by Craig Smith
Dr North might have learned something from the man. Every gesture, every failure to make eye contact intimated an unconscious feeling of superiority. She was not only the person with the most money she looked as if she actually believed she was morally superior. Everything about her indicated that she half- expected someone to pull a gun. She clutched her package tightly, anxious to be finished with this unpleasant business. That wasn't going to happen until Goetz received a confirmation that the wire transfer of funds had been completed.
While they waited Malloy talked with the banker and art dealer about the weather. An exceedingly dry fall in Zürich, they informed him. Malloy observed that it was generally dry in the fall in Zürich. Was he familiar with the city? Malloy thrust his legs forward and leaned back comfortably. He had grown up in Zürich, he said. This elicited questions about his knowledge of German. Malloy answered in perfect Swiss German that his High German was barely adequate, but his Swiss German was pretty good. The accent and grammar of this sentence delighted both men, Goetz especially. It was extremely unusual, he said, for people to learn Swiss German.
Speaking now in High German, Wheeler agreed. He had lived in Zürich for over a dozen years. Even though he spoke High German fluently when he arrived, he still had trouble understanding the dialect. His daughter spoke High German, he said, but only under duress. She preferred Italian, which she spoke better than English, and hated Farmer German even more than she did Brautwürst and Rüsti. Having finished his speech, Wheeler seemed to catch himself suddenly and apologized to Nicole North. She must think them rude, he said, for excluding her. Malloy understood the exclusion was calculated, his show of good manners nothing more than a bit of emphasis to the insult, European style.
'Not at all,' North answered with a withering contempt she pretended to mask in a bright Texas smile.
Picking up the tension Goetz suggested that their business was almost finished. North gave the door a furtive look.
After nearly a minute-and-a-half of uncomfortable silence the phone rang. Hans Goetz answered it in Swiss German. Hanging up he told them the transfer had been completed.
Dr North handed Malloy the package like a woman giving her baby to a stranger for safe-keeping. 'You'll be careful with it?'
'As though my life depended on it.'
Wheeler laughed with just a touch of affectation. 'Come to that, I expect it does!'
Malloy set the package inside the book bag he had brought and waited for North to make her exit. North stood up quickly as if just then recalling her instructions. She flashed a petrified smiled. 'A pleasure.'
Her eyes shifted suddenly to the book bag. She wanted to say something else, but instead walked out of the office hurriedly. Ms Berlini followed her. When she had gone, Wheeler and Goetz both seemed to want to comment about her abruptness but resisted the urge. To break the mood, Malloy asked about the weather forecast for the remainder of the week. The two men grew composed again. Decent today and tomorrow, Goetz told him, but a heavy fog moving in Thursday morning. Their talk of sun and fog and rain in the land of chocolate ended abruptly with the return of Ms Berlini. Dr North had departed from the bank without incident, she said. Malloy smiled affably at Wheeler and Goetz. 'It's been a pleasure, gentlemen.' In Swiss German he said to Ms Berlini, 'May I ask you to show me out?'
'But of course,' the young woman answered politely with a cool, though quite beautiful smile.
Inside the elevator Malloy spoke Swiss German commenting on the beauty of the bank. Ms Berlini answered that it was a comfortable place to work. 'And Mr Goetz?' Malloy pressed. 'A good boss?'
'One of the most respected bankers in Zürich,' she answered.
Malloy did not comment on the woman's evasiveness because he understood it. The banker reserved whatever residual sweetness that remained in his shrunken soul for his clients. Those who worked for him could count on tireless supervision, a work life in which no failing went unnoticed. Ms Berlini's polite response to Malloy's question was easily translated: Hans Goetz was a holy terror to work for.
In the lobby Malloy asked if he might use the restroom. Ms Berlini directed him along a narrow corridor toward the back of the building. Once behind closed doors he telephoned Marcus. 'One minute,' he said.
In the hallway again he asked about the back door. Was it this way?
