The Geneva Trap

Chapter 20

Henri Leplan sat down at a desk in the SFI office at Geneva airport and signed the attendance book. It was his turn to do the morning shift, a job he disliked; there was rarely much excitement and you could spend the entire shift in the Immigration hall, just waiting for an alert from one of the desks when they thought they recognised a face or a dodgy passport. But too often nothing at all cropped up to relieve the boredom.

Today he particularly begrudged the time spent at the airport since his own inquiry into Steinmetz’s accident had reached an interesting stage. The previous evening, just before he’d left the office, he’d had a message from a contact in the German forensic service. The paint scrape along the driver’s side of Steinmetz’s car had matched a sample in their paint library. It had turned out to be a special hand-blended colour called Black Onyx. Most people would think it was just a shiny black paint, his contact had added, but in fact it contained finely ground gemstone, which made it particularly translucent. It was only available on top-of-the-range models, Audis, BMWs and Mercedes. What interested Leplan particularly was the information that any car with this paint would have had to be ordered specially. If this had been done in Switzerland, it shouldn’t be difficult to trace the person who had ordered it. Leplan was becoming more and more convinced that there was something sinister about Steinmetz’s accident and he couldn’t wait to get on with the next stage of his researches.

He made himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the desk, pulling towards him the log of the night shift. The only thing of interest was the notification at 23.15 the previous evening of an unscheduled private plane coming in from Moscow, due to land at 10.20 this morning. Some bigwig coming for something or other, he thought. Can’t be a delegation, or we would have been notified sooner. He looked at his watch: 8.30. He picked up the phone and dialled traffic control. ‘Any lowdown on this Moscow arrival?’ he asked.

‘It’s an ambulance flight. Notified last night. Expected to arrive at 10.12. We’ll be landing them at the charter terminal. Crew of four, plus doctor and two nurses. Picking up and leaving straight away. Don’t think anyone’s intending to go landside but Immigration will know.’

Leplan finished his coffee and strolled over to the Immigration hall, weaving his way through a hubbub of excited children. All was quiet in in the office behind the desks.

‘It’s a diplomatic flight,’ said the duty immigration officer. ‘One of their guys has had an accident and is being repatriated for urgent medical attention. They didn’t give us a name and we have no powers to ask, if that’s what you’re wondering. It’s authorised by their Ambassador. A stretcher case, they said, so we’ve agreed the ambulance can drive airside to load the stretcher on. No one’s landing and they’re going straight off.’

‘God help them, whoever they are,’ said Leplan. ‘They’d get much better medical attention here. Maybe it’s a fatality. I think I’ll go over and watch proceedings. Might have a word with the ambulance crew. I assume they’re locals?’

The immigration officer nodded. ‘See you there,’ he said.

At quarter to ten Leplan and the immigration officer watched as an ambulance was cleared through the barrier of the charter terminal. A dark-suited man got down from the front passenger seat and showed a document to the guard, and the ambulance was waved in. Leplan didn’t recognise him from where he stood, but he knew the camera at the guard post would have taken a good shot of his face. Exactly on time a small plane landed and parked. The ambulance drove up to the door, and a stretcher on which was strapped an inert figure wrapped in a blanket was quickly loaded on board by the ambulance attendants, supervised by the dark-suited man. Within fifteen minutes the plane was taxiing for take-off.

Hmm. That was a pretty smooth operation, thought Leplan as he waved the ambulance to a halt by the barrier. I wonder what it was all about.

It was not until Liz sat down in the café in the Place du Bourg-de-Four that it struck her how strange it was that Sorsky had chosen this as a meeting place. Until now their meetings had taken place on park benches with a clear view of the surroundings and she had received the impression that he had taken extensive precautions against surveillance. But this café was in a crowded little square, where it would be impossible to spot surveillance. She wondered why he had changed his operating methods. Did he have some reason to think there was no longer a risk?

She selected a table inside, by the wall at the back, so she would at least see everyone who came in. But the disadvantage was that she could see nothing of what was going on outside. The café was almost empty; it was too late for breakfast, too early for lunch. She ordered coffee, unfolded her newspaper and kept her eye on the door.

Sorsky was late again. She glanced at her watch for the fourth time. It was 11.45, three-quarters of an hour past the time he’d given her. How long should she wait? No longer than an hour, she decided.

At five to twelve she rang Russell White.

‘It’s no show,’ she said. He would recognise her number.

‘No show?’

‘Yes. Have you heard anything?’

‘Nothing.’

‘OK. I’m coming back.’

‘All right. See you shortly.’