'Get to the point, Bob.'
'Marler followed her when she left her flat after Philip had gone. Followed her to Heathrow where she boarded a flight. Bound for Geneva.'
Thank Heaven I brought arctic clothing, Paula thought.
The aircraft was flying lower over Switzerland. It was dark but the sky was star-studded and the moon shone brightly. They were passing over the Jura Mountains, which were snow-bound, and a small lake was a gleam of solid ice.
As some flights did, the plane flew east, then south, then west over Lake Geneva. It landed smoothly at the airport and the American beside her she had chatted with got up. She was in Business Class and quickly put on the fur-lined coat a stewardess brought her from where it had hung during the flight.
'Say, I can remember this airport when it was pretty small.' said the American who had come up next to her as they walked along an endless corridor. 'Now it's too goddamn big – and gettin' bigger all the time.'
'I can remember it in those days too.' Paula replied. 'It was cosy and no distance at all to walk.'
'You're on your own, lady. Care to join me for dinner this evening? No strings attached. I mean that.'
'That's very kind of you but I do have a date for this evening.'
'Enjoy your date. Nice to have met you…'
He walked more quickly and Paula heaved a sigh of relief. The American was a nice man, it was pleasant to realize she was still attractive, but she had no time to waste.
Leaving Cointrin, she took a taxi to the Hotel des Bergues, booked a room, and tipped the porter when he'd carried her heavy bag up. The spacious room overlooked the River Rhone and a blaze of neon lights on the far side advertising this and that. The lights were reflected in the water as wavy distortions. She dialled Park Crescent and Monica answered.
Paula. I'm at the Hotel des Bergues, room number
'Got it.' said Monica.
Paula put down the phone, unpacked her bag swiftly, went back down into the lobby wearing her fur coat again.
'Be careful, miss.' the commissionaire warned as she was about to step into the street. 'It's like a skating rink out there…'
She paused outside, tested the grip of her fur-lined boots, found it was good. She was wearing a pair of boots with special soles which had tiny spikes. After being inside the warm hotel for a few minutes the cold air hit her and she adjusted the coat's hood over her head.
On the plane she had checked the address of the dealer in arms and found she was familiar with the street which ran parallel to the Rhone across the water. She started walking across the footbridge, which zigzagged over the river. A raw wind froze her exposed cheeks, a wind blowing all the way from the distant Rhone glacier down the lake into Geneva. Despite the heavy gloves she wore, with her hand on the rail to keep her balance, she felt the cold penetrating the gloves. It was way below zero.
Leaving the bridge, she walked a short distance, turned into the right street, checking the numbers. Her destination turned out to be a shop with the word Antiquateren over the fascia. No sign of the name Rico Sava.
She had checked several times coming across the bridge to make sure she hadn't been followed. And the street she was in was deserted. So, it appeared, was the shop. The windows were in darkness with a grille over them. The door was ancient, heavy, and had a Judas window with bars. She pressed the bell beside it, pressed it several times when no one came. God, has he gone home, she thought. But I do need a gun.
There was a rattling sound and the Judas window opened. She couldn't see who was behind it.
'Rico Sava?' she asked.
'Oui.'
'Do you speak English?' she asked; although she was fluent in French, she thought Sava might be more convinced of her identity. 'A friend of mine, Marler. Marler.' she repeated, 'sent me here. He said you could supply me with something special.'
'I speak English. Are you alone? You say you are. Now close your eyes.'
Mystified, she did so, and a glaring light over the door came on. It was so powerful she was aware of it even with her eyes closed. She heard several locks being unfastened, bolts drawn, then the door opened. She kept her eyes shut.
'You can open your eyes now.'
The light had gone off. She blinked, stared at a small figure silhouetted in the dark. Sava told her to come in, took her elbow, warned her about a step down, then closed the door, made it secure, and switched on a normal light.
Rico Sava was small, had the beginnings of a paunch, was dressed in corduroy trousers, a dark waistcoat which was unbuttoned revealing a clean white shirt, open at the neck. In his sixties, she guessed, he had a turnip-shaped head with the short end his chin. His swarthy skin was lined but his eyes were bright, very alert.
'Describe Marler,' he said, hands on his hips.
She did so, emphasizing his upper-crust accent and languid manner.
'Mimic his voice.' Sava suggested pleasantly.
Paula did so, exaggerating the drawling manner Marler spoke with. Sava nodded, satisfied.
'You're careful.' Paula commented.
'In my business I have to be. So tell me how I can help you.' he said with a smile which lit up his previously sombre face.
'I want a. 32 Browning automatic in perfect condition. And spare mags. Have you got one?'
'You know, I think we might be able to oblige.'
Sava walked quickly to a bookcase on a wall hidden from all the shop windows. He opened the case after unlocking it, took another key from the ring in his hand, and inserted it into a keyhole Paula, even with her sharp eyes, could not see. The entire interior of the bookcase from floor to ceiling revolved open like a giant door, revealing another compartment behind it. On the shelves, neatly stored, was a large collection of handguns. He turned round to hand her a Browning.
'In perfect condition, you said. That fell off the back of a lorry on its way to a police armoury.' He chuckled. 'That is a British joke, is it not?'
'It is.' replied Paula with a smile.
She made sure the weapon was not loaded, then checked its mechanism. Sava handed her a magazine. She slid it inside the butt, rammed it home with the heel of her hand, then lifted the gun in both hands, raised it to test its weight and feel, staring along the shallow gunsight. It nestled in her hands like her own weapon back at Park Crescent.
'Great.' she said. 'Just great. How much – with the spare mags?'
'For you, three thousand francs. Including the mags.'
'And for someone else?' she teased him.
'Three and a half thousand.' he said seriously, and she believed him. 'Because you are a friend of Marler's.' he explained.
She paid him in thousand-franc notes, slipped the gun into the hip holster she was already wearing. She normally carried the weapon in a special pocket inside her shoulder bag but her fingers were so cold, as she had anticipated might be the case, she knew she could reach the gun quicker out of the holster.
She turned to speak to Sava and he had already closed and locked the fake bookcase. A very careful man.
'Thank you for your help.'
'Give my regards to Mr Marler when you next see him.'
'I will – and I'll tell him about the generous discount.'
'It was nothing.'
He spread his hands, then crinkled his brow and Paula waited, guessing he was wondering whether to say something else.
'I would never dream of asking you why you are here.' Sava began, 'but I hope you are not going near the Old City tonight.'
'Why the warning, if I may ask?'
'Of course you may. There is a murderous gang we have nicknamed the Leather Bombers patrolling that area. They are men in black leather on motorcycles and the other night they knocked down a woman crossing one of the old streets. They just picked up her body, slung it over the rear of one of their machines, and drove off.'