The Colours: A spy thriller packed with intrigue and deception Page 7

  “And you were there.” She almost sounded impressed.

  “The auction lasted half an hour. That’s an unusually long time. The auctioneer made it pure theatre. Long dramatic pauses, meaningful gestures to lighten the atmosphere, drawing out the bids.”

  “So who was bidding?”

  “Hard to be sure. Most buyers aren’t there in person, they have an agent in the room with a mobile phone. Some people are bidding from the sky boxes on the upper level overlooking the auction room, but they’re behind smoked glass. I was told two of the bidders represented the governments of Saudi Arabia and Qatar. There’s a huge rivalry between them. The increments were staggering – twenty, thirty million a time. It’s as if it’s not real money.”

  “But it wasn’t either of them who bought it.”

  “No. A late bidder came in and trumped both of them. The last bid was four hundred million. The new bidder offered five. An increment of a hundred million dollars.”

  “That’s crazy money.”

  “And it brought the auction to an end. Then people started speculating about who it was, and didn’t get very far.”

  “We were approaching it from the other way. One of the shell companies we associated with Grom paid money into the fund from which the painting was purchased. So at the very least, he contributed to it. Then we heard a rumour that the portrait had been moved to the Monaco Freeport. That tied in with our theory that he has assets there. The Russian government and their international operators are slowly closing off his other holdings. This painting is becoming more and more important to him, as his other assets fall away. But we need to know for sure that it’s in there. We’re checking paperwork, but that may only get us so far. We need access.”

  “And then what?”

  “First we find out if it’s really there, and if it’s really his. Then we plan our next move.”

  Clearly she wasn’t going to share everything with him.

  “You do know how secure Freeports are, don’t you?” he said. “They hold hundreds of billions’ worth of assets.”

  “I’m aware of that, thank you. We need to see inside, but you can’t just walk in. You have to go in with a clearing agent. We need a pretext. Like a client who has an item stored in the Freeport and wants to view it. Maybe they want to get it valued for a potential sale, something like that. The places have viewing rooms for the purpose. You own a number of pieces of art, I’m told.” Walter again. “How feasible would it be to get one of your pieces moved into the Freeport?”

  It wouldn’t be difficult,” said Fairchild. “But it’s not necessary.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I already have something in there.”

  Chapter 12

  Zoe was pretty good at faces. Your clothes, your hair, what you did, what you wore, that could all change, but a face didn’t. Windsurfing last weekend on the beach at St Laurent du Var. The woman had been messing about with a couple of friends. Last night at Villefranche in the bar, after Zoe and Stella had gone for a swim. The woman was there, sitting on her own that time. And now, Zoe was out during her lunch break in the Casino garden, sitting on the concrete wall looking out at all the yachts, and she was there again. On her own again. Looking Zoe’s way again. Zoe hoped she wasn’t sending off the wrong vibe. Then the woman got up and came over. It seemed she’d soon find out.

  The woman sat down at the other end of the bench, not looking at Zoe to start with. What was that about? She stared out to sea. Blond hair, blue eyes. In her thirties, maybe. Intelligent-looking. She turned to Zoe as if surprised Zoe was staring at her. But why wouldn’t she?

  “It’s a nice spot,” she said. “Good place to see how the other half lives. But that’s Monaco, isn’t it? One half living the jet-setting life, the other half watching them doing it. Funny, they all look the same after a while. You know Somerset Maugham?”

  Zoe didn’t say anything.

  “‘A sunny place for shady people’. That’s how he described Monaco. Would you agree?”

  Seriously, did she think Zoe was going to just make conversation?

  “Are you following me, or what? If you’re some kind of weirdo, I’ll call the police.”

  She didn’t look too bothered.

  “This is a public place. A lot of people come here to visit.”

  “You’re just a tourist, are you? Come here for the day?”

  “Sure. Just looking around. The casino, the yachts, the cars.”

  “And Villefranche yesterday, by the harbour?”

