'The police —'
Romella's voice is pained. 'You'd re-open the whole can of worms.'
'I wonder what the law says. I kill a man in cold blood, knowing that if I don't the consequences could be horrendous. Some day I'll ask my old man about that.'
'Fred, stop torturing yourself. The situation transcended legalities. There was nothing else you could do.'
After twenty minutes the road finally levels out, and they turn into Brig. The trembling has now extended to Findhorn's whole body and he marvels that Romella is capable of driving. The main road has already been cleared of snow, although a slippery, compacted layer remains and heavy flakes are still falling. Romella follows a ski-loaded Volkswagen, full of teenagers, through the town. Brig is a blaze of light, defying the brooding mountains around it, Christmas lights festooning the streets, which are bustling with late-evening shoppers. A band of snowmen is pounding out 'Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer'. The conductor is dressed like Santa Claus and mulled wine is being passed around the orchestra.
Romella cruises past, and then they are clearing the town, the range of the car's headlights steadily decreasing as the snow gets heavier. She takes it past Ried-Brig on a broad, climbing highway.
'The Simplon Pass?' he asks.
'Yes. We must get out of Switzerland before Frau Housekeeper turns up.'
But the Simplon Pass is Geschlossen. A young soldier with a Cossack hat and a rifle on his shoulder looks at them curiously, and then turns them back to Brig.
Romella says, 'I expect the Grimsel will be closed too. We'll head west for Geneva, drive through the night.'
'Surely we'll never be connected with the massacre?'
'Dear Fred. He thinks traffic cameras are for traffic control.' She glances at Findhorn's baffled face and shakes her head. 'You need a babysitter.'
37
Steel Drums
Findhorn woke with a start. The car clock was showing 3.30 a.m. In the confined space, the smell of leather and Romella's perfume was strong. But the hot and cold sweats, the nausea, the blinding headache, all had gone.
As had the snow. Romella was taking the car along a lane which opened out into a cobbled square surrounded by an arcade. Shuttered windows looked down on them. It was all very French, apart from the purple and red lights from a very unFrench 'All-Nite Diner' which shone out like a beacon in the dark. She drove slowly across the square towards the light and parked next to a dozen gleaming motorbikes.
From the momentary lull in conversation, Romella had made a dramatic entrance. The bikers occupied three tables and were washing down platters of entrecote steak and chips with tumblers of dark red vin ordinaire. Findhorn's nose was assaulted by Gaulois smoke, wine, garlic and herbs. It was plain delicious and he tried to remember when he had last eaten. A woman with spiky yellow hair, heavy black eye-shadow and a ring in her nose was skilfully tapping pool balls into pockets as her bearded companion grunted. Tom Jones was declaring that 'It's not unyoosual to be lonely' from a juke box whose chrome veneer was hanging down in long strips.
They sat on hard chairs as far as possible from Tom Jones. The yellow Formica table had shaky legs. Findhorn ordered 'doo shockola' in schoolboy French and the stout proprietor squinted at him, and then at Romella, and then back to Findhorn, through Gaulois smoke. He shambled off.
'Where are we?'
'France. This is Dijon.' She was smoking a black, gold-tipped Balkan Sobranie.
'I didn't know you smoked,' Findhorn said.
'Only at celebrations, like Christmas and birthdays.'
Findhorn played with the salt cellar. After the night's events, he was having problems making a connection with the real world around him. 'What are our chances?'
The deux chocolats arrived in cups the size of soup plates. Romella stirred her chocolate. 'You mean together?'
'I mean on the run.'
She studied him through a thin trickle of smoke. 'In my opinion, so long as you have Petrosian's secret, the full apparatus of several powerful corporations and states will be deployed to apprehend you.'
Findhorn took a thoughtful sip at his chocolate. Romella looked at him through cigarette smoke, eyes like Marlene Dietrich. 'The only way you'll avoid a lifetime on the run is to deliver up Petrosian's secret. If you did that, nobody would bother you.'
'Matsumo Holdings would. They'd send in their ninjas.'
'There's a golden way out of that. Say the secret was independently discovered by some third party,' she suggested slyly.
'Forget it. That one per cent chance of boiling the oceans.'
The spiky-haired girl was potting a solitary black with a satisfied smile while her bearded friend made obscene gestures with his pool cue.
Findhorn looked at Romella. For some reason she was smiling. In the harsh light of the diner, her dark features had an enigmatic quality. He wondered if he would ever know her well enough to be sure of exactly what she was thinking. He said, 'We're really about to become fugitives?'
'You are.'
Findhorn waved for the bill, but the bikers were crowding round the till, and the proprietor was counting their money.
There was an outburst of noisy argument. Someone was being short-changed, or thought they were, or said they thought they were.
'Did I tell you Matsumo's opening a bank account for me tomorrow, and he's putting twenty million dollars into it? A little sweetener to ensure my enduring silence.'
'Twenty million dollars.' She stubbed out her little black cigarette.
'Let me see, Dougie and you get twenty per cent each, that's four million dollars apiece, and Stefi gets two million. Leaving me with ten.'
'Stefi deserves as much as the rest of us.'
'Okay. She gets four, leaving me with eight.' Findhorn marvelled at the breathtaking casualness with which he had just given away two million dollars. But then, he thought, it's natural justice.
Romella was saying, 'I've always liked nice round numbers. I could never understand fractions. We can make Paris by daybreak.'
'Surely we won't be connected to the mayhem in Blatten. Albrecht was an arms dealer as well as the leader of a doomsday religious cult. He must have had dozens of enemies.'
'You're the man with the secret. And we've gone through quite a few traffic cameras.'
Findhorn said, 'Eight million in the bank and I feel gutted.'
Romella smiled. 'We ought to get a move on.'
Back in the cobbled square, the bikers had jumped red lights and vanished. Romella waited patiently. Findhorn contemplated the traffic camera. Then the lights were green, Romella was moving swiftly through the gears, and in minutes they were on to a fast autoroute through the flat French countryside.
Findhorn glanced at the speedometer. Telegraph poles were whipping past and the autoroute, at an illegal 160 kilometres an hour, was like a winding country road. 'Why Paris?' he asked.
'I have a friend in the Fifth Arrondissement. It's a place to stay until we sort ourselves out.'
A cluster of red tail lights appeared ahead: the bikers, straddling the carriageway and hunched over their machines. She overtook them effortlessly.
'And beyond Paris?'
'I saw something in a travel brochure years ago, when I was a girl. It's stuck in my mind ever since. It was a place called Treasure Beach. Where snow is unknown, and you celebrate Christmas with a midnight beach party, and if you want you can hear poetry readings at the full moon.'
'You can travel anywhere openly. Without a passport, I'm stuck.'
'Your brother's clients —'
Findhorn laughed, and realized it was his first laugh for a long time. 'Yes, no doubt Dougie can fix something while keeping himself pure as the driven snow.'