The Hunter

CHAPTER 16

Geneva, Switzerland

Tuesday

18:32 CET

Victor walked through Place Neuve and passed the Grand Theatre. The city was alive with people, tourists out for a good time and locals happy to have finished the working day. Victor cast a fleeting glance at the Grand-Theatre, wishing he had the chance to take in a performance, something by Puccini or Mozart perhaps. Instead he walked back and forth among the crowds to throw off any shadows.

The sun had set, and no one noticed him as he passed through the streets of the city. It was after dark where he really belonged. In the daytime he could hide within a crowd, but at night he could be invisible. In front of him walked a couple, arms entwined, stumbling slightly and laughing. They were so enraptured with each other they wouldn’t have noticed him whether he’d let them or not.

From Munich he’d travelled to Berlin and then on to Prague before heading to Switzerland. It had been a long and tiring journey, but Victor never travelled in straight lines. He veered off into a side street, taking an indirect route to the train station. It was brightly lit, busy with suited commuters. Like most of Geneva’s males, Victor was dressed in a thick overcoat, gloves, and hat. He was glad of the cold that forced everyone to pile on the layers, blending the crowd into a mass of conservative colours. Even a whole team of expert shadows would have their work cut out following him in such a place.

He hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours, and he was very aware of the fact. Sleep deprivation slowed the mind as much as the body, and now more than ever Victor needed to be at one hundred per cent. But while on the run he couldn’t rest until he knew he was safe. Every hour spent asleep gave his enemies a chance to get closer to him.

He consumed a bad sandwich and a strong coffee in a small cafe while he waited for his train. When it arrived he waited for the last possible moment before climbing on board and sat with the window to his right, at the rear of the carriage. From Geneva Victor travelled north, the train winding through the mountains.

He’d lived in Switzerland for several years, finding its climate, people, and lifestyle to his liking. Living at altitude gave his endurance a significant boost, plus the country’s secretive banking systems and relaxed attitude to firearms suited his vocation particularly well.

The train took Victor through the Valais, Switzerland’s third largest region, or canton. The region contained the Rhone valley, which fed Geneva’s famous lake. It was late when Victor stepped off the train in the village of Saint Maurice. Snow fell heavily, and he pulled his collar up and hunched his shoulders. He’d bought appropriate clothing for the mountains in a boutique at the train station and changed on the train.

The village itself was isolated, far away from the closest town, consisting mainly of wealthy foreigners who only spent a few weeks of the year in their expensive log chalets during the ski season. It was a place where few people knew their neighbours and where no one was surprised to see strange faces and vehicles. Victor, coming and going frequently, never appeared suspicious.

At one of the world’s most expensive grocery stores he bought whole milk, free-range eggs, a selection of fresh vegetables, English cheddar, soya and linseed bread, and smoked salmon. He resented having to pay the extortionate amount of money to the woman behind the counter, but he knew it served him right for living there.

He walked through the rest of the village with the two bags and his attache case held in his left hand. He used the side streets instead of the main road. There were few people about, and when he was finally sure he wasn’t being followed, he headed off into the trees, moving in a half-circle around to where his chalet lay a mile away from the main cluster of buildings. He moved carefully through the dark forest, knowing the way without needing to see properly.

When he saw through the trees the chalet illuminated by the moon and starlight he wanted to rush inside and collapse on his own bed. He desired nothing more than to sleep, than to forget his life for eight hours straight, but discipline made him stop and squat down, looking for signs of intruders. It was almost impossible to believe that anyone would know where he lived, but after Paris he was taking no chances.

He placed the shopping down and spent an hour circling the building until he was satisfied no one was inside or nearby. The chalet was sheltered on all sides by dense pine trees, with a single narrow path only usable by rugged four-wheel-drive vehicles leading to the main road. Victor’s own Land Rover was parked in a freestanding garage. It was too dark to see any recent tracks in the path or footprints in the snow around the building, but he saw and heard nothing to suggest anyone was nearby.

Inside the ornate wood and steel-reinforced front door, he breathed a little easier but still took the time to check the interior thoroughly. The chalet was five years old, Victor the only owner, and it was built in the traditional Savoyard chalet style with slate roof, wooden beams, stone walls, and a log fire. Its two storeys had four bedrooms, far more than Victor really needed, but chalets here were not built with a single occupant in mind.

It had no conventional alarm. If someone broke in Victor did not want the authorities alerted and snooping around. Instead he had custom-made motion sensors linked to high-resolution security cameras, and sensitive microphones that covered every corner of the building. Each item was carefully disguised, and the cameras and microphones were programmed to only begin recording two minutes after they were tripped. In this way they should remain undetected by anyone sweeping for electronic bugs when they first entered a room.

All the windows were fitted with three-inch-thick polycarbonate and glass laminate windowpanes that would stop even high-velocity rifle rounds. The reinforced front and rear doors and frames would take more than a hand-held ram to get through. Few windows opened and none fully.

Victor examined every room in a set order in a set way. Everything was in its place, and nothing was there that did not serve some purpose. There were no photographs, no items of any personal significance. Nothing to show who he was or where he had come from. If anyone ever did get into the chalet, they would leave with almost no information about him.

He was pleased to find nothing had been recorded by his security system. He opened the door to the small boiler room and checked the control box for tampering. Should he enter a certain code it would set a three-minute timer that would detonate the C-4 carefully positioned around the ground floor. One day he might have to leave in a hurry and never come back.

Once he was satisfied, he put the groceries away and was finally able to relax. He treated himself with a long shower. Outside his chalet he never took them. Back to the door, naked, unarmed, pounding water blocking all other noise — even the most skilled target was defenceless in one. Victor had killed enough people in them to know they were death traps. Here it was safe though. His body ached. He noticed he’d lost a couple of pounds too, but two days on the run tended to make an effective diet programme. Plenty of decent food and rest would put him right in no time. He had no significant injuries, and, considering what had happened, he knew he was fortunate to be in one piece. Thinking of food made his stomach groan.

When he couldn’t ignore the hunger any longer he dried himself, checked the house once more to satisfy his paranoia, and made himself a large cheese and salmon omelette with the groceries he’d bought. He followed it with a protein shake loaded with vitamins and minerals before taking a half-empty bottle of Finnish vodka from the freezer. He went into the lounge, sat down in front of his rosewood piano, and tore the seal from the bottle.

Victor poured himself a glass of vodka and rubbed a smear from the piano with his sleeve. The piano was an 1881 Vose and Sons Square Grand he’d found rotting in a Venetian dealership. He’d bought it for a good price and had it couriered to Switzerland to be repaired but not restored. Victor found a certain beauty in the absence of perfection. The piano had existed for several times longer than his own life span, and it wore its battle scars proudly. He played a little Chopin until he found his eyelids drooping.

Later, he poured the last of the vodka into the glass and used the piano to help him stand. He headed upstairs slowly and lay down on his double bed, the single pillow hard beneath his head.

He fell asleep with the glass on his chest.