Switch. Charlie Brooks

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      Max didn’t answer. He pushed himself off the workbench and landed on both feet. They were numb now.

      ‘She has no idea what her husband does. And less interest. They’ve drifted apart. He works and works. Never in the same place for that long. She goes where she likes. Does up rich people’s houses for them.’

      ‘Pallesson is up to a lot more than art theft,’ Tryon interrupted, as if he suddenly wasn’t interested in Gemma any more.

      ‘I’m not fucking stupid, Tryon. ‘Of course he is.’

      ‘We have a mole inside the operation of a nasty piece of work called Wevers van Ossen, based in Amsterdam. He’s into trafficking, prostitution, protection.’

      ‘What do we care?’

      ‘We didn’t – until now. He’s moving into drugs in a pretty spectacular way.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘The source of his drugs is using the proceeds to fund operations in Somalia, which we care about a lot. More to the point, guess who’s lined up with van Ossen to move the gear over here.’

      ‘Our old friend?’

      ‘Exactly. He’s brought his unpleasant habits with him from Moscow. And you’re going to nail him. All on your own.’

      ‘Why all on my own?’

      Tryon didn’t reply. He appeared to be studying the boats, and his pipe had gone out again.

      ‘By the way, how was Jacques?’

      ‘His sight’s gone,’ Max replied, happy to let his question hang. ‘Had to get his daughter to help him copy paintings for Pallesson. The cunning little shit worked that out – that’s how he blackmailed both of them.’ Max walked over to one of the larger boats and stroked its sleek side.

      ‘This is probably my favourite place in the world,’ Tryon said, watching him. ‘I still row a couple of times a week. There’s no better feeling than being on the water in an eight. Going full tilt. I rowed in the Boat Race one year, you know.’

      ‘Oxford?’

      Tryon nodded.

      ‘Did you win?’

      Tryon nodded again.

      ‘Of course you did. This would hardly be the best place in the world if you lost, would it? I never went near the river at Eton. Apart from crossing it to get to Windsor Racecourse.’ He swung round to face Tryon. ‘So why on my own?’

      Tryon paused as if he was confirming in his own mind what the plan should be. After a few seconds spent hunched over his pipe, he had clearly decided.

      ‘He’ll use this painting to get into a drug deal – as he did in Moscow. You saw him holding something by the lake where he liquidated Corbett. He’ll be using the painting as collateral to cut himself into the deal with van Ossen. Same pattern. But we need to know where this deal is taking place. We’ll have to hide a tracking device on the second copy of the painting.’

      ‘How do we bust him?’

      ‘How do you bust him, you mean. We can’t rely on the Dutch police – they’re riddled with informants – but there is one officer we can work with.’ Tryon set himself to relighting his pipe. ‘This has got to be completely out-of-house on our side. Who knows who Pallesson has got to? Just you. Go and see Pete Carr. Get a tracking device from him.’

      ‘Who’s our mole? Why are you only telling me all this now?’

      ‘Grow up, Ward – you know how these things work.’

      He handed Max a worn business card. Max read it a couple of times then handed it back to Tryon.

      ‘He’s not that secure, by the way. Chequered past. Don’t tell him anything. But we’ve got to take this outside the Office and he’s our best option at this stage. Then get down to Gassin. Fast. Did Jacques give you his address?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll email directions to the drop box. No satnav please. Get a flight back down there tonight. Commercial. Without your girlfriend. We’ve only got one shot at this. If you don’t steal that painting in the embassy before Pallesson, we’re cold.’

      Max had one more question. ‘What happens if I get caught? Could be a bit embarrassing, to say the least.’

      ‘You won’t. But if you do, I didn’t make contact and we’ve never discussed this.’ He took several short puffs on his pipe and looked Max straight in the eye. ‘I’ve never even heard of The Peasants in Winter. Or in any other season, for that matter.’

      Wevers van Ossen treasured his Sunday mornings. At eight thirty every week he bundled his eight-year-old daughter, Anneka, into the back of their four-by-four and strapped her in securely.

      The drive to the stables where Anneka’s pony was kept only took ten minutes. And those minutes were packed with talk about which jumps Anneka was going to take on.

      Van Ossen loved watching Anneka ride. But he was less keen on the jumping aspect of it.

      ‘Perhaps you should concentrate on your flatwork,’ van Ossen suggested. He’d even learnt the lingo they used at the stables. Anneka knew flatwork meant trotting and steady cantering – which wasn’t to her liking as much as jumping.

      ‘Mustang likes jumping, Daddy,’ Anneka objected. She knew she’d get her way. She always did.

      Mustang was probably the most expensive pony ever sold in Holland. It hadn’t helped that Anneka had told the world that she was in love with Mustang before van Ossen could do the deal. He’d had to break all his principles to buy it. If it hadn’t been for Anneka he would have wiped the smirk off the stable owner’s face and walked away. Instead he gritted his teeth and wrote out the cheque.

      Van Ossen pulled a couple of sugar lumps out of his pocket for Mustang, and placed them on the palm of his hand. He’d have liked to strike a deal: My daughter’s safety guaranteed, or no more sugar. (It was a bit late to couch the deal in more severe terms: Mustang was already a gelding.) Since there was no hope of the pony understanding the deal, he settled for a straight gift and a friendly pat on the neck.

      As usual, van Ossen inspected Anneka’s tack thoroughly. He trusted no one with her safety. Reins, cheekpieces, girth, neck strap – each item was subjected to scrutiny. Then he went over her equipment, making sure her crash helmet was done up properly and her body protector zipped up.

      For the next hour, Anneka did what she bloody well liked. Her instructor would have loved to grind some discipline into her. But he knew that wouldn’t be wise with Mr van Ossen leaning against the rail. The plastic safety rail that he’d bought to replace the old wooden fence that encircled the school.

      Occasionally, van Ossen took his BlackBerry out of his pocket and surreptitiously went through a few emails. Anneka was alert to lapses of attention on his part and taking a call would inevitably spark a tantrum, so the constant calls coming in from Piek СКАЧАТЬ