Avenue Krieg, Geneva, Switzerland 20th March - 12.02 a.m.
‘This can’t be it,’ Dominique whispered.
Normally Archie would have agreed with her - a half-empty building with a broken lift, shabbycommunal areas, half the light bulbs blown and the name plate hanging loose, certainly didn’t seem to fit with what he’d seen of Faulks. But the porter he’d bribed in the Sotheby’s loading bay had been adamant that this was the right address, floor and suite number for the company who’d sold the Artemis. In fact, he’d proved it.
‘He showed me the bloody receipt,’ Archie grunted as he tried to force the final locking pin out of the way. ‘Galleries Dassin is registered here.’
‘It just doesn’t feel right,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘We should have spoken to Tom first.’
‘I’ve been trying to get him on the blower all day,’ Archie reminded her sharply, his tone
reflecting both his irritation at being secondguessed and his concern. It wasn’t like Tom to be out of touch this long. Not deliberately. ‘Besides …’ With a final effort, the pin fell into place and the lock clicked open. ‘…We’re in now. We might as well have a butcher’s.’
Pulling their masks down over their faces, they slipped inside and gently closed the door behind them. The suite consisted of a large open-plan space with perhaps four desks in it, a small kitchen, a meeting room, and what Archie guessed was the owner or manager’s personal office.
‘Still sure this is the right place?’ Dominique whispered as her torch picked out bookcases overflowing with legal and tax reference books, stacks of paperwork secured by treasury tags, filing cabinets, printers and shredders, and a series of insipid paintings of a yacht sailing across the lake. Archie sighed. He hated to admit it, but it looked as though she might be right after all.
‘I’ll have a quick shifty in there,’ Archie suggested, nodding towards the manager’s office. ‘You have a look through this lot.’
The office was dominated by a vast, monolithic desk whose primary purpose could only have been to intimidate anyone standing on the other side of it. Behind this ran thick-set, mahogany shelves loaded with books, photo frames and various stress-busting executive toys. Archie couldn’t help himself but set off the Newton’s Cradle, his eyes
dancing to the metronomic click-click-click of the balls as they swung back and forth. Glancing up with a smile, he absent-mindedly picked up one of the photo frames, then frowned. Rather than be confronted by Faulks’s patrician scowl as he had expected, he instead found himself staring at a heavily overweight man in swimming trunks trying to pour himself into a wetsuit.
Replacing it with a shudder, Archie turned his attention to the two filing cabinets lurking in the corner. Opening the drawers in turn, he walked his fingers along the tabs until he found one marked Galleries Dassin.
‘I’ve got something,’ he called in a low voice, carrying it to the entrance. Dominique looked up from where she had been leafing through the papers arranged on one of the desks. ‘
Galleries Dassin,
’ he read, flicking through a few of the pages. ‘
Registered address, 13 Avenue Krieg.
That’s here.
Fiduciary owner, Jérome Carvel.
’ He glanced up at the door and saw the same name picked out on it in black letters. ‘That’s him.’
‘What’s a fiduciary owner?’ Dominique asked.
‘Someone who deals with all the administrative bollocks, as opposed to the beneficial owner, who calls the shots and makes the serious wonga and who in this particular instance is…’ He’d found a shareholder contract and flipped to the signature page, then looked up with a grim smile. ‘Earl Faulks. Carvel’s a front.’
‘Why bother?’
‘Fuck knows. But if I had to guess, to hide…’ Archie paused, struck by a thought. ‘Who bought the Artemis again?’
Dominique had approached the auctioneer after the sale and expressed an interest in buying the statue from its new owner. Sensing the opportunity to make another fee, the auctioneer had volunteered their name and offered to broker the deal.
‘It was a commission bid for Xenephon Trading.’
Archie vanished back inside the office, returning a few moments later clutching another file.
‘
Xenephon Trading
,’ he read. ‘
Fiduciary owner, Jérome Carvel. Beneficial owner…Earl Faulks.
’ He looked up at her triumphantly.
‘He bought it from himself?’ Dominique exclaimed. ‘That makes no sense. Even if he’d negotiated special rates, he’d still be paying six to ten per cent commission on both sides of the deal.’
‘Are those the invoices?’ Archie nodded at the sheaf of papers she’d been sorting through.
‘Last month’s auction.’ She nodded.
