Death Train

Eight

As the train pulled into Milan station Graham had to look twice at the priest standing on the platform to believe who it was. Kolchinsky was holding a bible in one hand and a battered bag in the other. He waited patiently until all those who were disembarking had done so then climbed aboard and headed straight for Sabrina’s former compartment. It seemed to be locked from the inside, the curtains drawn across the window. Already taken. He opened the door of the adjoining compartment and stepped inside, glad to be out of the narrow corridor where passengers were pushing and jostling for the tenancy of the few remaining unoccupied compartments.

‘Is this berth free?’ Kolchinsky indicated the empty couchette.

‘Come in, Father,’ Graham said with a smile as he appraised Kolchinsky’s attire. ‘Haven’t you forgotten your crozier?’

Kolchinsky glanced behind him, then closed the compartment door. ‘I can do without your sarcasm. I was hoping to take the compartment beside you but it’s already been taken.’

‘By me. I thought it might come in handy,’ Graham said and tossed the key to Kolchinsky. ‘If this were a movie I’d say you’d been horribly miscast. A KGB priest?’

‘Ex-KGB,’ Kolchinsky retorted.

‘And what happens if you’re asked to bless someone? You know how religious these Italians can be.’

‘Then I’ll do it. This used to be my main KGB cover and they made sure I was prepared for any eventuality.’

‘You’re full of surprises,’ Graham said, then leaned forward, his face serious. ‘What’s happening about Sabrina?’

Kolchinsky told him of the latest developments, including Philpott’s ultimatum to Kuhlmann.

‘What if Kuhlmann refuses to back down?’

‘The Secretary-General could bring pressure on the Swiss Federal Assembly to make him back down but I can’t see it coming to that. He’s too much of a professional. That’s why he’s Europe’s longest-serving police commissioner. He’s just in a tight spot right now. How to secure her release without incurring the wrath of the international press.’

Graham caught sight of a familiar face out of the corner of his eye. ‘What the hell’s he doing here?’

‘Who?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘The policeman who arrested Sabrina.’

‘Gun and holster,’ Kolchinsky said and held out his hand.

‘What?’

‘It’s fair to assume he’s here to see you. All we need is for him to find your gun and holster. Now give them to me.’

Graham handed his gun and holster to Kolchinsky who deposited them in his black leather bag.

‘Do whatever he asks, even if it means accompanying him to the station for further questioning. We’ll get you out soon enough and I’ll be here meantime to keep an eye on the other two.’

‘You don’t even know what they look like,’ Graham said.

‘I know what Werner looks like.’ Kolchinsky opened the bible in his lap. ‘From now on we don’t know each other.’

When the sergeant knocked on the door Kolchinsky looked up and gestured for him to enter.

The sergeant doffed his cap. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Father, please carry on with your reading. I’m here to see this gentleman.’

‘What now?’ Graham snapped.

‘Would you please stand up?’ the sergeant said.

Graham got to his feet and the sergeant frisked him expertly then pulled his arms behind his back and handcuffed him. A second uniformed policeman removed Graham’s two holdalls from the overhead rack and left with them.

‘What am I supposed to have done?’

‘You are under arrest for conspiracy to murder. You’ll be formally charged by the Swiss police.’

Kolchinsky closed the bible and looked up. ‘Murder?’

‘Please don’t concern yourself, Father, it’s a police matter.’

Graham was led from the compartment and the sergeant grabbed his arm as they reached the steps leading from the coach and ordered two of his men to clear a path through the curious onlookers who had gathered around the train after seeing the arrival of the police car minutes earlier. As they neared the patrol car the crowd to their right parted to allow a white Alfa Romeo through. It drew to a halt a few feet from the car. The driver climbed out and crossed to where Graham and the sergeant were standing. The sergeant snapped to attention.

The man drew the sergeant aside and spoke softly to him. The sergeant handed him a key.

The man approached Graham. ‘Mr Green, I’m Lieutenant De Sika, Milan CID. I’m afraid there’s been a case of mistaken identity.’ He unlocked the handcuffs. ‘I can only offer you my sincerest apologies for what’s happened. The men involved will be dealt with accordingly.’ He handed Graham his passport. ‘Again I can only say how sorry I am for what’s happened. You have my name if you wish to take the matter further.’

The crowd thinned out as soon as the two cars were out of sight but a few lingering onlookers hovered around Graham, muttering amongst themselves. Graham finally walked back to the train and boarded it.

‘What the hell was all that about?’ he asked on returning to the compartment.

Kolchinsky retrieved the Beretta and holster from the bag and handed them to him. ‘I’d say Commissioner Kuhlmann’s just conceded.’

