the button that raised the steel bar and, at the same time, touched the
switch that lowered the steel spikes set into the pavement, which would
ruin the tires of any vehicle that entered without being cleared
through.
The Mercedes drove up a long narrow road that led only to one place: an
old clock factory, formerly a Schloss that had been built two centuries
ago. A coded remote signal was sent, an electronic door opened, and
the car pulled into the reserved parking space. The driver got out and
opened the door for his passenger, who strode quickly into the
entrance. There another security guard, this one behind bulletproof
glass, nodded and smiled a welcome.
The director entered the elevator, an anachronism in this ancient
Alpine structure, inserted his digitally encoded identification card to
unlock it, and made his way to the third, and top, floor. There he
passed through three sets of doors, each unlocked by means of an
electronic card reader, until he came to the conference room, where the
others were already seated around the long burnished mahogany table. He
took his place at the head of the table and looked around at the
others.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “only days remain before the fulfillment of our
dream so long deferred. The long gestation period is nearly over.
Which is to say, your patience is about to be rewarded, and beyond the
wildest dreams of our founders.” The sounds of approval around the
table were gratifying, and he waited for them to subside before
continuing. “As for security, I have been assured that very few of the
angeli re belli remain. Soon there will be none. There is, however,
one small problem.”
Zurich
Ben tried to stand, but his legs would not support him. He sank to the
ground, on the verge of becoming violently ill, feeling at once cold
and
prickly-hot. Blood roared in his ears. An icicle of fear was lodged
in his stomach.
What had just happened? he asked himself. Why in the hell was Jimmy
Cavanaugh trying to kill him? What kind of madness was this? Had the
man’s mind snapped? Had Ben’s sudden reappearance after a decade and a
half triggered something in a disturbed brain, a rush of twisted memory
that for some reason had propelled him to murder?
He could taste liquid, brackish and metallic, and he touched his lips.
Blood was seeping from his nose. It must have happened in the
struggle. He’d gotten a bloody nose, Jimmy Cavanaugh a bullet in the
brain.
The noise from the shopping arcade outside was subsiding. There were
still shouts, the occasional anguished cry, but the chaos was
diminishing. Steadying himself with his hands on the floor, he pushed
himself up, managed to get to his feet. He felt dizzy, vertiginous,
and knew it was not from any loss of blood; he was in shock.
He forced himself to look at Cavanaugh’s body. By now he’d calmed down
enough to think.
Somebody I haven’t seen since the age of twenty-one turns up in Zurich,
goes insane and tries to kill me. And now he lies here dead, in a
tacky medieval-the med restaurant. No explanation to offer. Maybe
there’d never be an explanation.
Carefully avoiding the pool of blood around the head, he went through
Cavanaugh’s pockets, first the suit jacket, then the pants, then the
pockets of the trench coat. There was absolutely nothing there. No ID
cards, no credit cards. Bizarre. Cavanaugh seemed to have emptied his
pockets, as if in preparation for what happened.
It had been premeditated. Planned.
He noticed the blue-black Walther PPK still clutched in Cavanaugh’s
hand and considered checking the magazine to see how many rounds were
left. He pondered taking it, just slipping the slim pistol into his
pocket. What if Cavanaugh wasn’t alone?
What if there were others?
He hesitated. This was a crime scene of sorts. Best not to alter it
in any way, in case there was legal trouble down the line.
Slowly, he got up and made his way, dazed, into the main hall. Now it
was mostly deserted, apart from a few clusters of emergency medical
technicians tending to the wounded. Someone was being carried on a
stretcher.
Ben had to find a policeman.
The two cops, one clearly a rookie and one middle-aged, looked at him
dubiously. He’d found them standing by the Bijoux Suisse kiosk, near
the Marktplatz food court. They wore navy-blue sweaters with red
shoulder patches that read Zurichpolizei; each had a walkie-talkie and a
pistol holstered to the belt.
