Emerging from the shadows of the narrow street, Frank stepped out into the broad plaza in front of the Cathedral. Frowning, he looked over at the gap between the buildings that led through to the Münsterplattform gardens, then turned and made his way around to the quieter gate at the far end of the church.
Head down, he went over the questions in his mind. Dulles had warned him that the Swiss police routinely monitored telephone calls in the city, especially calls to and from people with links to foreign governments. And he knew first-hand how hotel staff could intercept messages left for their guests. No, the more he thought about it, the more possible it seemed; Levkin could be receiving messages this way.
Frank came to the eastern gates and peered through the railings. He was tempted to go straight in, to walk over and check under the bench, but he forced himself to wait. It wasn’t even twelve thirty yet, and Levkin rarely left the hotel before two. He had time.
A bearded old man in a fur hat shuffled past him, being pulled along by an excited young Labrador with a glossy black coat. The dog’s tail wagged eagerly as they made their way down the stone steps and into the gardens. Frank watched them for a moment, until his eye was drawn to a man standing beneath the trees, stepping forward to meet a woman who’d entered from the other gate. They embraced for a time, then set off slowly, walking towards the far wall, hand in hand. A sudden clamor of barking made him look back to the gravel path, where the Labrador was now straining at its leash, while a large woman in a fur coat called out in alarm, jerking her own smaller dog back out of its reach.
Frank smiled at the commotion, until some inner warning drew his gaze back to the bench. Leaning up against the railings, he felt a momentary thrill as he glimpsed a silhouetted figure sitting down on the bench, then frowned as he realized it was a woman.
Damn it!
He turned away, scowling, wondering how long she was going to stay. Even if there was something hidden beneath the bench, he could hardly walk over and stoop down to check, not now she was sitting on it; he should have gone over there when he first arrived. Worse still, Levkin’s contact might not have come yet; he wouldn’t be likely to stop and hide a message if he found the bench was occupied when he got here.
Angrily, Frank turned and glared between the railings, wondering what the hell he could do. Staring at the distant figure, he willed her to move, then bowed his head in frustration.
Of all the dumb luck…
High above him, he heard the tower bells toll their mournful chime; twelve thirty. He glanced up, then felt a flicker of excitement as the woman shifted her position.
Was she moving? Yes, she was leaning forward, doing something with her purse and getting to her feet…
He watched as she stood up, saw her pausing to take in the view over the river, and then she turned, stepping out from beneath the shadow of the trees.
Frank stiffened, gripping the railings tightly, staring in disbelief as she moved calmly away along the path towards the other gate.
It was Molly.
39
It couldn’t be a coincidence. He walked in a daze, shoes scuffing across the cobbles, trying to make sense of it, trying to think of some circumstance… anything that would explain it away. Because he knew it couldn’t just be a coincidence.
In front of him, an elderly laborer was maneuvering a laden handcart out from between a pile of wooden crates, and Frank slowed, waiting for the man to pass. Without thinking, he took out a cigarette and struck a match.
He pictured Molly sitting on the bench, saw her leaning forward, one hand closing her purse, the other discretely reaching downwards… What was she doing there? She wasn’t even meant to be in Bern today.
The match was scorching his fingers. Cursing angrily, he dropped it and shook his hand, trying to escape the burning pain. Beside him, the laborer had stopped, and was peering at him curiously. Frank lowered his eyes and pushed through the gap beside the cart, anxious questions pressing in on him.
What if he was making a mistake? Was it possible that Levkin was somehow working for her?
No, Swift had been very clear about the situation. Levkin wasn’t a friend; he was someone they’d been watching for some time, someone who Jean had suspected of having some sinister link to their own operation.
The more he thought about it, the worse it became.
Numb, he looked up, wondering what he should do, where he could go. His first instinct had been to race back to the Dufourstrasse office and find Swift… but what if she was there?
He turned to his left, staring down the side street that cut between the tall buildings. Herrengasse was just two blocks over, less than a minute away; he could walk there right now and knock on the door… but who would answer it? Groth? Swift had been very specific; report only to him.
Sighing, Frank gazed up at the vast clock tower that loomed in front of him, staring at the two faces and the wheels within wheels. It was twelve fifty-five. Absently, he calculated that Levkin would have left the embassy and returned to the Bellevue by now.
The Bellevue.
Clenching his fists, he turned right, making his way around the base of the clock tower and out into the cold wind.
Molly. Why did it have to be Molly?
The doorman tipped his hat respectfully but Frank ignored him, taking the broad steps two at a time. Entering the hotel lobby, he made straight for the desk where, he noted with grim satisfaction, Stephan was on duty. The blond concierge looked up with a pleasant expression, but his smile faded and he glanced around nervously as Frank bore down on him.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I did call but they said you were out. The Russian gentleman returned shortly after midday; he’s in the restaurant just now.’
‘I don’t care,’ Frank snapped. ‘Just give me the damn phone, will you?’
Stephan looked at him unhappily, then nodded and lifted a telephone onto the counter. He stepped back as Frank picked up the receiver and called the office number.