They turned to the window as the train shuddered into life and consequently neither of them saw Werner pass the door. When he reached his own compartment in the next coach he found the door was locked and the curtains drawn across the window. He rapped angrily on the glass. An unseen hand twitched the curtains and a moment later the door slid open.

Hendrique was sitting on one of the couchettes methodically cleaning the components of his Desert Eagle automatic with a strip of cloth. Kyle hovered uncertainly beside Werner.

‘Do I now need permission to enter my own compartment?’ Werner snapped.

‘Eddie, leave us. I’ll talk to you later,’ Hendrique said without looking up.

Werner relocked the door after Kyle’s hasty departure, then sat down opposite Hendrique.

‘Since when is my compartment the meeting ground for you and your henchman?’

‘It’s not,’ Hendrique replied, then picked up the return spring and began carefully, almost lovingly, to clean each coil in turn. ‘Eddie merely came here to ask if I’d seen what happened on the platform.’

‘And did you?’

‘No.’

‘Too busy cleaning your gun I suppose?’

‘Too busy talking to Benin on the phone,’ Hendrique replied.

‘What did General Benin have to say?’

‘His backroom boys have finally identified our two friends. Blue eyes is ex-Delta, name’s Mike Graham. Her surname’s Carver, not Cassidy.’

Werner snapped his fingers. ‘Of course, Sabrina Carver. Her father was a former American ambassador. George Carver.’

‘And the one in Mainz is using his own name. Whitlock. They work as a team, for UNACO.’

‘UNACO? I thought that was nothing more than a myth.’

‘So they would have the world believe. It seems they go to extraordinary lengths to cover their tracks.’

‘So how did General Benin find out?’

Hendrique smiled coldly. ‘Directorate S always finds out what it wants to know.’

‘What happens now?’

‘We carry on as before. We’ve already rid ourselves of the girl. Whitlock will be dealt with in Mainz, which only leaves Graham. I’ve already got something in mind for him.’

Werner watched as Hendrique began to reassemble the Desert Eagle, piece by piece.

‘Killing him will only bring the authorities.’

‘Who said anything about killing him? We fit him up, like the girl.’

‘You heard what happened back at the station. That was no case of mistaken identity, the orders for Graham’s release must have come from the very top. The police are going to steer well clear of him from now on.’

‘If he stays within the confines of the law. Why do you think it was so easy to fit up the Carver girl? She broke the law and UNACO can’t release her without blowing its own cover. We can exploit their predicament further, only this time we use an innocent victim. An Italian. That’s sure to stir up enough resentment across the country. The authorities would have to indict him for murder.’

‘And what’s to stop UNACO from sending out more agents?’

‘Nothing, but Graham’s our immediate concern. As my instructor at Balashikha used to say, “You only have to be one step ahead to win the race.” Getting Graham off our backs will put us several steps ahead. By the time more agents have been briefed and despatched out here we’ll be long gone.’

‘And what happens if this plan of yours should fail?’

‘Then you might have to play your trump card,’ Hendrique answered and glanced up at the attaché case on the overhead rack above Werner, its handle manacled to the hollow steel pipe running the length of the wall.

Werner swallowed nervously.

‘Having second thoughts?’ Hendrique asked sarcastically.

‘I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure the success of this operation,’ Werner replied vehemently.

‘A man prepared to die for his beliefs. What a touching, but futile, gesture.’

‘And what would you be prepared to die for? Money?’

Hendrique pushed the magazine into the automatic. ‘Money’s an incentive to live. The higher the stakes, the higher the incentive to live. What good’s money, or beliefs for that matter, to a dead man?’

‘My company’s worth in excess of four hundred million pounds worldwide. Do you think all that money gives me more of an incentive to live? My life’s motivated by purpose and direction. Marxism gives me that motivation.’

Hendrique stood up and slipped the automatic into his shoulder holster. ‘With that kind of prophecy it’s easy to see why you’re Benin’s blue-eyed boy.’

‘How are you going to frame Graham?’

‘I’m going to kill two birds with one stone. I’ll fill you in on the details later. Right now I want you to go and sit somewhere public. The dining car, bar lounge, observation car. It doesn’t matter where, just as long as you’re seen.’

‘What for?’

‘An alibi. There mustn’t be any chance of you being linked to the murder.’

Hendrique waited until Werner had left before going in search of the conductor. He found him in a cramped, untidy cabin situated in the rear of the coach. He declined the offer of coffee and was glad he had done so when the conductor poured some into his own chipped mug. It looked more like molasses. The conductor listened to Hendrique’s plan and initially refused even to consider it, but his attitude miraculously changed the moment Hendrique took a roll of banknotes from his jacket pocket. He peeled off five 50,000-lire notes and the conductor suggested a couple of changes to the plan which he felt would make it run more smoothly.

