The Geneva Decision (27 page)

“You bested him? Three times?” Walter Walcott laughed deep enough to make himself cough. Then he cleared his throat. “Well then, you’re just the lass who can help me out. See, I need to get that young man out of my life for good. He plans the same for me as he did for Conor. I could tell something was wrong with him on the flight up here. Knowing he killed Conor, it all makes sense now. So, here’s the deal. You cut me loose, walk me to the door with no guns in your hands, and just before I make a run for it, I tell you where you can find him.”

“That’s funny, Walter. You’re a riot.”

“I’m serious, love. You can have the bugger. You get the killer, I get a chance. What do you Yanks call it? A win-win?”

“OK, you almost got a deal. Almost. First, you tell me how to find le Directeur. That was a code name for the young couple, right? The same way Calixthe was Elgin Thomas?”

“Guess so,” Walter said.

“You followed them but never got close enough to hear them talking. That would be only halfway smart. I think you’re all the way smart. I think you found some way of getting in touch with them just in case something happened to Calixthe, or whatever her name is. Now, you tell me how to find them and I’ll think about helping you out with Mustafa.”

Walter Walcott stared at the table for a long time. Finally, he looked up.

“You’ll think about helping me? You want Mustafa, don’t you?”

“I used to. But now that I know he’s planning to kill you, I’m thinking, what a great opportunity to get rid of you both. I just tell the polizei about him after he kills you and my work in Vienna is done. If you want me to take care of him for you—that’ll cost you.”

Walter shook his head slowly before looking back at her with pathetic, pleading eyes. He said, “How do I know I can trust you?”

Chapter 37

Geneva, Switzerland

28-May, 6AM

“…
because where she goes is important,” the Major said.

Agent Miguel took the keys and the bagged breakfast and headed out into the morning mist without a word.

The Major nodded at the hotel’s doorman, who stepped to the street and hailed her a cab. A block from Joey Campbell’s house, she got out and hiked up the hillside. Walking was a necessary meditation for her. Alone with no distractions, she could untangle webs of deceit.

If Antje Affolter was telling the truth about her affair with Joey Campbell, sometime in the next thirty minutes, she’d scurry from the Campbell’s house and head home. Once the affair was confirmed, the Major would proceed to Bachmann’s house. No matter how she looked at it, the Major couldn’t see Marina Bachmann as capable of hiring assassins. She most likely stood to inherit something of her sister’s but she had no other ties to the banking community. Ramona Wölfli, who would most likely get up some time after ten, was a much better suspect. Not because she hated her husband—which was convenient, believable, and probably honest—but because of her mercenary attitude. Ramona had dismissed Philippe Marot as too young—clearly she saw herself capable of winning another older, wealthier man. Maybe she’d already found one in the money laundering business.

Dawn lightened the eastern sky and the streetlights clicked off. In the dim gray light, she found the view of Lake Léman breathtaking. Early morning bird calls lent music to the scenery. The Major stopped between houses to admire the view. A dome of baby blue sky covered dark blue water surrounded by dark blue mountains. She took a mental picture and kept walking.

Reaching the end of the lane from which she could still observe the Campbell’s residence, she turned around. On cue, Antje tiptoed out of the house, a small bag in her hand, then got into a car and drove off.

The Major put a checkmark on her mental list: affair confirmed, but still a suspect. The woman knew banking, exhibited bad judgment with Joey, had plenty of financial motive. And her husband had ties to Cameroon. If she were ranking suspects by capability, Antje would take first place. If she ranked them by cold-bloodededness, Antje tied for last with Marina Bachmann. Could Antje be a good actress? The Major had seen plenty of great acting jobs in her time. It was possible.

Turning up the next lane, the Major made the short hike toward the Bachmann residence. Two blocks away, she heard her name called. Marina Bachmann, a dog’s leash in one hand, waved from a side street.

“Major Jackson, out for a morning walk?” Marina said.

“My body’s in a different time zone, so I thought I’d stroll around the lake. Beautiful view.”

“Yes, we love it.” Marina held a knuckle to her lips and winced. “We used to walk the dog together, you know. It was one of our chores as children. She was older and would tell me what to do, so I hated it. Now, I miss the innocent little fights.”

