James Twining - The Geneva Deception

Slamming the door, he stepped back and gave the pilot the thumbs-up. Throttling up, the helicopter lurched unsteadily off the ground, dipped its rotors, and then climbed at a steep angle into the sky. In a few minutes, the tomb had faded from view, swallowed by the night.

‘Military?’ Allegra’s voice hummed in Tom’s ear, worried but with a curious edge.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied, glancing round. ‘Their equipment’s standard Italian army issue. Could be special forces or some sort of private militia?’ He nodded at the back of the pilot’s head. ‘You could try asking him, but I don’t think he’ll tell us.’

‘Right now, I’m not sure I even care,’ she said with a relieved shrug. ‘The further we can get…’ Her voice tailed off into a puzzled frown as she noticed the envelope that had been left on the bench opposite. It was addressed to both of them. Swapping a look with Tom, she ripped it open and glanced inside, then emptied the contents into her lap: about twenty thousand euro secured in a neat bundle, a set of car keys, and five black-and-white photographs of a fire-ravaged apartment attached to an official press release from the Monégasque Police.

‘What does it say?’ Allegra frowned, handing it to him.

‘They’re looking for two missing people,’ Tom quickly translated. ‘An Irish banker, called Ronan D’Arcy and his housekeeper, Determination Smith. It says no one’s seen them since D’Arcy’s apartment caught fire two days ago. Looks like somebody wants us to take a closer look.’ His eyes narrowed as he studied the third photograph again, a small object having caught his eye. Had the police noticed that yet, he wondered?

‘De Luca?’ she suggested. ‘Remember he told us that his accountant in Monaco had disappeared?’

‘Why have Contarelli bury us, only to dig us up a few hours later?’ Tom asked with a shake of his head.

‘But who else would have known where to find us?’

Tom shrugged. She had a point, although right now he was less concerned with who had rescued them than why, and what they wanted.

The pilot’s voice broke into their conversation with a crackle.

‘What’s our heading?’

‘What?’

‘My orders are to take you anywhere within operational range,’ the pilot explained.

‘Anywhere?’ Tom asked in surprise. He’d assumed that whoever had set them free was planning to have them brought to him.

‘Anywhere,’ the pilot confirmed. ‘As soon as we land, you’re free to go.’ He reached back and handed them two Swiss passports made out in false names. ‘What’s the heading?’

Tom paused before answering, flicking through the forged documents. He reckoned a full tank would last them 600 kilometres. More than enough to leave De Luca, Gallo and the murderous madness they seemed to have stumbled into far behind. Allegra seemed to be having the same thought, because she pulled her headset off and yelled into his ear so she couldn’t be overheard.

‘What do you want to do?’

‘If we want out, then this is it,’ he called back. ‘A chance to walk away while we still can.’

‘Walk away to what? Until I can prove what Gallo’s up to, I’ve nothing to walk away to.’

Tom slipped his headset back on.

‘Can we make it to Monte Carlo?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ the pilot confirmed. ‘What do you need?’

Tom paused before answering.

‘A suit for me. Three buttons and a double vent. A dress for the lady. Black. Size 8.’

Over the Ligurian Sea, fifty kilometres southeast of Monaco 20th March – 2.21 a.m.

Rigged for black, they had headed west, hitting the coast just north of Civitavecchia and then hugging it as far as Livorno, sawing in and out of the jagged shoreline to stay under the radar. Once there, they had struck out across the sea, the city’s bright lights fading behind them to a gossamer twinkle, until there was nothing but them and the water’s empty shadow and the echo of the rotors as they skimmed low across the waves.

Occasionally the moon would emerge from behind a cloud, and for a few moments Allegra could see their spectral reflection in the swell, a ghost ship carried on neon whitecaps. Then, just as quickly, it vanished again and the darkness would open beneath them once more, an endless abyss into which they seemed to be falling without moving.

Allegra glanced over at Tom, but like her he seemed to be enjoying the flight’s noisy stillness, his dirt-smudged face pressed to the window, alone with his thoughts. She wondered if, like her, he could still feel the plastic against his skin, moist and warm, still feel his fingernails lifting as he scrabbled at the chamber’s earthen walls.

She hated to admit it, but she had been scared back there. Not danger scared, where adrenaline kicks in and instinct takes over before you even have a chance to think. Dying scared, where there is time for the mind to wander long and lonely corridors of fear and uncertainty. The sort of fear that she imagined lingered in the portentous shadows of a surgeon’s forced cheerfulness or a radiologist’s brave smile.

Perhaps this explained why she found something strangely comforting about the engine’s noise now, its animal roar having settled into a contented purr that was a welcome contrast to the ticking contemplation of death that she had endured in that tomb. A reminder that she was alive. That she had escaped.

Not that she was sure what they had escaped to, exactly, or who had helped them. Clearly somebody had their reasons for wanting them alive and continuing their investigation. Less clear was who that might be. De Luca, perhaps; if she was right about D’Arcy working for him. But then, as Tom had suggested, it seemed unlikely that he would order Contarelli to kill them, only to dispatch a search-and-rescue team a few hours later. But if not him, who? The FBI? Tom had told her that he had worked with them before. Was this them protecting their best chance of finding Jennifer’s killer? She shook her head ruefully. The truth was, there was no way of telling.

More certain was her growing trust in Tom. He would never stop, she knew, never rest until he had brought the Delian League down and punished whoever had killed his friend. Part of her almost felt jealous of this fierce loyalty. Did she have anyone who would have done the same for her? Probably not. The realisation strengthened her resolve. If she didn’t follow this through to the end, wherever it led her, no one else would. And then Gallo would have won.

Tom suddenly tapped the window.

‘Monte Carlo.’

The city had appeared out of the night, a stepped pyramid of lights that clung to the steep mountainside with concrete claws, its jaws open to the sea. The helicopter banked to the left and climbed over the yachts anchored in the harbour before swooping back towards the heliport, a narrow cantilevered shelf that hung over the water. It landed with a bump and then dusted off as soon as their feet had hit the tarmac, climbing steeply until the clatter of its blades was nothing but a warm whisper on the wind.

The heliport was shut for the night, but someone had seen to it that the gate set into the hurricane fence had been left unlocked. The keys left for them in the envelope opened an X5 parked on the street outside the deserted terminal building. Inside, Allegra found a bag of casual clothes and two suit carriers – one containing Tom’s shirt and suit, the other a knee-length black dress that they had clearly managed to lay their hands on in the hour or so it had taken them to fly here. Shoes, underwear, cufflinks, comb, make-up – they’d thought of everything, and she knew without even looking that it would all fit. These people, whoever they were, knew what they were doing.