James Twining - The Geneva Deception

‘What’s a fiduciary owner?’ Dominique asked.

‘Someone who deals with all the administrative bollocks, as opposed to the beneficial owner, who calls the shots and makes the serious wonga and who in this particular instance is…’ He’d found a shareholder contract and flipped to the signature page, then looked up with a grim smile. ‘Earl Faulks. Carvel’s a front.’

‘Why bother?’

‘Fuck knows. But if I had to guess, to hide…’ Archie paused, struck by a thought. ‘Who bought the Artemis again?’

Dominique had approached the auctioneer after the sale and expressed an interest in buying the statue from its new owner. Sensing the opportunity to make another fee, the auctioneer had volunteered their name and offered to broker the deal.

‘It was a commission bid for Xenephon Trading.’

Archie vanished back inside the office, returning a few moments later clutching another file.

‘ Xenephon Trading ,’ he read. ‘ Fiduciary owner, Jérome Carvel. Beneficial owner…Earl Faulks. ’ He looked up at her triumphantly.

‘He bought it from himself?’ Dominique exclaimed. ‘That makes no sense. Even if he’d negotiated special rates, he’d still be paying six to ten per cent commission on both sides of the deal.’

‘Are those the invoices?’ Archie nodded at the sheaf of papers she’d been sorting through.

‘Last month’s auction.’ She nodded.

‘Any where Xenephon is the buyer?’ Archie went to stand next to her.

Gripping her torch in one hand and flipping the pages over quickly with the other, she quickly counted them up. ‘There’s one here. Two…three…four…five. And look who’s on the other side of the deal here and here: Galleries Dassin.’

‘Who’s Melfi Export?’ Archie tapped his finger on the page with a frown. ‘They show up a lot too.’

Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared back into the office, returning a few moments later with a third file and a solemn expression.

‘ Melfi Export. Fiduciary owner, Jérome Carvel. Beneficial owner…Earl Faulks . It’s the same story – he’s selling with one company and buying with another. It makes no sense.’

‘He must be getting something out it,’ she pointed out.

‘Well, I don’t see what, apart from a shit-load of paperwork.’ He slapped the pile of invoices with a shrug. Dominique turned to him with a smile.

‘That’s it.’

‘What?’

‘The paperwork. He’s doing it for the paperwork.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘It’s a laundering scam,’ she said excitedly. ‘First he puts an item up for auction. Then he buys it back under another name. Finally he sells it on to a real buyer, only this time with a manufactured provenance, courtesy of an official auction house invoice and valuation certificate.’

‘Maybe not just about provenance,’ Archie said with a slow nod. ‘Arms dealers get around embargoes by selling weapons down a network of shell companies and middlemen, so that by the time the shipment gets to the intended customer, no one can tie the final transaction back to the original seller. It’s called triangulation. Faulks could be pulling the same stunt here to cover his tracks.’

Nr Anguillara Sabazia, northwest of Rome 20th March – 1.13 a.m.

They had both run out of conversation a while ago. Now they were sitting in silence, locked into their own thoughts, hugging their knees for warmth. The torch nestled on the ground between them in a puddle of light, their bodies huddled around it as if to shield it from the wind. Tom had the ominous feeling that once its fragile flame finally expired, they wouldn’t long survive it.

He’d faced death before, of course. But never with the resigned acceptance and powerlessness he felt now. The walls were rock solid, the floor packed firm, the domed roof unyielding, the entrance sealed. They had no tools, no way of communicating with the outside world, no answers. Nothing except for the two bullets that lay side by side in the torch’s pale wash, like bodies awaiting burial.

‘How did you know?’ Allegra’s voice broke the cloying silence.

‘Know what?’

‘When we first met at Cavalli’s and you handed me the gun,’ she reminded him. ‘How did you know I wouldn’t just shoot you?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Then why did you trust me?’

‘I didn’t.’ He shrugged.

‘Then what…?’

‘I took the clip out before I gave you the gun.’ Tom grinned. ‘You couldn’t have shot me if you’d wanted to.’

‘Why you…’ Allegra’s face broke into a wide smile as she reached across to punch Tom’s shoulder.

‘Ow.’ He winced, his arm still bruised from where she’d hit him that morning.

‘Still sore from being beaten up by a girl?’ she said, the clear bell of her laughter both unexpected and strangely uplifting in the darkness.

‘You landed a couple of lucky shots.’ Tom gave a dismissive shake of his head. ‘Another few seconds and I…’

He paused. Allegra was holding up her hand for him to be quiet, her chin raised like a foxhound who has caught a scent.

‘What’s that?’

Tom listened, at first not hearing anything, but then making out what seemed to be the faint rattle of an engine.

‘They’re coming back,’ Allegra exclaimed, turning excitedly towards the entrance tunnel.

‘Maybe to finish the job,’ Tom said grimly, hauling her back and loading the gun.

They sat there, the ground now shaking with a dull throb, the occasional sound of a muffled voice reaching them. Readying himself, Tom took aim at the stone plug that was blocking the entrance, determined to take Contarelli, or whichever of his men he sent ahead of him, down with them.

Ten or so minutes later the massive stone began to move, dirt and moonlight trickling through the crack. The sound of voices was clearer now, someone swearing in Italian, another one groaning under the strain. Then, with a final effort, the stone was rolled free. It fell on to its side with a leaden thump.

A harsh, lightning strike of light flooded down the entrance corridor, washing over them and making them blink. On its heels came the thunder of what Tom realised now was a helicopter, the hammer chop of its rotors echoing off the walls.

For a few moments nothing happened. Then a figure appeared at the tunnel entrance, a black silhouette against the floodlit backdrop.

‘Tom Kirk? Allegra Damico? Andiamo ,’ he said, reaching towards them.

They swapped a look, Tom slowly lowered the gun.

‘What’s going on?’ Allegra shouted through the noise.

‘I don’t know,’ Tom called back. ‘But it is, it beats being in here.’

Crawling forward, they emerged gratefully into the night, brushing the earth from their clothes and hands as they stood up. But whatever relief they felt at escaping was soon tempered by the realisation that their three liberators were all dressed in black paramilitary clothing – ski masks, fatigues, bullet-proof vests, field boots, guns strapped to their thighs. Two of the men were also equipped with night-vision goggles which they kept trained on the horizon, their Beretta PS12-SDs held across their chests, safety’s off.

‘Go,’ the man who had helped them to their feet ushered them towards the black Augusta Bell 412EP which had landed about thirty feet away, its spotlight trained on the tomb’s entrance, the wash of its rotors back-combing the grass. A fourth man was waiting for them in the cockpit.

‘Get in,’ the first man shouted over the roar of the engine, handing them each a set of headphones. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll put everything back here so they won’t know you’ve gone.’