Dead Bishops Don't Lie, page 2
Suddenly, Vasiliev felt Kurganski grab his forearm.
“Look out,” Kurganski shouted.
Too late. Vasiliev’s eye caught the young girl’s look of terror, her raised right arm. He swerved to the right. The sickening thud of her body on the left side of the Fiat told him he’d hit her hard.
“Damn.” He rolled down his window quickly and looked about. To his left, the girl’s body lay twisted on the road, her legs sprawled onto the curb. At the intersection up ahead, a handful of people were waiting for the tram.
Vasiliev’s brain raced into overdrive, weighing his options. “If we make a run for it, and someone gets our plate number, we’re dead.”
“If we wait, they’ll tie us to Saas Fee. Go! Go!” Kurganski’s nicotine-stained right hand signaled Vasiliev onwards.
As Vasiliev floored the Fiat, he caught a glimpse of the gesticulating onlookers in his rearview mirror. “Damn, damn, damn,” he said, pounding the steering wheel.
“You were too close to the curb. If…”
“Fuck right off.”
“We’re still a half-hour from the airport. Step on it.” said Kurganski.
“Someone must have gotten our plate number.”
“Those Swiss will be shit-fast at tracing the car. We’ve got to get rid of it,” said Kurganski.
“But it’s due back today. Hertz will get suspicious.”
“We’ll phone them and say we’re extending for a couple of days.”
“Our plane leaves for Moscow in one and a half hours. We won’t make it,” said Vasiliev, hardly controlling his panic.
“We get rid of the car in Zürich and take the train to Kloten airport. Plenty of time,” said Kurganski, almost matter-of-factly.
“We don’t even know the train schedule. We could…” Vasiliev felt Kurganski’s hot breath close to his cheek.
“Listen, asshole. You got us into this mess. I’m going to get us out. Go to the train station. Now,” said Kurganski.
“Okay, okay, let me fucking drive. One accident is enough.”
“Goddamn right.”
Moments later, Vasiliev parked the car in front of the Zürich train station and they rushed inside. Kurganski went to the ticket counter, while Vasiliev purchased a local newspaper. He breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing on Saas Fee. Beneath the arches of the station’s glass-paneled roof, the dull grey of the cement walkways blended into the dark green of the railway cars .The morose look on the faces of the morning passengers only accentuated the atmosphere of daily dismal routine. Yet the minuted announcements of the train departures actually helped calm his raw nerves. He desperately needed to join, if only for a moment, the quiet predictability of Swiss life. After what seemed an eternity, they boarded the train. Vasiliev tried to concentrate. Calm down, breathe deeply, relax, he told himself. Such a stupid, stupid mistake.
* * *
The ambulance rushed the injured girl to the hospital in Zollikon. The onlookers were talking excitedly when policeman Hans Gerhauer arrived at the scene, minutes later.
“Crazy bastards. The poor girl never had a chance,” said a young man in a light gray overcoat.
"What make of car was it?" said Gerhauer.
“A dark-colored Fiat, quite recent.”
“How many people on board?”
“Two, I think.”
“Can you describe them?”
“No, they were too far.”
“Did you get the plate number?”
“It started with ZH 10 something”
Gerhauer grabbed his microphone and growled the information to his dispatcher in Zürich.
* * *
Kurganski stepped quickly off the train at Kloten, Vasiliev following close behind. Still an hour before our flight to Moscow. We’ll attract attention if we reroute, thought Kurganski. In the airport’s huge, aluminum-framed departure hall, there seemed nothing unusual as passengers hurried about, searching for their gates.
“Take this and wait for me at the Lufthansa Lounge,” Kurganski said as he handed Vasiliev his luggage. Kurganski walked to the phone booth across the passage from the Hertz reception desk and dialed their number. He turned cautiously, enough to see the young, bored-looking woman pick up the phone and put on her fake, customer smile.
“Hertz, how may I help you?”
