He closed his eyes. All right, he thought; enough. Enough. He wasn’t going to go on like this. When he got to Lucerne, he was going to turn himself in; they’d probably arrest him for not having a passport anyway. Let the police take over, he thought. Whoever had chloroformed him must have been insane to expect him to deliver the ring to Lucerne. He felt uncomfortable with guilt about failing Alexsandra, but it was simply more than he could handle. Anyway, was there really an Alexsandra? Or had he been keeping company with a ghost?
He opened his button-down jacket pocket—You couldn’t keep the passport in there, could you, idiot?! he snapped at himself—and took out the tissue-wrapped ring.
He turned the ring over and over in his hands. If it wasn’t a ring from ancient Rome, it was certainly a perfect copy of one, he thought. He felt queasy handling it, considering what it might be—the ring of a dead woman. He wished that he were psychic so he could psychometrize it, maybe get some kind of answer to the dark enigma of her.
He looked more closely at the ring. There seemed to be a line around the top of it. Does it open? he thought. He tried to press his index fingernail into the line to see. At first, nothing happened. Abruptly, then, the ring top jumped up on a tiny hinge. There was something in a small receptacle inside. Chris lifted the ring and held it close to his eyes, trying to see what the something was.
A square of microfilm.
***
“Lucerne!” the conductor shouted.
Chris twitched so hard, the square of microfilm flew out of its receptacle and fluttered to his lap.
Hastily, he picked it up and put it back inside the ring, pressing down the top until it clicked shut.
Now what? he wondered.
Every time insanity seemed on the verge of claiming him, a touch of harsh reality brought him back.
This had nothing to do with Veering or the wager. This was factual.
Someone wanted him to bring this square of microfilm to Lucerne.
Was Alexsandra even involved? he thought. Or had that been just another lie, another ruse to get him here?
He sat motionless, watching the outskirts of the city drift by.
Microfilm.
So he was back to spies again. Agents. Military secrets. Something to do with his work? No way of knowing.
All he could be sure of was that he was not supposed to know about the microfilm.
But now he did.
Did that change things?
He’d have to wait and see.
At least there was a semblance of relief occurring now. All was not reality slippage—whatever that was. He looked at the city passing by. Did this change things? Should he alter his plan?
When the train stopped, he picked up the bag and walked along the aisle to the exit. Stepping down onto the platform, he followed the other passengers toward the station. He still didn’t have his passport, of course. They weren’t going to like that.
They didn’t.
When he reached the exit gate and told the uniformed man there that he’d dropped his passport into the toilet on the train, the man looked at him with obvious suspicion. “Into ze toilet,” he repeated dubiously.
“I was sick—throwing up,” Chris told him. “The passport was in this pocket.” He tapped the shirt pocket. “It slipped out and fell into the toilet, onto the tracks outside. There was nothing I could do, it happened so fast.”
The man nodded, hooded eyes regarding Chris balefully. “You have other identification?” he asked.
“No, I don’t; I’m sorry,” Chris answered.
“What is your name?” the man asked.
Chris wondered what name he should give the man. If the passport was somehow found, he’d have to be Wallace Brewster. If he said he was Chris Barton, he’d be in even deeper trouble then. Not even considering the fact that a number of people might be on the lookout for Chris Barton.
“Well?” the man asked impatiently.
“Wallace Brewster,” Chris said.
“Well, Mr. Brewster, I’m sorry but I can’t let you into Switzerland with no identification.” The man raised his arm and signaled to someone.
Chris looked to that direction, tensing as he saw a policeman approaching. Now’s the time, he told himself. Tell the policeman the truth and end this goddamn rollercoaster ride. Whatever else might happen, he would at least be able to enjoy the relief of surrendering responsibility. Under the circumstances, he wasn’t at all sure he was up to any further responsibility for himself.
The railroad official said something in German to the policeman. Oh, that’s right, Chris thought; there is no Swiss language—they speak German, French or Italian. So what? his mind retorted. What difference does that make?
“You are American?” the policeman asked. He sounded to Chris like some actor portraying a Nazi officer in a World War II movie.
“Yes,” Chris said.
“I will have to take you to the police station for a while,” the policeman said, pronouncing his w’s like v’s, his v like an f, his th like z. Chris nodded at him. “Fine,” he said. This really was the time to end it. When they started questioning him, he’d lay it all out—tell them who he really was and what had been happening to him. He’d ask for their assistance.
“We should be able to discover some way of establishing your identification so that you can proceed with your trip,” the policeman reassured him. He sounded kind, immediately undoing the Nazi image.
“Thank you.” Chris nodded again. That’s what I want, all right, he thought; to proceed with my wonderful trip.
“So,” the policeman said, pronouncing it “Zo.” He gestured toward the station exit.
Chris walked beside him across the waiting room. He was beginning to suffer an increasing sense of guilt now. What if he was wrong about Alexsandra? At this moment, his notions about her seemed infantile. She was a real woman, for God’s sake; he’d held her in his arms, kissed her. She might be in real danger if he didn’t deliver the ring.
