The Martyr's Curse (37 page)

‘None,’ Luc Simon said. ‘Parents died within eighteen months of one another. The father of leukaemia aged sixty-nine, the mother of acute heart failure at only sixty-two. No siblings, no children, no former spouses.’

‘The footwear empire?’

‘Sold off cheap for two hundred million to an Italian conglomerate in 2006,’ Luc Simon said.

‘What about Streicher’s private dental practice in Geneva?’ Ben asked. ‘Strikes me as the kind of place you could set up a makeshift laboratory.’

‘He quit that line of work years ago,’ Luc Simon said. ‘The building now operates as a cosmetic plastic surgery practice. Belonging to a Dr Emil Zucker, who was very startled to receive a visit from our agents. He thought they were tax auditors.’

‘Then run up the list of names of Streicher’s known followers,’ Ben said. ‘Starting with this Hannah Gissel. Somewhere down the line there’ll be a weak link, someone who knows something or who can at least lead us to someone else.’

‘You think those avenues haven’t already been thoroughly investigated?’ Silvie said.

‘Fine,’ Ben said. ‘Then the trail gets thinner still. All we have is two gangrenous corpses and a list of ghosts.’

‘Not quite all,’ Silvie said. She turned to Luc Simon. ‘Have you told him about Donath?’

‘I was about to get to that,’ Luc Simon said.

‘Who?’ Ben asked.

‘Miki Donath was one of Streicher’s closest associates,’ Luc Simon explained to Ben. ‘Born in Dresden in 1976. Served in the German army for sixteen years, nine of them in the KSK, Kommando Spezialkräfte. Speaks fluent French and English. He seems to have been recruited to the Parati while still on active service. Left the military in 2010, and the following year is believed to have been part of the team put together for the abortive Korea mission. Returned to Europe as a diehard core member of the Parati, dealing in illegal weaponry on the side. We think he also supplied a large quantity of arms and ammunition to Streicher’s people, hence the close rapport between the two men. In April 2013, Donath was suspected of the murders of two rival small-arms dealers in Berlin, but the charges didn’t stick due to lack of evidence. Back in Switzerland, he was arrested five months later for his involvement in the brutal gang rape and mutilation of a thirteen-year-old girl in Lucerne.’

Ben felt his fists tighten. He clenched his jaw and let the Frenchman go on.

‘On that occasion, the evidence against him was plentiful. He’s currently serving a fifteen-year sentence at a low-security prison in Altdorf, though he may not be there much longer. From what I gather, there have been some issues with his behaviour towards other inmates.’

‘Has anybody been there to speak to him?’ Ben asked.

Luc Simon nodded. ‘Jürgen Ganz of the FIS, the Swiss Federal Intelligence Service, sent a pair of agents to interview him. That’s the term they prefer, by the way. The concept of interrogation doesn’t go down well with the liberal penal system there.’

‘Result?’ Ben asked, though he already knew the answer.

‘Donath’s a tough nut, pretty much as you’d expect from someone with his background. The agents came away with nothing. He wouldn’t even speak to them.’

‘I’d like to have a try,’ Ben said.

‘Your way?’

‘Whatever works.’

Luc Simon shook his head. ‘Sorry, Ben. Whatever exceptional leeway I’m authorised to grant you extends strictly within EU territory only. As far as Switzerland is concerned, being outside the Union, there are very specific limitations to be observed. If we’re seen to overstep the mark even in the slightest degree, there’ll be hell to pay. I can get you in to see him, no problem. But absolutely no forceful tactics will be permitted in the handling of the prisoner. I hope I’m being totally clear about this.’

‘So you’re saying we can’t waterboard him,’ Ben said.

‘I hope you’re kidding. He’s not at Guantanamo Bay, Ben. And the Swiss penal system authorities pride themselves on their focus on progressive, humane social rehabilitation, as opposed to anything that carries even the faintest whiff of punishment. It’s all about therapeutic communities and supervised holidays, windy walks and horse-riding in the countryside. What other approach could turn hardened criminals into responsible citizens?’

‘They’re way ahead over there,’ Silvie said, with a blandly neutral expression.

‘Fine,’ Ben said. ‘Let’s go and ask him nicely, pretty please with icing on top, if he happens to know where his old pal Udo is hanging out these days.’

