The Vault of Poseidon

CHAPTER TWELVE

Their arrival at the Richemond hotel was met by Sir Richard Eden himself, who had flown into Geneva an hour earlier. Switzerland felt small and claustrophobic after the United States, but they were glad to have some time to regroup.

They took the elevator to the top floor and followed Eden to his room. Hawke noticed that the Member of Parliament’s door was guarded by more security than he would expect, and was immediately suspicious.

“What’s with the goons, Richard?” he asked.

The two men with ear-pieces turned to look at Hawke with sour expressions on their faces, and took a step towards him before being ushered away by Eden.

“Inside, now.”

Hawke, Lea and Ryan followed Sir Richard Eden into the room where another two armed guards were standing in the hall area. They parted to reveal a man Hawke recognized immediately as the British Foreign Secretary. He stepped towards them.

“I’m James Matheson,” he said, shaking their hands.

“My name’s Joe Hawke, and this is…”

Eden stepped up. “The Foreign Secretary doesn’t meet people in hotel rooms unless they’ve been fully vetted,” he said. “He knows who you all are.”

Ryan suddenly looked nervous.

“Don’t worry, Mr Bale,” Eden said, frowning. “We’re not interested in your creative tax situation.”

“Please,” Matheson said. “Do sit down, all of you. We have tea.”

Hawke watched one of guards lay a tray laden with tea cups on the table in front of them and begin to pour. The steam rose up into the air. For a moment in the heavy silence, the only sound was the reassuring chink of silver teaspoons against expensive china. Matheson glanced at Hawke and seemed anxious.

“I haven’t the time to beat around the bush,” Matheson said. “I’ve been apprised of the situation by Sir Richard here, and we’ve taken steps to ensure Hugo Zaugg desists in his attempts to locate the vault of Poseidon and take control of its contents.”

Blunt and to the point, Hawke thought. He sipped his tea and wished it was a whisky. The moment seemed to call for something stronger than Earl Grey. Not too long ago he had been running parkour and looking forward to a new job and a fresh start, but now he was having tea with the British Foreign Secretary and talking about Top Secret threats to international security.

“What’s your take on the situation, Hawke?”

“It's obvious this Zaugg character has serious reach, sir,” Hawke told Matheson. “And you’re frightened of him.”

“What makes you say that?”

Hawke jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the view of Lake Geneva. “Don’t think it’s gone unnoticed that you’ve put the three of us against the window while you sit further inside the room, Mr Matheson. You’re afraid of snipers out on the water.”

“Standard safety protocol,” said one of the guards flatly.

“Yeah, sure. Listen, you obviously need us or we wouldn’t be here, so get on with it.”

Matheson raised an eyebrow. “I’m not going to lie to you — we know we need some help on this. There are agencies inside the government who are not convinced Zaugg is a genuine threat, and so it’s going to come down to smaller units to handle the problem. Also HMG is not all that keen on this spilling out into the press.”

Hawke sniffed. “Her Majesty’s Government isn’t that keen on lots of things.”

“Listen, we’re prepared to give you carte blanche to rein Zaugg in, and we can provide some extra assistance if you need it, but you’ll need to work under the radar.”

“I’m not sure…”

Eden spoke up. “Come on, Hawke. I’ve read your file and I know you’re more than capable. Your commando work in the marines and SBS is first class. You really should have been decorated.”

“I was, but I turned it down.”

Eden looked confused, and opened Hawke’s file a second time. “There’s nothing in here about that…”

“There wouldn’t be, and no — I don’t want to talk about it.”

Matheson shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “Perhaps this is a discussion for another time? Right now we need to talk about Zaugg. I’ve spoken with some friends at the UN and also Interpol, and amongst us there is consensus that Zaugg is a threat and that he must be stopped. That is where you come in.”

Hawke fixed eyes on Matheson: “Go on.”

“We have some good news. We’ve had some intelligence from a reliable contact in Berne that Heinrich Baumann is the man who tortured Professor Fleetwood, but he sent Kaspar Vetsch to kill her when she escaped and tried to tell Sir Richard here of their plans.”

Eden slipped a new black and white photo of Vetsch across the table.

“That’s the man who tried to kill us in New York,” Ryan said. “I’d remember that face anywhere.”

“This is a new picture, taken in here in Geneva less than three hours ago.”

“He’s in Switzerland?”

Eden nodded sternly. “We can only presume that he was recalled by his handler, Baumann, after his failure to retrieve the golden arc from the Met in Manhattan. I doubt Zaugg would be involved at such a low level.”

