We were only a short walk from Bahnhofstrasse, the street leading from the railway station to the lake. Snow lay piled up between the bare trees lining the street. There weren’t many pedestrians; most walked purposefully past, huddled in their thick coats, some clutching umbrellas. It was still snowing softly but that didn’t deter Martina. She wanted to window shop. We ambled down Bahnhofstrasse arm in arm stopping at every window.
At Louis Vuitton we lingered while Martina gazed longingly at the bags, only tearing herself away when I told her how much they cost. We had made a deal: I needed to complete my business before we did any actual shopping. I put my hand inside my coat and felt for the Letter of Credit. Before long I’d be able to buy the shop.
All the main banks were crowded around Paradeplatz, near the lake. Credit Suisse was just across the street from Louis Vuitton, not far from Clariden Leu: Jahangir’s bank. The Bank of Credit and Commerce International stood alone on the other side of Paradeplatz, a little away from the others.
The square was criss-crossed with a tangle of tramlines, which uncoiled in front of three or four different tram stops. We crossed the maze, carefully stepping over piles of snow, trying to avoid the slush between the cobbles.
We climbed the stairs to the imposing front door of the bank and entered. It was warm inside. I left Martina on a settee just inside the entrance and went to the information counter. A stern woman behind the counter seemed to take offence at my intrusion. I asked for Herr Vogel. She dialled an extension, spoke in rapid German, then sat there unsmiling, stared at me until he arrived.
Herr Vogel appeared to be in his late thirties. His pinched face was covered in thin pink skin that glowed in the neon light, his expensive charcoal suit from Georgio Armani made me feel underdressed. (Mine was Czech, bought from a big department store off Na Přikopí.) We shook hands. His was cold, bony, damp. I withdrew mine reflexively, wiped it on my pants. If he noticed he didn’t let it show. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Martina smirk at my obvious discomfort. I glared at her.
Herr Vogel ushered me to a small conference room where two chromed chairs faced each other across a small circular glass table. I sat down, pulled the Letter of Credit from my inside pocket and slid it towards him. He plucked a pair of gold-rimmed glasses from his pocket, perched them on the end of his nose, extracted the letter from its envelope and read it.
He remained pokerfaced as he read the letter: not even a raised eyebrow or lip-twitch. When he had finished reading he returned the letter to its envelope and placed it on the table between us.
His glasses glittered as he spoke, ‘When will the goods be delivered?’ The voice was a shock. It was high pitched, rough-edged: jarring.
‘Tomorrow,’ I replied. ‘Tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Good,’ he squawked. ‘Then I will see you here tomorrow afternoon.’ He stood and opened the door for me. As I passed him he held out his hand. The thought of his damp flesh made me shudder; I pretended not to see it.
Martina rose as I approached her. ‘Finished?’ She looked surprised.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You want to do more window-shopping, or should we head off for Staad straight away?’
‘I want do shopping, not window-shopping. Too cold for window-shopping.’ She pulled me closer to her, ‘We go to hotel and get warm.’ She didn’t have to be any more specific. I knew what she wanted.
Chapter 9
I drove the hundred kilometres from Zurich to Staad slowly, avoiding patches of black ice lurking on the sharpest corners. Now and then, despite my best efforts, the wheels slipped, the car lurched sideways, and it was only the Golf’s ESP that kept us from the ditch.
We drove between deep drifts of snow, skirting the towns of Winterthur and Wil. Most of the time we were in open country, surrounded by fields covered in unbroken blankets of snow, devoid of life. Grey forests of bare trees, branches edged with snowy highlights, bordered the fields, separating them from the small villages that dotted the countryside. Even the road was quiet. Most people were sensibly staying indoors.
From St. Gallen the road wound through foothills until the lake finally came into view, slate-grey under the overcast. Flurries of snow obscured the far shore.
From Rorschach, the road followed the shoreline for the last few kilometres to Staad. The streets there were deserted and I began to realize that the lake was very much a summer retreat. In winter only the locals remained.