“What did you talk about as adults?” the Major said.

“Gossip. What she heard about this banker, what I heard about that wife.” Marina Bachmann laughed at herself. “Sounds so silly, doesn’t it?”

The Major smiled and winked. “Did she have anything good?”

Marina turned down the sidewalk and motioned for the Major to join her.

“Did you know Antje Affolter was having an affair with that artist, Campbell?”

“No! Really?”

“And Eren Wölfli lived like a Muslim sheik with three wives in his harem.”

“I met Mme. Wölfli,” the Major said in her best conspiratorial voice. “Did he choose the others for the same reason?”

“Eren divorced women for the sin of turning twenty-nine.”

“Where did he find them?”

“Where do you think?”

They both laughed.

“But then,” Marina said, “is it so much worse than older women running around with younger men? They say only young gigolos ski Chamonix now.”

The Major laughed again. “Am I too old to take up skiing?”

They walked another block in silence, the Major working over the bits and pieces in her mind. Marina started to say something, then stopped and touched her shoulder.

“Do you know who did it? Who killed my sister?”

“I have a few ideas. I know there were two people in Geneva. I know one had to have banking experience. A rival, a junior executive, a disgruntled employee? We’re working on it.”

“Thank you, Major Jackson. I’m glad to have run into you. You’ve told me more than the police. I’m not sure they know what to do.”

She watched Marina start up the entryway toward her house, a standard Victorian with a front porch and high-pitched roof. The garage was tucked on the side in the back of the property. The Major stared at the garage.

“Excuse me, Ms. Bachmann,” she called out, “did your sister use the garage the night she was murdered?”

“She did.”

“Do you have a side door she normally went through?”

“Yes. But the gunman called to her—I heard the voice just before the gunshot.”

“She knew him?”

“The police thought so, but she would have answered to anyone who called her name. This is a friendly city full of friendly people.”

The Major said goodbye and left.

Around the corner she called a cab to carry her to the hill overlooking Ramona Wölfli’s penthouse. Once there, she crossed a small park and found a bench with a perfect view. The binoculars were the right size and power to see directly into Ramona’s kitchen. She propped a laser detector on the bench next to her and aimed it at the windows. It would sound a warning when anyone moved through the visible end of the apartment.

For a few moments she watched the sun rise over the Alps. Mists swirled at the eastern end of the lake, still shrouded in the mountains’ shadows. She wondered if Sabel Security would open an office in Geneva. She sighed, gave up her delusions, and started pacing.

What about Wölfli’s first wife? Or second? What about Mme. Lena Marot? Was it her superior attitude that made her the Major’s prime suspect? Or her racism? She stopped herself. No supporting evidence pointed to Marot.

She ran through the mental list of survivors who had connections that could run a pirate ring three thousand miles away. She eliminated the alcoholic Campbell and the domestic Bachmann as incapable. Antje Affolter and Ramona Wölfli had that skill set. Ramona because gold diggers are capable of amazing things when their allowance is threatened.

Back to Marot. Dammit, no matter how much she wanted it to work, she had nothing that connected the woman to any part of this conspiracy.

Someone knew the banking business and had access to criminals. Who was the missing link between a bank executive and Calixthe?

She slowed her pacing.
Think
.

Bankers play golf, vacation in Greece, aspire to country clubs. They don’t hang out in dive bars on the waterfront. Could someone have moved the other way? Could a criminal move up the ladder inside the banking business? Unlikely. It would take too long, and criminals aren’t known for patience. Still, there must have been cross-pollination. A banker and a criminal got together somehow, somewhere, some place. Ramona made a good candidate for supplying the criminal connections. What banker, other than Eren, would fall into her web?

Any of them. None of them.

Pia Sabel called and reported on her evening’s excitement. After darting Walter Walcott for failing to give up le Directeur, she’d darted them all again and taken her normal a three-hour nap while Klaus kept watch. Then she’d gone through the captive’s possessions. Calixthe carried a packet of matches identical to the one found on Mustafa the night of the murder. Possibly the exact same one, since Geneva lost the evidence bag. Pia had called the number, no answer. She chalked that up to the early hour and would try again later.

