'Why do you think her car is in Erfurt?'
'That's where she intended to step off the train. This late at night she might have had trouble finding a taxi. Better to have her car there than back at Weimar.'
'I'm on it.' Jane's voice purred with a touch of excitement. Cell phones and laptops were the treasure troves of her existence.
Malloy picked up a government issue SUV at the Frankfurt Bahnhof, leaving the stolen car sitting at the side of the road. He was pulling into Mannheim less than an hour later, when Jane called him. 'Any luck?' he asked.
'We're still trying to get someone to Erfurt to have a look.
That's not why I'm calling. Do you remember Irina Turner?'
Malloy frowned. 'You're talking about Jack Farrell's administrative assistant?' The
sex-a-tary
Farrell had abandoned in Barcelona.
'That's the one. Seems she landed in New York three hours ago in the company of two investigators with the Spanish Federal police. They passed through Immigration and Customs and were met by two FBI Agents - according to plan. Our people were going to drive Turner and the Spanish Federales into Manhattan. That's the last contact anyone had with them.'
'You're telling me Irina Turner took out
four
federal officers and then disappeared?'
'Or she had help. Either way, I'm guessing she wasn't as dumb as we thought.'
'I need to think about this.'
'I thought you might. If you come up with anything, give me a call. I don't think I'll be getting much sleep tonight.'
Zürich, Switzerland
Malloy parked his borrowed SUV at the Offenburg Bahnhof and left the keys locked inside, as per instructions. A couple of hours later he dropped his cell phone in a trash container and caught an early morning train crossing the border into Basel, Switzerland. There he bought a tri-band cell phone from one of the local phone markets and caught a train to Zürich at just after ten o'clock. It was late in the U.S., but he took Jane at her word and called her home number. She answered, sounding wide awake. He told her to get a new cell phone, that the other had been compromised. Administrative details out of the way, Jane told him, 'We found Chernoff's car, T. K.'
'Anything in it?'
'Computer, cell phone, clothing, spare IDs, credit cards, guns, ammo, and cash.'
'I don't suppose you have told the Germans about our good fortune yet?'
'I thought we might see how much they give us from their interrogations before I make nice with them.'
Malloy's next call was to Captain Marcus Steiner of the Zürich
Stadtpolizei.
'Thomas!' Marcus announced. 'I was hoping I would hear from you today!'
'Just coming into town. I thought I might buy you lunch at your favourite bar, say around noon?'
'Sounds good. I'll see you then!'
From the Zürich Bahnhof Malloy took the Bahnhofstrasse exit and came to street level a short block away from the Gotthard Hotel. In good Swiss German he asked if he might have a room for the week. After a moment of thoughtful consideration the desk clerk checked his files and seemed suddenly quite satisfied with himself, like a man who has just solved a particularly difficult puzzle. 'I can give you the same room you had the last time you were here, Herr Stalder. Will that be okay?'
Malloy, who had not offered any of his names, smiled brightly. 'That would be fine!' He had been to Zürich on a couple of trips within the past year but the last time he had used the Stalder alias was at the Gotthard in the fall of 2006. He had always taken care not to shuffle his aliases too carelessly within a given city, and this was a perfect example of what could go wrong. A forgotten face, a passing acquaintance, a friend of a friend, a waiter, or a desk clerk with a long memory: one false name at the wrong moment and a cover could be blown. Sometimes that meant losing a passport, which cost money and time. Sometimes it exposed whole networks, which had the potential to cost lives.
The Swiss were especially troublesome in this respect. Most took one job and stayed there for years, if not a lifetime. Unlike the rest of the world, the
real
Swiss prided themselves on delivering service. That included remembering their regulars and apparently even the irregulars. This one was a real Swiss.
Malloy opened his wallet and found some Euro notes left
over from Hamburg. He passed a hundred Euros across the desk to the man - not quite a night's rent at the Gotthard. 'I appreciate the thoughtfulness.' When the clerk was not quite sure if he had been handled a gratuity or an advance on the room, Malloy added, That's just for you, but do me a favour.'
'Anything, Herr Stalder.'
'Make sure you spend it on something of absolutely no practical value.'
Virtue rewarded, the clerk folded the bill into his pocket and called someone to the desk. 'Watch the desk for a moment,' he said. 'I'm taking Herr Stalder to his room.'
The clerk had some trouble with the weight of Malloy's suitcase but made a brave face of it. Inside the elevator Malloy told him, 'Sorry about the luggage, but I'm packing extra ammunition this trip.'
Herr Hess, Malloy's new best friend, laughed politely.
Malloy's unspecified meeting place with Marcus Steiner was The James Joyce Pub, a couple of blocks off the Bahnhofstrasse, probably six from the Gotthard. Priced to keep out the riffraff, the pub was rarely crowded but always worth the visit. Malloy arrived first and took one of the comfortable booths at the back of the room. He had just ordered a beer when Marcus walked in.
Malloy had met Marcus Steiner forty-three years ago in the streets of Zürich. At the time Marcus had not spoken any English. Malloy, freshly imported from America, was a bit mystified by the fact that he couldn't understand anything anyone said. In a matter of months he was speaking Swiss German with his new friend and learning the basics of burglary. He may only have been seven years old, but Marcus had already discovered the Swiss fondness for keeping cash stashed away in various hiding places within their houses. He needed only an accomplice to distract his victims at the front door whilst he entered the house through an open window, and there were always plenty of those. By the age of ten the boys
had graduated from the neighbourhood, where they had become suspicious characters, and had moved on to parts of town where they were not known. By twelve they were breaking into houses and taking everything they could carry. It was more dangerous but more profitable as well.
