The couple walked down the street in Zurich's Lin denhof district, on the left bank of the Limmat River. The man was fairly tall, but stooped, a pronounced limp impeding his progress through the crowds, the shabby suitcase in his hand a further hindrance. The woman held his arm, more as though guiding an irritable responsibility than with affection. Neither spoke: They were a couple grown to an indeterminable age together in mutual loathing.
They reached an office building and went inside, the man limping after the woman toward the bank of elevators. They stopped in front of the starter; the woman asked in decidedly middle-class German the office number of a small accounting firm.
She was given a number on the twelfth floor, the top floor, but as it was the lunch hour, the starter doubted anyone was there. It did not matter; the couple would wait.
They stepped out of the elevator on the twelfth floor; the hallway was deserted. The moment the elevator door closed, the couple ran to the staircase at the right end of the corridor. Gone was the limp; gone were the somber faces. They raced up the steps to the door of the roof and stopped on the landing. The man set down the suitcase, knelt, and opened it. Inside were the barrel and stock of a rifle, a telescopic sight clamped to the former, a strap to the latter.
He took the parts out and attached them. Then he removed his hat with the wig sewn into the crown and threw it into the suitcase. He stood up and helped the woman take off her coat, pulling the sleeves through, reversing the cloth. It was now a well-cut, expensive beige topcoat, purchased at one of the better shops in Paris.
The woman then helped the man reverse his overcoat. It was transformed into a fashionable gentleman's fall coat, trimmed in suede. The woman took off her kerchief, removed several pins, and let her blond hair fall down over her shoulders. She opened her purse and took out a revolver.
"I'll be here," said Helden. "Good hunting."
"Thanks," said Noel, opening the door to the roof.
He crouched against the wall by an out-of-use chimney, inserted his arm through the sling, and pulled the strap taut. He reached into his pocket and took out three shells; he pressed them into the chamber and slapped the bolt into firing position. Every action must have two alternate, split-second options.
He would not need them. He would not miss.
He turned and knelt by the wall. He edged the rifle over the top and put his eye to the telescopic sight.
Twelve stories below, across the street, crowds were cheering various men coming out of the huge glass doors of the Lindenhof Hôtel. They walked into the sunlight under banners hailing the first Anvil Congress.
There he was. In the gunsight, the cross hairs centered on the sculptured face beneath the shining blond hair.
Holcroft squeezed the trigger. Twelve stories below, the sculptured face erupted into a mass of blood and shattered flesh.
The Tinamou was killed at last.
By the Tinamou.
They were everywhere. It had only begun.
The Holcroft Covenant Page 57
