by Jack Hyland
Brocard smiled benignly. “No one is permitted to enter for any purpose without prior clearance from the Geneva headquarters. I will, however, alert our guards.”
Brocard called the guard, then said, “As you are pressed for time, may I see your combination plate?”
Alex took the small brass plate out of her purse and handed it to Brocard.
“Ah, yes. This is in one of the older sections. Please follow me.”
They followed Brocard as he led them toward a door opening into a corridor that took them into the interior of the vast dungeon. The walls were made of large blocks of granite.
“As you can see, the bank took over this portion of the castle twenty years ago, refitting the area with suitable places to store larger valuables for our clients. It may look primitive, but let me assure you that it is equipped with the most modern security equipment available.”
Brocard, enjoying the company, could not stop himself from telling his guests more about the Chillon facility. “Over there,” he said, pointing to a stone column, “Lord Byron, the great English poet, carved his name. He wrote a poem about a prisoner in the dungeon here.”
Brocard seems to be a talker, Tom thought. Aloud, he said, “Monsieur Brocard. Please, we are in a bit of a hurry. It’s most important.”
The Frenchman, who had slowed down to point out the historic stone column, apologized and fell silent—if only briefly.
Along the corridor there were stainless-steel doors recessed directly into the stone. “It is really quite ingenious,” Brocard said. “The former prison cells have been turned into individual vaults, each with its own combination. Ah, here we are.”
They stopped in front of a door inscribed with the first four digits of the combination. Brocard punched his own code into the electronic lock pad. Brocard asked for the brass plate again, which Alex produced. Brocard held the plate with the royal crest close to the electronic lock pad. There was a discernible click, and the door opened.
“You will find the vault inside. Simply tap the full combination into the keypad. You will be asked to enter the same combination a second time. I will be waiting outside until you summon me.”
“Thank you for your help,” Tom said.
Tom and Alex entered the small chamber. The vault was directly across from them. A small table was to the left. Tom took the brass plate and entered the numbers. He then entered the numbers a second time. There was a slight whirring sound. The door opened and a light went on inside the vault automatically.
On a shelf inside, they found a small black leather suitcase. Tom retrieved it and carried it to the table. There were no markings on the leather suitcase at all. It was not locked and the latches opened easily. Inside, there were three quart-sized stainless steel canisters recessed into a molded black felt casing and secured with leather straps. Their tops were sealed with thick red wax and stamped with the letters “PM.”
“Pestilentia Moseia,” Tom said, with a mixture of fear and relief, while Alex looked on.
“Are they safe to handle?”
“The seals have not been broken, so I assume so,” Tom answered, closing the case. “I think we’re finished here. Let’s go.” He closed the vault door.
Tom and Alex exited the security room, rejoining Brocard, who was waiting for them. Brocard said, “One of you may wish to return to your car, and drive it to our lower level. This private exit is to the right, behind the house.”
“Good idea,” Tom said. “Alex, will you pick up the car? Here, take the keys. I’ll keep the suitcase with me. Monsieur Brocard, I wonder if you can accommodate us. The two men I mentioned could conceivably be waiting for Madame Cellini at our car. Could you please have one of your guards accompany her?”
“Certainly,” Brocard said. He spoke quietly to one of his security personnel who came over to Tom and Alex. Brocard introduced him, “This is Philippe. He is pleased to accompany Madame Cellini.”
Brocard left with Alex and Philippe, guiding them to the elevator to the upstairs entrance. Alex and Philippe then walked to the small parking lot so she could retrieve the Saab and drive it to the lower loading area. Brocard returned to Tom. “Come, I’ll take you to the exit for our lower-level pickup.”
