them,whichwasprobablynothing,andfunnystuffthathappenedatthevillaintheSouthofFrance.
Then I got called on, so I stood up, pretty nervous, and started telling them about pine trees in summerandthelongroadupintothemountains,andItriedtoexplainthisphotoI’dseenandhowI knewthemotherlovedherkidsmorethananythingintheworld,andtherewasthisbookI’dreadby
somebody whose name I couldn’t remember and he had this expression ‘sorrow floats’ and that’s whatIfeltaboutthephoto,andIwastryingtotieallthistogetherwhenpeoplestartedlaughingand asking what I was smoking, and even the teacher, who was a young chick who thought she was sensitivebutwasn’t,toldmetositdownandstopramblingonandmaybeIshouldthinktwicebeforeI ranforhighelectiveoffice,andthatmadeeverybodylaughevenlouder.
Inevergotuptospeakinclassafterthat,notinthefiveyearsIwasatCaulfield,nomatterwhat amountoftroubleitcaused.ItmadepeoplesayIwasaloner,therewassomethingdarkaboutme,and Iguesstheywereright.Howmanyofthemadoptedthesecretlifeorendedupkillinghalfasmany
peopleasIdid?
Here’sthestrangething,though–throughallthatdifficultyandthepassageoftwentyyears,time hasn’t dimmed my memory of that photo. It has only made it sharper – it lies in wait for me just beforeIgotosleepand,tryasImight,I’veneverbeenabletogetitoutofmyhead.
ChapterTwelve
I WAS THINKING of it once again as I walked out of the front doors of Clément Richeloud & Cie and intotheGenevasunshine.Sure,IcouldhavefeltsomesympathyforMarkusBucherandhisdaughter,
butIcouldn’thelprememberingthatitwasSwissbankerslikeBucherandhisfamilywhohadhelped
fundandsupporttheThirdReich.
I have no doubt the mother in the photo and millions of other families in cattle cars would have gladlytradedtheBuchers’coupleofhoursofdiscomfortforwhattheyeventuallygot.Itwasjustlike Billhadsaidallthoseyearsago:it’simportanttokeepthingsinperspective.
ThinkingaboutthedarkhistorythatclungtosomuchofGeneva’shiddenwealth,Iwalkedtothe
rueduRhône,turnedright,stoppedneartheentrancetotheOldTownandmadeanencryptedcallon
mycellphonetoaGreekisland.
ThebankledgersinthebriefcasewhichwasnowhandcuffedtomywristwereChristosNikolaides’
death warrant, and in the world in which I dwelt there were no appeals and no last-minute stays of execution.Asitturnedout,killinghimwasn’tamistake–butthewayIdiditcertainlywas.
Therewerefiveassassins–threemenandtwowomen–waitingformycallonSantorini.Withits
azureharbour,achinglywhitehousesrimmingthecliffsanddonkeysshuttlingvisitorsuptojewel-
boxboutiques,itisthemostbeautifulofalltheGreekislands.
Dressedinchinosandcapripants,theteamwasinvisibleamongthethousandsoftouristswhovisit
theislandeveryday.Theweaponswereintheircameracases.
Monthsbefore,asthemysteriousNikolaidesfamilyhadmovedevermoreclearlyintooursights,
wehadtakenaninterestinaformerice-breakercalledtheArcticN.RegisteredinLiberia,the300-footboat,capableofwithstandingjustaboutanykindofattack,hadbeenconvertedathugeexpense into a luxury cruiser complete with a helicopter pad and an on-board garage for a Ferrari.
Supposedly fitted out for the super-elite Mediterranean charter business, the weird thing was that it only ever had one client – Christos Nikolaides and his entourage of babes, hangers-on, business associatesandbodyguards.
All through summer we kept tabs on the boat by satellite, and while we were in Grozny and Bucharestchasingtraitorsanddrugdealers,wewatchedtheendlesspartyglidefromStTropezdown
toCapriuntilfinallyitpulledintothehollowed-outvolcanothatformstheharbouratSantorini.
Andtherethevesselstayed–Nikolaidesandhisguestsrelocatingeverydayfromtheboat’shuge
sundeckuptothetown’srestaurantsandnightclubsandbackdownagain.
Meanwhile,halfacontinentaway,IwaitedonastreetcornerinGenevaforaphonetobeanswered.
Whenitdid,Isaidthreewordstoamansittinginaclifftopcafé.‘Thatyou,Reno?’Iasked.