He frowned. Deliver it to whom? he thought. A man will meet you there, the voice on the cassette had told him. What man? Was he watching Chris at this very moment being led away by a policeman? Why in God’s name had they given him the ring with the microfilm in it anyway? Because no one would stop you, the answer came; you could carry the ring into Switzerland without questioning.
He made a scornful snorting noise that made the policeman glance at him. Well, he had been stopped and he was on his way to being questioned right now. So much for their dandy plan, if that’s what it had been.
“There is nothing at all in your bag which might identify you?” the policeman asked.
“No.” Chris shook his head.
“How are you traveling then?” the policeman asked. “You have no credit cards?”
“Only cash,” Chris answered.
“That is very risky,” the policeman said. “I find it odd that you would do that.”
Not as odd as the story you’re going to be hearing soon, Chris thought.
“What do you have in the bag then?” the policeman asked.
Thank God I don’t have a gun anymore, Chris thought with sudden relief. “Clothes,” he said. “A toilet kit. Some medication.”
“You are ill?”
“Hypertension,” Chris replied.
“Oh, yes.” The policeman nodded again. “What sort of work are you in?”
Subtle police interrogation? Chris wondered. He thrust aside the thought. What the hell, he might as well get started on the truth, he decided. “I’m a mathematician.”
“Are you?” the policeman said as they left the station and walked out onto the sidewalk. He sounded impressed. “What sort of mathematics? You teach?”
He is interrogating me, Christ thought; he’s suspicious. He hesitated, then, once again, decided that he’d do better to stick to the truth. “No, I work for the government,” he said.
“Ah. Of your country?” the policeman asked.
“Of course.”
“What sort of work?”
Chris tried to repress the irritation he was beginning to feel. “I’m not permitted to discuss that,” he answered.
“Ah-ha.” The policeman sounded impressed again. “Military secrets?”
Chris tried not to smile. “Something like that,” he answered.
“Interesting.” The policeman kept nodding. “That is very interesting.”
He opened the door on the passenger side of the police car and Chris got in, holding the bag on his lap. He felt more and more strange doing this. There was something wrong in submitting, he thought. Alexsandra had probably saved his life in London. He had no reason not to help her; he shouldn’t be giving in like this. If she was really in danger…
How could he possibly be sure that she wasn’t?
And you’re in love with her? he thought condemningly. The guilt was getting more severe with each passing moment. You’re a coward, said a voice in his mind. He wanted to lash back at it but couldn’t.
The policeman was in the car now, starting the engine. He signaled with his left arm, then slowly pulled out into the flow of traffic.
“So; you dropped your passport into the toilet,” he said.
“I didn’t drop it in, it fell in accidentally,” Chris responded, a little tensely. He didn’t like the implication that he’d done it on purpose.
“Of course,” the policeman said.
Chris drew in a long, deep breath. My God, he thought; if the man can’t even believe that, what the hell will his reaction—and those of his fellow policemen—be when I tell him what’s been happening to me in the past six days? They might all decide that he was insane and have him committed for observation. Suddenly, the idea of giving up and seeking their help didn’t seem quite so promising. He could, in fact, end up worse off than ever.
But what could he do about it now?
The answer came with startling suddenness.
The policeman had turned the car into a narrow side street and was a quarter of the way down the block when they saw the car ahead.
It was turned across the two lanes of the street, its driver’s door open, a man’s body sprawled motionless on the pavement. “Gott’n’immel,” the policeman muttered, braking fast. Throwing open his door, he jumped out and started running toward the body. No, Chris thought. He didn’t know why he thought it, but he knew that there was something wrong.
His feeling was immediately validated as a second man jumped out from behind the other car and sprayed something into the policeman’s face. Chris caught his breath as the policeman stumbled to one side and collapsed to the pavement as though shot. The sprawled man quickly got up and he and the other man turned toward the police car.
They started toward it on a run.
7
For an instant Chris sat frozen, staring at the two men running toward him—one short, bulky and blond (the one who had been lying on the pavement), the other tall and slender with black hair.
Then, jerking with reactive movement, he yanked up the door handle and shouldered the door open, lurching to his feet, the bag in his left hand; somehow he knew he couldn’t leave it. Twisting around, he started fleeing up the street.
“Don’t run!” one of the men shouted. Wincing, Chris picked up speed, racing along the pavement. He leaped onto the sidewalk and ran as fast as he could. An approaching man, seeing his charging approach, ducked to the right, a startled look on his face as Chris rushed by. At least they couldn’t shoot at him, Chris thought. There were pedestrians; two women now came walking toward him. Like the man, they reacted with alarm to his charge and separated, one banging against a storefront window, the other jumping into the street. They shouted at him angrily in German as he sprinted by.
Just ahead, he saw an opening and, impulsively, raked around a building edge and started running up an alley, thinking God, don’t let it be blocked!
It wasn’t. Far down the narrow passageway, he caught sight of traffic and pedestrians on the next street. He glanced across his shoulder and saw the two men racing into the alley. I have to dump the bag! he thought in desperation; it was holding him back. You need it though! his mind cried back. He sucked in air with a wheezing sound and tried to ignore the weight of the bag pulling down his left arm. Running hard, he shifted the bag to his right hand, losing impetus for a few moments as he swerved and almost grazed the building to his right.