“My name is Berger; I rented a Fiat three days ago, due today.” Kurganski focused intently on the girl, watching for any unusual sign: a hand on the mouthpiece, a signal to a co-worker. Nothing. She continued looking at her screen. “I want to extend the rental for three more days,” he said.
She paused briefly, fingers flying on the computer’s keyboard with the ease of a concert pianist. After what seemed like a century to Kurganski, she said: “No problem, Herr Berger. It’s an extra sixty francs per day, plus insurance and taxes.”
“Fine.” As he hung up slowly, he watched for any hint from the girl. She seemed to share a joke with her colleague and continued looking at her computer screen. Kurganski breathed deeply. The gamble had paid off. Hertz hadn’t been notified, and they were in the clear. Otherwise that girl deserves an Oscar, he thought, as he rushed upstairs and joined Vasiliev in the Lufthansa lounge.“ Everything is okay. We’re clear. Now, we wait.”
* * *
Later that morning, on-duty Inspector Pierre Schmidt, Zürich Police, received the hit and run report and relayed the information to all cars:
Dark colored Fiat, year unknown, partial plate number ZH 10, traveling in the general direction of Zürich. Two occupants minimum.
Intercept and arrest.
Central Car Registry was notified for any possible narrowing down of the list and had come up with three listings. At 3:45 p.m., Schmidt received a call from one of the patrolmen:
“Schmidt.”
“Inspector, we have one dark blue Fiat here, illegally parked on the Bahnhofstrasse,” said the gendarme.
“What’s the plate number?”
“ZH 10387 683.”
“Any sign of the occupants?”
“No.”
“Anything else?”
“It has a broken left headlight.”
“Merde. Why didn’t you say so? Stay there and arrest anybody getting into that car.”
Schmidt phoned Central Car Registry. The owner of the car was Hertz, Kloten location. Schmidt signaled two adjutants to follow him. They jumped into his Volvo and descended on the airport, siren screaming, blue lights flashing.
“Police. Let me see your file on your Fiat, plate number ZH 10387 683,” said Schmidt to the Hertz supervisor.
“But Sir, I’m…, we assure our clients’ confide—”
“Who dealt with the rental?”
“Ah. Sarita Dellinger, over there,” said the supervisor, his resistance melting.
Schmidt glared at the young woman: “Do you remember who rented this car?”
“No…well, yes actually. The man phoned about four hours ago, saying he wanted to extend the rental a few more days.”
Schmidt turned to the supervisor, “Get me a printout of your incoming calls this afternoon, from 1:30 onwards.”
Schmidt knew the futility of his gestures, but procedure required them to be followed. He knew that his prey had already eluded him. He copied Berger’s false driver’s license and sent it out to the Swiss Federal authorities. He had it sent to all airlines, for a passenger list check. To no avail.
* * *
Aboard the plane, Vasiliev felt reborn. The package had been delivered, the contract executed, and their mission completed. Even Kurganski’s gamble had paid off. The man’s bloody brilliant, he thought. He toasted Kurganski repeatedly with vodka first, then with cheap champagne. For a moment, he felt a twinge of remorse obscure his cheerfulness. He had a daughter, and imagined the grief of the parents if the accident were to prove fatal. He hoped that her backpack had absorbed the blow. Shit, nothing I could have done. Now it was on to Moscow, to the safety of the Motherland, where his Slav features and identity would dissolve into the milk of Russian humanity.
Chapter 4
The next morning Besse kissed his wife Bénédicte, hugged his three-year-old daughter on the doorstep of his two-bedroom flat on Rue Des Cedres, and walked briskly along Rue des Pins, on his way towards the Sion police station. As he approached, he could see the vans, their parabolic antennas aimed at the skies and the world’s TV stations. He felt the remainder of Bénédicte’s slightly burnt croissant shift in his stomach, as the thought of his upcoming, unwanted notoriety began to sink in.