Hendrique listened silently, glad of the conductor’s knowledge of the train’s layout. They ran through the revised plan, then Hendrique handed the notes to the conductor, who stuffed them into his tunic pocket. Hendrique watched him leave. He picked up a dog-eared copy of an Italian magazine from the floor and began to leaf through it. The centrespread model reminded him of his wife.

He had met her soon after graduating from Balashikha in 1973. She had been one of the dancers in a dreadful cabaret show in a sleazy Casablanca nightclub where the liquor was cheap and the food inedible. They were married a month later. He had initially thought the man who arrived minutes after the ceremony was over to be a friend of hers but the truth had been like a slap in the face when he announced he was her pimp. He had beaten the pimp senseless in the registry office but despite her tearful pleas that she was off the game he had left Casablanca the same day. He had never seen her again.

He tore out the centrespread and ripped it into pieces then flung the magazine angrily against the wall. Enough time had now elapsed, so he made his way to the adjoining coach.

The conductor was down on one knee attending to one of the ventilator shafts. He glanced at Hendrique and nodded before replacing the grille. Hendrique removed the ‘Out of Order’ sign from the toilet door and locked himself inside.

The door had barely closed when the first wisps of smoke seeped out through the grille, and within seconds it had become a dense, hazy fog that quickly permeated the corridor. The conductor, who had been standing tentatively at one end of the corridor, rushed into the smoke and rapped loudly on the compartment doors, requesting that passengers make their way to the next coach until the fault could be located. He assured them there was no danger – it was just a mechanical failure somewhere in the ventilation shaft – and promised to attend to it personally so they could return to their compartments as quickly as possible. Within thirty seconds the coach was deserted. The conductor knocked four times on the toilet door and Hendrique emerged. He followed the conductor through the billowing smoke until they reached the locked compartment previously occupied by Sabrina. Hendrique peered into the adjoining compartment. It was deserted. The conductor held the bunch of keys close to his face as he struggled to distinguish the various keys but finally selected one and unlocked the door. They entered the compartment and he locked it again.

‘What did you want to look for, Signore?

‘Nothing,’ Hendrique replied and dipped his hands into his jacket pocket.

The conductor’s look of bewilderment became one of terror when he saw the black-handled survival knife in Hendrique’s hand, its five-inch blade glinting under the overhead light.

Hendrique drove the knife into the conductor’s soft, bloated stomach then twisted it upwards, forcing the blade up through the ribcage. A sadistic smile touched the corners of his mouth as he watched the conductor’s body shudder in the final seconds before death. The conductor sagged against the cupboard then slid lifelessly to the floor. Hendrique pulled the knife from the body then reclaimed his money before entering the adjoining compartment to plant the incriminating evidence. He then disappeared back out into the thick, clinging smoke.

A few feet away in the next coach something had been nagging at the back of Graham’s mind ever since he had left the compartment but he just couldn’t put his finger on it. As he stared at the smoke swirling against the glass on the other side of the door he suddenly realized what had been bothering him.

He grabbed Kolchinsky’s arm. ‘I told you something was bugging me; now I know what it was. If that smoke was caused by a mechanical fault in the ventilator shaft then surely there should be a smell of burning as well.’

Kolchinsky opened the door fractionally and sniffed the air. ‘There’s no smell.’

‘Precisely.’

‘A decoy?’ Kolchinsky said suspiciously.

‘And no points for guessing who’s behind it. Are you armed?’

‘No. My gun’s in my bag,’ Kolchinsky said guiltily.

‘No matter, I’ll go first.’

Graham slipped out into the smoke-filled corridor with Kolchinsky tucked in closely behind him.

‘He could have wired the door,’ Kolchinsky said once they reached their compartment.

‘Not in such a short time. Hendrique’s a methodical son-of-a-bitch.’

Graham still took no chances and pressed his back against the strip of panelling between the two compartments, easing the door open an inch with the tips of his fingers. He felt for the frame then ran his finger down it for any traces of wires.

‘Where are you?’ he called out when he had finished.

‘Behind you,’ came the reply.

‘It’s clean.’

Graham pushed open the door and dropped to one knee, fanning the compartment with his extended Beretta. Kolchinsky appeared out of the smoke and closed the door behind him. He bent down and dabbed a spot on the carpet with his finger.

‘What is it?’ Graham asked.

‘Blood,’ Kolchinsky replied, then took his Tokarev pistol from his bag.

Graham found another spot on the couchette and noticed a smear on the wall below the overhead rack. Only then did he notice his partially open holdall. He never left his holdalls open. He lifted it down and after checking for wires he unzipped it and peered inside. He retrieved the bloodied knife. They both turned to the communicating door. Kolchinsky slid it back and Graham lowered his Beretta on seeing the conductor. Kolchinsky checked for any sign of a pulse then looked up and shook his head. They both knew what had to be done.