Chapter Fifty-Three

Luc Simon and the enigmatic Dr Jean-Pierre Oppenheim left, and a pair of large, taciturn twenty-something security goons in dark suits escorted Ben and Silvie outside to the waiting car, a long, low, black government Citroën DS5 with smoked windows, the same model that the President of France was chauffeured around in. The night was dark and damp. The first goon got in the front of the car alongside the driver while the second showed Ben and Silvie into the back. Ben could see the lump under his jacket where he was concealing a small submachine gun, maybe a Skorpion or a Micro Uzi, next to his ribs. The second goon stepped away from the car and muttered something into a radio. The driver took off and drove fast through the secret science facility’s maze of buildings. They reached an armed checkpoint brightly illuminated by floodlights on tall masts. The security guy whirred down his window and flashed a pass at the guards, and they were waved briskly through two sets of tall steel-mesh gates. The night closed in around the speeding car.

‘I’m glad you’re okay,’ Silvie said, too softly to be heard up front.

‘I’m glad you are too,’ Ben said. He could see her eyes shining in the darkness and the play of a smile on her lips. Very tentatively, she reached out and her fingertips touched the back of his hand.

Nothing more was said until they reached the hotel. The Interpol ticket got them straight past the desk and into the lift to their rooms, which were part of a double suite that was spacious and comfortable and a far cry from the roadside motel room they’d shared two days earlier. More spacious and comfortable than were strictly necessary for the interests of national security, Ben thought, but at least he wasn’t footing the bill. The two bedrooms were at opposite ends, separated by a lounge and open-plan adjoining dining area. There was a large fruit bowl on the dining table. Elegant lighting. Vases of flowers filled the room with sweet perfume. Ben walked over to the bedroom door at the lounge end and peered inside. There was a double bed and a small en suite bathroom, and a mock-Persian rug and French windows that looked as if they led out to a balcony.

A canvas and leather travel bag sat at the foot of the bed. He unzipped it and saw it was full of female clothing. Neatly folded blouses. Lacy underwear. A light, delicate and insubstantial pale silk nightdress that seemed to be more holes than material. He quickly shut the bag, feeling like he was intruding.

Silvie’s room, evidently. The Interpol guys had thought of everything. He stepped back out of the room and closed the door. At the far side of the suite, Silvie was coming out of the other bedroom. ‘This one’s yours,’ she said. ‘That horrible musty old green sack is in there.’

They approached each other and stopped two steps apart in the middle of the suite. There was a strange awkwardness in the air. As if neither of them knew just what to say, like a couple of gauche teenagers hovering tentatively around one another, each terrified of making any kind of move.

‘It’s late,’ Silvie said. ‘I suppose we should get some rest. Nothing much we can do until morning, anyway.’

Ben wasn’t remotely tired. He’d had enough enforced rest during his twenty-four-hour quarantine to last him a week. He’d be counting the night down, one minute at a time, until he could press on again with what he had to do.

‘See you in the morning, then,’ he said. Neither of them moved, as if neither wanted to be the first to turn away and head for their own bedroom. As if there was something stopping them.

‘Well, goodnight,’ Silvie said.

‘Goodnight, Silvie.’

More awkward seconds passed as they stood there in the middle of the huge suite.

She raised an eyebrow and grinned. ‘Why do you suppose they put us together, anyway?’

‘Bureaucratic efficiency,’ he said.

‘Don’t you just love it?’

‘More tax euros at work.’

‘Whatever. It’s nice to be here with you.’

‘Go and get some sleep,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.’

‘I’m not really that sleepy,’ she said.

He said nothing.

‘There’s bound to be some wine in the minibar. Maybe something a little stronger. Care for a midnight drink?’

‘It’s long past midnight,’ he said. ‘Besides, I more or less quit.’

She was just a couple of paces away, looking up at him with an expression he couldn’t quite make out. Her hair was shining in the suite’s soft lighting. There was a glow in her eyes, a half-smile on her lips.

He suddenly could imagine how easy it would be to step forward those two paces and kiss her. The thought startled him. But it also appealed to him. Too much. Too damn much. He tried not to let her see him swallow.

‘Goodnight, Silvie,’ he said again, and this time he managed to turn and walk to his room. He opened the door and slipped inside without looking back. Clicked it shut behind him.

