Constantine threw up his hands in frustration. “But where are we going?”
“There’s a small hamlet near the town. You needn’t worry, Constantine. Don’t you enjoy a pleasant stroll in the green alpine pastures?”
Malinin pulsated with energy. He may have been a dying man, but the closer they came to their destination, the more animated he became.
Constantine followed.
He couldn’t stop thinking that from the beginning, it wasn’t him that Malinin had kept in the dark about their ultimate destination — but rather Borisov.
“You don’t trust your own bodyguard?” Constantine asked bluntly.
“But I do. If I didn’t trust Andrei, he’d be nowhere near me. It’s simply that I never bestow more trust on anyone’s shoulders than one can handle.”
They traversed the town, and walked along a graveled hiking path that snaked through the lush meadows that were the most intense green that Constantine had ever seen. Against the backdrop of the Alps, the scenery took his breath away.
As they developed a pace, marching wordlessly, the crunch of gravel accompanied their strides.
Suddenly Constantine’s instincts kicked in. Preoccupied with his thoughts, he had almost failed to notice that something didn’t add up.
His eyes took in the surroundings.
Nothing but the emerald green of the grass, and the blue of the sky. They’d moved away from the town. They were in one of the world’s smallest countries — and at the same time, in the middle of nowhere.
Malinin was leading him into a trap! The promised documents did not exist! It was an elaborate lie!
Sweat rolled down his spine, slicking the gun handle under his shirt.
He would use the gun if necessary.
“There!” Malinin exclaimed. “Take a deep breath now!”
At the same instant, they reached the crest of another hill, accessing a view of a tiny hamlet.
The opposite end of the valley rose, becoming so steep that the hamlet was situated on an almost vertical mass of land. At the apex, it was lined with a dense pine forest. And commanding the limits of vision, were the gargantuan Alps.
Although distant, they dominated the view completely, making everything else seem miniscule — the matchstick pines, the puny breaks in the green valleys, and the houses that looked like matchboxes strewn around casually by a giant hand.
“See?” Malinin pointed his crooked finger. “That’s our house.”
The hamlet numbered no more than a dozen chalet-style buildings, and Constantine couldn’t make out which one of them Malinin was referring to.
But none of them looked anything like a bank.
Following the hiking path, they crossed the valley quicker than he expected.
He could see the place now. A three-storey detached house that stood apart from the other buildings in the hamlet. Stone walls and a tiled roof with a protruding chimney, and windows shut out with blinds. Typical alpine dwelling that didn’t convey anything businesslike.
But if it was a trap, why did Malinin go to such lengths to get him here? Constantine had been at his mercy all the time.
At the door of the strange house, Malinin left him no alternative of doubt. A single moment would decide if it was all fake or not.
Malinin pressed the buzzer.
For several seconds there was no reply.
He pushed the button again.
A woman’s voice, distant, called out in a hurry: “Wer sind Sie?”
Malinin replied in accented German. “Frau Hasler? Frau Hasler! Ich bin Herr Szabics! Bitte, öffnen die Tür.”
In the window next to the door, the blinds opened into narrow slits and the woman’s puffy face appeared. A wary gaze examined the outside world. At the sight of Malinin, the woman beamed, her eyes growing wide.
She bolted away from the window. Seconds later, Constantine heard the latch unlock, and the wooden door swung open.
Frau Hasler stood on the threshold — she was a stout woman in her mid-forties, with plump cheeks and fleshy pink hands. Benign surprise was written across her face. Her eyes darted back and forth between Malinin and Constantine, with expressions of recognition, and bemusement.
“Liebe Herr Szabics!” she said with delight, motioning her visitors to enter the house. “Hereingekommen!”
11
The sofa in Frau Hasler’s sitting room would have been comfortable if not for Constantine’s SIG-Sauer pressing against the small of his back.
He and Malinin were sipping coffee offered by the hospitable lady.
“You were born in the DDR, yes, Herr Klein?” Frau Hasler asked, calling Constantine by the false name he had used for introduction — the very first that had sprung to his mind. Malinin was posing as a Hungarian named Szabics.
“Yes, I’m from Leipzig,” Constantine replied, his East German dialect flawless. “My accent betrays me, I guess.”
“Ah, but it is natural. The German language is so geographically diverse in phonetics that a man from Munich can hardly understand a word from a Berliner!” the woman chuckled.
“And I can hardly understand any German,” Malinin-Szabics laughed.
“Herr Szabics!” Frau Hasler said. “As always you are too humble!”
Constantine set his porcelain cup on the saucer, wondering what was really going on. After a frenetic dash across the continent, he was whiling away the afternoon in a quaint house in the Alps, engaged in small talk with an aging housewife, drinking coffee in a cozy parlour. It was absurd.
“You don’t visit me very often these days, Herr Szabics,” the lady said, teasing.
“I’m renting one of Frau Hasler’s rooms,” Malinin explained to Constantine. “The area is very popular with tourists, so lodging is a good business, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Frau Hasler nodded. “For the most part, it’s the skiers who are attracted by the slopes of Malbun. But now, in the summer, the season is off. So I’m alone. Thankfully, I have enough income from you, Herr Szabics. You paid for two more years in advance! For that I am truly grateful.”
“No need. Your discretion is worth much more.”
“Your work is so important, Herr Szabics,” a giddy Frau Hasler said. “It’s still a secret, yes? But perhaps soon, when it is finished, I will be able to tell everyone that I was involved in Nobel-prize-winning research!”
It hit him. Constantine realized how simple and effective it was — renting a room indefinitely at a daily rate, where the secret cache was safe and sound. And most importantly — no questions asked, no banking paperwork required, no inconvenience of a secure deposit box that left an electronic footprint. Frau Hasler’s house was perfectly invisible. And since the lovely old lady largely depended on Malinin’s money, her discretion surely topped that of any banker.
“Very soon you will be able to, my dear Frau Hasler,” Malinin assured her, playing his role. “In fact, Herr Klein, my assistant, has come with me to review the papers.”
Frau Hasler rose.
“Let me guide you upstairs, then,” she said.
12
Frau Hasler’s house had four bedrooms — two on the second floor, and two directly above them on the third. The second-floor rooms were meant for paying guests. One of the third-floor bedrooms was Frau Hasler’s own. And the last was always empty.
It was the room rented by Malinin, or rather the obsessed Hungarian physicist Szabics, who had employed Frau Hasler’s simple mind and natural greed.