‘The window,’ Graham said.

‘Even if he did fit through it, which I very much doubt, don’t you think someone in the coach behind us might be a little suspicious if they saw a body landing by the side of the track? Forget the window.’

‘The wardrobe?’

‘Far too small.’

‘We’ve just run out of options and once this smoke clears Hendrique or one of his cronies is going to be back with some member of staff looking for the conductor. I don’t relish the idea of explaining away the body and how the murder weapon just happened to find its way into my holdall.’

‘There is a possible hiding place. You’ve got bandages in your holdall, bring them. You’ll find a Swiss Army knife in my bag, bring that as well.’

‘Bandages?’

‘Just do as I say, Michael!’

Graham returned with a roll of bandage and the Swiss Army knife. He squatted down beside Kolchinsky who was busy unbuttoning the dead man’s tunic. ‘What do you want with the bandages? He’s dead for Christ’s sake.’

‘Hopefully I can stem the flow of blood, at least temporarily. We don’t want it seeping out from under there.’ Kolchinsky pointed to a strip of plywood covering the area from the bottom of the couchette to the carpet. ‘I don’t know what’s behind there but it’s our only chance. Use the knife to pry it open.’

The plywood board was held in place by a dozen small nails and Graham was careful not to bend them unduly as he prised them loose. It seemed to take forever but in reality it took him barely ninety seconds to remove the board from its wooden frame with the loss of two nails, both bent beyond repair. He squinted into the aperture. It was empty. He looked at the dead man. Would he fit? He scrambled to his feet and peeped through the drawn curtains. The smoke was thinning.

‘Well, that will have to do,’ Kolchinsky said, securing the bandage with a tight knot. ‘Let’s see if we can get him in there.’

They tried to push the body into the aperture but it was too small.

‘Tuck his legs underneath him, that should do it,’ Kolchinsky said and eased the body into the opening head first.

Graham did as he was instructed but although the legs fitted with a little room to spare the feet still protruded out on to the carpet. He tried to push them against the dead man’s legs but they sprang out again. Kolchinsky forced the board over the aperture and, using the heel of his shoe as a hammer, banged the nails back into place.

‘The weight of his legs will push the board open again. It’s only made of flimsy plywood.’

‘It’ll take a while. Someone’s going to have a trip to remember when he finally does make his appearance.’

Kolchinsky, with Graham’s reluctant permission, used the shirt the knife had lain on in the holdall to remove the bloodstains from the carpet. He then wrapped it around the knife and stuffed it into his own bag.

The smoke had cleared by the time they had finished. Graham left his compartment and made his way up the corridor to the ventilator shaft. It was a simple matter to remove the grille and retrieve the cannister from the shaft. He carefully slotted the grille back into place and returned to his compartment, where he tossed the cannister to Kolchinsky.

‘The mechanical fault,’ Kolchinsky said, turning it over in his hands.

‘Take note of where it was made.’

Kolchinsky had to hold the cannister sideways to read the printing: ‘Rosenstraat, Amsterdam.’

‘Hendrique country.’

There was a knock on the door. Kolchinsky pushed the cannister into his bag and then stood up to open the door. A youth introduced himself as the assistant conductor and looked around the compartment before turning back towards the door and beckoning Hendrique to follow him.

‘I apologise for this intrusion but I was asked to act as an interpreter. This man doesn’t speak any English and I remember you telling me the other night you don’t speak Italian. What about you, preacher? Do you speak English?’

‘English or Italian, it makes no difference.’

‘The conductor seems to have gone missing and several of the passengers are certain they saw him go into the compartment next to this one when all that smoke was about. We tried the door but it must be locked from the inside. It’s possible he locked himself in to try and evade the smoke and was subsequently overcome by the fumes. Your communicating door’s the only other way in.’

‘Then we’d better check,’ Kolchinsky said, feigning a tone of alarm.

After unlatching the door he slid it open and entered the compartment, where he stood as if by chance on the wet patch of the carpet. The assistant conductor poked his head round the door then shrugged and stepped back. Hendrique pushed past him and stared at the spot where he had left the body. There was fury in his eyes as he looked from Kolchinsky to Graham.

‘He must have recovered,’ Kolchinsky said.

‘I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later,’ Graham added, holding Hendrique’s enraged stare.

Hendrique left without a word. The assistant conductor apologized for the interruption and closed the door behind him.

Graham latched the communicating door, then turned to Kolchinsky. ‘I don’t care what the boss says, I’ll kill Hendrique if he tries anything else.’

‘You know better than to let your feelings cloud your judgement,’ Kolchinsky retorted. ‘It’s imperative that we find out where the plutonium’s going. Kill Hendrique and the whole operation could be in jeopardy.’

