The Watchers (30 page)

‘At ten.’

‘Giving Yuriev plenty of time to leave the casino for the regular sixteen after the hour train from Montreux to Lausanne, reaching Lausanne at nine-forty. The walk from Gare Simplon to GG’s would take no more than ten minutes.’

Harper looked at the photos. Time-lapse shots. Top shots, side shots, digitally enhanced close-ups. The man’s face, as if he hadn’t slept in years. Harper slipped the photos into the manila folder, handed them back.

‘Please keep them, Mr Harper. I’d like you to study them a bit more, when you have the time.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want you to.’

The man had a way with words. Harper rolled up the folder, stuffed it in his mackintosh.

‘If you say so.’

‘How did he look to you?’

‘Yuriev, or the night clerk?’

‘Let’s begin with Yuriev.’

‘Looks in pretty bad shape, stumble drunk leaving the place. Didn’t see him drinking in the photos. He was probably blocked before he got there. Explains his babbling at the slot machines.’

‘So it would seem. Sergeant Gauer, hit the lights, please. We must get a move on. Mustn’t keep the good Doctor waiting.’ The dark road ignited with flashing blue lights. The speed gauge rocketed to one-fifty per. The Inspector settled back in the seat. ‘One of the perks of the job, kicking on the lights and speeding so as not to be late for dinner.’

Harper replayed the Inspector’s words in his head.

‘What do you mean, “So it would seem”?’

‘Exactly what I said. Looking at the photos one would assume Yuriev was very drunk indeed. Except the blood sample from the body found in the wreckage outside Gstaad had an alcohol count of zero.’

It took a second for the penny to drop.

‘The car wreck on the mountain road, it was Yuriev’s body?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘When did you get the DNA results?’

‘I didn’t need them. I knew the identity of the victim from the beginning. I had reasons to play dumb, as it were.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘But I’m not telling.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m the policeman and you’re not.’

‘Right.’ Harper reached for his smokes.

‘No smoking in the motorcar, Mr Harper. Wreaks havoc on the leather. Had the seats specially made in Tuscany, you know.’

‘What are you going to do, Inspector, shoot me?’

The Inspector laughed.

‘No, that would be Sergeant Gauer’s duty.
C’est vrai
, Sergeant Gauer?’

‘
Absolument, Inspecteur
.’

Harper caught the sergeant’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. The kind that obeyed orders. Any orders. The Inspector leaned towards Harper as if sharing a confidence. ‘Did I mention Sergeant Gauer’s last posting was in the sniper unit of the Vatican Swiss Guard? Cracking shot with a Barrett Light .50. Hit a moving assassin at twenty-five hundred metres. Perfect headshot, right between the eyes. Sort of thing the Vatican likes to keep quiet, of course. They’d much rather the world think of our Swiss Guard as jolly fellows with plumed helmets and halberds, not the most effective mercenaries on earth.’

Harper looked out of the window. Fuck it.

Stone walls whipped by in strobes of blue light. Stone cottages in the terraced hills. Dark fields, rows of gnarled vines standing in snow. The Inspector’s voice continuing, ‘You may be interested to know this region has some of the best wines in Europe, from some of the oldest vines planted on the continent. Those stone-edged terraces were built by Christian monks in the Middle Ages …’

Harper ground down on his teeth.

‘… and that large house atop the hill with the green shutters belongs to the Dézaley family. Wonderful vineyards, perfect soil for the Chasselas grape. Makes a lovely white. The Doctor and I recently attended a rather fine dinner party there. A private birthday celebration for the President of France.’

Harper turned to the Inspector.

‘Screw the loveliness of your whites. What the hell’s going on?’

‘For a moment, Mr Harper, I thought you might let me get away with pushing you around. Didn’t you, Sergeant Gauer?’

‘Very much so, Inspector.’

Harper looked at the rear-view mirror and the sniper’s smiling eyes, then turned to the grin on the Inspector’s face.

‘You two are a barrel of laughs.’

The Inspector pulled a cigarette case from his pocket, flipped it open. Neat fags all in a row. Brown-paper-wrapped, gold-tipped filters.

‘Here, try one of these. Hand-rolled in a little shop in Paris, just behind the Ritz.’

Harper took one, the Inspector offered a light.

‘Cheers.’

