10
For the second time
in twelve hours, Marcus von Daniken was back in Zurich. The sign above the entry read “Robotica AG” in meter-high letters colored a blazing blue. According to his dossier, Theo Lammers had founded the company in 1994 and was its sole owner and CEO. Its activity was referenced obscurely as “machine parts.”
A sturdy, officious-looking woman stood in the reception area, hands clasped behind her back as if awaiting a general on the parade ground. “Michaela Menz,” she announced, approaching with two soldierly strides. She was dressed in a sober two-piece suit, her brown hair cut short and parted on the side. Her business card noted that her doctorate was in mechanical engineering. With honors.
In return, von Daniken offered her a look at his ID and a hardbitten smile. Now they were equal.
“We’re still in a state of shock,” said Menz as she led the way to her office. “None of us can think of anyone who would wish to harm Mr. Lammers. He was a wonderful man.”
“I have no reason to doubt it,” said von Daniken. “In fact, that’s why I’m here. We’re as anxious as you to find the murderer. Anything you can tell me will be of great help.”
Menz’s office was small and neatly furnished. There were no pictures of family, lovers, or friends. He spotted her as a work widow and realized she was probably sick with worry. Not for Lammers so much, but for the business and who would run it now that he was dead.
“Do you think it’s a colleague who’s responsible?” she asked in a tone of enthusiastic mourning. “Someone abroad, perhaps?”
“I really couldn’t say at this point. It’s our policy not to comment on an investigation. Perhaps we can start with the company. What exactly is it that you do?”
The executive brought her chair closer to her desk. “Navigation systems. Above ground, underwater, mobile terminal positioning.” Seeing the confused look in von Daniken’s eyes, she added, “We make instruments that plot the exact position of planes and boats and cars.”
“Like GPS?”
A frown indicated that he was off base. “We don’t like to rely on satellites. We recently patented a new terrain navigation system for aircraft utilizing a technology called sensor fusion. Our device combines measurements from inertial navigation systems, digital maps, and a radar altimeter. By measuring the terrain height variations along the aircraft flight path and comparing these with a digital terrain map, we’re able to establish the exact position of the aircraft within millimeters.”
“And who buys this type of device?”
“We have many clients. Boeing, General Electric, and Airbus, among others.”
Von Daniken raised his eyebrows, impressed. “So I have you to thank when my airliner doesn’t fly into a mountain?”
“Not just us…but, in a manner of speaking, yes.”
He leaned closer, as if eager to share a secret. “I imagine that kind of work has military applications. Do you have clients in the defense industry? Aircraft manufacturers? Laser-guided munitions? That kind of thing?”
“None.”
“But some of the companies you mentioned have rather large defense-related businesses, don’t they?”
“They may, but they’re not clients. There are other companies that manufacture military navigation systems.”
To von Daniken’s ear, the answers were a shade too brisk. Lammers had, after all, been put on the watch list because of his involvement in the manufacture of large artillery pieces, including the “supergun” being made for Saddam Hussein. “Would it surprise you to learn that Mr. Lammers designed artillery pieces when he was younger?” he asked.
“He was a brilliant man,” said Menz. “I imagine he had many interests he didn’t share with me. I can only state that as a firm, we’ve never had any involvement with weapons of any kind.” Her brow drew together. “Why? Do you think that it has something to do with his death?”
“At this stage, anything is a possibility.”
“I see.” Menz looked away and he could see that she was playing with the idea. Her expression softened. Covering her face, she stifled a sob. “Please, excuse me. Theo’s death has disturbed me terribly.”
Von Daniken busied himself jotting down notes. He was no Inspector Maigret, but it seemed apparent that Michaela Menz was telling the truth. Or, at least, that if Lammers were involved in anything untoward, she didn’t know about it. He waited until the woman had calmed down, then asked, “Did Mr. Lammers travel much for his work?”
Menz raised her head. “Travel? Good Lord, yes,” she said, wiping her eyes. “He was constantly on the road. Checking installations. Taking orders. Keeping up goodwill.”
“And what countries did he visit primarily?”
“Ninety percent of our sales are within Europe. He was always bouncing between Düsseldorf, Paris, Milan, and London. The industrial hubs, mostly.”
“Ever get to the Middle East? Syria? Dubai?”
“Never.”
“No business with Israel or Egypt?”
