‘Good evening,’ said Weisz.
‘I have a job for you. Viscomte Claude Lasserre — can you buy him out?’
Weisz paused, surprised, the other end. ‘When?’
‘As soon as you can?’
‘I’ll do my best for you.’
‘Good. Let me have a progress report.’ Ephraim hung up the receiver. He had just instructed the chief of the Mossad’s French operations to kill Viscomte Lasserre.
Ephraim next dialled Athens, and had a similar conversation with the chief of Athens operations regarding Jimmy Culundis. Then he tried Baenhaker’s number again; still no answer. He telephoned Moya to say he would not be home until very late, then pulled out his chess set again; he would try Baenhaker at half hour intervals, right through the night, if necessary, until he got hold of him.
At half past three he succeeded.
‘Hallo?’ Baenhaker’s voice sounded breathless.
‘Have you been running?’
‘I just got in — heard the phone ringing, so I had to run up the stairs.’
‘Your friends, Elleck and Rocq. I don’t think you should associate with them any more; they are not good company for you.’
‘No, Sir,’ said Baenhaker, ‘I understand.’
‘Good. Give me a call and let me know how things are going.’
Again, Ephraim replaced the receiver; this time, he slid the chess back in the drawer, put on his jacket, and went home to sleep.
It was some time before Baenhaker slept. He sat reflecting on General Ephraim’s words, which had instructed him to kill Rocq and Elleck. If he carried out the General’s orders, London was going to get a bit too hot for his liking. It wouldn’t take the police too long to connect Rocq and Elleck’s deaths with the murder of the security man, and the break-in; multiple murders tended to interest policemen more than almost anything. He would almost certainly be pulled from London, and probably from England. He would have loved to be pulled from London, except for one thing: with Rocq out of the way, he wondered if he might have another chance with Amanda. She was still under his skin, as deep as ever, probably even more so after his night in the cupboard. Then he smiled to himself. There was a way he could keep a low profile on one of the murders. He picked up the telephone, and dialled a number in Geneva. There were occasions, he reflected, when he could pass the buck along with the best of them.
27
Rocq drove out of the Avis compound at Geneva in a Volkswagen Golf, following the signs for Montreux and the St Bernard Tunnel. It was a stunning summer’s day, and a slight heat-mist hung over the lake; he looked across, through the front passenger window, down at the lake and at Geneva, which was fast disappearing over his right shoulder.
Although there was little breeze, the air that buffeted in through his window was just cool enough to lift the edge off the heat. Rocq felt good; he felt free and relaxed, momentarily unshackled from the chains of London and, although he was extremely fond of Amanda, it felt good to be completely on his own, even though it was just for a few hours.
He checked his speedometer: he was doing 120 kilometres per hour. Some way back, there was a beige Range Rover; he had noticed it in his wing mirror for several kilometres. It almost seemed to be pacing him. He thought it might be a police car, but doubted the Swiss Police would use Range Rovers; then it seemed to be dropping back and he forgot about it. He passed Lausanne, then Montreux, where the road cut through the mountains, then the motorway descended down into the Rhone valley and became a three lane road. At Martigny, he turned right, and began the climb up towards Verbier.
The air ticket and the car were on the Globalex account at Thomas Cook, although it wasn’t purely for Globalex that Rocq was making this journey. He was, indeed, going on behalf of Elleck’s syndicate, to open an account at the Verbier branch of the Credit Suisse bank and to sign the papers authorizing the formation of a Swiss Company by the name of Three Bears Ag. Among the nominee directors of this company would be a lawyer friend of Theo Barbiero-Ruche, who had very kindly agreed to relinquish a part of his precious weekend in order to see Rocq. But Rocq’s private reason for the trip was to sign the papers for the formation of another company, Rocksolid Investments Ag, which would also be banking at the Credit Suisse.
He drove into the centre of Verbier, thinking how strange the famous ski resort looked in the middle of summer, with no snow except for the Montfort Glacier and the peak of Mont Gelé. The town was very busy, with a stream of cars and hordes of people, many carrying rucksacks, and wearing stout walking shoes and long socks. To Rocq, it lacked the elegance of the winter months, when the snow came down and brought the rich people with it. The town gave the appearance of tolerating these hordes, but all the while waiting patiently for the winter, the first blanket of snow, and a pace and calibre of life to which it was altogether more accustomed.
M. Jean-Luis Vençeon, avocat, lived in a chalet just below the Savoleyeres lift, according to Rocq’s instructions. The signpost to the Savoleyeres pointed up to the left, and he drove the car around the tiny traffic island and up the hill, past a short parade of smart shops on the right, then a modern Catholic church on the left, with a spire that looked like a sawn-off boomerang. He read the names on the chalets and then saw the one he was looking for, Rossignol.
Rocq’s image of a Swiss lawyer had not been a six-foot-three-inch-tall man in a pink Lacoste tee-shirt, white running shorts and Adidas tennis shoes. Jean-Luis Vençeon was polite, precise and formal. He spent one minute on introductions, five minutes explaining the documents, seven minutes pointing out to Rocq the places where he needed his signature, one minute explaining where and how Rocq should get in touch with him if he needed to, and a further thirty seconds gathering up his tennis racquet and balls and saying goodbye to Rocq. No drink, no food; no small talk.
As Rocq walked down the steps towards his car, the Swiss avocat, jogging at full tilt, was already halfway to the village. Where else, reflected Rocq, could one form two companies, open two bank accounts and be finished inside fourteen minutes? It seemed a hell of a long way to have had to come for so little, but then, he knew, the Swiss didn’t hang about when it came to business.
He stepped out into the road, walked around, and opened the door of his car. A roaring made him look up, and he saw a beige Range Rover bearing down on him, coming straight at the door. Instinct made him leap clear, and a fraction of a second later, the door was torn off its hinges. Rocq stood looking, in shock. ‘Fucking maniac!’ he shouted, as it screeched to a halt. Oddly, he thought, instead of reversing, the Range Rover began to turn around; there were two men in it. Rocq stood by the Golf and waited. The driver put the Range Rover into first gear, and began to drive back up the hill. Rocq continued to stand by the Golf. Suddenly, to his horror, it dawned on him that the Range Rover was accelerating fiercely and had no intention of stopping. He did not know how he managed to do so but he vaulted up onto the bonnet of the Golf, just at the moment the Range Rover hit it with full force.
Rocq was catapulted backwards into the long grass at the side of the road. Fear ripped through the shock: one of the men was getting out of the Range Rover. Rocq scrambled to his feet and began to sprint back down the hill, for all he was worth. He looked over his shoulder; the man had stopped after a few yards and the Range Rover was turning again, to come after him. Rocq saw a grey Renault 30 pull up outside a supermarket. The driver, leaving the engine running, dashed into the supermarket. The Range Rover had stopped to pick up the second man. Rocq jumped into the driver’s seat of the Renault, slammed the automatic gear into drive, and floored the accelerator. The bonnet rose up and snaked about for a moment, the tyres fired off gravel from the road in all directions, then the wheels gripped, and the Renault accelerated fiercely up the road. The driver of the Range Rover swung his steering wheel, slewing the car over to try and block Rocq’s path, but Rocq swung over onto the grass verge and just passed the nose of the Range Rover. In his mirror, he saw the reversing lights come on and the vehicle began, once more, to turn around.