Switch off the table lamp. Open the curtains. Exit the study, along the hallway to the landing. Findhorn gives Joe a look. Joe relocks the apartment door.
Halfway down the stairs, Joe turns and sprints back up, almost colliding with Romella. He tries a door at random: a broom cupboard. Joe squeezes in and Findhorn bundles Romella after him. The faithful are chanting, approaching the stairway. Desperately, Findhorn tries another door. It is locked, and the next and the next. He hauls open a door just as the first of the faithful reach the landing, finds himself in another apartment. He just has time to see them, dressed in long black gowns, male and female side by side, led by a bald-headed male of about fifty looking like a bespectacled Bruce Willis. The man is leading the chant in a tenor voice, each line being echoed by about half the faithful. Findhorn stands petrified in the dark room as the procession moves solemnly along the corridor, inches from him.
The procession passes. Joe opens the door, looking hunted. Findhorn opens his. The faithful are disappearing into the chapel, two abreast. One of them, a small, middle-aged woman, looks back, gives them a puzzled look. In the corridor, Joe bows his head and clasps his hands together inside the wide sleeves of the robe. He is trying not to run. The chant is now in English, fading as the line enters the chapeclass="underline"
They reach the spiral staircase. Joe whispers, 'Right, for Christ's sake, let's get out of this nut house.' He opens the window. They are now bathed in the lights of the helipad. There is a ten-foot drop. Romella goes first, risking a broken ankle. Findhorn follows without hesitation. Joe drops his bag, which lands in the snow with a thud. He balances precariously on the windowsill, knees bent, closing the window. The stairwell light comes on. He hasn't a second to position himself and has a simple choice: a stunt-man-type jump, or a drop of sarin on his skin. He jumps.
Away from the turret, they find themselves in full view of a man with a rifle over his shoulder. He is speaking to the pilot. Joe says, 'Come,' and they walk across the snow, heads bowed and arms in sleeves, towards the swimming pool, Romella with rucksack and jackets over her arms. The rifleman pays them no attention whatsoever.
Into the enfolding cloak of darkness, beyond the perimeter lights; disoriented, looking for Stefi's torchlight. Joe stays behind, crouching down at the fence. He is closing up the gap and taking the time to do it well; he wants his two-plus-two open-top, flamenco red bird trap.
Findhorn will settle for a toilet.
33
The Raid
In Doug's Davos hotel bedroom, with white peaks framed by the window, Findhorn plugs into the big television screen rather than the cramped little monitor of his laptop. Doug, in an armchair, has Stefi on his knee but doesn't seem to mind. Romella is sitting cross-legged on the double bed while Findhorn, on the edge of the bed, flicks through the items from Albrecht's locked drawer:
• A letter from Mr Tedesco, President of the Society for Information Display. Can you spare one of your senior staff to give a seminar on Advanced Cockpit Displays?
• A long, technical letter from an Andrew Roper, of the UK's MOD, requesting an evaluation of an exciting new development in night-vision goggles (paper enclosed).
• A letter from Colonel Herzberg of US Army Aviation Center, Fort Rucker. Confirming that he will be bringing his team to Davos next month to discuss the new gun system. Secretaries will co-ordinate diaries. Issues to be discussed include survivability, combat effectiveness, human factors engineering, visionics, horizon technology integration, reliability, ASE equipment interfacing. Something has been scrawled over it. Findhorn recognizes the word 'Rosa'.
• A newsletter, described as 'The Key to Unlock the Glory of the Last Days'. Something about the Rewards of Giving. It reads like a scam for the gullible.
• A love letter, or at least a lust letter, from a lady in Boston called Zoe. Romella translates: something about a Nile cruise, an obscure joke about an Italian football team, and the hope they can repeat the experience some time.
• A letter from the Curator, L'Annonciade, St. Tropez, reiterating the gallery's gratitude for the loan of the Klee and confirming that it would be insured for $7,500,000 (seven point five million US dollars) while being exhibited.
• An invitation from H. Silver and Associates, Advanced Systems Division, to attend the fourth HSA Conference on Attack Helicopters in London, England. Attendance fee £1,495 (+17.5 % VAT).
• Somebody from Hull with a visionary new aircraft design which he will reveal in exchange for a fifty per cent share in future profits; the letter is handwritten in biro on lined paper and has a three-up, second-flat-on-the-left address; the spelling is atrocious.
• An address book, small, black and shiny. Findhorn flicks on to the next item.
• A bill for SF 24,310 for installation of an Aga (four-oven, pewter) from Tamman & Sons, Zurich. It is addressed to a Herr W. Neff and has an address near Blatten, Brig, Valais, Switzerland. There is a photocopy of a cheque for that amount, signed by H.W. Neff and drawn on an account in Brig, Switzerland.
'Hey,' says Romella.
'I think so too,' Findhorn replies. 'Who is this Mister Neff, and why should Albrecht be paying for his Aga?'
'Is Neff in the address book?'
Findhorn skims through the electronic copy. There is no Herr Neff.
On the screen, Findhorn displays the last item, a photocopied letter. It has been written in German, with a thick-nibbed fountain pen.
Stefi is running her hands absent-mindedly through Doug's thinning hair. She says,
'My darling Zoe
Thank you for your wonderful letter. Agreed I can't compete with twenty-four Italian footballers but at my time of life I've learned that what counts is quality. I'll be in Morocco for the first two weeks in January. It will be business but I'm sending the Pirate on ahead and hope to put in a few days of sin and debauchery on the high seas. If you can stand the heat, why don't you join me? I'll pay the fare over as usual. Reply to me at Optika and mark it "Personal".
Your loving
Konrad.'
'I wish I was fluent in twenty languages.'
Stefi seems not to have heard. She is studying the letter closely. 'Go back to the Neff letter.'
Findhorn studies the signature on the cheque, flicks forward again to the love letter from Konrad. Different signatures, but written by the same hand, even with the same thick-nibbed pen. He claps his hands together. 'Well done. Ms Stefanova. Herr Neff and Konrad Albrecht are one and the same.'
Stefi beams. 'Yes, I think we've just struck gold.'
'Albrecht's hideaway. Someplace near Blatten in Switzerland. Could he be there now? With his engineers?'
Romella pulls the telephone onto the bed beside her. 'Put that letter from the US Army back on screen.'
Findhorn obliges. She says, 'That scrawl. It says Rosa.'
'Okay, he has a secretary at Davos called Rosa.' He puts the address book on screen again, flicks through its pages. He has a sense of excitement, like a hunter closing in on a quarry. There is a Rosa Stumpf, with a Davos address. Romella dials through, surprises Findhorn by speaking in fluent German. Findhorn hears a young woman's voice, with the sound of children shouting in the background.