“You have visitors,” said the adjutant as Besse hurried up the steps to the entrance. “They flew in from Paris this morning. The Feds in Berne confirmed it by fax. They’re from Interpol: Inspectors Thierry Dulac and Daniel Lescop.”
Besse struggled nervously past the gaggle of journalists, TV reporters, and cameramen. “Nothing yet. Pas encore. No comment,” he shouted to the angry horde.
As he neared his glass-paned office, Besse saw a thin, brown-haired man, comfortably ensconced in Besse’s chair, cigarette in hand, gesticulating and speaking intensely to a younger man in a blue shirt. When he entered, the thin man rose and extinguished his cigarette on Besse’s favorite porcelain saucer.
“Thierry Dulac, Interpol France,” he said, extending his left hand. “This is Daniel Lescop. So, Inspector Busse, what was the time of death?”
“Besse, François Besse,” he answered curtly, awkwardly grasping the extended hand. “I don’t know. We don’t have the coroner’s preliminary report yet.”
“When?”
“In a week, perhaps.”
“How about this afternoon?”
“What? I can’t---”
“Perhaps if I call Berne?” Dulac grabbed Besse’s phone and started to dial.
“Wait…I, I’ll see what I can do.”
Dulac put down the receiver. “Where was he staying?” asked Dulac, now picking up the binder containing photographs of the dead man.
“At the Hotel Tenne. He had booked for a week.”
“What about forensics?”
“They went through the room yesterday.”
“At what time?” said Dulac, moving closer to Besse.
“From noon to six.”
“And before? Did you guard access to the room?”
“No. It—”
“So it was unguarded between the time of the discovery of the murder and noon?”
“It was locked by the hotel,” replied Besse, looking up at Dulac’s steady gaze and waiting for the hammer to fall.
“But not sealed.”
“Ah, no.”
“Splendid. Get me the forensics report by…?” Dulac was smiling, his thin, concave frame bent threateningly close.
“Ah, I think we can get an initial by the end of the—”
“Day?”
“Really, I can’t promise—”
“Do you have the roadblock report?”
“Well…”
“You did set up a roadblock.”
“Actually, no. We were busy looking for witnesses.”
“Excellent,” said Dulac, drawing a deep breath. “Any sworn depositions yet?”
I really don’t need this, this French asshole’s crap, thought Besse. Why didn’t Berne send a Swiss? Besse caught his thought in midair. But of course, Salvador was French. Politics already. “You must understand, we’re a small police force here. This isn’t Paris.”
“Inspector, Paris doesn’t have only one road leading out. It’s easy to control the outgoing traffic, no?” said Dulac, looking at the photographs. “Unless, of course, you think they skied out over the mountains.”
Besse felt his pulse quicken. The anger surged from his gut. “There’s no need for your sarcasm.”
“You’re right. Sorry. Inspector, have your men check all departures from the hotels and pensions, yesterday and today. Let’s go over them this afternoon, shall we?” said Dulac, his tone patronizing.
“But there are over 4000 beds in Saas Fee. It’ll take at least a week.”
“Tell me, Inspector, does everything around here take a week?” said Dulac, his jaw set in confrontation. “These killers aren’t having Swiss fondue, waiting for your gallant alpine-skiing policemen to knock on their door. A little more urgency on your part might even help us catch them, yes?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. Now, get me a map of Saas Fee and we’ll allocate streets.”
* * *
By four p.m., Dulac and Lescop had finished questioning staff and clients from nearby hotels, restaurants and bars, and were driving back to Sion in Lescop’s rented Opel. Dulac reread his notes. “Rien. Nothing. And you?”
“Afraid not.”
An hour later, they arrived at the Sion police station.
“I’ll see what the coroner has,” said Dulac as he exited the Opel. “See you back at the hotel.” Dulac closed the car door, walked briskly up the steps and through the entrance.
