7 Steps to Midnight (32 page)

He sighed and looked back outside again. Was there anything he could do right now to help matters?

Memorize your work
, the answer came.

Did he dare take out the two folded menu pages and begin to stare at them intently? Wouldn’t that put him off guard? What if there
was
someone in the cabin waiting for an opportunity to jump him? They’d get his work, too.

Jesus God, he thought; he was back to full-time paranoia. Everyone around him was a suspect; his world was crowded with a legion of plotters.

He tapped the fingers of his left hand on his leg, trying to make up his mind.

The indecision proved unnecessary.

“Oh, my goodness,” he heard a man’s voice say. Its melodious lilt made him recognize the man before he turned to see Mr. Modi starting to sit down beside him, smiling with delight. “Is this not a marvelous coincidence?” the East Indian said.

Chris had been on the verge of jerking the film from his pocket when he checked himself. He smiled at Modi as though equally delighted to see him. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “It
is
a marvelous coincidence.”

Coincidence, my ass
, he thought.

He tensed himself, to shove Modi away if the East Indian made a move at him; the fingers of his right hand tightened on the cigarette lighter.

“How have you been?” Modi asked, extending his right hand.

Even though he knew it could be a mistake, Chris automatically shifted the lighter to his left hand and gripped at Modi’s hand with his right. “Fine,” he said.

If it was a trap, it was a damned subtle one, he saw, for Modi only squeezed his hand once, then withdrew his own hand, still beaming. The East Indian shook his head wonderingly. “I just cannot believe this,” he said. “I might well be part of your reality wager gone amiss. This is so strange.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Chris pretended to agree.

“What on earth are you doing in Switzerland?” Modi asked. “One day I come upon you in a lesser neighborhood of London. The next I find you in a steamship in Lucerne. Incredible.”

His expression suddenly went serious as though he’d just
remembered something grim. “Oh,” he said. “Is this another twist in your peculiar plight?”

My peculiar plight?
Chris thought.
You know exactly why I’m here, you bastard.
He smiled. “Well, I’m still on the run,” he said, trying to sound amused.

“If I can be of any service,” Modi said. His voice was so sincere that, for several moments, Chris thought himself unworthy for doubting the man.

Then logic intervened. A coincidence that Modi was on this very boat at this particular time? Hardly. He was a mathematician, for Christ’s sake. The odds against this being coincidental were astronomical, and unacceptable. Where Modi fit into this labyrinthine picture, he had no idea. That he
was
a part of it was obvious.

He felt himself tensing as Modi regarded him in silence, his smile cryptic. Finally, Modi spoke. “I can see that you do not—how is it that you phrase it in your country?—‘buy’ that this is truly a coincidence.”

Stunned, Chris braced himself to move, to push the East Indian away, retrieve the film for burning or lunge for the doorway and throw both film and papers into the lake. Unnerving possibilities crowded his mind: Modi was aligned, somehow, with Karl and the other man; he was part of the group that had gone after him at Montmartre. It seemed least likely that he was associated, in some unknown way, with Alexsandra.

He waited tensely.

“Am I correct in this perception?” Modi asked.

Chris swallowed. “Perhaps.”

Modi smiled with amusement. “Then you must suspect, as well, that our ‘coincidental’ meeting in London was, also, no such thing.”

Chris felt nervous and confused by Modi’s casual manner. He drew in a tremulous breath. One more piece to fit in. The jigsaw puzzle was unsettling again.

“You look dismayed,” Modi said. Chris shivered as the East Indian patted his arm. “Please do not be; you are perfectly safe with me. I am, in fact, a representative of someone who demands that you come to no harm.”

He was going to ask if Modi worked with Alexsandra, then changed his mind. He felt dazed with bewilderment.
I can’t handle this
, he thought;
it’s too damn complicated.

Still, he had to know something. “Why is everyone so interested in me?”

“Oh, surely that is clear to you,” Modi answered with a tone of mild chastising. “You are a very valuable commodity.”

“
Commodity?
” Chris drew away from Modi with an unconscious movement.

“A poor choice of a word,” the East Indian said apologetically; “I amend it to
a very valuable human being
.”

