Adrienne squirmed, but McBride held his hand out toward her until de Groot sat back down. He suggested to de Groot that he was exhausted and, soon, the Dutchman began to yawn. He probably was tired, McBride thought. He’d been up all night. He suggested that de Groot close his eyes and try to sleep. When he awoke, he was to contact the police and tell them about the Worm. Then he’d feel wonderful. Soon, de Groot was snoring quietly on the couch, his head thrown back, mouth open.
McBride freed Adrienne, then carefully lifted de Groot’s ID from around the Dutchman’s neck. Put it over his own.
“It won’t work,” she said. “You don’t look like him.”
“It’s all I can do!”
“But—”
“Call the hotel,” he told her. “See if you can get through. Tell them it’s an emergency. Tell them the fire extinguishers are booby-trapped.” He was at the door. “And get me a lawyer!”
“But—”
Then he was out the door and pounding down the stairs to the car.
It was three miles from de Groot’s flat to Davos Dorp and it took him nearly fifteen minutes to cover the distance, crawling through the traffic, windshield wipers fighting the snow. Even so, he couldn’t get anywhere near the Fribourg—the access roads were in gridlock—so he abandoned the car by the side of the road and broke into a run.
De Groot’s ID bounced on his chest as he charged up the hill through the slush and the snow. Arriving at a security barricade, he was stopped by a frozen-looking soldier. Waggling the ID, he cursed the cold, complaining loudly in German about having to miss the Wolfsburg Kaiserslautern match—just because someone thought there might be a problem with the fire extinguishers. “It can’t be anything,” he complained. “I just checked them this afternoon.” The soldier peered through the swirling snow at the ID. “De Groot,” he said. “I’ll have to call.”
A sort of makeshift shelter had been thrown up—a construction of canvas and transparent plastic—and the soldier retreated into this and spoke into his telephone. He tossed McBride an exhausted look, raising his eyebrows as he waited for a reply. It was difficult to wait. McBride kept imagining the round tables of banquet goers, the waiters clearing the plates, the speaker at the head table, checking his watch, sneaking a peek at his notes as he prepared to walk to the podium. The dinner had started at seven. How many courses were there? How long would it take? Relax, he told himself, but a glance at his watch sent his heart into his throat: 7:48.
Then the soldier poked his head out, and waved him through. McBride took off like a jackrabbit, leaving the soldier calling out with a laugh: “Wo is das feuer?” Where’s the fire, indeed.
A figure dressed in lederhosen and an alpine cap was fighting a losing battle against the snow accumulating on the red carpet under the porte cochere at the entrance to the Fribourg. Also in sight were a man who looked like an admiral (the doorman as it turned out) and two soldiers. McBride launched himself in their direction, trying to remember the words for ‘Fire security.’ Feuer-something.
Then he was there. The doorman reached for the door’s brass handle, suddenly frowned, and let his hand drop. One of the security men stepped forward, and took McBride by the arm.
“Feuersicherheit!” McBride yelled, grabbing de Groot’s badge and jerking it toward the man, then wrenching free of his grip to plunge through the doorway.
“Stoppen Sie!”
He was running through the Fribourg’s lobby, surrounded by crystal chandeliers, old wood and plush carpet, looking for a sign for the Ballroom. What’s the German for ‘ballroom’? People were screaming Halt!—which was German for ‘Halt!’—but what was the German for ‘ballroom’? Then he saw the sign:
Three sets of swinging double doors, flanked by testosterone-types in dark suits, with little wires running from their ears. Nearby, a claque of smokers clustered around a standing ashtray, and two ladies in African garb, with elaborate headdresses, made their way toward the restrooms. On a pedestal, a silver-framed sign:
Seeing McBride, one of the security guards raised an arm to block the way. But McBride’s impetus carried him past the guards and through the doors before anyone could actually stop him.
But he was too late.
The room—with its candlelit tables, and spiky flower arrangements, its white linen and gleaming crystal—was erupting in panic. Or if not panic, horror. Men in tuxedos and women in gowns, a handful of men and women in vibrant tribal costume, were getting to their feet and looking wildly around. The normal hubbub of three hundred diners—the clatter of dishware, the murmur of conversation, the burble of laughter—had given way to a primitive roar. A thin scream arced toward the spangled ceiling and it was as if the crowd was a single beast, with its eyes on the dais, where an elderly black man stood behind a blazing podium, slapping at the flames on his lapels.
The air was filled with a strange turbulence, a cannonade of gasps and shouts, as McBride sprinted down the aisle. Through the mass of people, he’d seen a waiter trotting toward the dais with a fire extinguisher in his hands.
“Don’t!” McBride cried out, shaking off a security guard who was tearing at his shoulders—even as the waiter raised the fire extinguisher toward the burning man. Hearing McBride’s shout, the waiter turned as the American bounded onto an empty chair, then onto the table, and launched himself at the dais, taking the waiter down with a flying tackle.
The fire extinguisher bounced free as McBride clambered to his feet, shouting, “The fire extinguisher’s a bomb! Use your coats!” Tearing his jacket off, he began to slap at the flames, quieting the fire at the podium while another man rescued the speaker. Then someone grabbed him from behind, and jerked, and something crashed against his ear, driving him down to the floor.
Where he saw patent leather shoes on the blue carpeting—and felt a foot in the middle of his back. The face of one of the security guards appeared in front of him, so close McBride could see the pores in his nose, the stubble on his upper lip.
“Get everyone out,” McBride shouted, suddenly so light-headed it seemed as if he were about to float away. “The ballroom’s a bomb,” he muttered. “The ballroom’s a bomb.”
Epilogue
The only person to visit McBride during the week he spent in the Davos jail was a gentleman from the American embassy in Bern, and he was very straightforward.
There would be no publicity about the incident at the Hotel Fribourg. Henrik de Groot would be treated for his condition at a private sanitorium in an undisclosed country. Whether the Dutchman was ever to be released would depend upon how much—or how little—he chose to remember.
Meanwhile, arrangements had been made for McBride to pay a small fine for disturbing the peace at the banquet. He and his “girlfriend” would then be driven to the Zurich airport, where they would be placed on the first American carrier home. As far as the events in Spiez were concerned, cantonal authorities agreed that there was nothing to be gained by a public trial—which could only embarrass both countries.
“That’s it?” McBride asked.
His visitor shrugged. “I’m just a messenger,” he told him. “This isn’t my brief. I don’t know the details. But I can tell you this: based on the cables I saw—and the people who signed off on them—there’s only two ways this thing can end.”
“And what are those?”
“Well, my personal favorite is ‘happily ever after’—that’s the one we’re shooting for.”
“Great,” McBride replied. “And what’s the other?”
“The other? Well, the other is… unhappily ever after. That’s the one where you decide to tell everyone your story. That’s the one where you wind up in a Thorazine coma on the high-risk ward at St. Elizabeth’s.” He paused. “Don’t go there.”