Rafe answered.
‘Hello,’ he said curiously when he realized who was on the line. ‘What’s all this then? Wherever are you calling from?’
Frank ignored the questions.
‘Is Swift there?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
‘Yes, he’s in his office.’
‘Tell him to get over to the Bellevue. Right now,’ Frank said.
Rafe started to say something, but Frank was already placing the receiver back in its cradle.
He looked up at Stephan, who was watching him anxiously.
‘Thanks,’ he said, taking his hand off the telephone and indicating that he was finished with it. ‘Could you get me a drink, Stephan? A whiskey or something?’
Stephan lifted the telephone and returned it to its place under the counter.
‘Of course, sir,’ he said.
‘Appreciate it,’ Frank said. Turning away, he trudged across the lobby and slumped into one of the lounge chairs.
Swift came in through the revolving door and paused to remove his hat. Looking round the lobby, he spotted Frank sitting in the corner and calmly made his way over.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said, unbuttoning his coat. Glancing down at the low table, he noted the empty glass and turned to beckon one of the hotel attendants, a fresh-faced youth with short dark hair.
‘I’ll have a whiskey and soda,’ he said, then turned to look inquiringly at Frank.
Frank shook his head.
‘That’ll be all, thank you.’ Swift handed his hat and coat to the attendant, who gave a curt nod and walked briskly away.
‘So,’ he said, lowering himself into a chair, his eyes on Frank. ‘I got your message. I assume this is about our Russian acquaintance?’
Frank looked over at him.
‘That’s right,’ he said.
‘Well?’ Swift prompted him.
Frank rubbed his eyes, wondering where to begin.
‘I’ve been watching him, li
ke you asked,’ he said. ‘Stephan’s kept me informed of his movements, who visits him, who calls, that sort of thing. And I’ve shadowed him when he goes out on his own.’
Swift nodded encouragingly.
‘Well, in the afternoons, he often goes for a walk through the old town. At first, I thought he might be meeting somebody, but he doesn’t speak to anyone, not so far as I can see. The time varies, and the route he takes, except…’ Frank broke off, shaking his head. ‘This whole thing is so messed up. I wondered if it might be some sort of coincidence but…’
Watching him, Swift shifted in his chair.
‘In my experience, there’s no such thing as coincidences,’ he said, quietly. ‘Only warnings.’
Frank met his eye, then looked away again.
‘Levkin always seems to end up at the Münsterplattform gardens,’ he explained. ‘There’s a bench down there, and he sits on it for a while, then comes back here to the hotel. I started to think it was… significant.’
Swift frowned.
‘Always the same bench?’
‘I thought maybe he was leaving messages – you know, pieces of paper tucked under the seat, that sort of thing – but he wasn’t.’
‘No?’ Swift asked.
Frank shook his head.
‘So then I figured someone else might be leaving messages, and Levkin might be the one collecting them. So I started watching the bench, checking it earlier in the day…’
Swift leaned forward in his chair.
‘And?’ he said.
Frank swallowed, staring down at the floor.
‘Molly,’ he whispered. ‘She was there this afternoon.’
Swift gaped at him in disbelief.
‘You mean our Molly?’ he stammered. ‘Molly Pearson?’
Frank nodded wretchedly.
Swift sagged, sinking back into his chair.
‘But… no, there must be some other explanation.’ He stared at down at the table, his expression an agony of doubt. ‘Even if she was there, it doesn’t mean…’
Frank reached into his coat pocket and drew out a crumpled piece of paper.
Wordlessly, he leaned across and handed it over.
Swift took the paper and carefully unfolded it. His eyes took in the rows of two-digit numbers, arranged in twelve-by-twelve squares, then flickered up.
‘What the hell is this?’ he demanded.
‘I found it pinned to the underside of the bench, right after she left,’ Frank explained. ‘It wasn’t there this morning.’
Swift stared down at the paper, then looked up again, appalled.
‘And you removed it?’
Frank shook his head, wearily.
‘I put the original back under the bench, after I copied it.’
The two men sat in silence for a time. Swift seemed almost to have shrunk, hunched over in his chair, staring at the grids of numbers. He slowly drew a hand across his face, then looked up at Frank.
‘Shit,’ he whispered.
A waiter approached, his shoes clicking smartly on the marble floor. Carrying a small silver tray, he inclined his head politely, then bent down to place Swift’s drink on the table.
‘Thank you,’ Swift said, his voice immediately calm and measured again. Frank marveled at the man’s self-control, watching him as he tipped the waiter and settled back into his seat as though nothing had happened.
The waiter bowed and made his way back through to the bar.
Swift picked up his glass, turning it in his hand to see the play of light on the crystal, then took a small sip.
‘Well,’ he said, sadly. ‘Now we know.’
He set the glass down carefully, then gave Frank a long, thoughtful look.
‘Is there… anything else?’ he asked.
The question seemed so strange that, for a moment, Frank wondered if he’d misheard.
‘Anything else?’ he said, allowing an edge of bitterness to creep into his voice. ‘What, you don’t think this is bad enough?’