The young woman's face flushed slightly. She was not accustomed to obstructing the desires of her clients, but neither could she permit the slightest deviation in protocol. 'I'm afraid you can't use that exit unless it's an emergency.'
Malloy smiled. 'Let's assume it's an emergency. Is it this direction?'
'Yes, but—'
Malloy didn't wait for her to finish. At the back of the building he kicked the alarm bar on the door and walked out.
He headed toward the dock and arrived just as Marcus was pulling up in a stolen powerboat. He hopped into the vessel, chosen for its speed, and grabbed the M-16 Marcus had arranged for him. Jacking a shell into the chamber, he set the selector on full auto.
Marcus steered the boat back toward the centre of the river, the double engines roaring thunderously, just as two bank guards came out of the back of the building. Marcus's snipers opened fire, and both guards dived back inside the building. The boat passed under the low bridge that separated the river and the lake. As soon as they had passed it, Malloy drove the small crowd of pedestrians on the bridge to cover with a long burst of automatic fire. As he did so, he looked for someone who did not react like the others, but when he had finished no one was still standing. He set a second clip in the gun - live ammo this time - and turned toward the lake as the powerboat streaked across the water at close to fifty miles an hour.
'Are we clear?' Marcus asked without turning.
Malloy scanned the shoreline and lakeside harbour. There was still no activity except for the frantic excitement on the bridge, where the pedestrians were reaching for their cell phones. Already a quarter of a mile from the city centre, he and Marcus had the lake to themselves. 'We're clear!' he answered.
Marcus pulled his cell phone out and hit the speed dial. 'One minute,' he said. Only then did his shoulders lose their tension.
They used the private dock at Zürichhorn close to the casino. It was a couple of miles down the shore, impossible to reach quickly by car at midday. They cleared the boat with their weapons discreetly camouflaged and found Marcus's driver, an off-duty Zürich cop, waiting for them. Fifteen minutes later in heavy midtown traffic they crossed the very bridge they had motored under and made their way to the village of Dietlikon, halfway between the city of Zürich and its airport.
Malloy had a train to catch.
At the sound of the alarm, Hans Goetz reached for the telephone. His face turned crimson as he shouted questions. Meanwhile, Roland Wheeler sauntered to the window and looked down at the river. Dr North's courier was running toward the dock.
'It's Mr Thomas,' he told Goetz. 'He went out the back of your building.'
Hans Goetz looked at him uncertainly. Bankers always imagined the worst when they heard an alarm. Unauthorized use of an emergency door, on the other hand, hardly constituted a crisis, did it? Wheeler pointed toward the Limmat. 'He has a speedboat waiting for him.'
Goetz cradled the phone and walked to the window. It took him a moment to comprehend what he was seeing. His face cooled to purple. His breathing grew less agitated. At the sound of the automatic weapons both Goetz and Wheeler turned from the window and positioned themselves against the walls. As soon as it had ceased Goetz went to his phone again and dialed frantically.
'I know!' he shouted. 'I know that! But we are not being robbed!'
Ms Berlini burst into his office, her eyes wide with excitement and fear. Goetz, listening impatiently to the person on the telephone, finally shouted, 'Of course we need to call the police!' He slammed down the phone and looked at Wheeler and Berlini.
'I told him he couldn't go out that way!' Berlini said.
Goetz seem
ed to want to blame her, but caught himself. The problem was Mr Thomas. 'Amies!' he shouted angrily. 'They're all cowboys!'
Wheeler laughed pleasantly. 'The American wants to earn his fee, Hans! So we have a bit of adventure.'
'The alarm will cost me—!'
'Pay it. What do you care? You made enough commission today you can afford it.'
'He could have asked to use the back door!'
'My impression of Mr Thomas is that he doesn't ask permission to do anything.'