Brocard and Tom arrived at the glass enclosure leading to the lower loading area at exactly the same moment as Alex’s Saab pulled up. Philippe was walking alongside the car. Tom opened the glass security door and walked toward the car, holding the suitcase.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, the white BMW pulled up and blocked the Saab. Two men jumped out and ran toward Alex. Philippe stepped forward with his revolver in his hand to protect Alex. One of the Germans fired his own gun, equipped with a silencer. There was a spitting noise, and Philippe collapsed to the ground. The other German yanked Alex’s front door open and pulled her out. He held a knife to her throat.
“She dies unless you give us the suitcase,” he yelled at Tom. The other man moved toward Tom, holding his gun pointed at Tom.
“Let her go!” yelled Tom.
“The case,” the German in front of him barked.
Tom hesitated, looking for a way out. He took a step forward, seemingly offering the case to the intruder, then quickly swung it, knocking the gun out of his hand.
“No tricks, or the girl dies,” the other man, holding Alex, yelled and ran the knife across her left arm. She cried out in pain as the cut started to bleed. Alex fell to her knees.
“You bastard!” Tom cried.
The German who had come after Tom had recovered the gun and hit Tom hard in the head. He collapsed onto the ground.
“I’ve got the case,” the German said to his partner. “Take the girl.”
The two Germans, one with the black leather case, and the other literally dragging a bleeding Alex, dashed to their BMW. Alex was thrust into the BMW’s backseat.
Brocard had remained inside the glass enclosure when Tom had left through the secure door to join Alex. The moment he saw the BMW pull up, he locked the door electronically to protect Cordier, Warburg from any forced entry that the two armed men might try. Simultaneously, he pushed a concealed emergency button to the right side of the door, which signaled the police in Montreux, the receptionist, and the bank’s security people, as well as Villechaise in Geneva. Then Brocard watched and waited. He thought to himself that he was doing the right thing to stay inside. His job, he reminded himself, was to protect the bank.
When he saw Alex, bleeding, fall to her knees, Brocard called the receptionist and told her to have the bank’s medical officer join him immediately. Two bank guards who had been summoned by the emergency button were already standing beside Brocard, waiting for orders. The medical officer came running up, out of breath. The BMW had now left the area with the two Germans, Alex, and the black leather case.
Brocard released the electronic locks on the glass security door. The two guards, the medical officer, and Brocard walked quickly toward Philippe. It turned out that the bullet had grazed Philippe’s head, entering his left cheek and exiting without doing permanent damage. Philippe was regaining consciousness, but was bleeding profusely. The medical officer told Philippe that the ambulance was on its way to take him to the hospital. The medical officer gave Philippe a sedative and applied a bandage to the wound to cut down on the bleeding.
The medical officer next examined Tom and realized that Tom had been knocked out, but had not sustained any serious injury. He waved a vial of smelling salts under his nose and Tom began to come to. He coughed at the acrid scent of the smelling salts that burned his nostrils. Seeing that Tom was going to be all right, the medical officer returned to Philippe to stay with him until the ambulance arrived.
Tom stood gingerly, his mind cloudy as he pulled himself together. Suddenly, everything came back to him. He saw that Alex had been taken, and the suitcase with the virus was gone as well. Tom suddenly felt hel
pless—everything had gone wrong. He had been working desperately to find the Moses Virus; moments ago, it had been in his hands. Abruptly, it was gone, taken by Belagri, which would use it for destruction of human lives. Bad as this was, Alex now also was gone, taken from him, and hurt. Then a wave of anger and urgency swept over him. He cried aloud to no one in particular, and to everyone, “We’ve got to go after them—they’ve got the suitcase and Alex.”
“Monsieur,” Brocard said as he hurried from Philippe to Tom’s side, “they headed toward the autobahn. I’ve alerted the Montreux police. They’ll be here any minute.”
“There’s no time to waste! Tell them to follow my car. I’m going after the white BMW.” Tom got into the Saab. Alex had left the keys in the car. Tom started it and sped off, just before the police arrived.
17
The two Germans raced through Montreux on their way to the autobahn. The driver had been watching through his rearview mirror. He noticed a car that he thought was following them—but it turned off the road after a time. Then he spotted a second car. A gray Saab catching up fast.
