The Watchers by Jon Steele Read Free Book Online

and a view of a parking ramp. On the desk, a Swiss residency card and work permit, a mobile phone and desktop computer, a letter addressed to him. The letter welcoming him, listing the address of a flat for his use on Chemin de Préville. Keys could be collected from the accounting office along with five thousand Swiss francs for expenses. A briefing book, a set of business cards.
     
----
    Jay Michael Harper
    Security Consultant
    International Olympic Committee
----
    Like waking up and finding yourself in someone else’s life.
    First weeks not much to do other than make sure everyone parked in the right places and the overnight lads pulled down the shutters at night, and wore blue cloth booties over their shoes so as not to scuff up the marble floors.
    Just as well, he thought, anything more complicated might’ve tipped off his employers he didn’t know why the fuck he was there. Then, a manila envelope marked ‘Confidential’ appeared on his desk. Inside were ten pages of hand-written scribble. Numbers and equations, charts and graphs. Attached memo advised him to get to the bottom of this. Getting to the bottom had got him as far as GG’s, waiting for a man named Alexander Yuriev.
    He checked his watch again.
    Eleven forty.
    The man named Yuriev was late.
    Harper dug his mobile and some scraps of paper from his pocket. He sorted through the papers looking for a number. He found it and dialled. Four rings later an annoyed-to-be-disturbed voice picked up.
    ‘ Oui ?’
    ‘Is that Hôtel Port Royal?’
    ‘I cannot hear you. There is too much music.’
    Harper cupped his hand over the phone.
    ‘Hôtel Port Royal?’
    ‘Yes, yes, what do you want?’
    ‘Could you connect me to a guest in your hotel? Alexander Yuriev.’
    ‘He is not here.’
    ‘Could you leave him a note that I called?’
    ‘No, because he is checked out with his baggage.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘Today, before I came on shift.’
    ‘Did he leave a number or forwarding address?’
    ‘I don’t know, I’m only the night clerk. Call tomorrow during the day.’
    ‘Fine, but I’ll give you my number in the event he calls in for messages tonight.’
    He sorted through the scraps of paper in his hand, found one of his Olympic Committee business cards, read off the number. The night clerk sounding anxious to hang up.
    ‘OK, goodbye.’
    ‘Wait, read it back to me.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘My number, read it.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because I don’t think you wrote it down.’
    He heard the rustle of papers down the line.
    ‘OK, I have pencil now. Give me the number.’
    The night clerk got it on the third try. Harper rang off, finished his drink, waved for the bill. The woman behind the bar gave him a little-girl pout.
    ‘You do not want another drink, monsieur? We have a special midnight show. It is very enjoyable.’
    ‘Thanks, but I’m well numbed as is.’
    ‘Perhaps he will still come.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘The man you’re looking for.’
    Harper scanned the club once more.
    ‘Doubt it. How much are the drinks?’
    ‘Three hundred francs, monsieur.’
    ‘How much?’
    ‘Three hundred francs.’
    He opened his wallet, dropped the cash on the bar.
    ‘Could I have a receipt, please?’
    ‘ Tout de suite, monsieur .’
    He pulled on his mackintosh. Stuffed his smokes and matches in the pocket. He was presented with a pink piece of paper with the silhouette of a woman’s naked form and a hand-written script ‘ GG’s. Trois cent francs. Merci de votre visite ’.
    ‘Will this be acceptable, monsieur?’
    He folded the paper, stuffed it in his mackintosh.
    ‘I’m sure the accountants will piss themselves with merriment.’
    ‘Please, come again, monsieur.’
    ‘Just out of curiosity, are there many places like this in town?’
    ‘There are many exotic nightclubs in Lausanne, monsieur, but only one GG’s.’
    ‘Look, but don’t touch. Not the greatest advert for a place like this, is it?’
    She smiled.
    ‘The locals do not come to GG’s. We