‘Any where Xenephon is the buyer?’ Archie went to stand next to her.
Gripping her torch in one hand and flipping the pages over quickly with the other, she quickly counted them up. ‘There’s one here. Two…three …four…five. And look who’s on the other side of the deal here and here: Galleries Dassin.’
‘Who’s Melfi Export?’ Archie tapped his finger on the page with a frown. ‘They show up a lot too.’
Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared back into the office, returning a few moments later with a third file and a solemn expression.
‘
Melfi Export. Fiduciary owner, Jérome Carvel. Beneficial owner…Earl Faulks
. It’s the same story - he’s selling with one company and buying with another. It makes no sense.’
‘He must be getting something out it,’ she pointed out.
‘Well, I don’t see what, apart from a shit-load of paperwork.’ He slapped the pile of invoices with a shrug. Dominique turned to him with a smile.
‘That’s it.’
‘What?’
‘The paperwork. He’s doing it for the paperwork.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘It’s a laundering scam,’ she said excitedly. ‘First he puts an item up for auction. Then he buys it back under another name. Finally he sells it on to a real buyer, only this time with a manufactured provenance, courtesy of an official auction house invoice and valuation certificate.’
‘Maybe not just about provenance,’ Archie said with a slow nod. ‘Arms dealers get around embargoes by selling weapons down a network of shell companies and middlemen, so that by the time
the shipment gets to the intended customer, no one can tie the final transaction back to the original seller. It’s called triangulation. Faulks could be pulling the same stunt here to cover his tracks.’
Nr Anguillara Sabazia, northwest of Rome 20th March - 1.13 a.m.
They had both run out of conversation a while ago. Now they were sitting in silence, locked into their own thoughts, hugging their knees for warmth. The torch nestled on the ground between them in a puddle of light, their bodies huddled around it as if to shield it from the wind. Tom had the ominous feeling that once its fragile flame finally expired, they wouldn’t long survive it.
He’d faced death before, of course. But never with the resigned acceptance and powerlessness he felt now. The walls were rock solid, the floor packed firm, the domed roof unyielding, the entrance sealed. They had no tools, no way of communicating with the outside world, no answers. Nothing except for the two bullets that lay side by side in the torch’s pale wash, like bodies awaiting burial.
‘How did you know?’ Allegra’s voice broke the cloying silence.
‘Know what?’
‘When we first met at Cavalli’s and you handed me the gun,’ she reminded him. ‘How did you know I wouldn’t just shoot you?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Then why did you trust me?’
‘I didn’t.’ He shrugged.
‘Then what…?’
‘I took the clip out before I gave you the gun.’ Tom grinned. ‘You couldn’t have shot me if you’d wanted to.’
‘Why you…’ Allegra’s face broke into a wide smile as she reached across to punch Tom’s shoulder.
‘Ow.’ He winced, his arm still bruised from where she’d hit him that morning.
‘Still sore from being beaten up by a girl?’ she said, the clear bell of her laughter both unexpected and strangely uplifting in the darkness.
‘You landed a couple of lucky shots.’ Tom gave a dismissive shake of his head. ‘Another few seconds and I…’
He paused. Allegra was holding up her hand for him to be quiet, her chin raised like a foxhound who has caught a scent.
‘What’s that?’
Tom listened, at first not hearing anything, but then making out what seemed to be the faint rattle of an engine.
‘They’re coming back,’ Allegra exclaimed, turning excitedly towards the entrance tunnel.
‘Maybe to finish the job,’ Tom said grimly, hauling her back and loading the gun.
They sat there, the ground now shaking with a dull throb, the occasional sound of a muffled voice reaching them. Readying himself, Tom took aim at the stone plug that was blocking the entrance, determined to take Contarelli, or whichever of his men he sent ahead of him, down with them.
Ten or so minutes later the massive stone began to move, dirt and moonlight trickling through the crack. The sound of voices was clearer now, someone swearing in Italian, another one groaning under the strain. Then, with a final effort, the stone was rolled free. It fell on to its side with a leaden thump.
A harsh, lightning strike of light flooded down the entrance corridor, washing over them and making them blink. On its heels came the thunder of what Tom realised now was a helicopter, the hammer chop of its rotors echoing off the walls.
