Apart from our footsteps, all I could hear now was the gentle whir of the ventilation system.

12

There was obviously nothing wrong with Stefan’s mind, apart from it being a pint-size replica of his dad’s, but his ankle stopped working again after another fifty. I picked him up and kept on going.

I soon lost track of how far we’d walked, but I didn’t care. It was all about making distance, and a steadily downward slope really helped. I had no idea whether we’d emerge in Bulgari Land or out in the wild. I stopped every so often and listened for any sign of pursuit. Unless the boys in blue had found their way through Frank’s secret escape hatch and changed into the world’s quietest brothel-creepers, there was none.

Eventually a shiny steel door appeared out of the gloom in front of us. A spyhole glinted at head height. I peered through it into what looked like a neon-lit lock-up. I pressed the button that opened the door and moved from a spotless designer planet into the one I was more used to – the one with dirt under its fingernails, sweat on its bollocks and oil stains on its floor.

A couple of old bicycles hung from the ceiling. The shelves that lined the walls were loaded with all sorts of shit that even real people didn’t need to keep but couldn’t bring themselves to throw away. I knew this was exactly how the place was meant to look; it wasn’t just because Frank had forgotten to bring in the cleaners. Once the door had closed, there was no hint of what lay behind it.

A dark green Volkswagen Polo stood to one side, with French plates and an up-to-date Swiss car-toll vignette in the bottom left corner of the windscreen. Nothing too flash, but solid. This wagon was designed to stay under the radar.

There was no sign of a satnav, which suited me just fine. I’d spent the last few hours wondering where the fuck I was, and still wanted to find out how I’d got here, but I was in no doubt that I’d spent the rest of my life doing my best to remain untraceable.

The only concession to high tech was the little black plastic box on the driver’s seat, which I guessed must power up the shutter that separated us from the outside world. The ignition key had been left beside it.

When I put Stefan down he made for the passenger door, but I steered him to the rear hatch and told him to curl up in the boot. ‘It’s safer. No one will give a scruffy fucker on his own a second glance in a wagon like this …’ I liked the sound of that. I hoped it was true.

He got the message and curled up without complaint on what looked and smelt like an old dog blanket, beside a folded safety triangle and a clear plastic container full of spare lightbulbs. I didn’t feel too bad about that. Despite the crocodiles crawling all over his kit, I knew he’d been in shittier places. I knew because I’d been there with him.

Before I closed the hatch I asked him who knew about this set-up.

‘Just me and my dad.’

‘Not the black guy?’

He shook his head.

I sparked up the engine, threw the Polo into gear and pressed the button on the black box. Sure enough, a green light flickered and the shutter rolled open, then closed as soon as we were through.

Immediately on my left there was a storage facility for winter grit, and a vehicle-repair yard on the right. You wouldn’t have given either a second glance as you headed up or down the mountain. And if you took the heli from Geneva to the Altiport, you’d never even know that places like this existed.

I drove fifteen metres up the rutted track between them and turned right, away from the sign pointing towards ‘Centre Village’. I needed to go back to pick up my day sack, but right now I had to make distance from this drama and work out what the next one would be.

I kept going until I reached Moriond – not too far from Courchevel 1850, but the kind of place that looked like you could still find a takeaway kebab instead of an over-priced three-course meal. I pulled into a parking lot outside a block of flats that was in need of a lick of paint, and turned off the engine.

Someone had smashed the only lamp in sight, so it was nice and dark here. I wound down the front windows a fraction to stop them misting up, and watched the comings and goings on the main.

First up, I wondered who the fuck had pressed the GIGN button. Even if someone had reported us gaining entry, those guys didn’t bother with break-ins. They were heavy-duty. National security. So who were they after? Me? Frank’s killers? Or was this only the tip of a bigger, uglier iceberg? Whatever the answer, I needed to nail it on my own terms, and not from the inside of a police interrogation room.

Now we seemed to be out of the immediate shit, I was going to focus on finding out who had leant on Mr Lover Man forcibly enough to get him to kill his boss. Because when I knew that, I’d be a step closer to neutralizing the threat to Stefan. And the threat to me.

The traffic was sporadic for the next hour or so. Family saloons, mostly, the odd tourist coach and local bus. That was OK by me. It gave me time to try to join some of the dots.

I heard Stefan give a small cough and then whisper, ‘Can I come out now?’

‘No.’ I kept eyes on the main. ‘But while you’re there, you can tell me some stuff. Question one: how long had you and your dad been at the chalet?’

A couple of boy racers with Day-glo decals on their wings roared up the hill, then stood on their brakes as a GIGN Land Cruiser sped past in the opposite direction. It was four up and without blues and twos, so I guessed the sniper team had been stood down. Three more came by at intervals.

‘Two days.’

Then a command unit, then nothing.

‘And your BG?’

‘BG?’

His voice was muffled, but it was clear he had no idea what I was talking about.

‘Yeah, you know, your bodyguard …’

‘He was always there. Except maybe once.’

‘When?’

‘Last night … While you were with my …’

‘Dad?’

He gave the smallest of whimpers.

‘Did he talk to anyone? Meet anyone? Anyone you didn’t know?’

‘Oh, Nick …’ He sounded like he was in pain. ‘He was my friend. I didn’t spy on him …’

‘My meeting with your dad, in the green room—’

‘You were in there for … ages.’

Ages … So it had been more than a heads-up and a swift espresso.

‘He was worried about something. Do you have any idea what?’

‘No …’ He let out the world’s biggest sigh. ‘I just knew he was … He thought he kept it hidden, but I knew.’

Time for a break. The whimper and the sigh told me I was pushing too hard. And it was getting cold.

I shut the windows and started the engine.

Fifteen minutes and a few hairpin bends later I was in the heart of the resort. The twin cables from the Verdons lift station stretched up the valley to my right. A female cop was directing traffic at the roundabout, but she’d gone by the time I’d repeated the circuit. I parked up in a space outside the cinema. There was no sign of any more of her Special Forces mates.

The piste map beneath the stationary line of bubbles told me where I was, and where I had to go. I got back in the Polo and wound my way through Courchevel’s answer to Rodeo Drive, past the kind of hotels where they warm your toilet seats as well as your ski boots, on to the high ground.

I drove a hundred past Le Strato, pulled into the next layby and waited another half-hour before getting out of the wagon and circling back to my hiding place. I didn’t trip over anyone en route, and everything seemed to have gone quiet at Oligarch Central.

My day sack was where I’d left it. The ATV was too. I wrenched off its registration plates and chucked them into the middle of a big clump of bushes on my way to the road. It wouldn’t take for ever for someone to find and then identify Claude’s Honda, but I didn’t want to make it too easy. The more time passed without them being able to make the connection, the better.