Hotel Weisses Rössli looked exactly like the photograph on its website. I drove past, saw Martina’s jaw drop; she thought I’d missed it.
‘I want to go to the airport first.’ I explained before she could say anything. ‘It shouldn’t be far from here.’
She was still craning around, trying to get a good look at the hotel, as we approached the airport less than a kilometre further on. A bizarre looking building with two golden onion domes perched on Gaudian towers took my eyes from the road; I had to slam on brakes to make the corner.
The airport wasn’t the busy regional hub I’d imagined. It was scarcely more than a collection of prefabricated buildings next to the single tar runway. There were only two aircraft on the apron, a light piston twin and what looked like a Gulfstream. Approach lights on tall poles stretched away from the runway to the lakeshore. We did not go in. I did a U-turn outside the entrance, returned to the hotel.
We left the car in a small parking area across the road. It had begun to snow heavily and we dashed across the street dragging our bags behind us. The reception was at the back of the restaurant on the first floor. It was nearly lunchtime and the smell of cooking drifting from the kitchen had us both salivating by the time we had checked in. The receptionist showed us to a room overlooking the lake. Martina went for a bath while I extracted the paperwork and went through it again.
My copy of the Letter of Credit, issued by Jahangir’s bank, was very specific in its requirements. It was valid for thirty days from the date of issue and would only be honoured if the osmium was of the required purity and also the exact weight stipulated. It all seemed very simple.
Martina emerged from the bathroom with towel wrapped around her head, nothing else. I tried to knock her over right then, but she insisted that I shower first. I was gagging for it, but took my time in the shower. I wanted to build up her anticipation a little too. It worked. When I finally emerged from the shower she had started without me. We bonked like bonobos all afternoon, stopping just long enough to get our breath back before starting again.
Later, halfway through dinner, Martina suddenly put down her knife and fork and looked at me intensely.
It unsettled me, ‘What? What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Do you love me?’ she asked.
The hair stood up on the back of my neck and I went ice cold. The ‘L’ word hit me like an exploding claymore. I tried desperately not to show it. To make up some time I smiled, reached across the table and took her hand in mine. I looked into her eyes, felt something that I had never felt before. It was a tenderness for her that was completely alien. I couldn’t remember ever feeling that way about another human being.
We had been seeing each other for less than six months, living together for less than two weeks. She was the only woman I had ever lived with. All my life I’d shunned any close relationships with women - not that I had many close men friends either: I’d always been more hermit than socialite.
But this was suddenly and startlingly different. I went with my instincts. I squeezed her hand, ‘Yes I do. Very much.’
She frowned. It didn’t seem to be the response she was expecting. ‘Really?Do pravda?’
‘Truthfully.’ I replied.
She looked at me searchingly for a moment, trying to detect any hesitation, anything that would tell her I was not telling the truth. Then she smiled, and the corners of her eyes glistened, tears welled.‘Tak dobře. That good, because I love you too.Hodně.’ She said it with a kind of grim determination. I was so confused that I was
almost ready to cry myself. I didn’t, I ordered a bottle of champagne.
We didn’t talk about it again that evening, but something between us had changed. And I was happy with that change. Until that moment we had been having sex. That night we made love.
Chapter 10
Martina fell asleep some time during the after-glow; but I lay awake most of the night thinking about the following day. When my alarm sounded reveille I was wide-awake, staring at the ceiling in the darkness. Martina was snuggled up next to me. Her rhythmical breathing told me she was still fast asleep. Not even the strident trumpet call disturbed her.
I carefully disentangled myself and went to the bathroom for a shower. I was almost fully dressed when she finally stirred, blinked at me sleepily, ‘You leave me?’