‘Wrong number,’ he said, and hung up. Jean Reno was the name of the actor who played the
Then I got called on, so I stood up, pretty nervous, and started telling them about pine trees in summerandthelongroadupintothemountains,andItriedtoexplainthisphotoI’dseenandhowI knewthemotherlovedherkidsmorethananythingintheworld,andtherewasthisbookI’dreadby
somebody whose name I couldn’t remember and he had this expression ‘sorrow floats’ and that’s whatIfeltaboutthephoto,andIwastryingtotieallthistogetherwhenpeoplestartedlaughingand asking what I was smoking, and even the teacher, who was a young chick who thought she was sensitivebutwasn’t,toldmetositdownandstopramblingonandmaybeIshouldthinktwicebeforeI ranforhighelectiveoffice,andthatmadeeverybodylaughevenlouder.
Inevergotuptospeakinclassafterthat,notinthefiveyearsIwasatCaulfield,nomatterwhat amountoftroubleitcaused.ItmadepeoplesayIwasaloner,therewassomethingdarkaboutme,and Iguesstheywereright.Howmanyofthemadoptedthesecretlifeorendedupkillinghalfasmany
peopleasIdid?
Here’sthestrangething,though–throughallthatdifficultyandthepassageoftwentyyears,time hasn’t dimmed my memory of that photo. It has only made it sharper – it lies in wait for me just beforeIgotosleepand,tryasImight,I’veneverbeenabletogetitoutofmyhead.
ChapterTwelve
I WAS THINKING of it once again as I walked out of the front doors of Clément Richeloud & Cie and intotheGenevasunshine.Sure,IcouldhavefeltsomesympathyforMarkusBucherandhisdaughter,
butIcouldn’thelprememberingthatitwasSwissbankerslikeBucherandhisfamilywhohadhelped
fundandsupporttheThirdReich.
I have no doubt the mother in the photo and millions of other families in cattle cars would have gladlytradedtheBuchers’coupleofhoursofdiscomfortforwhattheyeventuallygot.Itwasjustlike Billhadsaidallthoseyearsago:it’simportanttokeepthingsinperspective.
ThinkingaboutthedarkhistorythatclungtosomuchofGeneva’shiddenwealth,Iwalkedtothe
rueduRhône,turnedright,stoppedneartheentrancetotheOldTownandmadeanencryptedcallon
mycellphonetoaGreekisland.
ThebankledgersinthebriefcasewhichwasnowhandcuffedtomywristwereChristosNikolaides’
death warrant, and in the world in which I dwelt there were no appeals and no last-minute stays of execution.Asitturnedout,killinghimwasn’tamistake–butthewayIdiditcertainlywas.
Therewerefiveassassins–threemenandtwowomen–waitingformycallonSantorini.Withits
azureharbour,achinglywhitehousesrimmingthecliffsanddonkeysshuttlingvisitorsuptojewel-
boxboutiques,itisthemostbeautifulofalltheGreekislands.
Dressedinchinosandcapripants,theteamwasinvisibleamongthethousandsoftouristswhovisit
theislandeveryday.Theweaponswereintheircameracases.
Monthsbefore,asthemysteriousNikolaidesfamilyhadmovedevermoreclearlyintooursights,
wehadtakenaninterestinaformerice-breakercalledtheArcticN.RegisteredinLiberia,the300-footboat,capableofwithstandingjustaboutanykindofattack,hadbeenconvertedathugeexpense into a luxury cruiser complete with a helicopter pad and an on-board garage for a Ferrari.
Supposedly fitted out for the super-elite Mediterranean charter business, the weird thing was that it only ever had one client – Christos Nikolaides and his entourage of babes, hangers-on, business associatesandbodyguards.
All through summer we kept tabs on the boat by satellite, and while we were in Grozny and Bucharestchasingtraitorsanddrugdealers,wewatchedtheendlesspartyglidefromStTropezdown
toCapriuntilfinallyitpulledintothehollowed-outvolcanothatformstheharbouratSantorini.
Andtherethevesselstayed–Nikolaidesandhisguestsrelocatingeverydayfromtheboat’shuge
sundeckuptothetown’srestaurantsandnightclubsandbackdownagain.
Meanwhile,halfacontinentaway,IwaitedonastreetcornerinGenevaforaphonetobeanswered.
Whenitdid,Isaidthreewordstoamansittinginaclifftopcafé.‘Thatyou,Reno?’Iasked.
‘Wrong number,’ he said, and hung up. Jean Reno was the name of the actor who played the
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