The Run Around

Chapter Twelve

Vasili Zenin enjoyed the return drive to Geneva. He left Bern with sufficient time to reach Lausanne by lunchtime, choosing the Voile d’Or for its magnificent view of the lake and ate trout which the menu claimed to have been caught in it. He followed the north shore of the Leman and got to Geneva by early afternoon. Although it meant a long walk, Zenin left the car in the park at the Cornavin railway station and walked to the Place des Nations: it was unlikely the vehicle would have been distinguished from any of the hundreds of others but he did not intend taking the risk and anyway he wanted to time out on foot the escape routes that had been devised at Kuchino. He paced the most direct suggestion the first time, along the Rue des Montbrilliant and then the more circuitous roads, the Rue de Vermont and after that the Avenue Guiseppe Motta. The schedule provided by the Bern embassy was wrong in every case: the estimate for the Rue de Vermont, before it connected with the Vidollet, was at variance by at least fifteen minutes and on the Guiseppe Motta, until it reached the Rue de Servette, was out by twenty.

Zenin allowed the anger this time, letting it burn through him, determined there would be punishment when he returned to Moscow. Of course the embassy rezidentura had not been given any reason for providing the information and obviously the stupid bastards had not taken it seriously, dismissing it as some sort of nonsense request from Dzerzhinsky Square. And failed in one of the most vital segments of the operation because if this section was mistimed by as much as a minute – a few seconds even – he would be trapped within the cordon the Swiss would throw around the area. Bastards, he thought, stupid, idiotic bastards!

Zenin repeated all three routes twice more, to provide an average, and when he got back to the railway station on the last occasion stood for several moments looking speculatively at the baroque complex. The Kuchino planning had been for him to get away from Geneva by car but from the reconnaissance of the immediate area he had already recognized how easy it was for the roads to become accidentally blocked, beyond the danger of official barriers. Which was further advice the embassy had failed to provide. And which was something against which he could take no precautions. So what about a train? The woman would have a detailed timetable of the conference: that was a prime, although not the main, reason for her involvement. So he would be able to estimate a convenient train, even buy a ticket in advance so there would be no delay. A much better proposal, the Russian thought, warming to the idea: roads were easily closed but the trains would not be stopped. And he could even insure against being detained in the unlikely event of that happening. There was no necessity, after all, for him to catch an international express beyond the Swiss border. All he needed was one of the local services to get him out of the immediate area. Carouge, perhaps. Or Annemasse. Certainly no further than Thonon.

Zenin went into the echoing concourse and found the information section, patiently joining the queue, and when he reached the clerk obtained timetables for local, internal express and international services, as always providing himself with as wide a choice as possible.

Outside again Zenin followed the Guiseppe Motta route, because it brought him more immediately close to the building from which he was going to have to shoot.

It was a necessarily high building, in a street just off the Colombettes road, an apparent combination of office suites and apartments. Zenin knew the rooms that had been rented for the past two months were on the top floor of the north-east corner, providing a supposedly uninterrupted view from two separate windows of the grassed area where the commemorative photographs of the delegates were customarily taken. Having found fault with so much else in the local information Zenin accepted he would have to verify that but decided against doing it today. His connection with the apartment had to be restricted to the absolute minimum, so that particular but essential confirmation would have to wait until he installed the weapon. It would be necessary, also, properly to assess how long it would take him to get out of the flat, descend twenty storeys and regain the street. The embassy gave an estimate of seven minutes but Zenin was contemptuous now of all their timings.

He went back on to the Colombettes road and walked up to the multi-lane Ferney highway, nodding appreciatively at the noise, recognizing at once and with professional awareness that the traffic roar would mask completely the muted sound of the shots and certainly make any directional fix practically impossible. Just as quickly Zenin saw an additional advantage. Vehicles flooded by in an unbroken stream: it was virtually inevitable that any security sweep, no matter how well rehearsed and co-ordinated, would become snarled up in it.

Zenin went in the direction of the Place des Nations, turning frequently to focus upon the building he would be using, easily able to isolate the corner windows through which he would be firing. He stood sideways, moving his head from the high apartment to the international area and then back up again, trying with trained marksman’s expertise to visualize the trajectory. It was very difficult, as low as he was, but it appeared to be unimpeded although there were some avenues of decorative trees about which he was unsure. They would have to remain another uncertainty that could only be resolved when he actually got into the apartment.

Zenin returned finally to the Cornavin station, more than satisfied with the visit. The next time would be to meet the girl, he reflected, as he took the Peugeot out on to the Bern road. He had the photographs, of course, because identification was essential but he wondered again what she would be like, beyond their sterility. The pictures showed her to be very attractive: it might be an interesting diversion for their encounter to be anything but sterile.

Three of the aircraft had been short-haul airbuses, with a smaller cabin crew, so Charlie’s estimate of a hundred and eighty was reduced but not by much.

He managed to interview nine the following day, four from the Alitalia plane and five from the Austrian airline flight to Vienna. There was not even a hesitant recognition from any of them.

That night, at the hotel, Charlie sat with his diminishing whisky bottle beside him, hunched with all the information he possessed spread out on reminder sheets around his stockinged feet, the blurred print forming the centrepiece. Directly alongside was the list of European political events, the first only nine days away.

Charlie looked back to the picture and said: ‘Where the fuck are you, whoever you are!’