“Where was this picture taken?” Hawke asked.

“Outside the airport here in Geneva.”

“You think he’s the type to talk?” Lea said.

“I do wonder if he might be, yes.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“You have to remember Kaspar Vetsch is not only a hitman, but also a complete sadist. Zaugg employs him to get information from nuts that are tough to crack. Whether or not a man like that is more or less susceptible to persuasion, as it were, only time will tell.”

“What do we want to get out of him?” Ryan asked, causing much eye-rolling around the room.

“We need information to lead us either to Baumann or directly to Zaugg if possible. Vetsch could be our way into that particular cesspit.”

Matheson cleared his throat again. He seemed anxious. “I can give you some assistance with this operation,” he said calmly, “but it’s all hush-hush, and if your cover’s blown we never knew you, understand? HMG cannot be seen to be working against a man like Zaugg in this way. He might be a recluse, but he’s also a high-ranking Swiss citizen with considerable influence in the government here. I'm sure you understand. The situation is delicate.”

“That’s very nice,” Hawke said.

“I’m sorry?” Matheson said sharply.

“Get us to do your dirty work and if we get into trouble pull up the drawbridge.”

“We got you out of New York, didn't we?” he replied coolly. “And that wasn't easy. You brought half of Manhattan to a standstill. The CIA were fuming.”

“I’m just along for the ride.” Hawke leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “This is really between Sir Richard and Herr Zaugg as far as I can tell.”

“Well, on that you are quite wrong,” Eden said. “The British Government might not formally recognize the threat to national security if Zaugg gets into Poseidon’s tomb, but I certainly do, and so does the Foreign Secretary as well. So this is not some personal vendetta between Zaugg and me.”

The English politician was clearly fired up by it all, but at the same time Hawke felt in the way he spoke the same reluctance that he sensed in Lea. There was something in their manner that made him feel as if they were keeping something from him — something big, and something he should know.

“So where is Vetsch right now?” Hawke asked.

“We don't know, but we do know the address of this man, Didier Martin.” Eden slid another black and white photo across the table.”

“Who is he?” Hawke asked. “He looks like a slug.”

“Middle-ranking underworld figure who’s made a lot of money selling drugs and so on. He supplies Vetsch with cocaine and is known to sell heroin as well. He should be a reliable lead to Vetsch.”

“Where do we find this Martin?” Hawke asked.

“In the Old Town,” Eden replied, turning to Lea. “The apartment is in the Place du Bourg-de-Four, a very upmarket area, so please refrain from blasting it to pieces when you get there.”

Hawke smiled. “Who, us?”

“I mean it. I want this kept clean and sharp, all right? Here is the address, so get in and get out, preferably with both Didier Martin and Kaspar Vetsch alive and kicking into the bargain. They’re no use to us dead, are they now?” As he said this he frowned and fixed his eyes on Hawke.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“And there’s something else,” Eden said. “I think you’re going to need more help, so I’ve organized a little assistance. She’s former military, but SAS, not SBS.”

“No one’s perfect” Hawke said, smiling.

“But now’s she MI5, so play nice,” Eden added, smiling back.

“Where is she?”

“You’re meeting her in an hour at the Grand Hotel Kempinski. She happens to be an old friend of yours.”

Hawke stepped off the tram and emerged into a cold, overcast Geneva afternoon. An easterly breeze was blowing off the lake and cutting through the city like razors. Most people were obscured behind scarves or umbrellas.

He unfolded the piece of paper Eden had given him. Its message was simple: “Hotel Grand Kempinski. Midday. Cairo.” He knew only too well what the last word meant, and it wasn’t the Egyptian city. That one word had brought deep memories about his past flooding back.

The Hotel Grand Kempinski was less than two hundred yards from the tram stop, and he could see the traffic backed up along the Rue Philippe-Plantamour as he walked through to the Quai du Mont Blanc entrance. The aroma of fresh coffee and chocolate drifted over to him as he passed a small café.

He slowed to a casual walk as he cut through a line of taxis and briskly stepped up the polished steps of the east entrance of the hotel, flanked on either side by expensively manicured bay trees in art deco pots.

Inside he took the elevator to the famous rooftop restaurant bar, where he immediately saw Scarlet Sloane sitting on her own along the far edge. The Geneva skyline sprawled behind her, and he could see the mountains rise up into the bitter winter sky above the city to the west.