‘The hell I’ll be a sitting duck.’

‘Your re-evaluation comes up in two months’ time. The Colonel would skin me alive if he knew I’d told you, but he’s going to be pressing the Secretary-General to make it your last. We both feel you’ve proved yourself over the last twelve months. Don’t do anything stupid.’

Graham sighed deeply and sat down.

‘I don’t expect you to be a sitting duck, and neither does the Colonel. If you’re in danger of course you must defend yourself, but this is psychological stuff and you’re strong enough to wait it out.’

‘Like Sabrina?’ Graham said in a hollow voice.

Kolchinsky left the question unanswered.

Sabrina was officially charged with the murder of Kurt Rauff at 4.27 that afternoon. It had come as no surprise to her and even though she knew Philpott would be doing his utmost to secure her release she still felt a sense of abandonment as she watched Frosser fill in the charge sheet. She hadn’t felt so alone since her terrifying childhood ordeal in the rat-infested cellar and she longed for a familiar face, even a familiar voice, to reassure her that she hadn’t been forgotten.

If C.W. were here he would hold her hand reassuringly and put her at ease with his quiet, soothing voice. Despite her predicament she smiled to herself when trying to think of Graham doing the same. He would rather hold a handful of glowing embers and there would be little sympathy in his voice. He would tell her to stop feeling so damn sorry for herself. She knew which of them she would rather have with her right now–

She glanced at the man sitting beside her. A red-faced lawyer with thinning, windswept hair who had been appointed by the police to represent her. He had spent a frustrating twenty-five minutes trying to get her to speak. She had ignored him, preferring to stare at the wall. He seemed to be under the impression he was doing her a great favour by being there. She had been sorely tempted to put him in his place but knew he was worth neither the breath nor the effort. He was just another run-of-the-mill pettifogger. She knew if the case did go to trial UNACO would hire the best lawyer possible, regardless of cost, to handle her defence. Only then would she agree to cooperate.

A sharp rap on the door interrupted her thoughts. Sergeant Clausen poked his head inside and asked to speak to Frosser in private. Frosser banged his pen angrily on to the table and brushed past the policewoman at the door as he disappeared out into the corridor. A few minutes later he stormed back in, a telex clenched in his hand. He beckoned the lawyer forward and they discussed the telex briefly in murmured voices. The lawyer returned to the table.

‘You’re to be transferred to Zurich for further questioning.’

She instinctively knew Philpott was involved in this latest development. If they were going to question her about the Dieter Teufel case she would have been taken to Lausanne, not Zurich. They had nothing to link her to any crime in Zurich. She knew Philpott must have a plan in mind and that lifted her spirits considerably.

Frosser noticed her smile and leaned over the table until his face was inches from her.

‘Remember one thing. Where you go, I go.’

He left the room.

When he returned fifteen minutes later he was carrying a folder in one hand and her trenchcoat in the other. He tossed the trenchcoat on to the table in front of her. ‘The helicopter’s arrived.’

No sooner had she slipped her trenchcoat on than Frosser pushed up her right sleeve and snapped a handcuff around her slender wrist. He attached the other handcuff to his left wrist and led her to the door. The lawyer picked up his briefcase and hurried after them.

She stopped abruptly and turned to face him. ‘And where do you think you’re going?’

‘Garbo speaks,’ Frosser said in amazement.

‘I’ve got a chaperon,’ she said, jerking her manacled wrist. ‘I don’t need another one.’

‘This is a very serious–’

‘And I’ll handle it my way,’ she cut in. ‘You’re fired.’

The flummoxed lawyer turned to Frosser for support.

Frosser merely shrugged. ‘It’s her right to dismiss you.’

The lawyer tried to reason with her but she turned her back and tugged on the handcuffs.

Frosser led her along a narrow corridor, down a fire escape and out into the car pound at the back of the police station. The centre of the pound had been cleared to allow the Apache helicopter space to land. Its rotors were motionless, the pilot in a huddled conversation with the rookie who had been assigned to clear the cars. They looked up at the approaching figures, their eyes taking in and lingering on Sabrina. The rookie came out of his trance, saluted Frosser, then scurried back to the police building.

The pilot, a captain in the Swiss Air Police, grinned at Frosser, ‘I like your date, Bruno.’

Chuckling he clambered into the cockpit.

Frosser followed Sabrina into the cabin, partitioned off from the cockpit, and secured the door after him. They strapped themselves in as the pilot opened the throttle to start up the rotors. The pilot waited until the engine-rotor tachometer indicated the normal flying rpm, then raised the collective-pitch lever gradually to lift the helicopter off the ground. Once airborne he tilted the stick and altered the throttle power to increase the boost, then set his bearings and the helicopter banked sharply over the police station, heading due north-east.