When Malloy's father and mother had finally returned to the States, young Thomas was fourteen. He knew Swiss German like a native and High German well enough to read and communicate. He also had the basics down on how to steal almost anything. All thanks to Marcus Steiner. The friendship, of course, did not survive the distance of an ocean. They weren't the pen pal sorts, and for the next decade the two boys went straight - at least young Thomas did - concentrating on getting an education and a decent job. When Malloy returned to Zürich on a three year assignment as an intelligence operative his first recruit was his old friend Marcus, who had perversely opted for a career in law enforcement. As Marcus had put it, the pay was good, the benefits were excellent, and it kept him close to the thing he loved.
After a few minutes of catching up - including an abbreviated telling of Malloy's troubles in Hamburg - Malloy got down to business. He needed a bodyguard for a few days. At his friend's raised eyebrow, he explained, 'Helena Chernoff may be out of play, but whoever hired her is still out there.'
They worked through the details, including a healthy advance that Malloy would deposit at a local bank under an alias Marcus used. That finished, Malloy asked his friend what he knew about the Italian mafia. This seemed to throw Marcus. He named a couple of the families operating in the north and finished, inevitably, with Giancarlo Bartoli, who was maybe connected and maybe just very lucky with his investments. Was Bartoli operating in Switzerland?
'He operates everywhere, Thomas. Giancarlo must sit on fifteen or twenty boards and probably owns that many more companies outright.'
'So what is his involvement with the families?'
'If you want rumours, I can give you everything you've already heard. If you want something more substantial, I'd say talk to Hasan.'
This of course was what he intended, but he had wanted what insights Marcus could give him before going to the Zürich branch of the Russian mafia. 'Can you set up a meeting?'
'I'll see what I can do.'
'Great. And one other thing. . .'
'Mr and Mrs Brand are staying at the Savoy for a few days under a doctor's care, but you won't get to them unless you ask for Peter Bartholomew.'
Malloy puzzled over this for a moment and then smiled. 'The guy who found the Lance of Antioch.'
'Ethan said you would understand.'
'How are they doing?'
'The doctor wants them both in hospital, which they won't do, and he wants Kate off her feet for a week or two. She's agreed to a couple of days. I saw them this morning. She asked me to get her a set of throwing knives and a target.'
'You're kidding me.'
'She tells me throwing knives can be very restorative.'
Marcus drove Malloy to one of his banks and Malloy arranged a wire transfer to cover the cost of his protection - all of them off duty Zürich police with arrest powers. Back at the Gotthard, a plainclothes policeman was already waiting at the front of the hotel when Marcus dropped him off.
Upstairs he pulled the shutters and took a long nap, but he slept in armour. His Uzi and a spare clip lay on the floor next to the bed. Meanwhile the cop who had met him at the front of the building stood outside his door. He woke up at nine that evening, but only because Marcus called him.
'Needle Park in an hour. Look for a friendly face.'
'A friendly face?' he asked, still trying to come up out of a
deep sleep. There was no answer. Marcus had already hung up.
Malloy ordered a sandwich sent to his room, delivered by Herr Hess, and then called Jane at her office while he ate. Her secretary said she wasn't in, but a minute later Jane returned his call on a new cell phone. 'How's Josh Sutter?' Malloy asked.
'Agent Sutter is going to be flying home tomorrow.'
'Anything on Irina Turner?'
'About six hours ago Newark city police turned up a car in a parking garage registered to the FBI - four dead agents inside.'
'Did
she
do it?'
'A Port Authority motorcycle was found abandoned on I-278 not far from the I-495 exit. The operating theory at this point is that someone impersonated a Port Authority patrolman and stopped the car, but it gets worse.'
'I don't see how.'
'They think someone in the Manhattan office provided the route.'
'Someone
in
the FBI?'
'Something tells me this thing is a little bit bigger than Jack Farrell turning into a rabbit, T. K.'
'Any news on Helena Chernoff?'
'The Germans are telling us she's as silent as the tomb, but the computer is giving us quite a bit.'
'Any way I can get a copy of everything you receive?'
'I'll send the preliminary report to Bern on a secure line and have someone hand-deliver it to you tomorrow morning your time.'
They took a minute to set up the details. Then Malloy asked, 'What have you turned up on the H. Langer alias - from the cell phone Chernoff was using in Hamburg?' When Jane did not respond, he prompted. 'She had a bank account with Sardis and Thurgau in Zürich. , .'
'Right! They got back with us yesterday. Let's see. . . okay.
They were holding eight hundred thousand Swiss francs up until the end of last year. At that point Chernoff or one of her agents transferred all but a thousand francs into another account - which of course we can't access.'
'End of last year?'
'You think it means something?'
'I think this is one alias she
wanted
to blow.'
Berlin, Germany
Fall, 1935.
At the front door of their townhouse Bachman shook Rahn's hand affectionately, like old times, and brought him into a palatial nineteenth century townhouse. Rahn carried a bouquet of wildflowers to give to Elise and an exquisite Bavarian doll for the child, both of which he handed to Elise when she walked into the parlour. The flowers were a courtesy, but the doll was something of a treasure. Elise told him it was wonderful. Sarah would love it.
She spoke with all the naturalness of a fond old friend and, contrary to Bachman's assessment, seemed not to have changed at all. She was still perfectly beautiful, as trim and serene as the first time they had met. She called him Otto, and actually looked pleased to see him. They kissed in the fashion of family and close friends, the touch of her cheeks stirring in him dark, intimate memories, but there was nothing in her expression to suggest similar sensations. In her eyes he saw the pleasure of seeing an old friend, nothing more. She showed him to a settee, and sat opposite him. Bachman left the room to fix highballs. Whilst he was gone Elise mentioned her surprise that he had agreed to join Himmler's staff. She had never imagined him mixed up in politics.