The Watchers (10 page)

‘Lab report?’

‘The one you faxed to him yesterday. He received it before boarding and read over it in flight. He wishes to discuss it with you. There’s a car waiting outside your flat. You are expected at two o’clock. Please, be prompt.’

‘Right, what time is it?’

‘One fifteen.’

‘A.m. or p.m.?’

‘It’s the afternoon of Sunday, December twelfth. Is there a problem of some sort?’

Harper’s head throbbed.

‘No, everything’s fine.’

‘Good. And in future, Mr Harper, please have the courtesy to submit any and all communications to the Doctor through me.’

The line went dead.

Harper pulled himself from the couch and opened the curtains. Grey light poured through the windows. Gave his studio flat all the cheeriness of a Dutch still life. He thought about cleaning up the remnants of another sleepless night. Hell with it, no time. He picked up the remote, switched off the telly just as a narrator’s voice was telling him about the spectacular Gothic interior of Coutances Cathedral. Sunday special on History Channel.
Great Cathedrals of the World
. Chartres, Westminster Abbey, Paris, Cologne. Everything you never needed to know about cathedrals. Kept waiting to see if Lausanne’s home-town entry made the grade. No such luck.

He threw water in his face, shaved and dressed quickly. He downed three aspirins for breakfast, jumped in the waiting car and headed for Vidy Park. Fifteen minutes later, Miss Barraud escorted him into the Doctor’s office. He was at his desk, reading from neatly bound pages while pointing to an empty chair.

‘Come in, Mr Harper. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

Harper made the long walk across the office and sat.

‘Good afternoon, sir.’

The Doctor continued to read.

Harper kept himself busy looking out of the glass wall opening to the Doctor’s private garden. Huge lawn, sculpted hedges. Probably a nice view on a clear day. The lake, the Alps. Today, with the fog, it was hard to see beyond the smoked glass and steel building next door, where the mere mortals of the IOC dwelled, where Harper’s own office was. The one with the nice view of the parking ramp. The Doctor and Miss Barraud worked in the more heavenly confines of what was known as
le Château
.

He turned his eyes to the Doctor’s desk. Everything on it white. White leather folders, white papers, white telephone with twenty white buttons. He looked around the office. Everything in the room white. Chairs, sofas, coffee table. The flag in the corner with the interconnecting rings of red, blue, yellow, green, black did add a splash of colour. And the laptop computer on the desk, black for the computer. Harper wondered how often the Doctor used the thing. Why would he? The man had twenty buttons on his telephone. Push one and Miss Barraud rushes in. Takes a memo, reads the mail, sorts your life with a cuppa. Tea, Christ, please. The Doctor looked at his watch.

‘Is it two, already?’

Harper checked his own watch, still five minutes behind the rest of the world. ‘Seems so, sir.’

The Doctor sat back in his swivel chair.

‘When did the lab come back with this?’

‘Friday afternoon.’

‘And they’re quite sure of their findings?’

‘There are questions, sir.’

‘The only question I care to have answered at the moment is whether or not the drug was used in the Beijing Games.’

‘The blood samples of all Beijing medallists are still in the IOC lab. They’ve tested eighty per cent. So far, nobody’s popped hot.’

‘So it’s untraceable, as the documents claim.’

‘Sir, I’m not sure it even exists.’

‘These documents call it a topically applied potion, already in use.’

‘Yes, sir. Question is, what’s it for?’

‘To win gold medals, Mr Harper, that’s why athletes take drugs.’

Harper nodded yes, but that’s not the bloody point.

‘Sir, in their review of the documents, the IOC lab notes much of the data doesn’t make sense. They have no idea what some of the compounds are. The ones they can identify would bring about severe psychotropic effects, if not render an athlete comatose. In fact, the word drug isn’t used anywhere in the material, it’s always referred to as “a potion”.’

‘And?’

‘Whoever used it would be high as a kite.’

‘So then the dosage is reduced.’

‘That’s just it. Knock down the dosage, there’s no effect.’

‘I don’t understand. Exactly what sort of drug is this?’

‘We’d have to ask the person who sent the documents.’

‘It was sent anonymously, you may recall. That’s why you were asked to look into it.’