“Absolutely not.”
“And who was responsible for booking his trips?”
“He did, I imagine.”
“Are you saying that Mr. Lammers didn’t have a secretary to make his reservations? Planes, hotels, rental cars…there’s so much that goes into planning a business trip these days.”
“He wouldn’t hear of it. Theo was a hands-on manager. He booked his travel on the Internet.”
Von Daniken scribbled the information on his pad. He didn’t buy the bit about his being a hands-on manager. Secretive was more like it. He didn’t want anyone looking over his shoulder when he booked his flights in the name of Jules Gaye or any other of his aliases. “Dr. Menz,” he asked with the promise of a smile. “Do you think I might see his office? It would help me get a better feel for him.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
In fact, von Daniken was already exceeding his brief. There hadn’t been time to apply for a warrant. In the eyes of the law, he had no right to snoop around the establishment. “I want to do everything possible to catch the man who killed him,” he said, challenging her with his gaze. “Don’t you?”
Michaela Menz rose from the desk and beckoned von Daniken to follow her. Lammers’s office was next door. The space was the same size as Menz’s, the furnishings equally spare. Von Daniken’s eye immediately caught on an intriguing object displayed on the credenza. The device was a half meter in height, made of some kind of translucent plastic and shaped like a V. “And this? Is it one of your products?” he asked.
“It is an MAV,” said Dr. Menz. “A micro airborne vehicle.”
“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the MAV. Menz nodded and he picked it up. The object weighed less than one kilogram. The wings were at once incredibly firm and strangely flexible. “Does it actually fly?”
“Of course,” she responded, bristling as if insulted. “It has a range of fifty kilometers and can reach a top speed of over four hundred kilometers per hour.”
“Impossible!” declaimed von Daniken, playing the part of the yokel. “And he built it here?”
Menz nodded approvingly. “With his own hands in our R and D lab. This one’s the smallest he’s produced. He was quite proud of it.”
Von Daniken memorized her every word.
Range: fifty kilometers. Speed: four hundred kilometers an hour. Built with his own hands…the smallest he’s produced.
Which meant there were others. He studied the odd aircraft.
No doubt it was guided by a navigation system accurate to within centimeters. “Is it one of your products? Were you thinking of adding it to the line? Branching into toys?”
As hoped, Menz stiffened at the word. Stepping forward, she relieved him of the remote-controlled aircraft. “The MAV is no toy. It’s the lightest vehicle of its kind in the world. For your information, we built it for a very important client.”
“May I inquire who?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential, but I can promise you that they have nothing to do with the military. Quite the opposite, in fact. You would recognize their name in an instant. We consider it an honor of the highest order.”
“It would be a tremendous help if you let me know who that client is.”
Menz shook her head. “I don’t see how that could be of any help in finding Theo’s killer.”
Von Daniken retreated gracefully. He thanked her for her time and asked her to call should she have anything else she wished to add. As he returned to his car, he was not thinking about robots. He was thinking about the MAV.
Michaela Menz was right. It was no toy.
It was a weapon in drag.
11
Jonathan marched down the hill,
carving his way past slower walkers. He kept his hands in his pockets, his fingers kneading the baggage receipts. Were they for luggage? Skis and boots? Extra winter clothing? Upon finding them, he’d phoned Emma’s office, but no one there could recall sending her anything.
If not them, then who?
he wondered. And why hadn’t there been a note, let alone a return address? The questions needled him mercilessly. Mostly, though, he asked himself why Emma had wanted to hide them from him.
The Poststrasse snaked pleasantly as it descended the mountain. Shops, cafés, and hotels lined either side of the street. Across Switzerland, the first week of February was “ski week,” a traditional school vacation. Families from St. Gallen to Geneva fled en masse to the mountains. Today, however, the continued snowfall and gusty winds had shut down all lifts, including the Luftseilbahn. The sidewalks were crowded to bustling. There would be no going up the mountain. Not for Jonathan or anyone else.
Passing Lanz’s Uhren und Schmuck Boutique, he stopped abruptly. In the center window, flanked by glimmering wristwatches, stood an out-of-date meteorological station: a thermometer, hygrometer, and barometer all built into one. It had been in the same place eight years ago when he’d come here with Emma on their first trip to the mountains. The setup was the size of an old ham radio and was comprised of three pen-graphs that recorded the atmospheric conditions. In its center, a bulb burned red, indicating that the barometric pressure was falling. Poor weather would prevail. The snow would continue for some time yet.
