The First Billion

41

The fax from Interpol arrived on the desk of Detective Sergeant Silvio Panetti of the Geneva Police Department at 9:15 A.M. It was a fugitive arrest warrant for an American citizen sought in connection with the murder a day earlier of ten persons in Florida. The FBI had reason to believe he had fled the United States, the fax indicated, and gave the tail number of a private aircraft in which he was said to be traveling. A bold “Urgent” headed the message and it was followed by the instructions that any information was to be forwarded to Assistant Deputy Director Howell Dodson in Washington, D.C., or to the consular officer of the local U.S. embassy.

Panetti yawned and lit his third cigarette of the shift. Urgent, eh? He was impressed. Too often, American law enforcement was interested in tax evaders, money launderers, or other equally bloodthirsty types. Reading the message a second time, his eye tripped over the words “murder” and “ten victims” and “extremely dangerous.” A hushed “Ma foi” escaped his mouth. Would someone mind telling him why the fugitive might be headed to Switzerland? And Geneva in particular? The two countries had extradition treaties in place with regard to capital crimes, and lately, no one could argue that Switzerland had been anything but the model of cooperation.

Picking up the fax, he strolled into his boss’s office. It was empty, as he’d expected. Saturday was the chief’s day for sailing. With this weather, you could bet he was already halfway down the lake to Montreux. Panetti looked up and down the corridor. Seeing no one, he blew a cloud of smoke into the office. A little present for the chief. Pauvre mec had quit smoking the week before and was having a tough go of it. Half the département puffed like chimneys, and the only place in the whole building the chief could get away from the smoke was his own office. Chuckling, Panetti checked that the windows were closed and shut the door behind him, but not before slipping a couple of packets of Gauloise Bleus onto the chief’s desk. Bonne chance, mon lieutenant.

Returning to his desk, Panetti paused long enough to pick up his lighter, his phone, and his pistol—in that order of importance—then left the office. He wasn’t much to look at. Middle-aged, of medium height and medium build, he was one of the Lord’s weary travelers. He owned a sad, pouchy face and deep black eyes that guarded a sparkle of mischief. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and the two-day stubble combined with yesterday’s outfit gave him a shabby charm. Panetti shrugged. At least no one would mistake him for a banker.

Descending the staircase to the parking garage, he called Cointrin to ask for flight operations.

“Claude, I need a favor. Got a list of incoming traffic? Private, not commercial. A jet. Yeah, I’ll wait, thanks.”

Traffic was light, and he was over the Pont Guisan when he got the answer.

“She’s a nice bird,” said Claude Metayer, flight operations chief of Geneva International Airport and, to Panetti’s everlasting dismay, his brother-in-law.

“You mean the plane is here?” Panetti felt his heart give a rat-a-tat-tat.

“A G-3. Came in an hour ago. Passengers are gone, but if you want to talk to the pilots, I’ll tell them you are coming.”

“Keep them there,” ordered Panetti. “Be there in ten.”

“Where are you now?”

“Passing the Hotel President. Why?”

“I’m hungry. Be a pal and get me a brioche. Uh, hold on a sec. And grab a half dozen pain-au-chocs for the boys.”

“Eh, Claude?” said Panetti, ramming his foot against the accelerator and throwing the siren onto the roof. “Fuck your pain-au-chocs.”

There she is.”

Claude Metayer pointed at a white Gulfstream parked two hundred meters across the tarmac from the control tower. “N278721. That your bird?”

Panetti checked the numbers against those written on the fax. “Yep. That’s it. See anyone get out? A man and woman, maybe?”

“No,” said Metayer. “But I wasn’t looking.”

Panetti studied the plane through a set of binoculars. Mince, but she was a beauty. His first thought was “expensive.” Whoever owned that plane had to be very wealthy. The words “filthy rich” crossed his mind, and instinctively he sucked in his gut and stood a little straighter. A second later he relaxed. Sometimes he hated being Swiss.

“Where are the pilots?” he asked.

“Downstairs,” answered Panetti’s brother-in-law. “But go easy. I don’t want any blood like last time.”

Panetti had the information he needed in sixty seconds. No blood. No threats. Not even a raised voice, thank you very much. The suspect, John J. Gavallan, and his accomplice, Catherine Elizabeth Magnus, had rented a car from Hertz. They were expected back at the plane sometime that afternoon. The pilots had instructions to be refueled and ready to take off at 4 P.M. More than that, they said they didn’t know, and Panetti believed them. A five-minute stroll took him to the Hertz desk. He flashed his badge and asked for the make, model, and license number of the car the Americans had rented. The answer came immediately. A black Mercedes 420S, Vaud license 276 997 V.

Panetti thanked the employees for their help. He was lighting cigarette number seven of the shift when the manager appeared from his office, waving a fey hand to get his attention.

“Attendez. Attendez. Officer, thank goodness you’re here.”

“Oh?” asked Panetti through a blue haze.

“You are interested in the Americans?”

“Banh oui.” Panetti raised a brow, curious as to what the Americans might have done to so disturb this fat old poof.

“Ils sont terribles, les Amis. Come, I show you.” The manager led Panetti to a bank of phone booths, pointing archly at the third in line. “There. Look. See for yourself.”

Panetti sauntered over to the booth. He picked up the receiver and put it to his ear. The dial tone sounded as innocuous as ever. He flicked the coin return. A-OK. “What’s wrong?”

“Non, non, les annuaires,” puffed the manager breathlessly. The phone books. And pushing Panetti aside, he pulled open the registry for the canton Vaud. “They stole a page. They ripped it right out. I saw them.”

“A page? The whole thing? And you didn’t call right away? Next time, I’ll have to arrest you for not reporting the incident.”

The manager curled his face into a sour smirk. “Very funny.”

“Okay. Off you go. Your poodle is waiting.”

“I don’t own a…” The manager hoomphed, then spun on his heel and hurried back to his office.

When he was out of sight, Panetti sat down on the stool and laid the phone book on his lap. He flipped through the directory several times until he spotted the frayed pennants of the missing page. He had no idea whom Mr. Gavallan might be looking for, but the missing page might indicate where that person—or business, for that matter—might be. Swiss directories were divided alphabetically by city or town, with the locale’s name printed on the top outside corner of each page.

Panetti was in luck. The same town was listed at the top of the preceding and succeeding pages.

Lussy-sur-Morges.

He had the local police on the line within fifteen seconds. And Mr. Howell Dodson of the FBI a minute after that.