  “Enjoying an evening swim.” She had a slight accent, too faint to place.

  “And the other time? At St Laurent du Var with your friends? That’s just a coincidence, too? You think I’m stupid, or something?”

  “No, Zoe, I don’t think you’re stupid at all. Quite the opposite.”

  Zoe stared at the woman.

  “How the hell do you know my name?”

  She didn’t answer straight away. Stared out to sea for a bit. Then:

  “You’re right. It isn’t a coincidence. I’m not here on holiday. I’m here to work. My job is to track down people who’ve done bad things.”

  “What, some kind of police?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Well, you don’t act much like any police I know.”

  “What are you expecting? Someone running around in uniform blowing a whistle? The kind of people I’m after, that won’t work for them. These kinds of criminals are subtle. Clever. Intelligent. Secretive.”

  “So you’re a kind of sleuth? An investigator?”

  She thought. “You could say that.”

  “And what do you want with me? You don’t think I’m some international crook, do you?”

  She smiled. “No. But you know a few.”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t know any criminals. What do you think, if I’m black I must be in some gang or something?” It was unfair, but the woman riled her.

  “That’s not what I mean. You’re the personal assistant to the director of a Monaco bank that provides wealth management services to foreign residents.”

  Zoe really didn’t like how much this woman knew about her.

  “So?”

  “Your clients, Zoe. Why do you think they’re so shy? Why do they squirrel their money away in offshore accounts that don’t even bear their name? Create trust funds to manage generic-sounding companies that don’t really do anything except sit on a lot of money?”

  “To avoid paying tax.”

  “Sure, some of them. In part. What else?”

  “For privacy. Keep their business to themselves.”

  “I don’t need to spell this out, do I Zoe? You’re not stupid, as you said. Millions of dollars are generated worldwide from criminal activity. Drug dealing. Smuggling. Extortion. Corruption. Trafficking. Intimidation, violence, murder. Where does all the money go? There’s no benefit in doing all those things if the perpetrators can’t spend the proceeds.”

  “Our clients aren’t drug dealers.” Zoe thought of Hector Howard, the vacuum king of the Mid-West.

  “Not all of them. But if they were, they’re hardly going to walk in and say so, are they? Quite a lot of them don’t walk in at all, I’ll bet. It’s all handled by intermediaries, who deal with yet more intermediaries, and more, and more, so the person behind it all is completely obscured. My job is to follow those money trails. Trace them from country to country, from entity to entity, so we see where it all ends up. Because no matter how clean it looks sitting pretty in the Seychelles or wherever, that’s dirty money that came from dirty business.”

  “We don’t break any laws.”

  “I know. Everything you do is legal. You simply enable criminality. Make it worth people’s while. I say you, but you’re just the PA, of course. You just do as you’re told. That’s all that’s expected of you. All that you’re capable of, so they think.”

  Zoe still felt some instinctive need to speak up for her employer.
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  “M. Bernard wouldn’t take on a client with those kinds of – problems.”

  “Not if he knew. Not if he absolutely, explicitly, undeniably knew about them. But does he really want to know? Does he systematically lift up every stone and explore all possibilities? Or is he happy with a piece of paper that lets him off the hook? A signature to say that the checks were done. A declaration. A letter of indemnity, maybe. Due diligence and he’s happy. Criminals need people like M. Bernard. That dirty money has to go somewhere, if it’s going to turn into things people want, like real estate and planes and cars and yachts. A grubby pocketful of cash exchanged on a city housing estate eventually turns into a Ferrari. M. Bernard is on the path between the two.”

  She paused, waiting for Zoe to say something, maybe, but Zoe kept quiet. The woman gazed out to sea, recrossed her legs and carried on.

  “Think about it, Zoe. The layers of secrecy you provide. The sums of money involved. They’re all for legitimate reasons? Do you ever look at these accounts, I mean really look at them? Consider the sums involved? Where did it all come from? How could it possibly all be legitimate?”