Jonathan bent toward the glass to study the readings. Over the past thirty-six hours, the temperature had dropped from a high of three degrees Celsius to a low of minus eleven. Relative humidity had skyrocketed, while barometric pressure had plummeted from one thousand millibars to seven hundred, where it now stood.
“Why didn’t you check the weather?”
the policeman had asked him the night before.
In his mind, Jonathan was back on the mountain with the snow and the wind and the menacing cold. He felt his arm around Emma’s waist as she crested that final ridge and collapsed against him. He remembered the look of accomplishment in her eyes; the swell of pride and the quicksilver certainty that they could do anything together.
“Jonathan!”
Far off, someone was calling his name. A gravelly voice with a French accent. He paid it no heed. He continued to stare at the red light, until it burned a corona into his vision. Emma
had
checked the weather. But she’d been too determined to make the climb to tell him that the forecast wasn’t good.
Just then, a hand gripped his shoulder. “What’s this?” asked the French-accented voice. “I have to track down my own welcoming committee?”
Jonathan spun and looked into the face of a tall, attractive woman with wavy dark hair. “Simone…you made it.”
Simone Noiret dropped her overnight bag and hugged him tightly. “I’m sorry.”
Jonathan hugged her back, closing his eyes and clamping his jaw. Fight as he might, he was powerless against the emotion that came with seeing a familiar face. After a moment, she eased her grip and held him at arm’s length. “And so,” she asked. “How are you holding up?”
“Okay,” he said. “Not okay. I don’t know. More numb than anything else.”
“You look like shit. Stopped shaving, showering, and eating? This is not good.”
He forced a smile, wiping at his cheek. “Not hungry, I guess.”
“We’re going to have to do something about that.”
“I guess so,” he said.
Simone forced him to meet her eye. “You guess so?”
Jonathan pulled himself together. “Yes, Simone, we’re going to do something about that.”
“That’s better.” She folded her arms and shook her head as if she were castigating one of her fourth-grade pupils.
Simone Noiret was Egyptian by birth, French by marriage, and a teacher by profession. Recently turned forty, she looked ten years younger, a fact which she attributed to her Arab heritage. Her Levantine blood was evident in her hair, which was black and thick as Nile straw and cascaded elegantly to her shoulders, and her eyes, which were dark and untrusting and made the more imposing by liberal use of mascara. She carried an expensive leather handbag over one shoulder. She dug in it for a cigarette—a Gauloise—one of the sixty or so she smoked each day. So far, the cigarettes had confined their damage to her voice, which was as scratched as one of the old Brel records she carted around with her from one city to the next.
“Thanks for coming,” he said. “I needed to have someone around…someone who knew Emma.”
Simone began to speak, then caught herself, turning away from him and throwing her cigarette to the ground. “All during the train ride, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,” she said. “I told myself that you needed someone strong. Someone to cheer you up. To look after you. But, of course, you’re the strong one. Our Jonathan. Look at me. Like a baby.”
Tears ran from the corners of her eyes, smearing her cheek with mascara. Jonathan pulled a tissue from his pocket and wiped away the smudges.
“Paul sends his condolences,” she managed between sniffles. “He’s in Davos for the week. Mr. Bigshot is to deliver a speech on the corruption in Africa. Now there’s an original topic. He wanted you to know that he is devastated that he couldn’t come.”
Simone’s husband, Paul, was a French economist, a highly-placed paper pusher at the World Bank.
“It’s alright. I know he’d come if he could.”
“It’s not, and I told him so. These days we are all slaves to our ambition.” Simone caught a glimpse of herself in the shop window and winced. “
Mais merde.
Now I look like shit, too. What a pair we are.”
The Ransoms and the Noirets had met in Beirut two years before, neighbors in the same apartment building during Jonathan’s tour with DWB. At the time, Simone was teaching at the American School in Beirut. Learning that Emma was in the aid game, she’d used her contacts to secure cheap digs for the “mission,” which was what aid workers called their operational units. The act of kindness had cemented Emma’s loyalty forever.
