The Watchers (6 page)

‘Welcome to GG’s, monsieur. You would like a drink?’

He turned to a petite woman behind the bar. Asian face, brown eyes, slender body draped in red silk.

‘Vodka tonic, please.’

‘With pleasure.’ She mixed the drink in a tall glass, set it before him. ‘I hope you enjoy it.’

He tasted the drink, heavy on the vodka. Designed to get you well pissed and loosen up all those francs burning a hole in your pocket. He drank deeper.

‘Is it to your liking?’

‘Sorry?’

‘The drink, monsieur.’

‘It’s fine.’

She gave it ten seconds.

‘You’re a newcomer to Lausanne, monsieur.’

He thought about it for five.

‘I suppose I am.’

‘You must take time to visit the cathedral.’

‘The what?’

‘In the old city.’

He stared at her, wondering about the weirdness of a half-naked woman in a strip club telling him he should see a bloody cathedral.

‘I’ll try and fit it in.’

The bartender gave it another ten seconds.

‘Is there anything else I can offer you, monsieur?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I could ask one of our lovely dancers to join you for conversation, if you wish.’

‘Conversation?’

She tapped a small notice on the bar: ‘
Merci de vous souvenir de GG’s: vous pouvez regarder mais pas toucher
’, You may look, but not touch.

He looked at her, wondering what one says to a half-naked woman.

‘Actually, I’m waiting for someone.’

She opened her arms. Her breasts perked up under the silk. They were perfect.

‘I’m someone, monsieur. A very nice someone for you to talk to.’

‘The someone I’m looking for is a man.’

She leaned over the bar, smiled somewhere between coy and coquette.

‘Then, monsieur, you are in the wrong place.’

He looked in the mirror above the bar. Portrait of a thirty-something chap in a tweed sports jacket and loose-fitting tie, propped at the bar of a strip club in Lausanne. Like being there and not there at the same time. His eyes fell from the mirror.

‘Funny you should say that, mademoiselle.’

He finished the drink, set the glass on the bar.

‘You will have another drink while you wait?’

‘There comes a time in the tide of human emotions.’

‘
Excusez-moi?
’

‘I’d love another drink.’

He smoked, waited for the refill. Up in the spotlight, a caramel-coloured woman with long dark hair took the stage. She wore a gold sari that glimmered in the spotlight. She pulled it from her shoulder and it slid from her body like something liquid. She held it in front of her as the spotlight dimmed and blue backlight swelled, casting her naked form against the cloth. He watched the sari rise slowly to the woman’s eyes, watching her watch him. Inviting him to talk about the sensation of desire, maybe. He turned back to the bar, saw himself in the mirror again. Portrait of a thirty-something chap who couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such a thing. The bartender was back with his drink.

‘I hope you enjoy it, monsieur.’

‘If it’s anything like that last one, I’m sure I will.’

He stamped his smoke in the ashtray, scanned the tables again. The man from the photograph still nowhere to be seen. Strange place for a meet, but it was the place the man wanted. Someplace safe, someplace they couldn’t be overheard. Too dangerous, time running out, must give you something. Sounded desperate, crazed even.

He sipped his drink.

An even heavier blast of vodka.

Shaping up to be a rough night.

Standard operating procedure since coming to Lausanne. Couldn’t sleep in this town any more than in London. Just sit on the settee. Drink, smoke, watch History Channel through the night, every night. Not so much getting pissed as trading the sensation of memory for all there was to know about the two and a half million years of human existence. From the moment the
Homo ergaster
line of humanoids became bipeds, learned to control fire and file stones into hand axes. Bit of the old drinking game before pretending to sleep. Pour a round and chug it down every time someone on the telly said the words ‘war’ or ‘mankind’. He shook it off, lit another fag, looked around the joint. Place filling with more punters in search of conversation with a naked woman, but not the man he was waiting for. He turned back to the bar with his empty glass. The bartender in the red silk had another refill waiting for him.

‘You’re a mind-reader, mademoiselle.’

He checked his watch again.

Eleven minutes after eleven o’clock.

Flashing back again.

Seven weeks ago.

The last time he saw the hands of a clock in the same place.

