“Last known location in Singapore. That was several hours ago. Kruger’s a South African dual national. I did some checking. Possibly former German military. GSG 9. Dishonorable discharge.”
“How many South Africans named Kruger can there be in the German military?” Avi Hirsch pushed back his chair. “This is some can of worms you’re dumping in my lap. I’m tempted to have you recalled to active duty so you can help clean it up.”
“I’m tempted to accept.”
Hirsch stood, tucking the transcript under one arm. “If it gets out that we knew about this—and believe me, it will—and this attack succeeds, which given the time constraints, it will, there will be hell to pay that we didn’t stop it.”
Chapter 62
Zurich
Back in Europe.
Simon walked down the concourse, keeping close to London. He had insisted they wait until half the passengers had deplaned before joining them. He made sure they didn’t walk too quickly or too slowly, two faces in the crowd among a hundred others. He traveled often to Switzerland for his work. The feeling that he was back on familiar territory relaxed him, even with the specter of a free Shaka looming over them.
It was early Saturday morning, just past six local time. The long, immaculately clean walkway felt like a sanctuary, the dampened footsteps and the quiet hum of conversation lending the airport the hushed, respectful atmosphere of a modern church.
“But he’s still in Singapore,” said London. “Right?”
“He got into Thailand with the help of his friends. He could get into Switzerland.” Simon nudged her shoulder. “And don’t say, ‘But the Swiss…’”
London smiled weakly. “Never again.”
Simon had passed the flight reading Hadrian Lester’s emails, learning everything about the man: his work, his family, his mistress, his tennis game, and, of course, the fraud. The emails went back months, years. There was nothing about the attack, nothing about Prato Bornum, and much too little about Luca Borgia, other than the usual family exchanges.
But there was plenty about Lester’s criminal activity. It was all there, writ in excruciating detail, even if it wasn’t admissible as evidence. There was nothing they didn’t know already. Almost nothing. Still, those first emails between Lester and PetroSaud back when it all started came as a shock. Small world indeed.
They descended the escalator and joined a throng waiting for the tram to the main terminal. Simon kept his eyes on the passengers lining up behind them, on the faces coming down the elevator. It was easy enough. The rough-and-tumble crowding of the Far East was a thing of the past. Nowhere did he see the thick blond hair, the coffee-toned skin, the blue eyes and massive neck. But this wasn’t the place, thought Simon. Shaka would wait until he had them somewhere to his advantage, somewhere he could kill them and get away scot-free. And if Shaka knew they were stopping in Zurich, he knew they were continuing to Nice.
If he knew…
Of course he knew.
They boarded the tram for the ninety-second ride to the main terminal, greeted along the way by a hologram of a woman standing beneath the Matterhorn flanked by two flag-twirling countrymen. Prato Bornum was everywhere.
They took the stairs up a floor to the transit lounge. Shops, boutiques, kiosks, and cafés lined both sides of the hall. More passengers here, foot traffic headed in every direction. They consulted the monitors for their connecting gate. Simon stopped to change the rest of his Singapore dollars into Swiss francs. He checked his mail, seeing a note from Harry Mason about the new hospital bill. He opened the attachment and frowned. Fifty-two thousand nine hundred pounds. The second this thing was over he was going to drive to D’Artagnan Moore’s office, turn him upside down, and shake him until every last pound, dollar, and euro fell from his tweed pockets. He was done with the art world.
“Two hours till our flight,” said Simon. “Let’s grab a tea and go to the gate.”
London put a hand on his arm. “If he’s here, he’ll know where to look for us.”
“At least we’ll see him coming.”
Simon couldn’t see Shaka trying to take them inside the airport. It was too public, the space too confined, in effect a sealed environment. At the outdoor market in Singapore, he could hit them and run, the open spaces his ally.
Or might he wait until Nice? The airport was smaller, less guarded. Watch for them to leave the terminal, follow them to a hotel…
It was pointless to guess. There was no way to map out every scenario. Simon would have to keep his wits about him.
They stopped at a café and ordered tea and coffee and fresh croissants. He slathered his with butter and honey. London followed suit. No country had better bread. Simple pleasures.
They arrived at their gate at ten minutes before seven. One couple had arrived before them, looking every bit as tired as Simon felt. He studied them all the same. The man fifty, a paunch, wearing a houndstooth trilby; the woman a few years younger, a frosted blonde, trim, hard-bitten.
Simon set down his bag at the row nearest the window and sat looking toward the wide concourse. London sat next to him, laying her head on his shoulder, the touch of her stirring memories of their passionate tryst. He didn’t know if sex was better at forty thousand feet, but it was certainly fiery. Quick, uninhibited, and fiery. No time to worry about pleasing or impressing. Every man for himself. She had matched him every step of the way, maybe even led. Taboo obviously worked for her.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Maybe you can help me out. Prato Bornum—the one pure source—it’s about closing borders, restricting immigration. Keeping undesirables out.”
“Purity, piety, and preservation.”