Dusk had already settled over Zurich by the time the helicopter touched down at the prearranged rendezvous on a deserted airstrip five miles from Kloten International Airport. A black Mercedes was parked beside the disused hangar, its sole occupant waiting for the rotors to stop revolving before clambering from the car and heading across the overgrown runway to the motionless helicopter. The hatch opened and Frosser jumped the short distance to the ground, careful to keep his left arm extended so as not to wrench Sabrina after him. She ignored his offer of a helping hand and leaped nimbly from the cabin. The man showed his badge to Frosser then led the way back to the Mercedes. As the rotors started up Frosser glanced over his shoulder and gave the pilot an appreciative wave. The man held the back door open; as soon as Frosser had scrambled into the car after Sabrina he closed it, then climbed behind the wheel and accelerated the Mercedes away from the hangar. He guided it onto a stretch of abraded road, which had once been a busy military thoroughfare before the airfield closed down and joined up with the main highway a few miles further on.

Although the traffic was heavy there were hardly any hold-ups and consequently the Mercedes was able to reach the Zoll Bridge on the outskirts of the city centre within fifteen minutes. As they entered Museumstrasse the driver became aware of a police car behind them, its lights flashing at him in the rearview mirror. To begin with he was not sure what they wanted him to do, but when the flashing headlights persisted he pulled in to the side of the road in front of the Swiss National Museum.

‘What’s going on?’ Frosser demanded.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ the driver replied, then pressed his badge against the window as the two uniformed policemen approached the car.

One of the men squinted at the badge then gestured for the driver to open his window.

The driver hissed angrily under his breath but complied with the request. ‘We’re transporting a prisoner to the Bahnhofstrasse precinct. What’s the problem?’

‘Would you mind stepping out of the car, sir?’

‘What’s the problem?’ the driver repeated.

‘We’d like to take a look in the boot.’

Frosser leaned forward to the open window. ‘What do you want to look in the boot for? This is a police car–’

‘I appreciate that, sir, but we have our orders.’

‘Open it for them,’ Frosser snapped, then sat back.

The driver had barely climbed out of the car when the two policemen spun him round, forcing him up against the back door.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ the driver demanded, but when he tried to turn around he was shoved back up against the side of the car.

His hands were twisted behind his back and a pair of handcuffs snapped over his wrists.

A second police car screeched to a halt in front of the Mercedes and two more uniformed men climbed out. One wore the insignia of a lieutenant.

‘Captain Frosser? I’m Lieutenant D’Angelo, sir.’

‘What’s going on, Lieutenant?’ Frosser asked in bewilderment.

‘This man is one of her accomplices, sir.’

‘What are you talking about?’ the driver shouted angrily. ‘I’m with the Zurich CID. The Captain’s seen my ID.’

‘Taken from the body of the real detective,’ the lieutenant said.

‘It contains my photo; check it if you want.’

The lieutenant ignored the driver. ‘An APB was put out twenty minutes ago when the body of the real CID detective was found. We’re just glad we got her in time, sir.’

‘Captain, I don’t know who these men are but they’re obviously in league with your prisoner,’ the driver said, struggling against the handcuffs.

‘There is one way of proving our credibility. You received a personal telex this afternoon from Zurich, sir. Am I correct?’

‘Yes,’ Frosser said hesitantly.

‘I know who sent it.’ The lieutenant turned to the driver. ‘Do you?’

‘No, but–’

‘It was sent by the Commissioner. For your eyes only. Am I correct, sir?’

Frosser nodded.

‘The Commissioner asked that the information be included in the APB because nobody apart from the two of you knew about it. He’s waiting to talk to you on the radio, sir.’

‘Sir, it’s a trap,’ the driver shouted.

‘The telex was sent from the Commissioner’s office. How could we know about it unless he released the information himself?’

‘I believe you,’ Frosser said.

‘Sir, you’re being–’

‘Book him. Murder One,’ the lieutenant interceded, then opened the door for Frosser.

The driver struggled furiously as he was led away, still shouting over his shoulder at Frosser.

‘I’m grateful to you,’ Frosser said as he walked with the lieutenant to the police car. ‘I might have been in a lot of danger.’

‘That’s why the Commissioner personally intervened with the APB, sir. We’re dealing with a professional outfit here.’

Frosser cast a sidelong glance at Sabrina. ‘Don’t I know it.’

‘Help yourself, sir,’ the lieutenant said, indicating the radio.

Frosser eased himself into the passenger seat and reached for the radio. The three policemen closed in on the passenger door, blocking him from passing motorists. The lieutenant produced a dart gun but before Frosser could react he shot him in the neck. Sabrina grabbed Frosser’s body with her free hand as he slumped forward and pushed him back against the seat.