‘There’s been a development, sir. Shortly after you left for Africa, I received an email from someone who said his name was Alexander Yuriev. He claimed he sent the documents.’

The Doctor blanched.

‘What do you know about him?’

‘Nothing, sir, till I Googled him. After that I went into the IOC files.’ Harper pulled a rolled-up clump of papers from his mackintosh. ‘Makes for rather sad reading.’

‘The man was a seven-time gold medallist at Innsbruck, one of the greatest champions ever.’

‘Sir, I read that you’re the man who had him banned from any contact with the Olympic movement, pretty much ending his career.’

‘By then his career was well in the bottle.’

‘Yes, sir. I only mention it because when I wrote to him, asking what he wanted, he said he needed to see you, he said you were the only man he could trust.’

‘Are you telling me you established a correspondence with him?’

‘Nine times, each time through a different Hotmail address. May I ask, did Yuriev ever try to contact you after he was banned?’

The Doctor looked at Harper. Harper sensed the man’s discomfort.

‘Just as background, sir.’

‘There were letters after he was banned, begging me to reconsider. There was nothing I could do, I’m afraid, and I didn’t respond. I really had no idea what happened to him, he disappeared. Then, nine months ago, quite unexpectedly, I received an email from him.’

‘What did he want?’

‘He wanted to see me, he said it was a matter of life or death.’

‘Did you answer it?’

‘I deleted it and asked Miss Barraud to block his name from the IOC server.’

‘No other emails then?’

‘I told you, his name was blocked.’

‘He got to me, sir, using the same IOC server.’

The Doctor considered it.

‘Yes, that is curious.’

‘When the documents came through the post, you had no idea they came from him?’

‘Indeed not. And I’d appreciate it if you could tell me how you know the man you’re dealing with is, in fact, Alexander Yuriev?’

‘Yes, sir, sorry. After his initial email to me, I asked for proof of identity. He sent a copy of his Russian passport. He continued to say he needed to see you. As with you, he told me it was a matter of life and death. I wrote he had to go through me. He continued to insist you were the only man he could trust. There was an increasing level of desperation in his subsequent emails, so I gave him my number and told him to telephone. He called that same day, said he needed to give you something for safe keeping. And again he said you were the only man he could trust.’

‘What was it, this thing he wanted to give me?’

‘No idea, but whatever it is, it feels like trouble.’ Harper glanced at the pile of papers in his lap, he sifted through some pages. ‘Gambling, alcohol, the accident. The man’s life fell apart in rather spectacular fashion. There’s no telling what he’s involved in.’

‘Do you think he might be dangerous?’

‘Not sure, that’s why I set a meeting with him.’

‘Where?’

‘Lausanne.’

‘Yuriev is in Switzerland?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Harper opened his file. A sheaf of papers fell out on his lap; he sorted through them, laid one on the Doctor’s desk. ‘This came attached to his last email. It’s a photograph of Yuriev standing on the Montreux corniche.’

‘My God, he looks awful, but it’s him. I’d say his drinking has all but destroyed his liver. Is that a newspaper in his hands?’

‘
24 Heures
. Date and headlines prove the photo was taken the same day as his last email, Friday morning, the day he telephoned my office.’

‘How did he sound?’

‘At his wits’ end. I’m not sure he’s at all mentally stable.’

The Doctor swivelled his chair to the wall of glass, stared out at the fog.

‘What happened at this meeting?’

‘He didn’t show up.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘In our phone call, I told him you were out of the country, that you had delegated the matter to me and that he had no choice but to trust me. Oddly enough, that seemed to calm him down. He said he was staying at a small hotel in Montreux, I offered to take the train and meet him. He said he’d come to me, said he knew a safe place to meet in Lausanne. We made arrangements to meet the same night.’

‘Where?’

‘Where, sir?’

‘Yes, Mr Harper, where?’

Harper squirmed in his seat.

‘GG’s.’

‘Where?’

‘It’s a nightclub, sir. Strip club, actually.’

‘You were conducting IOC business in a strip joint?’

Harper wondered if this might be a good time to hand over his pocketful of receipts. Then again, maybe not.

‘Wasn’t my call, sir. And I thought any counter suggestion might scare him off. He seemed to know the place rather well, gave me specific directions, in fact. For whatever reason, he didn’t make it. I called his hotel in Montreux, but he’d checked out, taken his luggage. I did some digging around, hotels, casualty departments. Yesterday, last night, I checked every strip— nightclub in Lausanne, just in case.’