Playing the drinking game in a one-room flat. Telly filling the dark room with blue flickering light. Holy Crusaders on the screen, slaughtering their way to Jerusalem in the name of Jesus. Streets running with blood. Telephone rings. He stared at it. Couldn’t remember the last time the telephone rang, couldn’t even remember where the hell he was. He got up from the sofa bed, pulled aside the window shade. Huge yellow brick building across the road. Clock tower atop the building reading eleven eleven.

‘Where the hell am I?’

He closed the shade and sat back on the bed. Let the phone ring, thinking the bloody thing would give up sooner or later. It didn’t. He grabbed the remote and turned off the telly. The room wholly dark but for the glow of streetlamps against the window shade. He picked up the receiver, didn’t speak, just waited. Silence. Till a man’s voice came down the line:

‘Good evening, Mr Harper.’

‘Who?’

‘Jay Harper, on the Euston Road at King’s Cross Station?’

‘King’s Cross?’

‘Yes, the yellow brick building just outside your window. The one with the clock.’

His eyes scanned the bed, the floor. Bottles of vodka in varying stages of emptiness, a wallet, British passport, an ashtray stuffed with dead butts, a couple of packets of smokes. He reached for the passport. Photo inside with a name: Jay Michael Harper. Born: London, 1971.

‘Who the hell’s this?’

The voice on the line answering as if the question was for him.

‘Guardian Services Ltd, Mr Harper. Representing freelance security specialists such as yourself. We’ve engaged your services many times in the past.’

Harper had no idea what the voice was talking about.

‘Little late for a bloody sales call, isn’t it?’

‘This isn’t a sales call, Mr Harper. We’ve been trying to contact you for three days.’

He rubbed the back of his neck, looked around the room. Books, newspapers, rubbish scattered about. He shook his head, trying to come to.

‘Right.’

‘There’s a job for you in Lausanne.’

‘Where?’

‘Lausanne, Switzerland.’

‘Lausanne.’

A wave of sickness came over him, his head throbbed with pain. Coming to was proving difficult.

‘Look, this really isn’t a good time.’

‘I apologize for the hour.’

‘No, it’s not … look, I’m not up for any sort of job, not just now.’

‘Mr Harper, may I ask you if you are in a position to choose?’

‘To choose?’

‘Our records indicate you’ve been without work for some time. One would have thought you could use the work.’

The voice let him think about it. He grabbed the wallet and opened it. Thirteen pounds sterling, no pence. No other forms of ID, no credit cards, no bank cards. Like the voice said, no choice.

‘What kind of job are we talking about then?’

‘Oh, the usual sort of thing.’

Harper had no idea what the fuck that one meant. Then again, when there’s no choice, there’s no choice.

‘So, what next?’

Walk across road tomorrow morning, six o’clock. Find St Pancras Station around the back of King’s Cross. Second-class rail tickets to Paris in your name at the Eurostar desk. Guy waiting on platform, holding a sign, ‘Guardian Services Ltd’. Doesn’t introduce himself, doesn’t say a word in English, mumbles in French. Somehow Harper catches the drift. Métro strike, need a taxi to Gare de Lyon, running late already. Hands over a ticket for the Lyria TGV to Lausanne, leads Harper to a waiting taxi on Rue de Dunkerque. Driver speeds through traffic, talks non-stop. Harper listens to the guy babble about the state of the world.
Très mal, monsieur, on marche complètement sur la tête
. . bloody world’s been turned on its head – in a bad way. Stares at the back of the driver’s head, wondering, Where the hell did I pick up French? Makes the train for Lausanne, just. Four hours of
clickity clack
later, Harper was in a small office of smoked-glass windows and a view of a parking ramp. On the desk, a Swiss residency card and work permit, a mobile phone and desktop computer, a letter addressed to him. The letter welcoming him, listing the address of a flat for his use on Chemin de Préville. Keys could be collected from the accounting office along with five thousand Swiss francs for expenses. A briefing book, a set of business cards.

Jay Michael Harper

Security Consultant

International Olympic Committee

Like waking up and finding yourself in someone else’s life.

First weeks not much to do other than make sure everyone parked in the right places and the overnight lads pulled down the shutters at night, and wore blue cloth booties over their shoes so as not to scuff up the marble floors.