‘Hail to the cavalry,’ Sabrina said with a smile.

‘Did you notice my giveaway clue?’ the lieutenant asked as he rifled through Frosser’s pockets for the key to the handcuffs.

‘You said the driver had taken the ID disc from the body of the real detective. A UNACO operative would never kill a policeman, just immobilize him. Very subtle, Lieutenant.’

‘Call me Alain,’ he said, then unlocked the handcuff from her wrist and secured it around Frosser’s other wrist. ‘Come on, Monsieur Rust is waiting. We’ll ride in the Mercedes, with a police escort of course.’

‘What about the CID man?’

‘Sleeping peacefully like our friend here. Once we reach the warehouse they’ll be transferred back to the Mercedes and left somewhere near the Bahnhofstrasse precinct – so when they do finally wake up they’ll find they’ve reached their destination after all.’

‘Deception with a smile. All part of the UNACO service.’ She climbed into the Mercedes beside him. ‘Where’s this warehouse you were talking about?’

‘Haven’t you been there before?’ Alain asked as they followed the police car over the Wilche Bridge.

‘I didn’t even know it existed.’

‘Not many people do. It’s Monsieur Rust’s pride and joy.’

Alain swung the Mercedes into Limmatquai. The road, running parallel to the river, was lined with an assortment of converted restaurants, singles bars, nightclubs and even the occasional brothel spilling over from the Niederdorf, the city’s red-light district, situated only a few yards away. The atmosphere reminded her of Greenwich Village: a Bohemian’s paradise. They passed the baroque town hall and the Gothic water church with its exquisite stained-glass windows, then crossed the junction of the Quai Bridge and Ramistrasse into Utoquai, lying on the gently swelling banks of Lake Zurich.

All three cars turned into a deserted side street off the Utoquai, the road littered with bricks and masonry from the friable walls of the derelict buildings to either side. A hoarding at the entrance to the street warned: FALLING MASONRY. CARS PARKED AT OWNERS’ RISK. A second hoarding further on was more ominous: UNSAFE STRUCTURES. DANGEROUS. KEEP OUT! The leading police car slowed on nearing the cul-de-sac and swung on to the short ramp of the last warehouse, stopping inches from the battered corrugated-iron door. The driver spoke into the radio, identified himself with a password, upon which the door was opened electronically from within the warehouse and the three cars drove inside. Sabrina had been expecting to find the warehouse alive with activity. Instead it was gloomy and deserted.

The two unconscious policemen were put in the back seat of the Mercedes and Alain gave her a wave before reversing it out into the street. The corrugated-iron door banged shut again. A rusty cage elevator ascended into view at the far end of the warehouse, and when it came to a halt Philpott and Rust emerged.

‘Are you all right, chérie?’ Rust asked anxiously.

‘Fine. You left it pretty late though.’ She gave him a mock-reproving look. ‘So what exactly is this place?’

‘UNACO’s European Test Centre,’ Philpott replied.

‘Like the one on Long Island?’

‘Run on the same principle, only this one is smaller.’ Philpott tapped his cane on the concrete floor. ‘It’s all under there.’

‘We own the whole street even though this is the only building in use,’ Rust added.

‘So you erected those hoardings?’

Rust nodded. ‘There’s nothing structurally wrong with any of these buildings. They’re derelict, that’s all. We initially had a problem with parked cars but after several were damaged by falling masonry word quickly spread around the city not to risk parking here.’

‘Don’t you mean “thrown” masonry?’ she asked.

‘Nobody was hurt, chérie, only the insurance man’s pocket. We had to protect our privacy. We even went as far as to scatter debris across the street to give the impression that the buildings were unsafe.’

‘Designer rubble in other words,’ she said, poker-faced.

Philpott and Rust winced simultaneously.

‘I couldn’t resist it,’ she said, grinning.

A red light on the wall beside the elevator suddenly began to flash, its pulsating beam sweeping across the dimly-lit warehouse.

‘What’s that for?’ she asked.

‘Watch,’ Rust replied.

A circular section of the floor descended a few inches then parted, the two halves disappearing underneath the surrounding floor. Within thirty seconds there was a hole, fifty feet in diameter, in the centre of the warehouse.

First the rotors, then the fuselage, of a Lynx helicopter came into view. It was resting on a section of floor being raised from underneath the warehouse by a powerful hydraulic press. Once it came level with the floor it locked into place.

‘I’m impressed,’ she said. ‘What else does it do?’

‘It’s going to take you to Italy so you can rejoin the train,’ Philpott said brusquely. ‘Now get in, you’re already behind schedule.’

The pilot reached over and pushed open the passenger door. She paused before climbing into the cockpit and turned back to Philpott. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Thank me by smashing this conspiracy.’