“We’ve got company,” the driver said.
The driver veered off onto a side road that led through a wooded area. “This should take us to the next entrance to the autobahn to Geneva.”
“We should have killed him and the girl when we had the chance,” the second German said.
“Damn,” the driver said, looking in the rearview mirror. The Saab turned, following behind. “It’ll take about an hour to get to the Geneva airport and turn in the car, so we’ll get our flight to Frankfurt without any trouble. But we can’t have that Saab on our tail the whole time.”
The second German looked in the backseat at Alex, whose arm had stopped bleeding and was now caked with dried blood. “She’s not seriously hurt,” he said. “The knife wound was superficial.”
The driver said, “We’ve got to throw the Saab off our trail. I think what we need to do is leave some bait for Stewart.”
“Bait?”
“Bait. The girl. I’m going to increase speed and pull ahead of the Saab. Then we’ll dump her in the middle of the road, and Stewart will have to stop and pick her up. We’ll escape.”
The BMW surged ahead. Neither of the two Germans particularly noticed that the road was becoming bumpier, and the forest through which they were driving was growing denser and denser. The BMW began to pull away from the Saab.
Suddenly, the driver slammed on his brakes, bringing the BMW to a skidding stop. “Get her out of here,” he shouted.
The second German jumped out of the car, opened the back door, and pulled Alex out, dragging her onto the road. She didn’t resist in the slightest. The second German quickly tied her arms and then her legs together. He left her in the center of the road. “You’ll be lucky not to be run over,” he said, giving a little laugh. He climbed back into the BMW, which spun its wheels, leaving Alex behind.
The BMW was going as fast on this back road as possible. The driver said, “We need to get back on the autobahn. Take a look at the map—where can we turn?”
“I’ve been thinking,” said the second German.
“About what?” the driver asked.
“We’re too obvious if we stay in this car.”
“What do you mean?”
“Back at Chillon. Any Swiss bank is sure to be overrun with security cameras. Someone must have spotted our car as we left. Hell, Stewart may have called our license plate numbers in to the police. We’d be better off ditching this car and finding another.”
“You’ve got to be crazy! We’re in a dense forest. We haven’t seen any cars in either direction.”
“I know, I know. But, if we do see one, we should swap, destroy the BMW, and keep traveling in the new car, incognito.”
“You’ve got a good point,” the driver said as he swerved on a sharp curve in the road.
“And,” said the second German. “I’ve got another thought.”
“What now?”
“Our plans were to fly back to Geneva. With the black leather case.”
“Right,” said the driver.
“Well, we certainly aren’t going to check that leather case, and, if we try and carry it through security at the airport, we’ll have a lot of explaining to do. The briefcase might be held or confiscated. I’d hate to have to explain to Bailitz that we had the suitcase, and it was taken away at the German border.”
The driver said, “So, we should drive straight to Kronberg Castle?”
“That’s what I’m thinking. It’ll take three hours. Not that much longer than checking in, going through security, flying, and going through security again at the other end.”
The driver kept the speed of the car up, despite the worsening of the surface of the road. Though they hadn’t noticed it, the road they were traveling was heading upward into the mountains. Abruptly, a large truck loaded with logs appeared, bearing down on them in the opposite direction.
“Watch out!” shouted the German who wasn’t driving.
“I see it, I see it,” the driver said testily. He swerved the car off the road onto the shoulder to avoid a head-on collision. “I’m not sure why the road is so rough and narrow. Or why a monster truck is coming the other way.” As the truck whooshed by, their BMW was buffeted by the force of the air moving along with the truck. The driver of the lumber truck looked down at them, and honked his horn both in irritation and warning.
“Idiot!” said the second German. “We should be on the major route to Geneva—not on a feeder road for someone taking trees out of this forest. Is there any way we can get off this?”