I smiled, ‘Yes, but not for long. I’m going to grab something to eat. I’ll bring you coffee and a croissant. The plane is landing at nine, so we only need to leave here at eight-thirty.’ I looked at my watch. ‘It’s seven-thirty now, still an hour to go. There’s plenty of time.’ I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. Of course I knew that ‘plenty of time’ was relative. While I could get ready in ten minutes if I had to, Martina could spend the entire hour deciding what top to wear – when she had only three to chose from and it would in any case be hidden under layers of clothing.
She grabbed my belt buckle and pulled me down onto the bed. ‘Must we go now? I want stay on bed with you.’
I prised myself free. ‘Yes, now. Get ready. I’ll see you in a bit with breakfast.’
She stuck out her bottom lip in protest and pulled the covers over her head.
I went downstairs, borrowed a tray, collected croissants and coffee. When I returned, I found Martina standing in the middle of the room, naked save for her knickers. She was pointing a gun at my head. I ducked, dropped the tray; coffee and croissants went crashing to the floor. She laughed; I didn’t.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing with that?’
Her face crumpled; I felt like shit. I knew it wasn’t her fault. I’d put a gun in the suitcase without telling her. It was my fault that I’d never taught her how to handle one, never taught her the golden rule: never point a gun at someone unless you intend to kill them.
She shrank onto the bed, put the gun down next to her. Tears rolled down her face. I knelt in front of her, took the gun, checked to see if there was a round in the chamber – there wasn’t – put it on the bedside table.
‘Sorry.’ Her voice was small, like a child’s. I felt even worse. I put my arms around her, hugged her. ‘No Martina I’m sorry. I should have told you about the gun.’ I kissed her on the nose and then kissed each eye in turn. ‘Will you forgive me?’
She wiped the tears from her face.‘Tak jo.’ She sniffed. ‘But why you have gun?’
‘It’s for in case.’
‘Co?’
‘This whole deal is a bit dodgy. I brought it for protection; in case something goes wrong.’
I could tell from her frown that she didn’t have the faintest idea about what I was talking about, but she nodded anyway. ‘Okay. But not to do again.’
I was admonished and we were okay. I gave her a big kiss, cleaned up the mess and went to fetch a fresh breakfast tray.
When I returned, Martina was standing next to the bed, still wearing nothing but her knickers. She had pulled all her clothes from the suitcases, laid them out on the bed and was just standing there, hands on hips, staring at the garment montage, no doubt waiting for inspiration to strike. The arrival of the coffee did nothing for her concentration.
‘It smell good,’ she said and, without any further attempt at dressing, she took a croissant and a mug of the steaming coffee from the tray and sat down on the edge of the bed to eat her breakfast.
I sat on a stool facing her. ‘You’re going to be cold if you go out like that; not to mention the attention you’ll get.’
‘Funny man.’ She said, and stuck out her croissant-crusted tongue at me. ‘You want for me to come on important business and look likebezdomovkyně?’
‘What?’
‘Person without home.’
‘You wouldn’t look like a bag lady if you were one.’ I answered.
‘What is bag lady?’
‘Homeless person. Now eat up and get dressed or we’ll be late.’ The incident with the gun was forgotten.
It was eight-thirty as we left the hotel. Despite taking her time over the coffee and taking agonisingly long to decide what not to wear, we were on time. She looked stunning and wore an expression that said, ‘I told you we should be on time, you worry for nothing; silly man.’
The snow was beginning to melt and we had to dodge large patches of slush as we crossed the road. I was a little worried that the plane might land early: before we arrived at the airport. I accelerated out of the car park, splashing slush over the only pedestrian within miles. I hadn’t seen the old lady and her dog, waved an apology.
We turned left at the gaudy building. There was a police car parked on the side of the road just after the traffic circle. Further along, beyond the line of approach lights, was another; and as I slowed for the right turn into the airport parking lot, three more. They were parked outside the terminal with all their lights flashing.
I thought of the gun in my suitcase. I had not put the indicator on yet, so I continued straight past the entrance and on into Altenrhein village. I looked in the rear-view mirror to see if the police car in the road had spotted my indecision. It didn’t move.