At the next street, he made a wide turn onto the sidewalk, almost bumping into a street lamppost; he pushed off it with his left hand. There were more pedestrians here. Would he be better off stopping and remaining in their midst? He dropped the notion instantly; the men would grab him anyway, he was sure of that. He was breathing through his teeth now as he dodged past walking men and women; most of them were forced to dodge aside to avoid collision, their expressions stunned or angry, their voiced reactions either astounded or infuriated.
Impulsively, he dashed into the street. A car jolted to a halt bare inches from him, brakes shrieking. He heard a muffled shout inside the car, a curse in French. He ignored it, jumping up onto the curb again, glancing back once more. The men were close behind, their expressions grimly intent. He wasn’t going to outrun them, that was obvious. He’d have to do something else to elude them.
He wheeled around another building edge and started running down an alley toward the next street, wracking his brain for an idea, something he might have read in a novel or something. He couldn’t keep this up much longer. Already he was losing breath, the bag beginning to feel like an anvil dragging down his body.
He gasped in shock as a figure emerged from a doorway, a man carrying a large cardboard carton. Chris couldn’t stop. “Look out!” he cried, slamming into the man head-on and knocking him back. The man went floundering to his right, lost balance and began to topple over. Chris veered as quickly as he could and just missed tripping over the man, who cursed at him violently in German as he crashed against a building wall, then went sprawling into the alley.
It was a momentary break for Chris. As he reached the next street and looked back, he saw the man leaping to his feet as though to pursue him. The two men were also unable to avoid the man and collided with him sharply, all three tumbling down onto the cobblestone paving; it would have been funny if the situation had been different. There was no time for amusement though. Briefly relieved, Chris turned onto the next street and raced along the sidewalk, causing pedestrians to scatter. He had to stop soon. A stitch was starting to jab at his left side. Why hadn’t he jogged in the mornings the way he had always intended to? Damn it!
First, the bag, he thought. He reached another alley and glancing back, saw that the two men hadn’t reached the street yet. A burst of harsh elation struck him as he darted into the alley. There was a fence to his right, a sign on it reading LI-TAI-PE/Fine Dining. Swinging the bag, he tossed it over the fence, still running. The release of the weight gave him a momentary illusion of lightness and he sprang forward rapidly. Now he’d outdistance them! They weren’t going to get him now, goddamn them!
Another street. He recoiled and leaped back as a small car almost ran him down. The driver honked his horn, his face behind the windshield a twisted mask of rage. Chris kept running, heading back in the direction he’d been running from on the last street.
All right, he decided; he’d have to try it. There was no way he could keep on running; the illusory lightness was already gone, his legs were becoming leaden. Looking back, he saw the men emerging from the alley, looking around to see where he was.
The instant they spotted him, Chris lunged into a building doorway. His footsteps echoed in the narrow, low-ceilinged hall as he ran. Dear God, let there be a back door! he thought in panic.
There was and reaching it, Chris pulled it open. An alley stretched ahead of him, extending to the next street.
Leaving the door ajar, he quickly turned back to the staircase and lunged up two steps at a time, flinging himself around the corner at the fir
st landing, wincing in pain as he crashed against the wall.
He stood there, panting, one hand pressed across his mouth. Below, he heard the two men come rushing into the building and pound along the hallway. Then the sound of their running footsteps outside the building, fading down the alley. Jesus Christ, it worked, he thought, incredulous.
Dragging in a lungful of air, he thudded down the stairs and looked around the edge of the back doorway. The two men were just turning onto the next street. Now, Chris thought. He ran back to the front entrance and onto the sidewalk. They’d know soon enough that they’d been tricked and would double-back. He had to hide from them.
He ran back to the alley and turned into it. Reaching the fence where he’d ditched his bag, he stopped. Abruptly, he jumped up and grabbed the top of it. His shoes scraped on the wood as he tried to use his feet to climb; mostly he had to pull himself up with his arms. He managed to flop one leg over the fence and, using it for leverage, hauled his body to the top and rolled over.
He fell into a yard filled with debris. Crashing down onto a wooden crate and shattering it, he grunted in pain at the impact. Then he half lay, half sat, his back against the fence, trying to recapture breath. His bag lay nearby. He nodded, smiling faintly. In spite of the pain, he felt a kind of strange dark pleasure with himself. He’d gotten away from the bastards!
Then he recalled, again, that the man he was supposed to meet had been at the railroad station. There was no way of contacting the man now.
He was adrift in Lucerne.
***
His footsteps sounded hollowly on the aged wood as he trudged inside the covered Chapel Bridge, crossing its diagonal length toward another part of the city. He looked out to his right at the huge octagonal stone tower beside the bridge, wondering what it was.
His gaze elevated now to the paintings on the timber ceiling of the bridge; obviously scenes from Lucerne’s historical past, he thought. As he gazed at them, he heard the rushing current of the river against the supports of the ancient bridge.
7 Steps to Midnight Page 22
