They said their good-byes and Alvarez hit a speed-dial number. After a few rings Kennard answered. The guy sounded tired.
‘John, get this: the killer did pay a trip to Svyatoslav’s apartment,’ Alvarez said.
‘Did he find anything?’
‘That’s the million-dollar question.’
‘What about you, you find anything?’
Alvarez shielded the phone while he sneezed. ‘According to the BKA the killer took a plane to the Czech Republic.’
‘The Czech Republic?’
‘Prague to be exact, but by now he could be anywhere.’
‘What the hell is this guy up to?’
‘That would be the billion-dollar question. You got a pen? Write this down.’
Alvarez gave Kennard a list of instructions then hung up. He sneezed again and hoped he wasn’t coming down with a cold. That would be just his luck. He picked up the phone and called room service for a big pot of strong coffee. It was going to be a long night.
CHAPTER 18
Paris, France
Tuesday
23:16 CET
Kennard flipped his phone closed and considered carefully for a moment. He was at the killer’s hotel with the complete crimescene report, doing a walk-through, trying to get an accurate picture of everything that had happened in case they’d missed anything. The French police were still pretty damn unhelpful, but at least they left him to it.
Now that Alvarez had briefed him about the situation in Germany, Kennard abandoned what he was doing. He hurried through the hotel and out onto the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore. It had been sealed off in front of the hotel from junction to junction on the previous day, almost immediately after the killings. Kennard remembered watching the harried-looking policemen at either end of the cordon as they tried their best to divert the angry morning traffic.
Now it was as if nothing had happened. The only barriers still in place were within the hotel itself. Outside, Parisian motorists whizzed too fast down the road in their pathetically small cars, hitting their horns each and every chance they had. It seemed not to matter if there was real cause.
Kennard hated the French, hated everything about the country. The people, the language, the so-called culture. Even the food was bullshit. Sure, if he paid a month’s salary he could get something half-edible, but greasy omelettes, tough bread, rank cheese, and meat that smelled rotten was not his idea of fine eating. He’d take a quarter pounder with good old freedom fries any day of the week.
He continued to walk along the sidewalk, going past where his car was parked. A group of drunk executives were heading his way, failing miserably to walk in a straight line. No doubt they had been celebrating a deal of some sort. They looked the type.
As they drew closer one of them shouted something to him in French. Kennard recognized the aggression. Maybe the Frenchman had noticed the antipathy in Kennard’s face, or maybe he was just looking to have some fun.
The man was just taller than Kennard and twenty pounds heavier, most of it around the gut, but beneath his suit Kennard wasn’t the soft guy he looked. He would have liked to have demonstrated that he was no easy target, but instead he averted his gaze and moved out of the group’s path. He couldn’t afford to get into any trouble. He heard laughter and jeers from behind him as they walked away. Lucky for them that they did.
Kennard crossed the street. His face remained blank, but he could feel the pressure of blood in his temples. Alvarez had given him a host of urgent tasks to complete, tasks that could not wait, but Kennard wasn’t returning to the embassy. He had something more pressing to do first.
After another minute walking, he turned into a side street. He found the pay phone again and had to wait a difficult thirty seconds before the young woman inside had finished her call. Kennard entered the booth and took out his cell phone to check the latest number. He pushed the buttons quickly but carefully. He would wipe down the surfaces he had touched when he was finished.
The back of Kennard’s collar was damp. He wasn’t supposed to make phone calls that were not prearranged, but after Monday’s disaster news like this couldn’t wait. The phone didn’t start ringing immediately, and, when it did, it seemed to take forever before someone answered. He coded in.
There was a long silence before anyone connected. When the voice on the other end of the line spoke, it practically dripped disdain.
‘This had better be important.’
Kennard took a deep breath before continuing. ‘It’s been confirmed. He did go to Svyatoslav’s apartment in Munich, but he’s long gone. We’re pretty sure he flew to the Czech Republic. After that, we don’t know yet.’
There was a long pause. ‘Okay,’ the voice said. ‘This is what we want you to do…’
CHAPTER 19
North of Saint Maurice, Switzerland
Wednesday
08:33 CET
Victor’s breathing was laboured. The thin mountain air expelled from his lungs in clouds of white vapour. The first two hundred feet had been difficult, but the last fifty had been murder. He grunted and pulled the ice hammer from where it was embedded in the frozen waterfall and hacked it into the ice above his head. Ice and snow rained down over him and fell to the base of the waterfall far below.
He watched the glittering fragments fall for a moment and took in several large gulps of air. His face was red from the cold and exertion. A pair of climber’s goggles shielded his eyes from the unfiltered sun above. The ice of the waterfall was bright blue and white but much darker, almost black in the depths of the cracks and fissures. A distorted reflection watched him climb.
Up here it was easy to forget about the events of the last few days. He had no choice but to focus solely on what he was doing. Nothing could invade his mind except the task at hand, because if it did those thoughts would be his last. He’d rested his body as much as he could, but now he needed to clear his head. He had no friends he could talk to, no one to share his problems with, and this was the next best thing.
Alone in the mountains he felt as though he was the only person in the world. Just him and the brutal honesty of nature. He was as far from civilization as he could hope to get, and yet up here the world seemed far more civilized.
He pulled with his arms and pushed with his legs, wrenching the crampons of his boots free from the ice before jamming them in farther up. The stress of the climb shook his body, but the inherent danger calmed his mind. He was confident in his abilities, but he had to maintain one hundred per cent concentration. He used no screws, carabiners, or rope — so if he didn’t concentrate, he fell. If he fell, he died. It was that simple.
The only sound was that of the wind, of metal hitting ice, and of his own heavy breathing. The sense of utter freedom was prevalent. He was relaxed and at peace.
After another ten feet he paused. Leaning backwards, he took one hand from an ice hammer and reached into a pocket to pull out a hard candy, pleased to find it was a green one. He threw it into his mouth. They kept his mouth moist so he didn’t feel thirsty, but more than that they tasted good. Victor sucked on the candy and tilted his head to one side to enjoy the view. All he could see were mountains and trees topped with snow.
He could’ve stayed hanging there for hours, but he felt water strike his face. He looked up, squinting against the glare. Droplets of water glistened in the sun. The ice was melting. Not surprising with a cloudless sky. He climbed on, not hurrying, knowing he would reach the summit long before there was any danger.
The ice above groaned.
Victor stopped climbing and looked upward. Twenty feet above his head a sheet of overhanging ice broke away. Victor flattened himself against the waterfall, and chunks of ice and snow fell past him. He took back his previous judgment and quickened his pace. His muscles, craving more oxygen, filled with lactic acid, and his lungs ached from sucking in the frigid air. He climbed fast, driving the ice hammers and crampons home, pushing and pulling and repeating until he reached the summit and collapsed spreadeagled onto the snow.