She nodded, then scrambled in beside the pilot and secured the safety harness over her body.

The pilot waited until Philpott and Rust had descended in the cage elevator before starting up the rotors.

She craned her neck to peer through the window at the roof. ‘When does it open?’

‘When I’m ready for takeoff. It works on the same basis as the floor.’ He pointed to a holdall at her feet. ‘That’s yours.’

She unzipped it and looked inside. ‘Whose idea was this?’

‘I don’t even know what it is. Monsieur Rust asked me to give it to you.’

‘I might have guessed,’ she said and held it open for him to see.

‘Is it what I think it is?’ he asked, unable to hold back a smile.

‘Exactly.’

He chuckled, then put the radio microphone to his lips. ‘Sierra-Lima-Uncle 127, ready for takeoff.’

‘Roof activated,’ came the reply.

There was a pause, then another voice came over the radio. ‘Emile, this is Jacques Rust. Don’t forget the parcel.’

‘Parcel already delivered, Monsieur Rust.’ The pilot offered the mike to Sabrina. She took it from him.

‘I’ll get you for this, Jacques.’

‘I’ll look forward to it, chérie. Au revoir.’

‘Au revoir,’ she replied with a smile and handed the radio back to the pilot.

She sat back as the helicopter started to rise.

Frosser sat alone in the captain’s office at the Bahnhofstrasse precinct, a second mug of coffee on the table beside him. Although it had been an hour since he had woken in the Mercedes his head still ached with the after-effects of the tranquillizer dart and his wrists still bore the red grooves from where the handcuffs had dug into his skin. He had sent the CID driver home; the kid had done his best. The brunt of the blame rested squarely on his own shoulders. What frustrated him most of all was that he had no legal jurisdiction in Zurich and could therefore take no active part in the operation mounted to try and recapture the woman.

There was a knock on the door but he was unable to distinguish the silhouette through the frosted-glass panel.

‘Come in,’ he called, then held out his palms towards the two-bar heater at his feet.

He shot to his feet when the door opened. Reinhardt Kuhlmann looked tired and drawn. The dark bags under his eyes stood out against his pale face and his windswept hair hung untidily over his ears and forehead. He raked the hair away from his eyes and unbuttoned his cashmere overcoat.

‘Let me take that for you, Commissioner,’ Frosser said.

‘I’ll keep it on, Bruno, I won’t be here very long,’

Kuhlmann replied and forced a weak smile. ‘Sit down, sit down.’

Frosser perched anxiously on the edge of the chair. He knew Kuhlmann would have something to say about the events leading up to the woman’s escape but he had never expected him to come in person. It only seemed to add to the seriousness of the situation.

‘I’ve just got off the phone to Captain Moussay,’ Kuhlmann said, glancing at the nameplate on the desk. ‘A handful of witnesses have already come forward to say they saw two police cars escorting a black Mercedes along the Limmatquai. None of them knows where the cars went.’

‘It’s a start, sir,’ Frosser said optimistically.

‘He won’t get any further. We’re dealing with professionals here. As good a policeman as he is, he’ll flounder about for a few days then the investigation will begin to wind down and within a couple of weeks it will become just another dossier in the mound of unsolved cases. That’s where I want it to stay.’

Frosser looked bewildered. ‘I don’t follow you, sir.’

‘I want the case shelved. Both here and in Fribourg.’

Frosser stared at the heater and thought about the telex from Kuhlmann earlier that afternoon. ‘You set me up, sir.’

Kuhlmann moved to the window and looked through the slats of the Venetian blind at the city lights spread out like some vast picture postcard. ‘I had no choice.’

‘You knew they were going to snatch the woman. You risked my life–’

‘Your life was never at risk. I knew they’d snatch the woman but I didn’t know how or where they’d do it.’

Frosser shook his head slowly. ‘I can’t believe it, sir, you deliberately set me up.’

‘She had to be released but the charges could hardly be dropped with the amount of media coverage this case has already attracted.’

‘Had to be released?’

‘Had to be released,’ Kuhlmann repeated. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do but there are times when pride has to be swallowed.’

‘Who was she?’

‘It’s classified. All I can tell you is that she’s an undercover operative. She was on assignment when she shot Rauff.’

‘What if I choose not to drop the case?’ Frosser challenged.

‘I know for a fact that a promotion’s in the pipeline for you. It has been for the past four months in case you’re thinking it’s some kind of pay-off. Don’t throw away your future over the death of some insignificant criminal, Bruno, it’s not worth it.’

‘No, sir, I guess not.’ Frosser got to his feet. ‘Consider the case closed.’

Kuhlmann left the office.

Frosser raised the mug in a toast. ‘Here’s to equality and justice.’

The coffee tasted bitter.