Malloy saw three people at the Dietlikon train station, an old man holding a newspaper, the stationmaster, who remained inside the building, and an overweight middle-aged man wearing a dirty white trench coat. Marcus gestured toward the man in the trench coat as their Mercedes pulled into the lot. 'Max,' he said. Malloy, just finished with changing his clothes, glanced out the window. Max appeared to be one of a growing number of eastern European migrants flooding into the West. Nurtured on war and accustomed to taking what they wanted, they formed the new criminal class in western Europe and were capable of any violence. This one was in his late forties, dark and balding. He paced slowly, both hands plunged inside the pockets of his filthy trench coat. 'Max keeps a sawn-off shotgun loaded with deer slugs in the lining of his coat, Thomas, so be nice to him. He is very sensitive to criticism.'
Malloy smiled. Max looked about a sensitive as a fire hydrant.
'I'll meet you inside the airport. And don't forget my suitcase and computer.'
'They're in the trunk,' Marcus's driver said. Malloy had changed out of his slacks and sweater into a pair of jeans and boots with a sweatshirt covering his vest. He wore a long leather coat and a baseball cap. He carried his package inside the morning's edition of The Herald Tribune and packed his borrowed Glock in a shoulder holster inside his coat. As usual he kept the Sigma .380 holstered and tucked into his belt at the small of his back. He bought a train ticket to the airport from the machine, checked his watch and sat down on a bench facing the tracks. With his back and right flank covered by the station walls and Max standing before him on the platform, one or the other of them covered all approaches.
A young girl with her schoolbooks came up to the platform shortly before the train arrived. Otherwise, the Dietlikon station was quiet. When the train pulled in, precisely on schedule, two teenagers stepped off. There were laughing and shoving each other like typical adolescents. Malloy watched their reflection in the glass to make sure they were exactly what they seemed to be. A thirty-something businessman was leaving the first class wagon just as Malloy started up the steps. Malloy waited for him to pass. When he was certain the man had walked on, he went into the train.
Other than Bob Whitefield there were two people inside the first class wagon, an old woman in her eighties and a young man in his twenties. Whitefield had situated himself at the front of the car and was reading a newspaper. The woman was seated at the centre of the wagon on the same side of the train as Whitefield, and the young man was at the very back also on the same side. Malloy already had his copy of the newspaper in his left hand. As he passed Whitefield, Malloy let his package slip out of the folds of the paper. Whitefield covered the thing at once with his own newspaper.
Moving down the aisle Malloy chose a seat one row behind the old woman on the opposite side of the aisle.
Max came into the wagon from the opposite end. Malloy did not look back in his direction, but he was certain Max had chosen the seat across the aisle from the young man. It was the only position that let him cover everyone inside the compartment.
As the train took off Malloy brought his Glock out and set it inside the folds of the newspaper. The plan was a simple one with high odds that nothing at all would interrupt a routine trip to the airport. Malloy and Max would follow Bob Whitefield until he passed through airport security. At that point Malloy would leave his weapons in a lockbox and pick up his luggage. With the rank of a captain in the Zürich City police force Marcus could move freely through the airport. He would keep watch over Whitefield until Malloy and Whitefield could board the plane. The only real danger lay between the Dietlikon station and the airport, but there were no stops.
During the five minute ride to the airport, no one came into the first class compartment, but as the train pulled into the tunnel a young man entered the wagon by the door closest to Bob Whitefield. He was tall and reasonably well built, somewhere in his mid-twenties. Dressed like an Eighties-style punker, a look that had not completely vanished among the German street people, he had shaved his entire head except for a Mohawk, which stood up in a series of long electric-blue spikes. He wore a black leather jacket with metal spikes at the shoulders and wrists. On his torn T-shirt was an obscene message Malloy could not read in its entirety. Worn-out army surplus pants and heavy black army combat boots completed the fashion statement. He walked past Bob Whitefield without looking at him, but when he saw Malloy he made a point of staring at him.
Malloy pretended not to notice the obvious aggression. He watched the young man's hands. They were empty at the moment, but there was a degree of energy about him that suggested he only wanted an excuse to reach for something, a knife most probably but possibly a handgun. In High German, Mohawk said, 'What are you looking at?'
'What is it, Marco?' Roland Wheeler asked his driver in Italian. They were three blocks from Goetz and Ritter.
'Police.'
