There is the rattle of a key in a lock and a brief gust of wind as the front door opens. The voices are in German; two of them are female. Findhorn recognizes one of the male voices.
He tries to visualise what is about to unfold but can't take it in. His legs are shaking. Drindle and the Korean, on the other hand, are showing no emotion. They are standing still, quiet and alert, two predators poised to kill.
Somebody has moved into the kitchen. Pots are being slid onto hotplates. Others are drifting into the living room. There is the sound of logs being thrown on the fire. A collective laugh. Glasses clinking.
And now somebody is plodding heavily up the stairs.
The Korean steps back from the door, an ugly little pistol in his hand. The door opens. Drindle points his squat shotgun at arm's length, straight at the man's head. The man is fortyish and bearded. He drops the suitcases he is carrying. Drindle raises a finger to his lips, then points, and they follow the terrified man down the stairs. Drindle steers him into the living room, and the Korean turns into the kitchen.
A man and woman are lounging back on the leather sofa, glasses in hand. They do not immediately realize what is happening. Then the woman gives a startled 'Ach!' The man next to her gapes, pop-eyed, and spills red wine onto his white sweater and slacks. Two other men, in armchairs, sit bolt upright. One is formally dressed in a white dinner suit and black tie. The other is Pitman, and Findhorn wonders whether there are any limits to human duplicity.
The Korean joins them, pushing an ashen-faced, middle-aged woman in front of him. He pushes her into a chair next to the Christmas tree. Drindle strolls casually towards Albrecht and stops, just outside arm's length. He points the gun at the quivering woman on the couch next to him. 'You have been naughty, Herr Albrecht, alias Tati. Your Temple was to deliver the diaries to my employer, not steal it for your own profit. I fear that punishment is called for.'
There is dead silence.
Drindle continues: 'You will recognize the weapon as a Russian VEPR 308 carbine. Indeed you have done business with the Vyatskie Polyani machine plant where it is produced. I do not need to tell you that it is autoloading, and you will understand its effects on the human body at this range.'
The woman screams. Drindle throws her an irritated glance and continues, 'The position is simple. You will either deliver up the Petrosian document or I will give a practical demonstration of its effects on this woman. Then, if this has not persuaded you, I will repeat the process with another of your guests. If, when I have run out of guests, you still have nothing to say, then it will be your turn.'
Through his fear, Findhorn almost feels admiration for Albrecht's nerve. He is silent for about ten seconds, during which time the woman begins to hyperventilate and Findhorn increasingly expects the gun to fire. Then Albrecht is saying, almost calmly, 'And what happens to us if I give you the document?'
'We will disable your cars and telephone, tie you up and leave you. By the time you have freed yourselves and called the police we will be out of Switzerland.'
'I can't deliver the document. It's in Davos.'
Drindle looks at the woman and smiles. He speaks softly: 'That is unfortunate.'
She looks as if she might faint. 'Please. I have two children.'
'Two misfortunes, then.'
The Korean has moved behind and to the left of Findhorn, near the door, a position from which he can view the whole room. There is a gap of about five feet between him and Findhorn. Findhorn has a desperate momentary vision of diving for the man's gun, using it to shoot Drindle. Almost immediately, he rules it out. It is a schoolboy fantasy, a quick route to suicide.
Again that amazing nerve. 'If I do not give you the document, you will not kill us. The small gain of doing so would be outweighed by the risk of spending your remaining days in a cage. But if I give you the document you will kill us. This is because its value is so large that murder becomes a risk worth taking. After all, we can identify you.'
The Korean actually speaks. His voice is guttural, coming almost from his chest, and English is clearly a poor second language. 'Shoot the bitch. Show him we serious.'
Albrecht says, 'But if you shoot Elsa there is no point in giving you the document. This is because we would all be witnesses to murder. You would have to kill us all.'
'Your logic is flawed, Albrecht. For one thing, we are professionals. The risk of capture is very small and does not enter into the equation. For another, I can cause pain.' The bang of the carbine irrupts savagely into the quiet room. Blood and fragments of white bone spray from around the woman's shins, along with hunks of polystyrene foam from the sofa. She collapses onto the floor, writhing and shrieking.
Albrecht jumps up. He raises his hands as if to ward off further shooting. He looks down at the screaming woman. His expression is one of pure horror. 'Wait!'
Over the woman's screams, Drindle is saying, 'I fear your Christmas Eve is turning out brutal, Albrecht. And it is going to get worse. But give us the document and you will not be killed. That is a promise. Sie verstehen?' He points the gun at the man in the dinner suit, and smiles again. The man pales and speaks rapidly to Albrecht in some Schwitzerdeutsch dialect, his voice brimming with terror. Pitman is sitting quietly, but alert like a cat.
'It's upstairs, in a safe.' Albrecht can scarcely talk.
'I know it is. Get it. Beeilen Sie sich.'
Albrecht stumbles out of the room, Drindle following.
The bearded man and Romella are on their knees, trying to stem the flow of blood with table napkins, but the woman is writhing too much, screaming with every touch of her shin. The man in the armchair is gripping its arms and shaking uncontrollably. His eyes are wide with terror. The woman next to the Christmas tree has her eyes closed and is mumbling under her breath. The Korean watches dispassionately from a corner, arms folded and pistol in hand. Findhorn judges the five foot gap, but he knows it is hopeless. The Korean glances at him and grins, as if inviting him to try. A pool of bright red blood is spreading across the wooden floor.
Albrecht appears a minute later, Drindle following with his carbine in one hand and a thick document in the other. The pages are stapled together and look slightly yellow with age. He tosses the document to Findhorn and with his free hand pulls at the cover on the dining-room table. Glasses, candles, cutlery and crockery crash onto the wooden floor in a heap. He pulls a dining-room chair back and motions to Findhorn with his head. 'Verify its authenticity, if you please.'
Findhorn sits down. There are about twenty pages. It is single-sided, handwritten in Armenian, with half a dozen diagrams. Names like Bethe, Bohr and Einstein are written in English. The equations use the familiar alphabet and the diagrams are also annotated in English. Findhorn suspects that, with an effort, he might be able to grasp what is going on through the mass of equations alone.
'I need my translator.'
Drindle snaps his fingers at Romella.
'Fuck off.' She is up to her elbows in blood. The table napkins are now saturated with blood and the woman is moaning, slipping in and out of consciousness.
Drindle stands over the groaning woman, points the gun at her head. Romella looks as if she wants to grab the gun and ram it down Drindle's throat. The frozen tableau seems to go on and on.
Findhorn, sensing catastrophe, says, 'Romella, better not,' and she stands up and heads angrily for the door.
'Where you go?' the Korean demands, pointing his gun, but she pushes past him roughly, blood from her hand staining his shirt.
She is back in a minute, drying her hands with a white towel. She sits down beside Findhorn at the table. She is breathing heavily and white with rage.