‘In case of what?’

‘As I said, sir, he sounded increasingly desperate.’

The Doctor sighed, sat with his own thoughts a moment.

‘This lab report about a potion must be a delusion. I mean, look at the scribble. Poor man is exhibiting symptoms of alcohol-induced paranoia. He needs institutional help before it kills him.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘You don’t seem convinced, Mr Harper.’

‘It’s his emails, sir.’

‘Mr Harper, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but are you not reading too much into the emailed ravings of a broken man?’

‘It isn’t what’s in them, sir, it’s what happened to them.’

The Doctor closed the lab report and settled back in his chair.

‘Let’s have it, Mr Harper.’

‘Yesterday evening I tried contacting him, but every email account came back marked “no such address”. I called one of the IOC computer people, asked her about it. She said Hotmail accounts are kept active for thirty days after they’ve been cancelled, as protection against internet fraud. Yuriev used nine accounts in less than two weeks, they’re gone.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Neither did the bird in computer support. She said—’

‘Mr Harper, the IOC has very specific rules regarding proper forms of address for female co-workers. “Bird” is not one of them.’

‘Yes, sir, sorry. My female co-worker, Miss Storries, said there’s either been a near-to-impossible worldwide glitch in the Hotmail network, or Yuriev is a gold medallist in computer hacking.’

‘Are you suggesting Yuriev is involved in perpetrating fraud on the IOC?’

‘I’m suggesting Yuriev, or someone he works with, or maybe someone following him, knows how to cover their internet tracks in a suspicious, if not illegal, manner. Seems reason enough to bring in the police.’

‘The police?’

‘Whatever Yuriev’s up to, there’s every chance he’s a scandal about to be delivered to your doorstep.’

For the second time in the morning, the Doctor blanched. He leaned over his desk, rubbed his temples. Harper watched him. Long overnight flight one side of the desk, brutal hangover on the other. Not pretty.

‘You’re right, Mr Harper, of course. The tabloids would have a field day with “IOC” and “scandal” in the same headline, especially with the London games but nineteen months away. They wouldn’t care that the wretched man was in need of clinical help, nor about the truth. You haven’t told anyone else of this business?’

‘My instructions were to report to you alone. Much to the displeasure of my co-worker, Miss Barraud.’

The Doctor looked up, smiled, nodded with approval.

‘I see why Guardian Security recommended you for this job.’

Harper wondered if he should mention the part about being in such a drunken stupor when he got the call, he had no idea who Jay Harper was, or what qualified him as a freelance security specialist with Guardian Services Ltd. Then again, so far so good.

‘Thank you, sir.’

The Doctor stood, Harper stood as well.

‘You must forgive me, Mr Harper. I’m having Sunday brunch with the British Ambassador. Security arrangements for the London Games are nearing Orwellian proportions. Their Home Office is now suggesting strip searches of athletes from all Muslim countries before each competition. Madness reigns. As far as Yuriev, give him forty-eight hours.’

‘Sir?’

‘I’m sure he’ll turn up. When he does, tell him I’ll meet him. Arrange a meeting, somewhere discreet. Preferably not a strip club. We need to get him off the streets and into a hospital. Keep me advised of any developments.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll keep looking.’

The Doctor shot him an unmistakable glare.

‘Don’t just look, Mr Harper. Find him, before the goddamn press does.’

six

The funicular train, two cars long, rolled up the dark tunnel and pulled into the underground station at Flon. Rochat made himself ready, and when the doors slid open he jumped quickly onboard and took his favourite seat near the big window. Two old ladies stepped onboard a few seconds later. Rochat stood, pulled off his hat and bowed.

‘
Bonjour, mesdames
, and welcome aboard La Ficelle!’

The ladies took seats at the far end of the car and searched through their handbags so as not to notice him. Rochat saw his reflection in the window. Hair still growing sideways from his head, smudges of dirt on his face, pigeon droppings on his black overcoat. He looked like a tramp who’d slept in a gutter. Rochat was sure his appearance must be a great shock to the little old ladies. There were no tramps in Lausanne. Besides, the gutters were spotless.