“The final and maybe most important thing I’ve found out,” Alvarez announced, “is that the killer didn’t leave Paris straightaway after being attacked. Seems he hung around to investigate the guys who tried to whack him.”
Ferguson spoke. “How do you know that?”
“Because one of the gunmen, found riddled with.45-caliber slugs in the building opposite the killer’s hotel, checked out of his own hotel about an hour after he was killed.”
There was a momentary silence in the room. Procter could hear the creak of leather.
“That’s a clever trick for a dead man,” Sykes offered with a smirk that showed his bright teeth. Everyone ignored him, and Procter shook his head imperceptibly.
“The clerk at the hotel described the man as quite tall, lean, with dark hair, glasses, and a beard,” Alvarez explained. “The real man, Svyatoslav, doesn’t match that description. He’s shorter, stockier. The description of Ozols’s killer, however, does match.”
Procter leaned forward. “Let me guess, the assassin acquired Svyatoslav’s things?”
“Yes,” Alvarez agreed. “He pretended to be him and signed out. The clerk gave him Svyatoslav’s passport, plane tickets, etcetera that were stored in the hotel safe. They haven’t popped up on the grid, so he didn’t use the passport to leave the country.”
Chambers asked, “What do you think the killer would want with Svyatoslav’s things?”
“I think he must be trying to learn about him,” Alvarez said. “That’s why he went to the hotel. He didn’t flee the country; he went to where one of the guys who tried to kill him was staying.”
“And if he is trying to identify his attackers, and who they were working for, what’s his next logical step?” queried Procter.
“To check out Svyatoslav’s address,” Alvarez answered.
“Please tell me we know where that is,” Chambers said.
“Munich.”
Chambers placed both hands on the table. “Okay, this is what we’re going to do. We’re going to contact German intelligence straightaway and get them to put the address under immediate surveillance. Let them know what kind of person they’re dealing with. I don’t want them trying to apprehend him, just keep him in sight. I’m not having anyone else getting killed because of this. Alvarez, as soon as you’ve finished briefing them, I want you on the next plane to Germany to see what you can find out. Call me from Munich. If he’s still there you’ll have as much support as you need.”
When Alvarez was off the phone it was Ferguson who spoke. His thick silver hair, normally swept neatly backward, was looking a little unruly today. “The chances of this killer still being in possession of the information are slim at best. If his job was to intercept Ozols and take the drive, then he will be delivering it to his employer-he won’t be off chasing leads in Germany. That makes no sense whatsoever.”
Chambers sighed. “Maybe it was his employer who tried to have him killed. Saves paying him. Or maybe he’s already done it. But until we have more indication on who sent him, this is our best approach. We’re against the clock here; as soon as that information is delivered, those missiles are going to vanish in a matter of days, and the next we hear about them will be when someone uses the technology against us. If there is a slim chance the man who killed Ozols might have gone to Germany, then so must we.” Ferguson didn’t look convinced. “Unless you have any other ideas you’d like to share with us.” The challenge in her voice was obvious.
Ferguson’s expression was one of quiet contempt. He shrugged his narrow shoulders. Procter looked at Chambers. Evidently she wasn’t bothered about getting the old guy’s back up whatever his history.
Maybe there was a pair dangling between her legs after all.
SIXTEEN
Geneva, Switzerland
Tuesday
18:32 CET
Victor walked through Place Neuve and passed the Grand-Théâtre. The city was alive with people, tourists out for a good time and locals happy to have finished the working day. Victor cast a fleeting glance at the Grand-Théâtre, wishing he had the chance to take in a performance, something by Puccini or Mozart perhaps. Instead he walked back and forth among the crowds to throw off any shadows.
The sun had set an hour before, and no one noticed him as he passed through the streets of the city. It was after dark where he really belonged. In the daytime he could hide within a crowd, but at night he could be invisible. In front of him walked a couple, arms entwined, stumbling slightly and laughing. They were so enraptured with each other they wouldn’t have noticed him whether he’d let them or not.
From Munich he’d traveled to Berlin and then onto Prague before heading to Switzerland. It had been a long and tiring journey, but Victor never traveled in straight lines. He veered off into a side street, taking an indirect route to the train station. It was brightly lit, busy with suited commuters. Like most of Geneva’s males, Victor was dressed in a thick overcoat, gloves, and hat. He was glad of the cold that forced everyone to pile on the layers, blending the crowd into a mass of conservative colors. Even a whole team of expert shadows would have their work cut out following him in such a place.
He hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours, and he was very aware of the fact. Sleep deprivation slowed the mind as much as the body, and now more than ever Victor needed to be at one hundred percent. But while on the run he couldn’t rest until he knew he was safe. Every hour spent asleep gave his enemies a chance to get closer to him.
He consumed a bad sandwich and a strong coffee in a small café while he waited for his train. When it arrived he waited for the last possible moment before climbing on board and sat with the window to his right, at the rear of the carriage. From Geneva Victor traveled north, the train winding through the mountains.
He’d lived in Switzerland for several years, finding its climate, people, and lifestyle to his liking. Living at altitude gave his endurance a significant boost, plus the country’s secretive banking systems and relaxed attitude to firearms suited him particularly well.
The train took Victor through the Valais, Switzerland’s third largest region, or canton. The region contained the Rhone valley, which fed Geneva’s famous lake. It was late when Victor stepped off the train in the village of Saint Maurice. Snow fell heavily, and he pulled his collar up and hunched his shoulders. He’d bought appropriate clothing for the mountains in a boutique at the train station and changed on the train.
The village itself was isolated, far away from the closest town, consisting mainly of wealthy foreigners who only spent a few weeks of the year in their expensive log chalets during the ski season. It was a place where few people knew their neighbors and where no one was surprised to see strange faces and vehicles. Victor, coming and going frequently, never appeared suspicious.
At one of the world’s most expensive grocery stores he bought whole milk, free-range eggs, a selection of fresh vegetables, English cheddar, soya and linseed bread, and smoked salmon. He resented having to pay the extortionate amount of money to the woman behind the counter, but he knew it served him right for living there.
He walked through the rest of the village with the two bags and his attaché case held in his left hand. He used the side streets instead of the main road. There were few people about, and when he was finally sure he wasn’t being followed, he headed off into the trees, moving in a half-circle around to where his chalet lay a mile away from the main cluster of buildings. He moved carefully through the dark forest, knowing the way without needing to see properly.