Jonathan’s assignment to DWB headquarters in Geneva was greeted with joy, at least by the women. (Jonathan had dreaded the move…and with good reason, it turned out.) Paul Noiret was due to rotate back to Geneva two weeks earlier. The Noirets had once again come to the rescue, helping Jonathan and Emma find an affordable apartment at their upscale complex in Cologny. The couples dined together whenever their schedules permitted. Burgers at the Ransoms’ one month. Coq au vin at the Noirets’ the next. It was not, as Emma had liked to point out, exactly a fair trade.
Jonathan picked up Simone’s overnight bag. “Come with me,” he said, starting off down the hill.
“But I thought the hotel was in the other direction.”
“It is. We’re going to the train station.”
Simone hurried to catch up. “Getting rid of me already?”
“No. There’s something I have to check on.” He held up the receipts for her inspection.
“What are they?” asked Simone.
“I think they’re baggage claims. They came in a letter for Emma yesterday. The only thing inside was a blank piece of paper. No signature. No note. Just these things.”
Simone plucked them from his fingers. “SBB. That means the Schweizerische Bundesbahn. Is she missing any luggage?”
“That’s what I want to find out.”
“Who sent them?”
“No idea. There’s no name anywhere.” He took back the receipts. “Think it might be from a friend of hers?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You were with her in Paris.”
“Yes, I was. And so?”
Jonathan hesitated. “There was this emergency at work while you two were there. I tried to reach her for two days. When I couldn’t, I got upset. She said she’d camped out in your room at the hotel and didn’t bother going to her own.”
There it was then; his suspicions set out plain to see. Naked insecurities. In the light of day, they appeared petty and insubstantial.
“And you didn’t believe her?” Simone put her hand on his arm and gave a squeeze. “But it’s true. We stayed together the entire time. It was our ‘girls’ weekend.’ We didn’t even begin to talk until after midnight. That’s when the motors got going. That was our Emma. All or nothing. You know that.” She laughed wistfully, not so much recollecting the moment as to dispel his worry. “Emma wasn’t cheating on you. She wasn’t the type.”
“What about these bags? She never mentioned anything to you? A trip she had planned? A surprise of some kind?”
“A ‘lightning safari’?”
“Something like that.”
A “lightning safari” was the name they’d given Emma’s jaunts to secure supplies. At least once a month, she made unannounced dashes to points near and far to obtain type-A blood, penicillin, or even just vitamin C. Everything from the mundane to the miraculous.
Simone shook her head. “It must be something she ordered. Have you called her office?”
Jonathan said he had, and that they were quick to state that they hadn’t sent anything to her.
“Well, I wouldn’t worry,” said Simone, as she slipped her arm into his and they walked to the bottom of the hill.
At the main post office, they turned left, skirting the Obersee, a small lake, now frozen over and cordoned off by ropes to allow the new snow to settle. The Bahnhof was deserted. Two trains serviced Arosa each hour. The first, taking passengers down the mountain to Chur, departed at three minutes after the hour. The second, bringing passengers up, arrived at eight after.
Jonathan headed toward the luggage counter. The attendant took the tickets and returned after a minute, shaking his head. “Not here,” he said.
Jonathan stared into the recesses of the storage area where dozens of bags were stacked on a maze of iron shelves. “You’re sure you checked everything?”
“Try the ticket office. The station manager can tell you if the bags are in the system.”
The ticket office was likewise deserted. Jonathan stepped to the counter and slipped the receipts beneath the window. “Not here,” reported the station manager, his eyes locked on the monitor. “The bags are in Landquart. They arrived two days ago.”
Landquart was a small town on the Zurich–Chur line, best known as the terminus for Klosters, favored haunt of the British monarchy, and Davos, the fashionable ski resort.
“Do you know where they were sent from?” Jonathan inquired.
“Both items were sent from Ascona. Part of our drop-and-ship program. Put aboard the 13:57 to Zurich. Transferred onward to Landquart.”
Ascona was on Switzerland’s border with Italy. One of the palm-frocked resorts dotting the shores of Lago Maggiore. He had no friends who lived there. Apparently, Emma did.
Simone leaned her head toward the window. “Can you tell us who exactly sent the bags?”
The station manager shook his head. “I don’t have the authority to access that information from this terminal.”
“Who does?” she asked.
“Only the issuing station at Ascona.”
Jonathan reached for his wallet, but Simone beat him to the punch. She slipped her credit card across the counter. “Two tickets to Landquart,” she said. “First class.”