Сэм Истлэнд - The Elegant Lie

‘All of them, you say?’

‘Dasch, his daughter, Ritter. The German police just announced it.’

Carter knew that wasn’t true, because Teresa was standing right beside him, but he wondered how Babcock had become convinced of it. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘Some guy who worked as a guard at the front gate of Dasch’s compound showed up for work two days ago and found Ritter with a bullet in his head. He’s the one who called the police. They said it looked like suicide, but who the hell knows? While they were searching the area, they discovered that a whole section of the field beside the compound had caved in. It turned out to be that bunker you told me about. The police went in there with heavy equipment and found Dasch’s body buried under the rubble. There was no trace of Dasch’s daughter, but they knew she hadn’t run away because her passport and all her papers were still there. They think she might have been down in the bunker with Dasch when the cave-in occurred. They tried to look for her, but the roof was too unstable and they couldn’t get to her body. As for Garlinsky, and whoever he was working with, there’s no way we’ll ever find them now. The only person the German police are still looking for is you, so it’s a good thing you called when you did. First thing in the morning, I’ll send out a notification of how you’ve been working for us. I’ve got the draft right here.’ He picked up the sheet of paper on which he had scribbled the announcement, then let it slip through his fingers back onto the desk. ‘Then you can get your life back, just like we agreed.’

‘I don’t want it,’ said Carter.

‘You don’t want what?’

‘What we talked about.’

Babcock sat forward and put his elbows on the desk, keeping the phone receiver hooked under his chin. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘You don’t want me to make the announcement?’

‘That’s right.’

‘But you do realise that I’m the only living person who knows you aren’t actually a criminal? If I don’t set this straight, there’s nothing I can do to protect you.’

It was quiet at the end of the line.

‘Carter?’ said Babcock. ‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure about this? After all we put you through?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘All right,’ said Babcock, ‘but I wish to God you’d tell me why I’m doing this.’

Again, he received no reply.

‘Carter?’ Babcock called into the receiver. ‘Hey, Carter, are you there?’

There was only the rustle of static, like waves breaking on a beach in the distance. Babcock sighed and hung up the phone. He picked up the piece of paper on which he had drafted the announcement, crumpled it in his fist and tossed it into the wastebasket. Then he slowly put his feet back on the table and puffed at his cigar until the embers glowed again. As the dry, sweet smoke filtered into Babcock’s brain, turning lazy pirouettes among the rafters of his skull, his memory of Nathan Carter was already fading from his mind, as if it had never been there.

In the grand foyer of the Orlovsky hotel, early morning sun glinted on the giant ferns that formed the archway on either side of the main entrance. As the doors swung open, the waxy leaves rustled with a sound like gentle rain.

The concierge, with his red tunic and stiff grey moustache, glanced up from the paper that he had spread upon the counter. As the couple appeared in the doorway, passing through the dazzle of light as if emerging from a different dimension, he recognised them at once.

But he did not greet them with a smile. Instead, without averting the gaze of his sled-dog eyes even for a second, he raised one arm above his head and snapped his fingers, summoning the drowsy porter from the back room. Only then did the concierge speak. ‘The Orlovsky welcomes you again,’ he told the couple, with such gravity and reverence it was as if the stones within the walls had been expecting them.

Sam Eastland is the pen name of an Anglo-American writer, who is the grandson of a London police detective. He is the author of twenty books, including the Inspector Pekkala series, which he also writes under the Sam Eastland name.

EYE OF THE RED TSAR

THE RED COFFIN

SIBERIAN RED

THE RED MOTH

THE BEAST IN THE RED FOREST

THE RED ICON

BERLIN RED

First published in the UK in 2019

by Faber & Faber Ltd

Bloomsbury House

74–77 Great Russell Street

London WC1B 3DA

First published in the USA in 2019

This ebook edition first published in 2019

All rights reserved

© Sam Eastland, 2018

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Cover images © ands456/iStockphoto and ClassicStock/akg-images/H. Armstrong Roberts

The right of Sam Eastland to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

ISBN 978–0–571–33570–1