“No, we can only get off by turning around.” The driver then pointed. “Look, there’s a car stopped on the other side of the road!”
“Pull over. This may be exactly what we’re looking for.”
The stopped car was a maroon four-door Opel. There was no driver in the car. The German driver of the BMW crossed over and parked behind the Opel. The driver of the Opel, seeing the BMW, emerged from the woods. He had a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck, probably returning from some bird watching. The German approached the Swiss birder and said, in English, “We’ve got a sick woman. She’s unconscious and needs help.”
The Swiss birder, a middle-aged man, walked quickly toward the BMW to see what the problem was. The German struck him across his neck with the sharp edge of the back of his hand. The driver fell forward, knocked out. The German searched for identification and carried the unconscious man around to the passenger side of the BMW.
Then, the German driver said, “Switch the suitcase to the Opel’s trunk, and I’ll drive it. You drive the BMW. We’ll find a place in the forest to dump the BMW and the driver.”
Tom was madly driving the Saab trying to catch up to Alex. He was panic stricken that the Germans would do something to her. Yes, of course the Moses Virus was critically important, but he was focused on trying to save her. He was suddenly aware how attached to her he had become.
Abruptly, about two hundred yards in front of him, Tom spotted something in the road. At first he thought he could maneuver around it and scarcely cut his speed. But as he drew closer he began to make out a human form in the middle of the road. He applied the brakes with force, bringing the car to a stop. It was a human. Suddenly Tom realized—it was far more than a human lying in the middle of the road—it was Alex. Tom burst out of his car and ran to her. She saw him running toward her and began crying, and it seemed more in relief and joy than from discomfort or pain.
Tom immediately removed the ropes binding her, pulled her up to her feet, facing him. “How is your arm?” he asked.
“Superficial wound,” she replied. “It’s stopped bleeding.”
“I’m so glad to see you,” Tom said and gave her a strong embrace.
“Do you still like me without m
y blond wig?” said Alex.
“I sure do,” replied Tom. “I like you better the way you are now.”
Then, Tom asked, “Why did they let you go?”
“To throw you off their trail,” Alex said. “They’re no dummies.”
“Do you know where they’re headed?” Tom asked.
“To Geneva, the airport, and Frankfurt. But, I wonder . . .”
“What do you mean?” Tom asked.
“I’m thinking that they’ll have to go through security twice, in Geneva and again in Frankfurt. That means Swiss and German security, both known for their thoroughness. That might be a problem for them since they’re carrying a leather suitcase with metal tubes inside. Those metal tubes will show up on any metal detector. They’ll have some questions to answer that they won’t want even to be asked. It might be easier for them to drive straight through to Frankfurt,” Alex said.
“On the other hand, the police have their license plate numbers,” Tom added, “since I gave this information to them over the phone.”
“That bothers me,” said Alex. “If I were they, I’d change cars to protect my anonymity.”
“Let’s hope you’re wrong, for the sake of the driver whose car they might have taken.”
He helped Alex into the Saab, and they took off in the direction the BMW had been heading.
The two Germans were now proceeding in tandem, the Opel followed by the BMW.
The road rose even more vertically and wound furiously to the right and to the left. Another gigantic truck laden with huge logs was bearing down on them.
The German driver, seeing the truck coming toward them, froze momentarily. Then he swerved. Focused solely on the danger in front of him, he made a calculated gamble. He veered to the right, swerving off the road onto the shoulder to avoid the momentum of the truck, which was coming at them at a speed and a downward pitch that made it impossible to stop even if the driver had tried, which he didn’t.
The Opel roared onto the shoulder, barely missing the massive log truck careening by them. The German driver slammed on the Opel’s brakes, and the BMW followed. Without warning, the forest ended on the edge of a large pit, which was being mined for the recovery of gravel. The road swept around to the left, following the contours of the pit, but the right shoulder abruptly stopped with only a wooden barrier to warn of the shoulder’s termination.