  Zoe wasn’t enjoying this. “I still don’t see how—”

  “Those people your brother knows. The gang that has its claws in him.”

  Her stomach turned over. The woman kept talking.

  “All the stuff they do. Drug-running, pimping. Where does the money go? Away, somewhere. But it comes back. Through banks just like yours, all over the world. They ruin people’s lives, Zoe. Young people like Noah get pulled in and coerced. They lose control. Dreams are destroyed. Lives go wrong. Some lives are lost entirely. Amongst the little people, anyway. The people who don’t matter.”

  This was really not funny now.

  “My brother has nothing to do with my job. You need to tell me who you are and what you want. You need to do that now!”

  The woman was so serene it was frightening.

  “My name’s Anna. I work for the British government. I’m here to ask for your help. You can help us track someone down. Someone who isn’t very nice. Who’s done some bad things.”

  Her face changed, just for a moment. Some memory that hurt.

  “He did bad things to you?”

  She snapped back, icy cool again. “To lots of people. He’s callous, and a traitor, and a thief. And he’ll keep on going if he has access to what he’s stolen. We know about some of the companies he’s using here. The beneficial owner, Zoe, on those contracts you have, those agreements that govern how the companies are run, you have a record of whose money it is. You forward their mail. You know who they are. You know where they live.”

  Zoe thought through what she was saying, pictured the files on her computer.

  “You want me to pass you names? That’s confidential. I could get fired. I need this job. I can’t take the risk. And I don’t even know who you are!”

  Anna took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the wall between them.

  “I can give you some credentials, if that’s what you need. This information is worth something to us, Zoe. We can do things with it. The right things. Knowledge is power, it really is. And we will pay you for your trouble. We don’t want you to take risks. We absolutely don’t want to see you get fired. We want everything to carry on just as it is now. We just need you to do a little piece of investigation for us, a one-off. Take a look.”

  She nodded down at the envelope. Zoe hesitated.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “There’s no one watching us. No one who minds, anyway.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “My people are here, keeping an eye on us.”

  “Where?” She looked around.

  Anna kept her gaze on Zoe. “Don’t try and spot them. They followed you out here from the bank. Just to make sure no one else is taking an interest.”

  “Like who?”

  “Have a look in the envelope, Zoe.”

  Zoe picked it up and peered inside: a stack of hundred Euro notes. She did a quick count. Twenty of them. Two thousand Euros. Two thousand, exactly. She took a breath.

  “How did you know?”

  “It’s enough to get him out of trouble for now, isn’t it?” said Anna. “And if you can help us, I’ll give you the same again. Just a name, Zoe. That’s it. It will end there.”

  Zoe looked up. “Is this legal? What you’re asking me to do?”

  Anna paused, preparing an answer.

  “There’s probably something in your contract about breaching confidentiality. But think of this. The agreements you offer those people, guaranteeing anonymity to drug barons and embezzlers, those are legal. You said that yourself. But does it make it right? The law can be used for very different things. When you started working at the bank and signed that contract, what did they tell you about the clients you’d be serving, about where this money you’d be handling was coming from? What are they telling you now? Legal doesn’t cover everything. And no one will know. We’ll make sure of it.”

  Anna stood.

  “My business card is in there too. It’s down to you now. Your decision.”

  She paused. The envelope was heavy in Zoe’s hands.

  “If I say no,” Zoe said, “I’d have to give you this back.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Anna regretfully. “But if that’s what you want, fine. You can walk away. I keep my word, and I think you do, too.”

  She turned away.

  “He was doing it all wrong,” said Zoe.

  Anna turned back, frowning.

  “Your friend. At St Laurent du Var. The one who was teaching you to windsurf. His knees, how he positioned his feet. His technique. All wrong.”

  Anna smiled.

  “I’ll let him know.”

  She strolled off down towards the waterfront.

  Zoe sat, looking out at the yachts, the envelope in her hand.