“Sabel’s intelligence group,” Pia said, “dug up interesting background on Susan Duncan, aka Calixthe Ebokea. Two years ago she retired from the CIA. She spent twenty years as a field operative in all the places you might expect: the Hague, Stockholm, Berlin, Lyon, Hamburg, London. Her last two stops were Geneva and Vienna.”

“Then she definitely masterminded the pirate operation,” the Major said. “That leaves open the question about who the banking connection is. And how did they meet?”

“There were two people, a woman and a man, who called themselves le Directeur. Calixthe met with them, Monique spoke to them, Walter saw them. How do we find them?”

“You have everyone tied up. Wake them up with smelling salts and have them start talking. I’m not sure what you’re going to do about the polizei. That could be tricky. Might want to wake up your lawyers and have them on standby. What about Alphonse?”

“My mood shifts by the hour about him. He’s dirty. He’s clean. Dirty. Clean. How can I figure it out?”

The Major took a deep breath.

“Well, it doesn’t matter much,” Pia said. “When he wakes up, he’s going to hate me for suspecting him. If he’s in with her, he’s going to make me feel guilty. If he’s clean, I’m going to feel guilty. Maybe I should give him a gun and let him shoot me.”

“Please figure out a better way,” the Major said. “I’m thinking Ramona is the femme fatale and she seduced some junior executive. Oh, hey, my alarm went off, which means she’s up and moving around. Three hours earlier than I expected. Got to go.”

They clicked off. The Major pulled her binoculars up and steadied her elbows on her knees. Wölfli’s penthouse rose above the skyline with picture windows facing the lake and a balcony running the length of two sides. Facing her were a series of expansive windows. She could see some of the kitchen, most of dining room, and half the living room.

As she adjusted the focus, Ramona came in looking like she stepped out of lingerie catalog. She strode through the living room, strutted in front of the picture windows, and disappeared into another room. In that flash of legs and skin, the Major understood Ramona’s confidence in attracting a wealthy mate. She had a body men would die for: long lean legs, perfectly round butt, flat tummy, modest implants, and lace around all the curves.

“And I work out for hours just to keep my gut from hanging over my belt,” The Major muttered to herself.

Agent Miguel called.

“No movement at Maison Marot, but there are three driveways,” he said. “I can only see two. Place has three guest houses, a main house with ten bedrooms, a boathouse on the lake. Only three family members live there.”

“You did some recon before sunrise?”

“Sort of,” he said. “Property valuations, with detailed estate descriptions, are on the canton’s tax assessment website.”

“Clever boy. Any of our suspects staying there as guests?”

“No, and stakeouts bore me,” Miguel said. “But the boredom is over. The Marot limo’s pulling out. Should I follow them?”

“Can you tell who’s inside?”

“No.”

“Hang on a sec. I lost Ramona.” The Major scanned the Wölfli’s windows for signs of Ramona. Nothing. She cursed herself for the momentary lapse and pulled down the binoculars. Then she saw them. Two people leaning over the balcony’s railing. Possibly the missing le Directeur. One wore a thick robe and held a coffee mug. True to The Major’s opinion of her, Ramona put nothing over her lingerie outside. The Major lifted her binoculars to get a better view of the mystery guest—and howled with laughter until she caught her breath.

“What’s so funny?” Miguel asked.

“Miguel, you’re not going to believe this.” The Major laughed again. “That gold-digging little tramp. Her sugar daddy’s dead only a week and she’s out prowling already. Were my eyes playing tricks on me, or did I just see Ramona Wölfli tying tongues with Madame Lena Marot?”

Chapter 38

Vienna, Austria

28-May, 7AM

P
ia stood behind Lieutenant Alphonse Lamartine and wafted smelling salts under his nose one more time. His eyes blinked, his head snapped back, and he sank into sleep again. She crushed another dose between her thumb and forefinger and placed it even closer to his nose. At last his eyes were fully open. She peeled off the tape that held his head upright. It stayed up. He shook his head and snorted. While he took a deep breath and got his bearings, Pia slipped around the table and into his line of sight.