“Bonjour, Joe,” she said, sliding a glass flute across the table. “It's their signature drink — white rum, Champagne, fresh grapes, cinnamon and vanilla. They call it the Marjad.”

“It’s a little early in the day for cocktails, don’t you think?”

“That rather depends on what timezone your body’s in,” she said, smiling.

Hawke sat down and looked at her. She had aged a little, but on reflection not as much as he had. Her hair used to be red, and looked better that way — and it was longer once, but now it was short and blonde and had a vague military quality he wasn’t sure he liked, which was ironic. He watched in silence as she pulled a menthol cigarette out of a silver case and lit it up, blowing a cloud of blue smoke into the cold air.

“What’s this all about, Joe?” she asked.

“I’ve been sent here by Sir Richard Eden. I believe you know him, Cairo?”

“Cairo! I haven’t heard that one in a long time.”

“That’s because we haven’t spoken in a long time.”

“No. Richard told me you were on the market looking for trouble and asked me to meet you here. Being seen with you in public could put quite a dent in my image.”

“Are you armed?” he asked.

“Naturellement.”

Hawke drummed his fingers on the edge of the table for a moment, but stopped when he realized it was sending the wrong signal to her — nerves. He wasn’t sure how to handle her. That was the sorry truth.

“So you work for Five now?” he asked.

She nodded.

“What happened to the SAS? Was it too boring for you?”

Just another smile. Only the mouth, not the eyes. “Humor never was your strong suit.”

“How do you know Sir Richard Eden?” Hawke asked.

“Richard and I go back a long way, and the rest is none of your business.”

“Why am I here, Cairo?” he asked. “Eden’s keeping something from me, isn’t he?”

He felt her shoe sliding up the inside of his lower leg, and he moved it away before it got too comfortable there.

“Don’t you like it?” she asked.

“It took me the whole journey to remember who you were,” he lied.

The woman frowned. “I’d hoped I’d left a greater impression on you than that.”

“It’s been a long time since Helmand.”

“So you do remember. Tell me, did you ever marry, Joe?”

“Yes.”

“And how is the little darling? At home knitting tiny booties for your three perfect children?”

“She’s dead.”

“Oh… I'm sorry to hear that. Truly. How?”

“That’s not important right now, Cairo.”

“There’s that silly nickname again.” She breathed a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air between them.

“Will you help me or not? Eden says you will.”

“Eden doesn’t tell me what to do. No one does.” She got up to go.

“Please, Cairo — all he said was you’re available for work.”

Scarlet Sloane sat back down, graceful as a cat. He could hardly believe she was the same person he had almost fallen in love with all those years ago. Back then she was another woman. Now she seemed somehow different — embittered, angry, emotionless — working for the highest bidder, who this time happened to be Sir Richard Eden.

“What happened to you, Cairo?” He wasn't looking at her now, but staring at the floor. He was thinking about the damage the past does to the present.

“If I told you that it would keep you up at night, Joe. It’s better you get your beauty sleep — you need it.”

He raised his eyes to see her staring absent-mindedly across the Geneva skyline. The sky darkened with the threat of rain. A waiter dropped a plate and some cutlery and knocked her from her daydream. She focused on the man’s behind as he picked up the knives and forks, and she grinned like a Cheshire cat.

Hawke smirked. “Same old, same old.”

Scarlet simply shrugged her shoulders, closed her eyes for a moment and made a long, satisfied sigh.

She got up from the table and gently stubbed her cigarette out in the little ashtray. She turned and glanced over the rooftops. It was beginning to rain a little.

“I’ll let you work with me on this,” she said.

“I think you mean I will let you work with me on this.”

“You wouldn’t want to work against me, Joe.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re at such a disadvantage, darling.”

“How so?”

“You’re just a man.”

She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the temple, rubbing her hand slowly up the back of his head as she did it. Blood-red fingernail polish, expensive perfume.

“So you’re on board?” he asked, undeterred.

“I am, yes. But the question is — are you up for this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, aren’t you a little over the hill? Perhaps you’d prefer to go home and relax. Get some of that aggression out on Call of Duty or something.”

“I’ll take that as a challenge,” he said, as she walked slowly away from their table. “You’re working for me,” he shouted after her. “Not the other way around, Cairo.”

She didn’t turn back, but simply called over her shoulder: “No one calls me that anymore, Joe.”

“I do.”

“Are you coming or not?” she said.

Hawke smiled and got up from the table.