‘It’s a rather rare tobacco, with a touch of North African herbs.’

Harper took a deep draw, turned away, looked out of the window again.

Strobes of blue light.

Gnarled vines.

Twisted shadows on the snow.

Darkness.

Strobes of blue light.

Gnarled vines.

Darkness.

‘How do you like the taste, Mr Harper?’

‘Sorry?’

‘The cigarette, how do you like the taste?’

‘As cigarettes go, it’s swell.’

‘I’m so glad. History writes tobacco was discovered in the Americas. Actually, it was first grown in the once lush hills of North Africa. This very tobacco is still harvested there, on a patch of land protected by the King of Morocco.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘Yes, similar to the tale of the horse. A creature native to the Americas that migrated over the land bridge once connecting the continent to Asia. The land bridge broke away to become the Bering Straits and the horse died out in the Americas. But the memory of the creature endured through the centuries, to be drawn on the walls of caves and temples. Native Americans believed their gods would return to earth on the backs of horses. So when the Christians of Spain arrived on horses, well, you can imagine the unhappy result. The natives presented the Spaniards with treasures of gold and the virginity of their daughters, while the Spaniards, in deepest Christian gratitude, slaughtered the locals in the tens of thousands and usurped their lands. An all-too-familiar tale of human history, I’m afraid.’

Harper took another deep draw from the cigarette.

‘I’m supposed to get all that from one of your flash fags?’

‘No, Mr Harper. I was simply wondering if you enjoyed the taste. The rest was whimsy, shooting the breeze. That will do with the lights, sergeant.’

The car slowed.

Splatters of icy rain on the windscreen.

‘
Merde
, more foul weather. I didn’t tell you everything for the simple reason I don’t know if I can trust you, Mr Harper.’

‘You can’t keep a thing like this secret.’

‘Of course I can. I practically run this country, which means I practically run Europe.’

‘Of course, how could I be so daft?’

‘Not at all. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve come up with? Find anything interesting while looking for Yuriev?’

‘You had me chasing a dead man, Inspector. What was I supposed to find?’

‘Just tell me what you’ve found.’

Harper felt the words pulled from him, like stubborn teeth.

‘A note, in the cathedral.’

‘A note.’

‘Written in Cyrillic, stuck to a board at the back of the nave.’

‘At Chapelle de Saint-Maurice, I know it. And the contents of this note?’

‘Barking mad stuff. Evil spirits and giants walking the earth. Maybe it was from Yuriev, maybe not. Judging from the photos, I wouldn’t be surprised.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Barking mad note in a cathedral, barking mad Yuriev talking to a slot machine.’

‘I see. When do you meet with the Doctor again?’

‘Tomorrow morning, ten sharp.’

‘I’m going to ask you to do me a favour, Mr Harper.’

‘Don’t tell him Yuriev is dead, got it.’

‘Actually, I’d prefer you didn’t meet him at all. I’ll explain you’re to do a bit of work for me, off the books, as it were.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Why do you think I requested your presence at the crime scene in Montreux?’

‘Why do I think I’m not going to like the answer?’

‘Because I suspect, despite being a bit slow on the uptake, you are one who senses danger from a great distance.’

Harper lowered the window. Almost tossed the smoke. Remembered Swiss rule number whatever: No tossing ciggies on the ground. He crushed it in the door-side ashtray.

‘How long have you known about Yuriev’s killer? Or is it killers?’

‘Killers. They came on our radar twenty years ago. As you’ve seen with your own eyes, they have an appetite for the most imaginative methods of slaughter.’

‘Imaginative, that’s what you call it?’

‘In meeting the enemy, Mr Harper, it’s helpful to recognize them for what they are without the affectations of human emotion, if you wish to survive.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘Geography, Mr Harper.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘The killings began in Moscow, then crossed through Eastern Europe and the Balkans. We lost track for a while, till the murders began again in the Middle East and up through Italy, Germany—’

‘—Gstaad and Montreux.’

‘Would you care to run with that thought?’

‘The killers were tracking Yuriev, but why?’

‘At this stage I can only tell you Yuriev did have something in his possession, something he was trying to give the Doctor before he was killed.’

‘What is it?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Or you won’t tell me.’

‘Either way, you find yourself in the same situation.’

‘Which is what?’