  Chapter 13

  Pippin came back from Carrefour with a baguette, a packet of sliced ham, two large tomatoes and a bottle of rosé wine that cost three Euros. When Pippin could find a buyer for a twelfth century BC Chinese bronze vessel, maybe he would dine out on lobster, but this would have to do for now. It could be worse.

  He closed the door behind him, opened the screw cap of the wine and drank a swig, put everything else down on the bed and opened a small drawer in the washing bowl table. This was something he always did when he returned to his room. Inside were a few personal objects carefully arranged, including his Carte Nationale d’Identité that showed his full name. His real name. This was still carefully arranged, almost exactly how he’d left it. But not quite. It was a little out of place. Someone had come in here and poked around. He could think of only two suspects.

  As if summoned by Pippin’s thoughts, a banging on the door below set Mme Boucher in motion, then, after some dialogue, his name was called out and he opened the door, wine bottle in hand, to see his landlady staring up at him alongside his other suspect.

  “Let’s go,” said Gustave.

  “Go where?”

  “I want to talk to you about something. Come with me!”

  Gustave waited expectantly. Mme Boucher stared up at Pippin. He put the bottle down and followed Gustave out.

  Gustave took him to a long dark bar with a green ceiling, red walls and low hanging orange lamps that cast deep shadows. A pool table sat in the middle, but no one was playing. The handful of customers sat at the surrounding tables in tired, furtive groups. The place smelled of bleach. Their footsteps were loud on the plain wooden floor. Gustave led Pippin down to a table where two men sat, one small, one big. They were introduced as Henri and Clem.

  “This is the one I was telling you about,” Gustave said to them. They both stared at Pippin. Pippin didn’t know what to say.

  “So!” said Gustave, “we are four now. Can we do it? It’s enough, I think.”

  This seemed mainly directed at Henri, who was the only one of them in a jacket and tie. Office cloth
es, though his shirt was creased and frayed at the cuffs.

  “Well, it depends, doesn’t it?” said Henri irritably. “On what everyone can do. I mean, you need a plan. You can’t just walk in there, I told you that.”

  “Walk in where?” asked Pippin politely. The two new men turned to him with disbelieving eyes, then back to Gustave.

  “You haven’t told him?” asked Henri. “He doesn’t know?” His eyes narrowed. “Where did you say you found him again?”

  Someone came over with a tray and put a drink in front of each of them, a cloudy glass smelling of liquorice. They left again.

  “We can trust this guy?” That was Clem, in a low, gravelly voice. Taken together with the man’s shaved head, thick neck, solid torso and battle-scarred face, it was a voice that people would generally listen to.

  “I told you!” said Gustave impatiently. “This guy has a room full of stolen art. You could go up there and see it! It’s just hanging over his bed!”

  That’s fine, Gustave, Pippin thought to himself. Just invite the whole world into my room to take a look, why not?

  “He’s done it all, I tell you,” Gustave was saying. “Smash and grab, inside job, this one’s a pro.”

  Gustave had been doing his research. He’d uncovered some of the stories behind Pippin’s precious objects. Where had he heard this? Max, who wouldn’t touch the vase, Max might have heard some of those stories.

  “You said we need two people inside,” Gustave said. “A dealer and a customs officer.”

  “He’ll be a dealer?” Henri eyed Pippin doubtfully.

  “Of course not!” said Gustave. I’ll be the dealer. He’ll be the customs officer.”

  Henri’s expression remained sceptical.

  “You still haven’t told me—”

  “What’s your name again?” Clem’s heavy words cut Pippin off.

  “Pippin,” he said.

  “That your real name?”

  Pippin’s gaze slid to Gustave, who picked up his drink without looking at him directly.

  “What if it isn’t?” he asked.

  “Hey, come on Clem, we all have things to hide,” said Gustave. “We could all sell each other out if that was our game. Go to the authorities and put the boot in. What would that achieve except make losers of us all? Let’s be better than that. Let’s use what we have to fight back! Make a statement!”