“What? Not even a preliminary report? Your coroner’s had over a day.” Dulac shouted at the cocker spaniel-eyed adjutant behind the reception desk.
“I, I don’t know. It’s not my responsibility. I’m only—”
“Get him on the phone.”
At that moment, one of the reporters milling about in the reception area recognized Dulac. In an instant, the reporter and his colleagues were swarming around him like angry wasps, poking microphones and cameras into his face.
“Inspector Dulac, any initial suspects?”
“How did they get him to the cable car?”
“What is the possible motive of such a grisly crime?”
“Is this a sex-vengeance thing?”
Dulac faced the onslaught with a virulent outburst of Gallic temper. “Back off, you, you bunch of—”
“Yes?” said a pimply brunette, microphone in hand.
Dulac bit his tongue and forced a smile. “Madame, I have no suspects yet. It’s a little early in the investigation, don’t you think? Don’t worry, we’ll keep you updated.” Dulac turned to the adjutant. “Well?”
“The coroner doesn’t answer.”
“Great. Just pissing great.” Dulac retreated to the calm of Besse’s empty office and shut the door.
A half-hour passed when, through the office’s glass partition, Dulac caught sight of a short, rotund man with a smile that took half his face slowly approaching Besse’s office. The man knocked and timidly opened the door: “Inspector Dulac?”
“Come in.”
“I’m Doctor Zubriggen, the coroner. You have been calling me?”
“Ah…Finally, Doctor.”
“I have the preliminary report. Do you wish me to read it?”
“By all means. I’m all ears.” said Dulac, putting his feet up on the desk and not bothering to offer Zubriggen the empty chair before him.
The rotund man sat down slowly, adjusted his bifocals and read the report in that strange, sing-song tone of the Swiss Germans when they speak French.
“Death occurred at approximately six a.m., because of asphyxiation caused by the crucifixion, hypothermia and shock. This was accelerated by the loss of blood. The incision was made between the fourth and fifth rib, with a very sharp knife or possibly a scalpel. The parting of the tissue was extremely clean, with—”
“Tell me, Doctor, any signs of a struggle?” interrupted Dulac.
“Yes, I was coming to that. Yes. He has bruises on the face.”
“Any traces of the attackers on his body, under his fingernails?”
“We did not see any.”
“Drugs?”
“This will be in my final report. This will take more time, Mr. Dulac.”
“Less than a week, I hope.”
The little man, surprise on his oval face, smiled questioningly at Dulac. “What?”
“Never mind. Just leave the report here,” said Dulac, as he rose and showed the doctor out.
Dulac glanced at the doctor’s report. A professional job. The killers planned that Salvador would die slowly, before the opening of the cable car. They wanted to prolong the archbishop’s terror of confronting his own death. What could warrant such a cruel, horrific death? As he awaited Besse’s report, Dulac pondered the meaning of the plaque, the one found hanging from Salvador’s neck. It was rectangular, of a heavy, dense wood. The inscription, bearing burr marks, seemed to have been carved with a drill.
“The Lion is dead. The Dragon is wounded.” What could this possibly mean? Why a crucifixion? Why the ritualistic cruelty? Why the reference to animals? To whom was the message addressed? Dulac had sent the information to the research division of Interpol, and he knew the Craies computers were already crunching, digesting, filtering and expunging, searching their huge data banks for information and leads. Dulac felt a surge of anger, the kind of anger that fueled his desire to do battle. These killers were mocking him, silently flaunting their success. They’d killed methodically, boldly. Boldly enough to leave a message. He picked up the plaque, rotated it and studied it from all angles, and put it back on the desk. He swore he’d find them.
* * *
An hour later, Besse appeared. His investigation had fared no better. Dulac returned to Hotel Castel where, after a quick supper with Lescop, Dulac retired to the perfunctory sparseness of his minuscule room. Lying on the stiff bed, his mood morose, he watched distractedly the horrible pictures of Salvador’s body on the evening news when suddenly the phone rang.