“May I see your passport, please?” the young one asked after Ben had
spoken for a few minutes. Evidently the older one either didn’t speak
English or preferred not to.
“For God’s sake,” Ben snapped in frustration, “people have been killed.
A guy’s lying dead in a restaurant down there, a man who tried–”
“Ihren Pass, bitte,” the rookie persisted sternly. “Do you have
identification?”
“Of course I do,” Ben said, reaching for his billfold. He pulled it out
and handed it over.
The rookie examined it suspiciously, then gave it to the senior man, who
glanced at it without interest and thrust it back at Ben.
“Where were you when this happened?” the rookie asked.
“Waiting in front of the Hotel St. Gotthard. A car was supposed to
take me to the airport.”
The rookie took a step forward, uncomfortably close to him, and his
neutral gaze became frankly mistrustful: “You are going to the airport?”
“I was on my way to St. Moritz.”
“And suddenly this man fired a gun at you?”
“He’s an old friend. Was an old friend.”
The rookie lifted an eyebrow.
“I hadn’t seen him in fifteen years,” Ben continued. “He recognized me,
sort of came toward me as if he was happy to see me, then suddenly he
pulls out a gun.”
“You had a quarrel?”
“We didn’t exchange two words!”
The younger cop’s eyes narrowed. “You had arranged to meet?”
“No. It was pure coincidence.”
“Yet he had a gun, a loaded gun.” The rookie looked at the older cop,
then turned back to Ben. “And it was outfitted with a silencer, you
say. He must have known you would be there.”
Ben shook his head, exasperated. “I hadn’t talked to him in years! He
couldn’t possibly have known I’d be here.”
“Surely you must agree that people do not just carry around guns with
silencers unless they mean to use them.”
Ben hesitated. “I suppose that’s right.”
The older policeman cleared his throat. “And what kind of gun did you
have?” he asked in surprisingly fluent English.
“What are you talking about?” Ben asked, his voice rising in
indignation. “I didn’t have a gun.”
“Then forgive me, I must be confused. You say your friend had a gun,
and that you did not. In which case, why is he dead, and not you?”
It was a good question. Ben just shook his head as he thought back to
the moment when Jimmy Cavanaugh leveled the steel tube at him. Part of
him the rational part had assumed it was a prank. But obviously part of
him had not: he’d been primed to react swiftly. Why? He replayed in
his mind Jimmy’s easy lope, his wide welcoming grin … and his cold
eyes. Watchful eyes that didn’t quite match the grin. A small
discordant element that his subconscious mind must have registered.
“Come, let us go to see the body of this assassin,” the older policeman
said, and he placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder in a way that was not at
all affectionate but instead conveyed that Ben was no longer a free man.
Ben led the way across the arcade, which now swarmed with policemen,
reporters snapping pictures, and made his way down to the second level.
The two Polizei followed close behind. At the katz keller sign Ben
entered the dining room, went to the alcove, and pointed.
“Well?” demanded the rookie angrily.
Astonished, Ben stared, wide-eyed, at the spot where Cavanaugh’s body
had been. He felt light-headed, his mind frozen in shock. There was
nothing there.
No pool of blood. No body, no gun. The lantern arm had been replaced
in its fixture as if it had never been removed. The floor was clean and
bare.
It was as if nothing had ever happened there.
“My God,” Ben breathed. Had he snapped, lost touch with reality? But he
could feel the solidity of the floor, the bar, the tables. If this was
some elaborate stunt… but it wasn’t. He had somehow stumbled into
something intricate and terrifying.
The policemen stared at him with rekindled suspicion.
“Listen,” Ben said, his voice reduced to a hoarse whisper, “I can’t
explain this. I was here. He was here.”
The older policeman spoke rapidly on the walkie-talkie, and soon they
were joined by another officer, stolid and barrel-chested. “Perhaps I
am easily confused, so let me try to understand. You race through a