A ringing phone woke Alvarez. He launched himself off the bed and grabbed it from the sideboard. He saw by the clock that he had been asleep for only a few minutes.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Alvarez, this is Gens Luitger of the BKA. We met earlier today.’
The BKA — the Bundeskriminalamt — Germany’s equivalent of the FBI. Luitger was a high-ranking and well- respected officer in the organization, and, from the short time Alvarez had spent with him, he seemed extremely competent. His English was flawless, with only the occasional trace of an accent.
‘Yes,’ Alvarez said. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m good,’ Luitger answered. ‘And I have some good news for you. I’ve had people checking for lone- travelling men in their thirties who’ve exited the country, and I believe we have had some luck. Yesterday a British national by the name of Alan Flynn boarded a flight to Prague, out of Berlin. This is odd because Alan Flynn is currently residing in a secure mental-health hospital in the north of England. The man using Alan Flynn’s passport also matches your target’s description.’
The second British one he’s used, Alvarez thought. ‘How sure are you?’
‘As sure as one can be.’
Alvarez detected a slight difference in Luitger’s tone, as if he had been offended or insulted by Alvarez’s question. He understood why. Luitger wouldn’t have phoned unless he thought the information was sufficiently reliable.
‘Do you have his face on the security cameras?’
‘No, unfortunately our mutual friend was lucky enough not to have been picked up by the CCTV cameras. At least his face wasn’t.’
Alvarez smiled to himself. ‘No, that’s not luck, that’s him all right. Thank you for calling me so promptly.’
‘That’s no trouble. I feel it is important for our security services to aid one another whenever we can, even if our leaders would not always agree.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘How do you want to proceed? My people will continue the investigation as best we can, but I think we might have to accept the suspect is already out of Germany. If so, my authority stops at the border.’
Alvarez’s mind was already running in fifth gear trying to sort through all the possibilities. He needed to get the new information out to Langley as soon as possible. If the killer had gone to the Czech Republic, then things were not looking good. He would need to speak to Kennard to update him and find out what, if anything, had been discovered in Paris. He realized Luitger was still on the phone.
‘That’s fine, my friend,’ Alvarez assured, despite feeling dejected. ‘You’ve done more than enough already.’
They said their good-byes and Alvarez hit a speed-dial number. After a few rings Kennard answered. The guy sounded tired.
‘John, get this: the killer did pay a trip to Svyatoslav’s apartment,’ Alvarez said.
‘Did he find anything?’
‘That’s the million-dollar question.’
‘What about you, you find anything?’
Alvarez shielded the phone while he sneezed. ‘According to the BKA the killer took a plane to the Czech Republic.’
‘The Czech Republic?’
‘Prague to be exact, but by now he could be anywhere.’
‘What the hell is this guy up to?’
‘That would be the billion-dollar question. You got a pen? Write this down.’
Alvarez gave Kennard a list of instructions then hung up. He sneezed again and hoped he wasn’t coming down with a cold. That would be just his luck. He picked up the phone and called room service for a big pot of strong coffee. It was going to be a long night.
CHAPTER 18
Paris, France
Tuesday
23:16 CET
Kennard flipped his phone closed and considered carefully for a moment. He was at the killer’s hotel with the complete crimescene report, doing a walk-through, trying to get an accurate picture of everything that had happened in case they’d missed anything. The French police were still pretty damn unhelpful, but at least they left him to it.
Now that Alvarez had briefed him about the situation in Germany, Kennard abandoned what he was doing. He hurried through the hotel and out onto the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore. It had been sealed off in front of the hotel from junction to junction on the previous day, almost immediately after the killings. Kennard remembered watching the harried-looking policemen at either end of the cordon as they tried their best to divert the angry morning traffic.
Now it was as if nothing had happened. The only barriers still in place were within the hotel itself. Outside, Parisian motorists whizzed too fast down the road in their pathetically small cars, hitting their horns each and every chance they had. It seemed not to matter if there was real cause.
Kennard hated the French, hated everything about the country. The people, the language, the so-called culture. Even the food was bullshit. Sure, if he paid a month’s salary he could get something half-edible, but greasy omelettes, tough bread, rank cheese, and meat that smelled rotten was not his idea of fine eating. He’d take a quarter pounder with good old freedom fries any day of the week.
He continued to walk along the sidewalk, going past where his car was parked. A group of drunk executives were heading his way, failing miserably to walk in a straight line. No doubt they had been celebrating a deal of some sort. They looked the type.
As they drew closer one of them shouted something to him in French. Kennard recognized the aggression. Maybe the Frenchman had noticed the antipathy in Kennard’s face, or maybe he was just looking to have some fun.
The man was just taller than Kennard and twenty pounds heavier, most of it around the gut, but beneath his suit Kennard wasn’t the soft guy he looked. He would have liked to have demonstrated that he was no easy target, but instead he averted his gaze and moved out of the group’s path. He couldn’t afford to get into any trouble. He heard laughter and jeers from behind him as they walked away. Lucky for them that they did.
Kennard crossed the street. His face remained blank, but he could feel the pressure of blood in his temples. Alvarez had given him a host of urgent tasks to complete, tasks that could not wait, but Kennard wasn’t returning to the embassy. He had something more pressing to do first.
After another minute walking, he turned into a side street. He found the pay phone again and had to wait a difficult thirty seconds before the young woman inside had finished her call. Kennard entered the booth and took out his cell phone to check the latest number. He pushed the buttons quickly but carefully. He would wipe down the surfaces he had touched when he was finished.
The back of Kennard’s collar was damp. He wasn’t supposed to make phone calls that were not prearranged, but after Monday’s disaster news like this couldn’t wait. The phone didn’t start ringing immediately, and, when it did, it seemed to take forever before someone answered. He coded in.
There was a long silence before anyone connected. When the voice on the other end of the line spoke, it practically dripped disdain.
‘This had better be important.’
Kennard took a deep breath before continuing. ‘It’s been confirmed. He did go to Svyatoslav’s apartment in Munich, but he’s long gone. We’re pretty sure he flew to the Czech Republic. After that, we don’t know yet.’
There was a long pause. ‘Okay,’ the voice said. ‘This is what we want you to do…’
