41

Pierre Papin was dog tired. He had worked for almost forty-eight hours, virtually without a break. His eyeballs felt like sandpaper and his brain had been coshed. With every passing minute, thought became more of an effort and his tension and uncertainty increased. And yet, for all that, he was making progress.

Some of the locals had been uncooperative, but even dumb insolence provided a form of information. He’d gone into a small café, demanded to see the owner, flashed his ID, and shown him the pictures of Carver and the girl. The man had shrugged and said, “Never seen them before in my life,” but the answer was too quick. He’d not even bothered to examine the photographs.

There’d been a small boy in the café, six or seven years old. Papin had got down on his haunches, held out the picture of Carver, and put on his most wheedling voice: “Have you seen this man come into the café?” But before the boy could answer, the café owner had picked him up and stuck a finger in Papin’s face, hissing, “Leave my son out of this!”

Papin knew he must be getting really close. He knocked on doors, approached women taking dogs for walks or bringing shopping back to their homes, made inquiries with impeccable politeness and a dash of charm. Soon he had discovered Carver’s address. But he did not know whether his quarry had returned to his apartment while he’d been making his inquiries.

The Frenchman needed to answer that question before he made his next move. He slogged up the endless stairs to the fifth floor of an ancient apartment building and knocked on the door. The sound of a lock opening was followed by the sight of a very respectable-looking woman of pensionable age peering around the half-open door with the look of disapproval that was clearly her default expression.

Papin showed her his card and, adding an enticing note of intrigue to his voice, explained that he was deeply sorry to disturb madame, but there had been reports of an illegal immigrant settling in the apartment level with hers in the adjoining building. Before taking the appropriate action to rid the neighborhood of such an undesirable, he wished to discover whether the individual in question was currently in occupation.

He produced a device that looked like a doctor’s stethoscope attached to a microphone. This seemed to convince the old lady, or at least to arouse her curiosity. She let Papin in, offered him coffee and biscuits (he declined with profuse thanks for her kind hospitality), then watched, in fascination, as he placed the microphone against several points on the wall abutting Carter’s apartments, listening intently each time. Finally, Papin stepped away from the wall, folded up his listening device, and shook his head. “The individual in question is not in residence, madame,” he said, sounding suitably frustrated. “But have no fear. I will be maintaining a vigil all day. He will not escape.”

A few minutes later he was standing on the top-floor landing of the building next door, facing a simple dark blue door.

So this was where his quarry hid from the world. Papin was tempted to break in and grab the laptop. It must be in there; Carver hadn’t been carrying it when he left that morning. But there were bound to be security measures— Carver was not the type to leave himself unprotected—and even if there were not, Carver would know that someone had been there the moment he stepped through the door, and he’d be off like a startled gazelle. It was far better to keep a low profile. Papin was certain the two of them would be returning to the apartment that day. They’d been walking through town like lovers on a day off, not fugitives on the run—they weren’t going anywhere. He’d save them for the highest bidder.

It was time to call Charlie. But when he dialed the number, Papin was put through to another phone and a voice he didn’t recognize.

“To whom am I speaking?” he asked.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Then this conversation is over.”

“Wait a moment, Monsieur Papin. I am Charlie’s superior. You are talking to me because he does not have the authority to deal with your financial conditions, and I do. I’m afraid that I cannot accept your demand for five hundred thousand dollars.”

Papin had expected some form of negotiation. “Alors, monsieur, I am sorry. If you will not pay me the required sum, I will find a client who will.”

“Three hundred. And that is my final offer. Not a penny more.”

“No, I will not lower my price. But I will make you a deal. You pay me two fifty up front, I take you to the location. From there it will be one twenty-five if you find the people, one twenty-five for the computer. You will not pay in full unless you have everything you need. Fair?”

There was silence at the other end of the line while the man considered the offer. Papin wondered what the counterbid would be. But then came a grunt of assent: “Fair enough, monsieur. So what are the arrangements?”

“You will send one man to the front entrance of the Cathedral of Saint Pierre in Geneva, Switzerland. I will be there for precisely five minutes, starting at five p.m. local time. I will be wearing a dark blue suit and holding a rolled-up newspaper. I apologize for the cliché, monsieur, but it will suffice. Your representative will say, ‘Charlie sends his regards.’ I will reply, ‘I hope Charlie is well.’ He will say, ‘Yes, much better now.’ He will then hand me the first half of the payment—remember, bearer bonds, endorsed in my name. I will give further instructions at that time. Your man may have backup for any action that is required, but he will only call for this backup when I give permission.”

“I understand. Five o’clock this afternoon at the cathedral. I will have someone there. Thank you, Monsieur Papin.”

“On the contrary, Monsieur. Thank you.”

Papin put down the receiver, raised his eyes to the ceiling, then let out a long sigh of relief. He rubbed the back of his neck as he pondered his next move. He had the money in the bag. He didn’t need another bidder. But what if there was a way to make more than one deal? He might yet be able to double his money. Yes, that would be something. And if he played it right, he could get the killers and their bosses off his back for good.