The sparse village was sprinkled with holiday homes, a few bed and breakfasts, a boat yard, not a lot else.
I drove around one of the large open plots and headed back towards the airport. I didn’t slow down going past, but had another good look at the terminal. It was crawling with police.
There was a small access road next to the approach lights leading towards the lake. I turned right there, drove slowly next to the tall yellow poles, parked overlooking the lake. I would be able to see any aircraft approaching from there and would pretend to be a sightseer if challenged. Not that there was much to see.
It had warmed a little; most of the snow had melted. There were still some piles on the sidewalks, where the snow ploughs had deposited it.
The grey waters of the lake lapped gently against the shore. Ducks swam nearby, dabbling for slime at the bottom of the lake. Their bits must have been frozen.
Martina wasn’t thinking about the ducks. ‘What is wrong?’
‘Police.’ I thought that was clear enough.
‘But we do nothing wrong. Why you scared of police?’ She was looking at me through narrowed lids.
‘The package that I’m collecting, they might be interested in that.’
‘Why? What it is?’
‘Osmium.’
That did not satisfy her. She just continued looking at me inquiringly.
‘It’s a metal.’
‘So?’
‘It’s certified as dual-use material in some countries. That’s why the police might be interested.’
‘What is dual-use?’
‘Dual-use means that it is something that has both peaceful and military use.’
She hadn’t shown any interest in the deal until that moment, but quickly made up for that. ‘What military use?’
‘I’m not sure.’ I answered truthfully. ‘But I have heard that it might be used in nuclear weapons.’ I braced myself for her little mushroom cloud. But she surprised me yet again.
‘Cool! Nuclear weapons! Who for?’
I looked at her for a moment, trying to see if she was taking the piss, but she seemed genuinely excited. My response would be the final test. ‘The Iranians.’
‘Cool! So we get nuclear weapons for Iran. Is like spy movie.’
Was this woman, the woman I had just fallen in love with, completely psychotic? ‘I thought you’d be angry. Why do you think it’s cool?’
‘Is exciting.’ She replied. ‘I spend a
ll day serve beer andsmažyny syr to drunk men. Serving Osmia to Iran is better. More exciting.’ Her face was lit up like a child’s at Christmas.
I was just wondering what sort of Pandora’s box I had opened when I saw a light out of the corner of my eye. It was out over the lake, coming directly at us. I looked at my watch: five to nine. If it was our aeroplane, it was punctual. I pointed out the light to Martina and we both watched it increase in brightness and evolve into a triangle of three separate lights as it neared.
As it got closer I noticed something odd. The aeroplane was still obscured behind its bright landing lights; but there was something else there, small dark smudges on either side of the lights. They were difficult to make out against the overcast.
Martina was the first to work it out. ‘Why there are three aeroplanes?’
I looked closely. She was right. There were three. I could see the one in the middle clearly. There was a bright light on each wing and one on the nose. Slightly behind it, on either side were two dark and sinister looking aeroplanes: fighter jets.
Then they were over us, passed with a roar. I saw the markings on the two military jets clearly as they passed overhead. They were Swiss Air force F18s.
As the business jet touched down, the fighter on the left began to accelerate past the landing aeroplane. The pilot must have seen it because there was an immediate glow from both of his engines as he applied full thrust again.
The three aircraft were still going directly away from me, but I could sense that the civilian aeroplane was accelerating. It was going to take off again.
It leaped into the air at the end of the runway and immediately started a right turn, away from the high ground towards Rorschach. For a moment there was confusion between the fighters. The one on the left, the one that had overtaken too soon, banked sharp right to follow, but the other was slower; it looked like they might collide.
Cones of blue flame appeared from the tailpipes of the fighters as they went to afterburner for a few moments to regain manoeuvring speed. Within seconds their initial confusion was gone and they were both synchronised, flying as one. They broke right in formation, chased their prey.
Elements of Risk: A Noah Stark Thriller Page 5