Just as well, he thought, anything more complicated might’ve tipped off his employers he didn’t know why the fuck he was there. Then, a manila envelope marked ‘Confidential’ appeared on his desk. Inside were ten pages of hand-written scribble. Numbers and equations, charts and graphs. Attached memo advised him to get to the bottom of this. Getting to the bottom had got him as far as GG’s, waiting for a man named Alexander Yuriev.

He checked his watch again.

Eleven forty.

The man named Yuriev was late.

Harper dug his mobile and some scraps of paper from his pocket. He sorted through the papers looking for a number. He found it and dialled. Four rings later an annoyed-to-be-disturbed voice picked up.

‘
Oui
?’

‘Is that Hôtel Port Royal?’

‘I cannot hear you. There is too much music.’

Harper cupped his hand over the phone.

‘Hôtel Port Royal?’

‘Yes, yes, what do you want?’

‘Could you connect me to a guest in your hotel? Alexander Yuriev.’

‘He is not here.’

‘Could you leave him a note that I called?’

‘No, because he is checked out with his baggage.’

‘When?’

‘Today, before I came on shift.’

‘Did he leave a number or forwarding address?’

‘I don’t know, I’m only the night clerk. Call tomorrow during the day.’

‘Fine, but I’ll give you my number in the event he calls in for messages tonight.’

He sorted through the scraps of paper in his hand, found one of his Olympic Committee business cards, read off the number. The night clerk sounding anxious to hang up.

‘OK, goodbye.’

‘Wait, read it back to me.’

‘What?’

‘My number, read it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t think you wrote it down.’

He heard the rustle of papers down the line.

‘OK, I have pencil now. Give me the number.’

The night clerk got it on the third try. Harper rang off, finished his drink, waved for the bill. The woman behind the bar gave him a little-girl pout.

‘You do not want another drink, monsieur? We have a special midnight show. It is very enjoyable.’

‘Thanks, but I’m well numbed as is.’

‘Perhaps he will still come.’

‘Who?’

‘The man you’re looking for.’

Harper scanned the club once more.

‘Doubt it. How much are the drinks?’

‘Three hundred francs, monsieur.’

‘How much?’

‘Three hundred francs.’

He opened his wallet, dropped the cash on the bar.

‘Could I have a receipt, please?’

‘
Tout de suite, monsieur
.’

He pulled on his mackintosh. Stuffed his smokes and matches in the pocket. He was presented with a pink piece of paper with the silhouette of a woman’s naked form and a hand-written script ‘
GG’s. Trois cent francs. Merci de votre visite
’.

‘Will this be acceptable, monsieur?’

He folded the paper, stuffed it in his mackintosh.

‘I’m sure the accountants will piss themselves with merriment.’

‘Please, come again, monsieur.’

‘Just out of curiosity, are there many places like this in town?’

‘There are many exotic nightclubs in Lausanne, monsieur, but only one GG’s.’

‘Look, but don’t touch. Not the greatest advert for a place like this, is it?’

She smiled.

‘The locals do not come to GG’s. We cater to newcomers, like you.’

‘Lucky me then.’

He made his way through the club and up the stairs to the street. Fresh air fired the alcohol in his blood and slapped him silly. The bouncers watched him wobble. Their matching black brollies now neatly folded, handles in hands as if they were waiting for a bus.

‘Strong drink down there.’

The bouncers nodded.

Harper looked up to the sky, watched a few stars coming out from behind the clouds. He took a deep breath. Whoosh again. Best leave the club-crawling to another night, he thought. He looked at the bouncers.

‘Same way out as coming in, yeah?’

Ditto nods one more time.

‘Cheers.’

He did the rat-through-the-maze routine in reverse. Got it right the whole way and found his way to Rue du Grand-Chêne and the Lausanne Palace Hotel. Passing the windows of the oyster joint, he saw Blondie in the corner booth near the window. Carefully sipping her wine, staring at her dinner companion as he talked. As if she cared deeply for his every word.

Harper turned away, walked along the forest of Christmas trees and into the blazing lights at the hotel portico. He stopped, leaned against one of the columns, feeling as if he wanted to stay awhile. The hotel doors spun open; a man dressed like a Prussian general appeared. Wasn’t a Prussian general, was the hotel doorman. And the doorman didn’t like the look of the someone in a beat-up mackintosh leaning against one of his five-star pillars.