Undaunted by his tone, Swift continued to watch him.
‘I just wondered if there was anything more that you wanted to tell me.’ He paused, then added, ‘About Molly, for example.’
Too late, Frank realized what Swift was driving at. He scowled and looked away, not wanting the pain to show in his eyes.
‘You and her?’ Swift asked, pressing him.
Cornered, Frank stared down at the floor.
‘What do you mean?’
Swift took a breath, as though growing weary of his own questions.
‘I mean, are you sleeping with her?’ he demanded.
Frank closed his eyes.
It was no use; this was far beyond any personal promises he’d made to Molly. At the very least she’d put him in an impossible position, and he couldn’t lie for her, not now.
He hung his head, then nodded.
For a time, Swift was silent. When he did finally speak, his voice seemed gentler.
‘If it makes you feel any better, I already suspected,’ he said. ‘About the two of you, I mean.’
Frank lifted his head.
‘I try to keep an eye on my people,’ Swift told him. He paused, then reached over and lifted his glass once more. ‘It’s been going on for a while, hasn’t it?’
Frank took a deep breath, thinking back to that first night, when he walked Molly home from the hospital.
‘Since the summer,’ he murmured. Just a few months, but it seemed like a long time ago now.
Swift sat back in his chair and sighed.
‘And I guess that she was the one who initiated the relationship,’ he said.
Frank looked up sharply.
‘What are you saying?’ he hissed.
But deep down, he already knew.
40
Standing in the shadows, Frank glanced quickly over his shoulder towards the lights of the street, then started up the fire escape. He moved warily, silently, one hand jammed deep in his bulging coat pocket.
Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed seven. He’d wanted to come here earlier, but Swift had been adamant that he should go and follow Levkin as usual, make sure he was right about the message pick-up, then meet again at a café near the station. The delay had vexed him at the time but, in a way, this had worked out well; he couldn’t have come up the fire escape until it got dark, not if he wanted to avoid being seen.
He reached the third floor and slowed, pressing his body flat against the wall and sliding his hand carefully out of his pocket. The gun gleamed black in the darkness, the grip warm in his palm where he’d been holding it for so long.
He checked to make sure the safety was off, then lifted his head and looked along towards the window. Taking a cautious step forward, he brought his ear close to the edge of the frame, holding his breath and listening.
Nothing.
Another step, and he leaned in close, shading the dim reflection with his free hand, peering inside… but the room was in darkness. He allowed himself to exhale, slipping the gun back into his coat pocket before placing his palms on the cold glass. Exerting gentle pressure, he felt the window start to move, sliding up with a dull scraping sound. Immediately, he dropped to a crouch, his right hand easing back into his pocket, fingers finding their place on the gun. Leaning in close to the gap, he whispered, ‘Molly?’
No answer.
He listened for a moment more, then adjusted his grip and drew out the gun. Bending forward, he eased his body over the sill, bracing himself as he tentatively lowered a foot to find the floor.
Once inside, he straightened up and turned quickly, training the gun left and right, eyes registering the dim shapes in the shadowed room. Satisfied, he slid the window shut with his free hand, then ghosted silently to the door, leaning up against it and listening hard.
Nothing.
He allowed himself a couple of deep breaths, then drifted about the room, placing a hand on the seats of each chair, on the bed, on the little kettle resting by the s
tove.
Everything was stone cold; she hadn’t been back here this afternoon.
He relaxed just a little, his right arm wavering then dipping, lowering the gun. Swift had assured him that Molly wouldn’t be back from Geneva until eight at the earliest, but Frank didn’t trust her to stick to a schedule, not now.
He didn’t trust her at all.
For a time, he just stood there in the middle of the floor as the initial storm of adrenalin drained slowly out of him. Then, shivering slightly, he began to pace, stopping here and there to gaze down on some small object, or brush his fingertips along the familiar lines of the furniture. He opened the closet and peered inside, making out the little spice tin on the upper shelf, running his hand across the rack of clothes that hung below it, watching the way that the fabric came briefly to life then settled into stillness again.
The pale yellow dress she’d worn that day in Neuchâtel…
He sighed and lowered his eyes, starting to shut the closet door, but something caught his attention. Bending down, he reached in below the hem of the dress and lifted a carelessly crumpled blouse.
Beneath it, he saw a small stack of folders, the kind they used at the office for the more sensitive dossiers. Squatting, he pulled them out and flicked through a few pages, his jaw tightening as he recognized them.
How long had it been going on? How much information had she passed to the Russians?
Standing up, he recalled Rafe complaining about documents being mislaid. He’d suggested that it was simply a matter of Swift being untidy, forgetting to bring files back, but now here they were in the bottom of Molly’s closet where they should never have been.
Gripping the folders, Frank caught himself wondering about Rafe, whether he and Molly might be in it together, him trying to cover for her by blaming Swift…
No! Not Rafe.
Clenching his fist, he banged the closet door hard, slamming it shut as his anger grew. What she’d done was bad enough, without making him doubt his friends, the people he cared about.
Ashes Of America Page 27
