'I'm beginning to wonder.'
The killers appear and they settle into the car. Findhorn takes off, leaving the square and taking the car onto the track. He is gripped by fear within the first two hundred yards. It is almost impossible not to skid, and within half a mile the metal barriers have petered out. He glances briefly away from the road, finds himself looking down on the roofs of chalets far, far below, and experiences a surge of terror. In the car, there is dead silence.
After about a mile the road worsens. The snow becomes deeper, and he has to negotiate a series of tight hairpin bends with nothing between the car and thousands of feet of air. His jaw aches with tension, his hands are sore with gripping the steering wheel and a dull ache has developed in his gut. Above them, a massive white cloud is billowing down the mountainside like an approaching avalanche.
At last, in a state of quiet terror, Findhorn sees an Alpine villa on the edge of his vision: he doesn't dare take his eye off the track. A final bend and the road levels, terminating at a square of open, flat ground. They step out. Findhorn is weak at the knees. To him, the altitude is incredible. They are looking out over white Alpine peaks and the air is pure and cold. He catches a whiff of wood smoke. Boulders as big as houses are scattered around. A forest of snow-laden conifers lies above them and there is a rough track into the trees. Far across the valley, clouds are pouring down between peaks like a vast waterfall.
The chalet is marked Heya. It is about fifty yards back from the square and is reached by a steep path. There is no garage, but there is a Saab in the square, and tracks in the snow where another vehicle has taken off recently. The winter supply of wood is piled high at the side of the chalet, which has a wooden verandah with little flower boxes. The roof is under a metre of snow and projects out over the house. The upstairs shutters are closed. A small Christmas tree is set to the side of a big downstairs window, its lights brilliant in the gloom.
'This guy likes seclusion,' Findhorn says. He is shaking all over.
'Which suits our purpose nicely.' Drindle is opening the rear door of the Suzuki.
'There might be a housekeeper,' Romella suggested.
'If there is, so much the worse for her.' Drindle is pulling what looks like a squat shotgun out of a holdall. The Korean is balancing a pistol in each hand, as if he is weighing potatoes. He ends up stuffing one in each trenchcoat pocket.
'There shouldn't be, not with secret discussions about to take place,' Findhorn hopes. In spite of the cold air he feels little beads of sweat on his brow.
Drindle growls something to the Korean, who hands her a pair of black leather gloves before putting on a pair himself. Romella's face goes chalk white and Findhorn feels his own going the same way.
They trudge up through the snow, Drindle leading and the Korean taking up the rear. Drindle looks through a window, tries a door. Then the Korean is shouting from the side of the house. He is holding a heavy axe. There are wooden steps down into a cellar. In the cellar, there is a pyramid of wood, and trestles, and the smell of sawdust, and a door. They stand back as he smashes at the door repeatedly, the noise painfully loud in the confined space. Then he has an arm through and is fiddling with an inside key, and they are into a short corridor and through another door.
They are met by warmth.
The kitchen has a high stone roof, vaulted in the Italian style. An alcove contains a four-oven, pewter coloured Aga stove. A shiny copper pot is suspended from the ceiling by a big-hooped black chain. Copper pans are hooked onto nails at various points around the whitewashed walls. The furniture is pine, antique and solid. It is highly polished. Chairs are scattered around as well as little tables on which are vases with yellow, red and pink flowers. Little decorative cups in odd places contrast with the solidity of the furniture. There is a smell of stew, presumably simmering in one of the four ovens.
Through to the living room, which is doubling as a dining room. Here there is a smell of beeswax and scent, and an air of obsessive neatness. Near the centre of the room is a heavy table with white tablecloth. The table has been set for dinner: there are six places. Crystal wine glasses sparkle in the Christmas-tree lights. The air is warm from a wood-burning stove set in an inglenook. There is an old-fashioned pendulum clock over the fireplace; its steady tick-tock gives a sense of harmony to the room, of solidity and domestic contentment.
It also makes Drindle's voice that much more jarring. 'Every Swiss household has a rifle. Find it.'
Findhorn, Romella and the Korean climb the wooden stairs. There are three bedrooms off. Findhorn follows Romella into a bedroom. 'This is madness. What are we doing here?'
'Do you think I'm delirious about it?'
'Have you thought about the gloves?'
Her face is grim. 'Yes.'
'You know what it means?'
'I'm not stupid, Fred. They're not bothered if we're caught.'
Findhorn whispers, 'But if we were caught we could talk. They'd be at risk.'
'I know. Therefore they intend to kill us.'
'What are you people whispering about up there? Have you found it?'
The Korean shouts triumphantly and appears on the landing with a long-barrelled rifle which looks as if it is polished as regularly as the copper pans.
'What can we do?' she whispers.
'Come down here where I can see you.'
Ms Drindle's fur coat, hat and wig have been tossed on a chair and he has his feet up on the dining table. His hair is close-cropped and grey. He is examining, almost caressing, the gun. It has a wooden stock with a fist-sized hole in it, and a short, stubby dark barrel. The Korean tosses him the rifle and disappears.
Findhorn looks at Drindle. 'I suspected it.'
Drindle smiles. 'To confuse witnesses. And there are so many security cameras these days.'
'Maybe you just get a kick out of dressing in women's clothes.'
Drindle unclips the rifle's magazine, empties the bullets into a vase, replaces it and tosses the rifle to Romella. 'Put it back.'
The Korean shouts something. They go through to a large study. The man is still in trenchcoat and hat, but his sunglasses are off and he is grinning hugely. There is a safe, about three feet tall, in the corner of the room. Drindle drops to his knees, plays with the handle of the safe. He turns to them, a strange expression on his face. 'It's in here, isn't it? The trillion dollar secret. And all we need is the key.' He runs his gloved fingers round the base. 'It's on a concrete plinth, and we would need a small crane to move it. But no matter, the key will arrive shortly.' He stands up and grins ghoulishly. Then he snaps something to the Korean, who scowls and heads out. There is a brief gust of cold air as he leaves.
Drindle waves his gun at Romella and Findhorn, directing them towards the living room. He waves it again and they sit on chairs away from the window. He throws a couple of heavy logs onto the fire and opens the stove's air vent. Then he sits across from them, while a red glow flickers through the room as the sky darkens outside.
The Korean is back in fifteen minutes, during which time not a word of conversation has been uttered in the room. He looks like a snowman. He tosses his black trenchcoat and hat on the floor next to the Christmas tree and holds his hands to the fire, shivering and cursing. To Findhorn, the man in the firelight looks demonic.
Then the Korean, warmed up, sits back on a low leather armchair with a pistol on his lap, grinning for no obvious reason.
And they wait.
34
Petrosian's Secret
The Saab has snowchains, which is just as well given the steadily falling snow and the steepness of the road. Peering through a crack in an upstairs shutter, Drindle spreads out five fingers of one hand.