His room was just the same as hers, except for the baggage and fresh clothes that had been left there waiting for him. He’d miss the old leather jacket. In its place was a black synthetic military-style number, with a pair of jeans and a change of underwear. He turned off the main light and dimmed the bedside lamp to its lowest setting, just a halo of light, like a candle’s. Sat on the bed and gave his bag a playful nudge with his foot. ‘Horrible musty old green sack, indeed,’ he murmured. Some people just didn’t understand. He reached inside and found that they’d left him his cigarettes. Considerate, those Interpol guys. Aside from the fact that they’d quietly relieved him of the remainder of the stolen money. Maybe that was what was paying for the rooms.

He spent twenty minutes under the shower with the water turned up hot, blasting off the last of the chemical wash he could still smell on his skin. He used one of the tiny complimentary bottles of shampoo to wash his hair. Then he towelled himself off, rubbed a hole in the condensation on the mirror and rasped his hand over his jaw. He decided shaving could wait a couple more days and put on a hotel dressing gown.

Back in the bedroom, he turned off the light. Walked over to the French window via a detour over to his bag, stepped out on to the railed balcony and lit up a Gauloise. A cool breeze rustled the satin drapes and carried his wisps of smoke gently away, melting them into the night air. He savoured the cigarette for as long as he could make it last, leaning on the railing and gazing out over the twinkling city lights. A siren was wailing in the distance. Somewhere out there, an unseen night train was rumbling out of the city. He thought about the passengers on board, and where their journey might be taking them. He thought about all the people asleep in their homes across Lyon, across France, across Europe. So many innocent lives out there. So fragile, so vulnerable, so ignorant of the lunatic destructiveness that threatened them and of the unravelling thread from which the stability and security of their world was hanging.

He smoked the cigarette down to a stub, until the heat of its glowing tip singed his fingers. Then he crushed it against the iron railing and the orange glow died away to nothing. He flicked the stub into the night and walked back into the darkened bedroom, leaving the French window open to allow the cool breeze inside.

He stopped.

Silvie was lying stretched out in his bed. The nightdress he’d found in her bag was a small pool of pale material on the rug nearby. Her hair was fanned out, dark against the pillow. He could see the curve of her bare shoulders above the sheet. She had one knee bent, the thin cotton draped over it like a tent. The light from the open window was reflected as bright little pinpoints in her eyes.

‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ he said after a beat.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said.

‘Me neither,’ he said.

He took a step towards the bed. Then another. Lifted the edge of the sheet and peeled it back. Let the hotel gown slip off him and fall to the rug.

And it wasn’t until a long time afterwards, lying there in the stillness of the night with Silvie’s head nuzzled against his left shoulder and the warmth of her skin against his, listening to the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing as she slept, that he realised he couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought about Brooke Marcel.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Altdorf, Switzerland

The place didn’t even look like a prison until they were almost at the entrance. It was tucked away in what seemed like an ordinary street, among what seemed like ordinary buildings and offices and homes. Barely anything to differentiate it from its surroundings, apart from the heavy iron gate, and the bars on the upper windows, and the few token coils of razor wire that discreetly adorned the roof, gleaming dully in the morning sunshine.

As Ben and Silvie walked up to the gate, it clicked open by some remote mechanism and whirred aside on smooth tracks. It was 9.24 a.m., and they were expected. Silvie was wearing the same dark trouser suit as yesterday, somehow unrumpled despite that morning’s helicopter ride from Lyon. Ben had nothing more formal to wear than his new jeans and black jacket. Not that it seemed to matter.

No passes or ID were needed. The magic ticket from Interpol was opening all the doors for them. Wherever the road might be heading, so far it was green lights all the way.

‘I’m Special Agent Silvie Valois of DGSI and this is Major Hope, attached to Interpol,’ Silvie said in French to the woman who met them inside the gate. ‘We’re here to see the prisoner Miki Donath.’

The woman shook their hands and introduced herself as Leila Amacker. She was tall and severe, threads of grey in the dark hair she wore tightly scraped back under a clasp. ‘Please follow me,’ she said. Ben wasn’t sure if she was offended or not by the use of the term ‘prisoner’. Inmate might have worked better. Or guest, maybe.