Blackstone's pursuits

In which we cross the border and reach our objective

Ellen’s car was a farty wee Peugeot diesel, so short of horsepower that when the air conditioning clicked on, you felt a ‘clunk’, and the beast slowed by about five miles an hour. But it had air conditioning, and on the baking Autoroute as we headed for the Swiss border, that was real consolation for the loss of Jan’s nippy wee Fiesta.

It isn’t very far from the east side of Lyon to Switzerland, barely as much as an hour, even in Ellen’s clunker. It was still morning when we crossed the border. I’d never been in Switzerland before, but I had seen Swiss drivers in action on the Autoroutes, and so I was extra careful.

We pulled into the first parking area we could find, to study the street map of Geneva that we had bought back in France. The place looked a bit smaller than Edinburgh. I was pleased, because it meant that Berners Bank should be relatively easy to find, but concerned, because I figured that the smaller the place, the easier we’d be to find.

Dawn had told us that the bank was more or less in the city centre, in a street which bore its name. We found the index on the back of our map, and sure enough, there it was, Rue Berner, grid reference H6.

If Lyon is only a stone’s throw from Switzerland, Geneva is only a spit from the border. We had hardly started down the road before the countryside was giving way to built-up areas. As we descended, in the distance we could see, beyond the city, the blue water of Lake Geneva, and beyond that the towering massif of Mont Blanc.

The first thing that struck me about Geneva was the flags. I don’t think I’ve ever seen as many flagpoles in my life, or as many colours flying upon them. It’s a real international city, just as much as London or Paris, and in some ways even more so. After all, the Red Cross is based there, and the World Health Organisation, and even, I read once, the World Council of Churches. Appropriate, I thought, feeling the stirring of my Calvinist roots.

Prim navigated us smoothly along the broad green avenues, taking left, then right, then right again. We missed Rue Berner first time around, but a laborious loop brought us into it at last. It was a big, wide street, with two-way traffic, and very definitely no parking. We drove down it as slowly as we could, shrinking into our seats as we looked around for any sign of Ricky Ross, but seeing none.

Berners was about four hundred yards down the street, its name picked out in beaten copper on a sign above a dark, narrow doorway. ‘There it is,’ said Prim, her voice hushed but excited. ‘Do you see him?’ she asked.

‘No sign of him, as far as I can see.’

‘What’ll we do with the car?’

At that moment, I didn’t have a clue, but just then the answer presented itself, a big blue ‘P’ sign above a doorway a hundred yards ahead. I swung the car in, took a ticket from an automatic machine and found myself steering sharply down and round a spiralling ramp which opened out eventually into a long neon-lit garage. We found a space, parked and just sat there, our hearts pounding, breathing heavily.

‘This is it,’ I said, trying to sound confident, but, I’m sure, sounding scared instead. ‘Ten minutes and it’ll be done.’

Prim nodded. ‘Or we will,’ she said, brightly. I didn’t need to be reminded of that.

‘There’s still time to back out,’ I said, quickly, to myself as much as to her. But I knew there wasn’t. Sometimes, a man has to do … and all that. To steel myself, I thought ahead, of what it would be like when the thing was over, and Archer had the money back, and Prim and I could get down to some serious living together.

‘Okay,’ I said, at last, my loins as girded up as they were going to get. ‘Let’s go and get Archer’s cash.’

Prim drew me to her, and kissed me. I could feel her hands trembling very slightly. ‘I love you, Oz Blackstone,’ she said, for the first time. ‘Nothing can stop you and me.’

‘I love you too, Primavera,’ I said, grinning like an idiot, ‘and you know what? I think you’re right.’

She reached into her handbag, fiddled with her purse, and pulled out half of a five pound note. ‘You’ll need this.’ I read the serial number aloud, ‘AF 426469. Remember, that’s the number of the account too.’

Apart from the map, we’d picked up a few other things in France. On the basis that even the most basic disguise might help, we’d bought floppy sun-hats, blue for me, white for Prim, and Vuarnet sun-glasses, a good brand that were going to cost Ray Archer plenty on my expense account. Finally, realising just in time that nine hundred thousand sterling might be just a shade bulky, we’d found a good size duffel bag. It was still stuffed with waste-paper packing, and we decided to leave it that way, looking full, so that out on the street we’d look even more like a couple of plonker tourists.

There was a lift up from the garage, to a narrow glazed door which opened directly out on to Rue Berner. We peered through the glass. Outside, the pavements on either side of the street were thronged, with business people rather than tourists. This was a commercial centre, with nothing to attract sightseers. We pulled on our sun-hats, then our shades.

‘We should have taken the ones with the false noses and moustaches,’ said Prim, giggling, very slightly nervously, but looking, I thought proudly to myself, absolutely sensational in tee-shirt and shorts. We looked at each other for reassurance and, taking a deep breath, stepped outside.