Irritably, Wheeler looked around for signs prohibiting traffic. Marco did not usually make mistakes, but the banking district was practically impossible to drive in without breaking one law or another.
The police car slowed down in front of them and pulled onto the kerb. Marco pulled in behind them. The two policemen inside the patrol car sat quietly for a moment. Wheeler imagined that they were calling in for an update on the alarm at the bank. Once they realized who he was they would make a show of asking for identification and the car's registration, but that would be it. And if he was wrong, well, he could afford a traffic citation after this morning! He didn't care to be as silly about money as Goetz.
The policeman got out of their automobile slowly. They were typical Swiss officers, trim, muscular, exceedingly deliberate in their movements. They came to either side of Wheeler's Mercedes. The one on the driver's side of the car signaled for Marco to lower his window.
'Do it,' Wheeler said.
'Guten Tag,' the policeman said, using High German, instead of the ubiquitous Grüetzi of Swiss German. 'May I see your registration and driver's license?' He spoke as if he knew they were foreigners, which was odd because Wheeler had a Zürich license plate.
Marco stared at the man without responding, waiting for his employer to translate the instructions and tell him what to do. Wheeler spoke in Italian telling Marco to present his driver's license and the car's registration. Marco reached toward the console. As he did, the policeman swept his hand toward Marco's neck. Marco's enormous body jerked as blood splashed out across the dashboard and windshield. An odd strangling noise erupted from his throat. Before Wheeler could move, before he even realized he had no place to go and no weapon to reach for, the second policeman pointed a pistol at the window. He was aiming it at Wheeler's head.
'Open your door, please,' the first policeman said, still speaking High German.
Wheeler did not respond because he could not. He sat frozen in terror. The policeman on the passenger side of the automobile tipped his gun down until it was aiming at Wheeler's crotch. In English, he said, 'I will not ask you again. Open the door.'
Wheeler looked about stupidly, wondering what door he meant. Then he fumbled for the door handle. It was locked. He found the switch. He pulled the door handle and the gunman opened the door, gesturing for
Wheeler to slide across and make room. The policeman at the driver's door now jerked Marco's body out of the car and into the street. He settled behind the steering wheel and flipped the gear selector to drive.
They were moving again before Wheeler even understood what had happene
d.
'Dr North?' The uniformed policemen were both young and well-dressed. They pointed the machine guns slung across their shoulders politely away from her.
'Yes?'
'Would you be so kind as to come with us?'
Nicole was alone. She had only a small travelling bag with her and had already cleared security. 'What is this about?'
'Our supervisor asked us to bring you to his office.'
'I have a flight to catch.'
'That won't be a problem. This won't take long.'
The painting, she thought. They assumed she was smuggling it out of the country. Well, they could look all they wanted, but they were going to be disappointed. 'Why not?' she asked with a sudden smile.
Malloy did not answer the man. Having his moral victory Mohawk walked past him. At that moment a second young man appeared, like the first coming through the door closest to Bob Whitefield. This one had a yellow Mohawk. He was probably older by half-a-dozen years. Yellow Mohawk carried his leather jacket in his right hand. He staggered a bit as he turned back seemingly to close the door. His jacket gave an odd jerk. Malloy was processing this when he saw the barrel of a gun in the reflection of the glass across the aisle. It was moving from behind his headrest and nearly touching his skull.
Before he could react, the explosion of Max's shotgun sent Malloy's would-be-assassin to the floor. The man in the yellow Mohawk dropped his jacket and aimed his handgun at Max as Max jacked a second shell into his gun. Malloy tipped his Glock up slightly and fired once. The man jerked back against the door and slipped to the floor. Malloy stood up and brought his Glock around to cover the kid in the seat by Max, but he was down on the floor, his arms covering his head. The old lady stared silently at Malloy. Her expression was a strange mix of confusion and curiosity. She had not yet registered fear. Instinctively, he said to her in Swiss German, 'We make a movie. We're all actors!' Her face relaxed. For a fraction of a moment everything made perfect sense.
