He was pleased to find nothing had been recorded by his security system. He opened the door to the small boiler room and checked the control box for tampering. Should he enter a certain code it would set a three-minute timer that would detonate the C-4 carefully positioned around the ground floor. One day he might have to leave in a hurry and never come back.
Once he was satisfied, he put the groceries away and was finally able to relax. He treated himself with a long shower. Outside his chalet he never took them. Back to the door, naked, unarmed, pounding water blocking all other noise — even the most skilled target was defenceless in one. Victor had killed enough people in them to know they were death traps. Here it was safe though. His body ached. He noticed he’d lost a couple of pounds too, but two days on the run tended to make an effective diet programme. Plenty of decent food and rest would put him right in no time. He had no significant injuries, and, considering what had happened, he knew he was fortunate to be in one piece. Thinking of food made his stomach groan.
When he couldn’t ignore the hunger any longer he dried himself, checked the house once more to satisfy his paranoia, and made himself a large cheese and salmon omelette with the groceries he’d bought. He followed it with a protein shake loaded with vitamins and minerals before taking a half-empty bottle of Finnish vodka from the freezer. He went into the lounge, sat down in front of his rosewood piano, and tore the seal from the bottle.
Victor poured himself a glass of vodka and rubbed a smear from the piano with his sleeve. The piano was an 1881 Vose and Sons Square Grand he’d found rotting in a Venetian dealership. He’d bought it for a good price and had it couriered to Switzerland to be repaired but not restored. Victor found a certain beauty in the absence of perfection. The piano had existed for several times longer than his own life span, and it wore its battle scars proudly. He played a little Chopin until he found his eyelids drooping.
Later, he poured the last of the vodka into the glass and used the piano to help him stand. He headed upstairs slowly and lay down on his double bed, the single pillow hard beneath his head.
He fell asleep with the glass on his chest.
CHAPTER 17
Munich, Germany
Tuesday
22:39 CET
Alvarez shivered as he left the building and nodded to the German police officer smoking a cigarette nearby. The officer’s return nod, Alvarez noted, was somewhat half-hearted. Evidently he did not appreciate the task of questioning the building’s occupants that Alvarez’s presence had won him.
German intelligence had been very cooperative and had agreed to Alvarez’s request on just the vague information the company have given them. News of the Paris shootings had reached across the border, and the Germans were keen to help.
As with the French authorities, he told them nothing of the missing flash drive. His priority was to recover it rather than to apprehend Ozols’s killer, but it wouldn’t do to tell that to members of another nation’s intelligence service. They would want to know what information the memory stick contained, and the best way to answer that would be to take possession of the drive.
He climbed into his rental car and drove back to the hotel. It had been a long two days, and the strain was showing in the face that looked back at him in the bathroom mirror. He had another progress report to give to Langley, but he would need an hour’s sleep before he started it.
His achievements were limited at best. A man matching the assassin’s description had been let inside the building by a neighbour. There was no evidence Ozols’s killer had been inside Svyatoslav’s apartment or had found or taken anything, but that didn’t surprise Alvarez. Svyatoslav’s financial and phone records were being assembled, and Alvarez did not relish the thought of having to pore through them.
The neighbour, Mr Eichberg, had provided another description and aided a sketch artist. The assassin had shaved his beard and cut his hair, but the remaining identifying features could’ve been anyone’s. He couldn’t have had the decency to have a big nose or a cleft chin, Alvarez thought bitterly.
A drawing had been issued to police forces across Germany, but Alvarez knew the killer would not have hung around. He was most likely out of the country long before Alvarez had even arrived. All CCTV footage at airports and train stations were being checked by the authorities as a matter of course.
Alvarez took the hair clippers from his suitcase and gave his head a once over with the number two attachment. He had a brief hot shower and afterwards lay down on his bed to sleep but couldn’t make it happen. A few years ago, when he couldn’t sleep, he would have grabbed the phone and spoken to Jennifer, but there was no one to speak to these days. Alvarez kept people at arm’s length without having to try, and, even when he made an effort to bend his elbows, he just found his arms were still longer than those of most people.
Some women seemed to like the challenge of getting close to him, but once they realized it wasn’t going to happen they bailed. Mostly sooner, but in Jennifer’s case later. He thought about calling to speak to Christopher, but it was hard talking to his son when he saw so little of him and the kid called someone else daddy.
A ringing phone woke Alvarez. He launched himself off the bed and grabbed it from the sideboard. He saw by the clock that he had been asleep for only a few minutes.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Alvarez, this is Gens Luitger of the BKA. We met earlier today.’
The BKA — the Bundeskriminalamt — Germany’s equivalent of the FBI. Luitger was a high-ranking and well-respected officer in the organization, and, from the short time Alvarez had spent with him, he seemed extremely competent. His English was flawless, with only the occasional trace of an accent.
‘Yes,’ Alvarez said. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m good,’ Luitger answered. ‘And I have some good news for you. I’ve had people checking for lone-travelling men in their thirties who’ve exited the country, and I believe we have had some luck. Yesterday a British national by the name of Alan Flynn boarded a flight to Prague, out of Berlin. This is odd because Alan Flynn is currently residing in a secure mental-health hospital in the north of England. The man using Alan Flynn’s passport also matches your target’s description.’
The second British one he’s used, Alvarez thought. ‘How sure are you?’
‘As sure as one can be.’
Alvarez detected a slight difference in Luitger’s tone, as if he had been offended or insulted by Alvarez’s question. He understood why. Luitger wouldn’t have phoned unless he thought the information was sufficiently reliable.
‘Do you have his face on the security cameras?’
‘No, unfortunately our mutual friend was lucky enough not to have been picked up by the CCTV cameras. At least his face wasn’t.’
Alvarez smiled to himself. ‘No, that’s not luck, that’s him all right. Thank you for calling me so promptly.’
‘That’s no trouble. I feel it is important for our security services to aid one another whenever we can, even if our leaders would not always agree.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘How do you want to proceed? My people will continue the investigation as best we can, but I think we might have to accept the suspect is already out of Germany. If so, my authority stops at the border.’
Alvarez’s mind was already running in fifth gear trying to sort through all the possibilities. He needed to get the new information out to Langley as soon as possible. If the killer had gone to the Czech Republic, then things were not looking good. He would need to speak to Kennard to update him and find out what, if anything, had been discovered in Paris. He realized Luitger was still on the phone.
‘That’s fine, my friend,’ Alvarez assured, despite feeling dejected. ‘You’ve done more than enough already.’