‘By now the killers believe you have the thing they want. Or, at the least, you know where it is.’

‘And where would they get that idea?’

The Inspector brushed at the lapels of his cashmere coat.

‘Oh, I’m sure you can do the sums, Mr Harper.’

Corpse pinned to the wall and sliced open, eyeballs fed to the fish, mobile number scribbled next to Miss December’s pretty smile. Christ, Harper thought, the penny wasn’t just dropping, it was falling from a great height.

‘They’ve got my phone number.’

‘Well put, Mr Harper. They do, indeed, have your number.’

Harper didn’t know whether to laugh or smash his fist in the Inspector’s sees-all, knows-all mug. He looked out of the window, laughed to himself instead.

‘Do share the source of your amusement, Mr Harper.’

‘You’re a piece of work, Inspector.’

‘Do tell.’

Harper turned back to him.

‘You recommended me to the IOC. I turn up in Lausanne and there’s a flat, an office, calling cards, a wad of cash. Then, like clockwork, Alexander Yuriev comes calling. This isn’t a job, it’s a set-up.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Mr Harper.’

‘You knew Yuriev was on his way to Lausanne, you knew he’d try to contact the Doctor. And the real starter for ten, you bloody well knew the killers were tracking him. You needed someone to run interference for your Doctor pal, you needed bait.’

‘I’m afraid in answering that one I’d be revealing more facts than required for the present.’

‘Is the Doctor in on this?’

‘I assure you, he’s not. The Doctor’s part of something noble in a world badly in need of it. You and I, however, are part of its filthy underbelly.’

‘Why me, why not one of your Swiss Guard lads?’

‘I needed someone with your particular profile.’

‘As in a black-out drunk, someone so deep in the bottle he can’t remember his bloody London phone number.’

‘To be honest, I was hoping for a bit more.’

‘Ask Guardian Services Ltd for a refund.’

‘Trust me, there’s no time for that, Mr Harper. Hopefully, you’ll come round. In the meantime, let’s just say the unsuspecting always make for better bait, don’t you agree?’

The Merc rolled up through the outskirts of Lausanne and up from the lakeshore road to Saint-François. The Christmas village on the square back in full swing. Hot wine and drunken merriment beneath the twinkling lights. Black brollies popping open as icy rain began to fall. The Merc stopped at the traffic light. Harper looked through the rain-pelted windscreen. Flashing lights, a blur of faces. The whole world refracted through tinted glass, bending and stretching. Then the rain on the windscreen breaking into droplets and dripping down the glass like everything melting, till the rocker arm scraped over the windscreen and wiped it clean and made the world whole again. The traffic light flipped green. The Merc rolled up the hill towards the Lausanne Palace. Another construction brigade on ladders, patching up the hotel’s holiday ribbons and bows and lights, righting the small forest of beat-up Christmas trees. Life going bizarrely on.

‘So what am I supposed to do?’

‘Your job.’

‘And what’s my job, besides being bait?’

‘I’m sure you’ll work it out.’

‘What if I don’t?’

‘Then I’ll find the remains of your slaughtered form somewhere in Lausanne. Very soon, I’d imagine.’

The Merc drove by the hotel, did a U-turn, stopped at the bus stop 50 metres from the hotel.

‘You’ll forgive me if I drop you short of the hotel entrance. The Doctor might see you from the windows of La Brasserie. Wouldn’t want him asking questions. Can’t expect the man to be as resilient in his digestion as the likes of you or me, what? Besides, you have the look of someone badly in need of drink.’

‘First honest words I’ve heard out of your mouth all night, Inspector.’

Harper climbed out of the Merc, slammed the door, walked to the pavement. Heavy drops of rain pelting a patch of ice-crusted snow, picking up bits of lamplight, refracting into bits of colour.

Vnnnnnn
.

Rear window lowering, Inspector’s voice jabbing at Harper’s back:

‘Mr Harper?’

Harper turned around.

‘I’ve made some arrangements to keep an eye on you but make no mistake, you’re in the gravest of danger.’

Harper felt ice-cold rain drip down his neck. He pulled at the collar of his mackintosh, turned around. Beyond the Merc, across Flon, above the old city: Lausanne Cathedral, illuminated in the soaking wet night.

‘You believe in evil spirits, Inspector?’