding at thirty million US dollars.' Destin leaned against the glass wall of the telephone kiosk, staring across at the Baur au Lac, where he knew Tarek Awlad Srour, the representative of Gaddafi's regime, was now sitting in room twenty-three, a telephone – one a direct line to Tripoli – to each ear. The Frenchman listened for a moment to the smooth inflections of the Arab's voice then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the cloth doll he'd found in the letterbox of his home. Amused, he placed it on top of the telephone, where it seemed to stare at him with an almost supercilious expression. Destin smiled back at it then turned to look in the other direction, towards the reflective glass windows of the offices of Zellweger Industries. It pleased him immensely to have both clients clearly in view, with neither having any idea where he was. The perversity of conducting such a deal from a telephone kiosk appealed, but Destin also knew this was the only way he was untraceable – an essential card if he was to play his hand well. Finally he interrupted Tarek.

‘Twenty? Please, I am a serious man and you want to make jokes? We both know what the Argentinians paid for the Exocet missiles. This is the key to unimaginable power, the formula to superconductivity at standard room temperature – a generation of weaponry that will be unsurpassed by anything seen before, and you want to bargain? So I'm afraid the price just went up – thirty million.' He waited while Tarek consulted with Tripoli, casually watching a woman walk a large poodle in a tartan coat across the road. Finally he heard Tarek's voice at the other end of the line.

‘So you are agreed at thirty million? That's wonderful. I'll call you back in five with a confirmation.' Before the Arab had a chance to protest, Destin had put the receiver down and dialled again.

‘Zellweger? I have the goods, the going price is forty-five million US… No, this is a strict one-to-one proposal; there are no other parties involved… thirty-two? Sorry, it's thirty-five or no deal… you are agreed? Excellent. I'll call you back in three with a confirmation.' Again he put the phone down then rang Tarek again. ‘Sorry, I'm afraid there has been a sudden development, another interested party and the going price is now forty-seven.' He held the receiver away from his ear as several loud expletives in Arabic boomed out of the telephone. ‘I'm assuming that's a pass? Pity, you know how I like to support the colonel.' He put the receiver down and called Zellweger back.

‘Zellweger? Unforeseeably the price just went up to forty million or I go to the Americans – and you and I know what DARPA would pay. We have a deal?
Fantastique
, I will be at your office at three with the goods.' He put the receiver back down. ‘So maybe you're not such bad luck after all,' he told the doll, before slipping it back into his pocket, stepping out to the street and nodding a greeting to the woman with the poodle.

 

 

The crate sat in the middle of the office, having been carried up by the security officer and a cleaner. As Javob Rechtschild traced his hand over the rough wooden slats, the first digit of the number tattooed on his skin showed between the expensive shirt cuff and his wristwatch.

He picked up a steel ruler and used it to lever open a couple of the slats. The objects inside were wrapped in newspaper and he reached in, feeling the shape of the first object. His fingers immediately recognised the eight branches of a menorah and he pulled it out and unwrapped it, setting it on the desk. It was made of pure gold. The next object was a small painting wrapped in brown paper – tentatively he tore a corner and immediately recognised the distinctive brushstrokes of a Magritte. He placed it back in the crate and opened Matthias's letter. After reading it, he reached for the telephone and dialled Interpol.

 

 

The hum of the plane reached into Matthias's dreams and curled round them in the form of swarming bees that became the background cascade of a nearby waterfall, then the subterranean rumble of an avalanche. There was a jolt of turbulence and he woke with a jerk. He sat frozen, completely disoriented, everything that had defined his life receding like a distant horizon. The memory of the airport, the tension as they waited to pass through security, the moment when he presented his passport, the scrutiny of the immigration officer before they stepped onto the plane, swept up from the pit of his stomach. Had he made the right decision by leaving? It was too late to have any regrets. Latcos would have returned the other valuables, and Herr Javob Rechtschild would have contacted the authorities.
It will only be a matter of time before they arrest Thomas and the others. Or will they?
The deaths of Jannick Lund and Johanna, his housekeeper, kept turning over in his mind, the horror of their murders also embedded in his conscience. He couldn't help thinking about the terror they must have experienced. Destin had to be caught, but how? Matthias didn't trust that Engels would arrest the right man. Matthias needed hard evidence. He closed his eyes again for a second, trying to switch thought streams, compartmentalising to keep focused.
What is important is the immediate future, Rajasthan, finding the crater site – I'll deal with Destin Viscon later,
he told himself.
If I can find the source of the ore everything will change: I will have achieved the near-impossible. As he shifted in his seat he felt a lump in his pocket. He reached in; it was a seashell, an amulet that must have been slipped in.

Smiling, he turned to Helen; she was staring out of the window. He watched her for a while unobserved, marvelling at the courage of this woman he felt so comfortable with and yet knew so little about, then took her hand.

She turned, surprised. ‘You awake?'

‘I am.'

‘Have you seen outside?'

He leaned over and stared out at the moonlight catching the crests of the vast ocean beneath them. There was something ancient and primordial about the sight, as if it had remained unchanged since the beginning of time. A huge rush of excitement swept through him; it felt like hope.

 

 

‘I told you I would deliver, and here it is – access to the greatest technological advance in energy today,' Destin announced, placing the covered statuette onto the granite-topped desk. Janus stood watching, his face a rigid mask, behind which it was impossible to read his emotions. Olek stood beside him, grey dead eyes, as quiet and watchful as a cat.
Amateur intimidation, some jumped-up Russian mafia, maybe ex-Stasi,
Destin decided silently, then glanced at the man's knuckles and bared forearms. One of Destin's old comrades was ex-Vory and he recognised the tattooed ring crosses on the Slav's knuckles as symbols for convictions and prison terms, but it was the tattoo of a cross of a Russian Orthodox grave with three crossbars on the forearm that unsettled the Frenchman – the mark of a murderer.
Maybe not so amateur,
he concluded, deciding that, for now, he would stay respectful; after all, he was yet to be paid.

‘What is it?' Janus Zellweger asked in French, his heavy arms folded over the bulk of his torso squeezed into a Savile Row suit. ‘A formula, a weapon?'

‘An object. An ancient object made from an extraordinary ore, extra-terrestrial, probably sourced from a meteorite,' Destin explained, his hand paused over the covering. Janus snorted in derision and Destin, ignoring his cynicism, pulled the covering off and the statuette was revealed, its glittering surface catching the fluorescence of the office lights above. The deity herself, the four arms stretched out, her head tilted back, smiling mouth open in an unheard shout of ecstasy, seemed to dance in defiance of the oppressive, hard-edged décor, mocking the grim-faced men surrounding her.

Janus looked up, astonished. Destin, misunderstanding the arms manufacturer's perplexed expression, said, ‘The object itself is made of an unknown new silicate – previously undiscovered. As I said, I believe it is sourced from a meteorite from a crater in Rajasthan. The exact site is in Ramgarh,' he explained smoothly, then, again misinterpreting the growing incredulity on Janus's face, continued his explanation. ‘I know it seems far-fetched, but many ancient holy objects were made from meteorite metal. This one was rumoured to have mystical powers and it turned out it did – superconductivity at room temperature.'