“Because of my work,” Chris said.

“Well, naturally,” Modi responded. “What you do is of utmost concern to many people.”

What am I caught up in?
Chris thought. Once more, he was hyperconscious of the folded papers in his pocket. If he was able to find the time to memorize what he had scrawled on them, he’d burn them. And if it came down to it, he’d burn them even if there wasn’t time for memorization. Better he lost that work than had it fall into the wrong hands.

“All right, now what?” he asked.

Modi gestured casually. “You will, I assume, proceed to your business on Mount Pilatus whatever it may be and I—”

“
How do you know I’m going there?
” Chris demanded.

Modi chuckled, his smile confusingly benevolent. “It is the only place you
could
be going, riding this boat to Alpnachstad.”

Chris felt foolish. He wanted to counter Modi and regain some kind of advantage but couldn’t think of what to say or do.

Then he thought of asking, “Who do you work for?”

“Ah, that I am not permitted to divulge,” Modi said as though the refusal grieved him. “I can only reassure you that, as long as you are in my presence, you are completely safe.”

Chris wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe
somebody
. Still, Modi had turned out to be not merely the good savior from London, but a man more darkly involved in Chris’s affairs. How could he trust Modi any more than anyone else right now?

“I’d
like
to trust you,” he said.

“Oh, please do,” Modi said. “I wish only that you get through all this turmoil totally unscathed.”

“All
what
turmoil, Mr. Modi?” Chris demanded in a low, taut voice.

“Why, the nightmare you have obviously been suffering through,” Modi replied.

An answer but not an answer, Chris thought. He looked at the East Indian in silence. Modi looked so damned concerned for him, it comforted and infuriated him at the same time.

“All that talk about… the
mystical
things in India,” Chris said resentfully, “that was bullshit, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, no.” Modi looked genuinely distressed. “These things are part and parcel of existence in my land. I would not have you—how do you say it?—‘lump’ that together with the rest of it. Reality is a shifting and confounding phenomenon. Never think otherwise. Your life will be the worse for it if you deny the truth of that.”

Chris slumped back against the seat. At this moment, he knew, if Modi chose to, he could, with the least of effort, remove the cigarette lighter from his hand, the film from his shirt pocket and the folded papers from his jacket pocket.

At this moment, he felt helpless.

***

When the boat docked at Alpnachstad, Chris walked beside Modi as they went down the gangplank and moved across the road to the cog-railway station.

“Your party is waiting for you on Pilatus?” Modi asked.

Chris looked at him suspiciously but Modi only smiled. “It was my assumption that, under the circumstances in which you are involved, you are not traveling to the top of a seven-thousand-foot mountain merely to sightsee.”

Chris exhaled tiredly. “I don’t know if anyone’s there,” he admitted. Why try to deceive the man anyway? he thought. For all he knew, Modi already knew exactly why he was going to Pilatus. “Do
you
know?” he asked.

“No, not at all,” Modi replied. He sounded so damned sincere,
Chris thought, it was maddening. “I have no idea why you are ascending to the peak. I am, as you might say it, only ‘tagging’ along to keep the peace.”

“Yeah,” Chris said glumly. He felt like a pawn in Modi’s hands. Still, he had to continue with this. If Alexsandra
was
up there, he couldn’t very well not go up to find out.

To make any decision at all gave him a sense of relief and the breath he had held in shuddered out of him. Okay, that’s the plan, he told himself, trying not to face the obvious fact that it was little, if any, plan at all.

“The summit is clearly visible today,” Modi commented, sounding nonchalant. “It is said that when Pilate hides his head, sunshine below will spread. Conversely, when Pilate’s head is bare—as it is this morning—of rain beware.” He made a sound of amusement. “So it is said anyway,” he went on. “The mountain is named after Pontius Pilate, of course. It is also said that his ghost walks those heights. If so, it is probably because of guilt, wouldn’t you say?”

