Dead Centre - Andy McNab [64]
Swatches of material and big wallpaper folders covered the parquet floor. Frank was wearing jeans that had creases ironed into them, and a white open-necked shirt under a yellow golfer’s sweater. He was staring down at the collections of colours and patterns strewn around his feet. Either this was about taking his mind off his troubles, or he was back in Terminator mode.
The high-pitched voices turned out to belong to a man and woman who looked like they should have been on one of those makeover shows. They were talking to each other as if they were the only ones there, and Frank was the film crew.
‘Everything looks so wonderful in this light.’
Frank glanced up as I headed towards him. His face said he definitely wasn’t as jacked-up about it as they were. Besides, the light was shit: the cloud made sure of that.
He was doing some serious weight training with that platinum Zenith Class Traveller on his wrist. I’d fancied one myself in the Moscow watch shop until I’d seen the price tag. It had no jewels, no glitter; it was just a practical-looking lump of metal with loads of little dials on. I wasn’t sure how they justified it being £475K. For that price, it should be making the tea.
Frank followed my gaze. ‘You know your timepieces. I have a passion for them.’
He twisted it to and fro on his wrist. ‘But, you know, they’re easy to come by. Unlike decent houses under thirty million dollars in this place.’ He looked around him. I couldn’t tell if he liked it or not.
‘You here for the birthday party, Frank? Or is it yours?’
He rested £475,000 worth of watch on my shoulder.
‘If so, they say it’s costing you five million euros. They also say Cirque de Soleil are being flown all the way from Canada to spin about on a couple of ropes.’
He nodded slowly. I still couldn’t work out what was going on in that head of his.
‘I’m just a guest. I’m part of the ten per cent of the population who own eighty per cent of the planet. You’d think we’d operate as individuals, but sadly we’re just a herd.’
His hand left my shoulder and pointed at nothing in par ticular in the cavernous room. ‘This? I eventually had to get one. We all do.’
He got big smiles from the two as they held squares of wallpaper against the wall to ooh and aah at. They must have been interior designers.
This was getting us nowhere. I couldn’t tell if Frank was putting on a brave face or was simply in denial. Either way, I had to shake him out of it. I needed answers.
I pointed to a door.
3
I LED HIM out into a wide corridor with yet more marble beneath our feet.
‘Where’s the other Brit from Moscow?’
Frank looked around. He wasn’t happy to talk here. To our right were ceiling-high doors that would open into rooms with views of the mountains, trees and snow. He hesitated.
‘Does this place have a pool?’
He nodded and started to walk along the corridor. As I followed, my iPhone vibrated in my jeans, but the squeak of my Timberlands on the marble was louder.
At the far end of it we got into a glass and steel lift. He finally spoke. ‘The other Brit has gone.’ He pressed a button. ‘I did not need him any more. He should not have got himself into such a position. Both of them were no good.’
We moved smoothly downwards.
‘Why? You sent them to test me. They did.’
Frank stared at the glass wall as we passed the ground floor. ‘But not well enough. If they’d been any good, you would have been picked up more easily.’
‘But that would have meant I wasn’t the man for the job.’
‘Correct. But they should have killed you as soon as you put them in danger. Somebody has to lose. Somebody always has to lose.’
The lift stopped. Frank gestured for me to leave first. ‘Just be happy it wasn’t you.’
The door closed automatically behind him.
‘Italian design, German hydraulics. Precision-built houses and Swiss watches, they are very