making an approach. Known locations are always risky, and I had to assume that Mr Lover Man and his mates knew about this one. Tucked between two upmarket cafés, it was the sort of place where you didn’t get through the entrance until the people inside had taken a really good look at you.
‘
Quoi?
’ A staccato voice addressed me in French from a highly polished brass grille beneath a security camera.
I tilted my head towards it and told whoever was listening that I was English, that I was here in connection with Mr Timis, and I needed to see Mr Laffont.
The front door was made from the same kind of glass as the rear windows of Frank’s Range Rover. One glance at my reflection was enough to tell me why they’d hesitated to invite me in. But there was a soft buzz and it opened to my push.
The foyer was a riot of beige and gold topped off with a crystal chandelier that would have made Glen Campbell a very happy bunny. There wasn’t a cashier in sight. It wasn’t the kind of set-up where you dropped by to deposit your pocket money. You either transferred it electronically or delivered it in a bulletproof attaché case handcuffed to a man mountain with wraparound sun-gigs.
A blonde in a neatly tailored suit chose to ignore the slight bleep that sounded as I walked through the metal detector housed in the inside door frame. She offered me a formal welcome and indicated that I should take a seat.
I tore the first page out of my Moleskine and scribbled the number I’d given my gnome in Zürich over the phone last night. ‘Please give this to Mr Laffont.’
She rotated on one stiletto heel and disappeared up a sweeping, deep-pile-carpeted staircase. The security cameras were as discreetly positioned as possible, but I knew Laffont would already be examining me closely on his monitor.
Blondie materialized again ten minutes later, so I’d obviously passed the first test. ‘Monsieur Laffont is expecting you.’
I didn’t ask how.
She guided me to the first-floor landing, where a pair of massive Oriental vases flanked the entrance to a suite the size of a parade ground.
Almost everything about the man who rose to greet me from behind the world’s biggest mahogany desk was grey. His hair, his immaculately trimmed moustache, his suit, the eyes that glinted behind his rimless spectacles. He offered me his hand, but I wasn’t sure I could reach it. Then I realized he was just waving me towards a nearby chair – the sort you only ever saw in palaces or museums.
He opened the proceedings once I’d put down my day sack and we’d both sat. ‘Monsieur … er …’
I had no idea which of my names Frank had given him, or whether I wanted to tell him anyway, so I just took off my glasses and told him I was a business associate of Mr Timis and needed his help.
‘Of course, Monsieur. We heard the … news … yesterday afternoon. A tragedy. His poor wife …’
I knew I was being tested. Back in the day, I would have told him to stop fucking about and tell me what I needed to know. But filling a Swiss bank vault with Mexican drug money had taught me that in their world the game was played by a different set of rules. ‘I’m pretty sure they were separated. And I don’t think she is poor. But his son is gutted.’
‘Ah … little Bogdan. He must be …’
‘Stefan.’
He gave an apologetic nod. ‘I have only one more question, if it will not offend you.’
I told him I didn’t offend easily, but I was running short of time. I chucked Frank’s passport on to the desk.
He glanced at it, but wasn’t to be deflected. ‘Would you be so good as to tell me the connection between Monsieur Timis’s country estate and your Monsieur Le Carré?’
Thank fuck he hadn’t asked me this kind of stuff yesterday. There was no way I could have dredged it up. But today I remembered my first meeting with Frank, when he’d needed me to find Stefan and kill the people who had kidnapped him.
‘Frank’s
dacha
is in a
‘
Quoi?
’ A staccato voice addressed me in French from a highly polished brass grille beneath a security camera.
I tilted my head towards it and told whoever was listening that I was English, that I was here in connection with Mr Timis, and I needed to see Mr Laffont.
The front door was made from the same kind of glass as the rear windows of Frank’s Range Rover. One glance at my reflection was enough to tell me why they’d hesitated to invite me in. But there was a soft buzz and it opened to my push.
The foyer was a riot of beige and gold topped off with a crystal chandelier that would have made Glen Campbell a very happy bunny. There wasn’t a cashier in sight. It wasn’t the kind of set-up where you dropped by to deposit your pocket money. You either transferred it electronically or delivered it in a bulletproof attaché case handcuffed to a man mountain with wraparound sun-gigs.
A blonde in a neatly tailored suit chose to ignore the slight bleep that sounded as I walked through the metal detector housed in the inside door frame. She offered me a formal welcome and indicated that I should take a seat.
I tore the first page out of my Moleskine and scribbled the number I’d given my gnome in Zürich over the phone last night. ‘Please give this to Mr Laffont.’
She rotated on one stiletto heel and disappeared up a sweeping, deep-pile-carpeted staircase. The security cameras were as discreetly positioned as possible, but I knew Laffont would already be examining me closely on his monitor.
Blondie materialized again ten minutes later, so I’d obviously passed the first test. ‘Monsieur Laffont is expecting you.’
I didn’t ask how.
She guided me to the first-floor landing, where a pair of massive Oriental vases flanked the entrance to a suite the size of a parade ground.
Almost everything about the man who rose to greet me from behind the world’s biggest mahogany desk was grey. His hair, his immaculately trimmed moustache, his suit, the eyes that glinted behind his rimless spectacles. He offered me his hand, but I wasn’t sure I could reach it. Then I realized he was just waving me towards a nearby chair – the sort you only ever saw in palaces or museums.
He opened the proceedings once I’d put down my day sack and we’d both sat. ‘Monsieur … er …’
I had no idea which of my names Frank had given him, or whether I wanted to tell him anyway, so I just took off my glasses and told him I was a business associate of Mr Timis and needed his help.
‘Of course, Monsieur. We heard the … news … yesterday afternoon. A tragedy. His poor wife …’
I knew I was being tested. Back in the day, I would have told him to stop fucking about and tell me what I needed to know. But filling a Swiss bank vault with Mexican drug money had taught me that in their world the game was played by a different set of rules. ‘I’m pretty sure they were separated. And I don’t think she is poor. But his son is gutted.’
‘Ah … little Bogdan. He must be …’
‘Stefan.’
He gave an apologetic nod. ‘I have only one more question, if it will not offend you.’
I told him I didn’t offend easily, but I was running short of time. I chucked Frank’s passport on to the desk.
He glanced at it, but wasn’t to be deflected. ‘Would you be so good as to tell me the connection between Monsieur Timis’s country estate and your Monsieur Le Carré?’
Thank fuck he hadn’t asked me this kind of stuff yesterday. There was no way I could have dredged it up. But today I remembered my first meeting with Frank, when he’d needed me to find Stefan and kill the people who had kidnapped him.
‘Frank’s
dacha
is in a
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