Chris barely heard the offhanded words. He had to pull himself together, he was thinking. If he was going to get away from Modi when they reached the top, he’d have to think of something good. Benign or not, the East Indian obviously represented a group that had nothing to do with Alexsandra’s organization; he didn’t know why he was so sure of that, but he was. Neither did it seem likely that he represented the Middle Eastern group—they had been immediately violent toward him. Nor did he seem to be allied with Karl and the other man; if he were, he’d had ample opportunity to get the film.

Dear God, how many different groups
were
involved? he wondered again. And here he’d always assumed that his work was of marginal interest at best.

How little I know
, he thought.

“Please; allow me to carry your bag,” Modi said abruptly, startling him. “It looks quite heavy.”

“No, that’s—” Chris got no further as the East Indian took the bag from him.
Don’t let him do that!
a voice screamed warningly in his mind. But there was nothing he could do about it. Modi
seemed in total control. The notion of starting a scuffle with him seemed out of the question. Was the East Indian applying some kind of hypnosis to him? Chris wondered.

Oh, shut the fuck up
, ordered his brain.

Still, his mind had to allow, there was the lingering mystery of what Modi knew. Was he aware of the microfilm and what had happened to Chris since he’d arrived in Lucerne? Lucerne, hell, since he’d left Modi that afternoon in London?
Reality slippage
, the thought drifted across his brain.

He was almost ready to believe it.

He watched like a child observing a parent as Modi walked over to the ticket office. Somehow, it seemed appropriate, if mad, that the East Indian should pay admission for him. When Modi returned with a pair of tickets, he only mumbled, “Thank you.”

“Oh, it is my pleasure,” Modi said. “Come, let us get our seats.”

They started toward the red car on the angled track; it was the size of a small trolley car, Chris saw.

“This is the steepest cogwheel railway in the world,” Modi told him like a cheerful tour guide. “Gradients of a one-foot rise every two feet are not uncommon. It takes about half an hour to reach the top.”

Chris looked ahead as they took their seats in the car.
Oh, my God
, he thought; any kind of height made him nervous and the track ahead sloped upward at an angle that looked to be at least forty-five degrees. It wasn’t enough that he had to worry about what Modi might or might not do, what might or might not happen when he reached the top. He also had to endure this nightmare ride to the peak of Pilatus.

He swallowed dryly, grimacing in dread.

“Oh, it is perfectly safe, I guarantee you,” Modi told him, looking over. “I think you will find the ride most intriguing.”

Sure, Chris thought, until the chain breaks and the little red trolley car that couldn’t goes plummeting backward down the slope at two hundred miles an hour until it reaches the end of the track.

He stiffened as the engineer came in and started the car.
Immediately, it hitched forward and began to climb the steep incline. Chris caught his breath.

“It really is quite safe,” Modi reassured him.

Why should I believe
you
?
Chris thought angrily. Modi was just another spy, albeit smoother than the rest he’d met. Except for Alexsandra, of course—assuming that she
was
a spy and not a figment of his imagination.

He glanced over at Modi and was surprised to see that the East Indian’s eyes were closed.
Sure of yourself, aren’t you?
he thought. Well, why not? What could he do to Modi at this point? Set him on fire with his little cigarette lighter? Pry off the top of his head with his Swiss army knife’s can opener?

He looked across his shoulder, grimacing as he saw how high the railway car had already ascended; he could see for miles across the countryside, see the dock and steamer far below. Turning back, he did what he could to blur the focus of his eyes. Better he didn’t look.

He glanced at Modi again. Was the man really asleep or only feigning it? He waited for several minutes, then, very slowly, reached down to unbutton his jacket pocket. Eyes fixed on Modi, he removed the two folded menu sheets and opened them with one hand so that his body wouldn’t stir.

It seemed to him his mind had never worked so fast as he raced his gaze across the equations and formulas he’d penciled down. He had to memorize them in five-second bites, eyes shifting constantly to Modi to make sure that the East Indian was still asleep. How could the man be so casual under these circumstances? he wondered. It gave him a sense of what the East Indian’s temperament was really like: action when needed, relaxation in between. A sound way to proceed and one that Chris was incapable of practicing.

In less than two minutes, he had the contents of one menu sheet committed to memory. He closed his eyes and brought up the readout on his mental computer, saw the page clearly. There, it was programmed now; he could bring it up at will.