They weaved through another labyrinth of backstreets before crossing the Avenue Bosquet and finally arriving at a plush apartment block. It was classic Paris — a sycamore-lined boulevard dotted with cafés and expensive boutiques — and the atmosphere was casual and relaxed as Parisians enjoyed lunch in the various cafés and bistros.
They stopped outside a modest residential building four or five storeys high. “This has to be it,” he said. “The skyline matches up perfectly, except for one thing. This was filmed from much higher up. By the looks of it I’d say the top floor.”
He looked at the neat row of door buzzers and his eyes widened when he saw it. “Only one apartment on the top floor — an Anton Zeman. Fake name maybe.”
“You think this is our man?”
“Only one way to find out.”
Harry pushed the buzzer next to the large black door.
No reply.
Lucia sighed and ran her hands through her hair. She looked tired and anxious, and she shuffled from foot to foot in a bid to keep warm. Paris was several degrees colder than Madrid at this time of year. “What now?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s not in, so what do we do?”
“We break in, of course.”
“I don’t know…”
But before she had finished protesting, Harry had already opened the door with his bump key and was now gesturing for her to enter as if he were a doorman. “Ladies first.”
“You’re a lot of trouble, you know that Harry Bane?”
“That’s what they say.”
He followed her inside and gently closed the door behind them. Now, he thought, we’re getting closer to the truth.
EIGHTEEN
Harry led Lucia into an old-fashioned but beautifully restored cage elevator and pushed the button for the third floor. They rode up in awkward silence until the bell pinged and he swung open the manual accordion gate and stepped out.
The hall was dimly lit but expensively decorated, with black and white pictures of 19th Century Paris on the walls. Parlour palms in white ceramic pots were stationed on the shining oak parquetry floor either side of a crimson-coloured Persian runner rug which led the way to the apartment door of Anton Zeman.
“Follow the red brick road,” Harry said.
They reached the door and after knocking to make sure no one was home, Harry worked his magic with the bump key and gently pushed open the door.
The apartment was empty and silent, except for the gentle whirring of a ceiling fan, which Harry thought meant this Zeman wasn’t too far away. Everything in the place gave an impression of old, quiet money — the original Degas sketch above the fireplace, the wine rack in the kitchen, the antique carriage clock on the drinks cabinet. It reminded Harry of the officer’s mess back in England, before he traded that life in to become a spook.
They walked to the back of the apartment and entered what was obviously the study.
“Maybe they got to him too,” Lucia said, lifting a cold coffee cup from a table beside a leather armchair.
Harry shook his head. “Maybe, but I don’t think so — at least if they did then it didn’t happen in here. No sign of a struggle.”
“Are we sure this is even the right place?”
“Oh for sure — check this out.”
He pulled back a net voile in the window and gestured toward the view.
Lucia joined him and gasped when she saw it. “It’s the view from the video!”
“The exact same view — just as I thought. I think it’s a safe bet that Anton Zeman and Andrej Liška are one and the same.”
“Harry! I hear someone opening the door!”
“Keep calm and stay here. I’ll go and welcome him home.”
Harry darted out of the room and into the corridor, snatching up a small but heavy bronze sculpture of Artemis as he went. He pushed himself up behind the front door and held his breath as it slowly opened.
A solid man in his sixties shuffled into the hallway. His sloping shoulders told Harry he was carrying the weight of the world on them, but as the old man turned to toss his keys in the bowl and shut the door, Harry stepped out and raised the small statuette.
“Oh God!” the man said, his eyes full of terror. “Don’t kill me, please!”
“I’m not going to kill you,” Harry said. “I’m here to help you. We both are.”
And then Lucia stepped out into the corridor.
Anton Zeman looked at them for a long time. He was judging them — measuring how trustworthy they were. That was fine, thought Harry. I’m doing exactly the same thing to you.
“Come away from the door,” Harry said, and they walked into the main living area. Without warning, the man turned on his heel and fled. Harry gave chase, tearing through the apartment in his bid to catch him, but slipped on one of the rugs and crashed over into the drinks cabinet. “Bugger!”
“Get up, Harry!” Lucia screamed. “He’s getting away!”
“No, no,” Harry said as he got to his feet. “He’s just popping along to the kitchen to make us a cup of tea.”
She rolled her eyes, hands on hips. “Idiota.”
Harry raced toward Zeman who was now halfway to the apartment’s entrance. The fleeing man lashed out and knocked his coat-rack over in a bid to slow Harry down but he got his jacket sleeve caught in one of the pegs.
As he struggled to free himself, Harry caught up and rugby tackled him to the ground. Zeman screamed out and tried to punch Harry, but to say the former soldier and MI6 man had dealt with worse was a tragic understatement, and seconds later the old man was subdued, but spitting with anger.
“Let me go!”
“Just calm down, Andrej!”
The man cocked his head and took a breath. “How do you know my name? No one knows my name! I am Anton Zeman!”
Harry sighed. “I know lots about you, including your real name, Andrej, and I’m not here to rob you or hurt you, all right?”
Liška’s breathing slowed but his face was still purple with rage and fear from the chase. “So you say now, but…”
“It’s true, and I’ll let you go to prove it if you swear you won’t run again.”
Liška seemed to think the proposal over, and then Harry felt his body go limp as he finally gave up the struggle and relented. “All right, fine. I swear.”
Harry slowly moved away from Liška and got to his feet. As the man stumbled up to his knees and then stood up, Harry closed the apartment door and locked it, putting the man’s key in his pocket. Liška looked aghast. “Just a precaution in case you change your mind.”
“What do you want?” Liška said, moving his head from Harry to Lucia. “Why have you broken into my apartment?”
“We just wanted to talk to you,” Lucia said. “That’s all.”
“When most people want to talk to me they usually use the telephone,” he said, his breathing returning to normal again. “They don’t break into my home.”
Lucia pointed her chin at Harry. “I’m sorry, Mr Liška, but my friend here likes to do things a little differently than most people.”
“I want a drink,” Liška said, and then turned to Harry. “I take it I’m allowed to make myself a drink, if this is okay with you?”
Harry nodded. “Knock yourself out, and I wouldn’t say no either.”
Liška snorted. “You have some nerve, whoever you are. I’ll give you that.”
“My name is Harry Bane, and this is Lucia Serrano. We’re friends of Pablo Reyes.”
Liška stopped pouring the Scotch halfway. “Pablo?”
“That’s right,” Lucia said gently. “I was his lover.”
“What do you mean were?”