For a few moments nothing happened. Then a figure appeared at the tunnel entrance, a black silhouette against the floodlit backdrop.
‘Tom Kirk? Allegra Damico?
Andiamo
,’ he said, reaching towards them.
They swapped a look, Tom slowly lowered the gun.
‘What’s going on?’ Allegra shouted through the noise.
‘I don’t know,’ Tom called back. ‘But it is, it beats being in here.’
Crawling forward, they emerged gratefully into the night, brushing the earth from their clothes and hands as they stood up. But whatever relief they felt at escaping was soon tempered by the realisation that their three liberators were all dressed in black paramilitary clothing - ski masks, fatigues, bullet-proof vests, field boots, guns strapped to their thighs. Two of the men were also equipped with night-vision goggles which they kept trained on the horizon, their Beretta PS12-SDs held across their chests, safety’s off.
‘Go,’ the man who had helped them to their feet ushered them towards the black Augusta Bell 412EP which had landed about thirty feet away, its spotlight trained on the tomb’s entrance, the wash of its rotors back-combing the grass. A fourth man was waiting for them in the cockpit.
‘Get in,’ the first man shouted over the roar of the engine, handing them each a set of headphones. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll put everything back here so they won’t know you’ve gone.’
Slamming the door, he stepped back and gave the pilot the thumbs-up. Throttling up, the helicopter lurched unsteadily off the ground, dipped its rotors, and then climbed at a steep angle into
the sky. In a few minutes, the tomb had faded from view, swallowed by the night.
‘Military?’ Allegra’s voice hummed in Tom’s ear, worried but with a curious edge.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied, glancing round. ‘Their equipment’s standard Italian army issue. Could be special forces or some sort of private militia?’ He nodded at the back of the pilot’s head. ‘You could try asking him, but I don’t think he’ll tell us.’
‘Right now, I’m not sure I even care,’ she said with a relieved shrug. ‘The further we can get…’ Her voice tailed off into a puzzled frown as she noticed the envelope that had been left on the bench opposite. It was addressed to both of them. Swapping a look with Tom, she ripped it open and glanced inside, then emptied the contents into her lap: about twenty thousand euro secured in a neat bundle, a set of car keys, and five black-and-white photographs of a fire-ravaged apartment attached to an official press release from the Monégasque Police.
‘What does it say?’ Allegra frowned, handing it to him.
‘They’re looking for two missing people,’ Tom quickly translated. ‘An Irish banker, called Ronan D’Arcy and his housekeeper, Determination Smith. It says no one’s seen them since D’Arcy’s apartment caught fire two days ago. Looks like somebody wants us to take a closer look.’ His eyes narrowed as he studied the third photograph again,
a small object having caught his eye. Had the police noticed that yet, he wondered?
‘De Luca?’ she suggested. ‘Remember he told us that his accountant in Monaco had disappeared?’
‘Why have Contarelli bury us, only to dig us up a few hours later?’ Tom asked with a shake of his head.
‘But who else would have known where to find us?’
Tom shrugged. She had a point, although right now he was less concerned with who had rescued them than why, and what they wanted.
The pilot’s voice broke into their conversation with a crackle.
‘What’s our heading?’
‘What?’
‘My orders are to take you anywhere within operational range,’ the pilot explained.
‘Anywhere?’ Tom asked in surprise. He’d assumed that whoever had set them free was planning to have them brought to him.
‘Anywhere,’ the pilot confirmed. ‘As soon as we land, you’re free to go.’ He reached back and handed them two Swiss passports made out in false names. ‘What’s the heading?’
Tom paused before answering, flicking through the forged documents. He reckoned a full tank would last them 600 kilometres. More than enough to leave De Luca, Gallo and the murderous
madness they seemed to have stumbled into far behind. Allegra seemed to be having the same thought, because she pulled her headset off and yelled into his ear so she couldn’t be overheard.
‘What do you want to do?’
‘If we want out, then this is it,’ he called back. ‘A chance to walk away while we still can.’
‘Walk away to what? Until I can prove what Gallo’s up to, I’ve nothing to walk away to.’
Tom slipped his headset back on.
‘Can we make it to Monte Carlo?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ the pilot confirmed. ‘What do you need?’
Tom paused before answering.
‘A suit for me. Three buttons and a double vent. A dress for the lady. Black. Size 8.’