“You good?” he whispered.
“Just go,” said London.
“You first,” he said.
London set off. It was apparent she could run faster and farther than he could. He redoubled his efforts but still found himself fighting to keep up. Minutes passed. Then far, far away, a shaft of natural light. Finally, they arrived at the end of the corridor. Stairs led to a door, ajar, as was the other, a sliver of sky visible.
Simon slowed, then stopped, hands on his thighs. He dropped the cartridge and counted the bullets. Seven. He couldn’t shoot a policeman. Shaka was another story.
London regarded him, hands on her hips.Ready when you are.
“Okay,” he said, straightening up, then charging up the stairs, out the door. “Come on.”
They stood at the very end of the runway, fields of spring grass on either side, farther out a fence. A kilometer beyond that, a village. He looked to all points of the compass. No sign of their pursuers. He’d been wrong about their luck.
They crossed the tarmac, a jet barreling at them, landing gear lifting off the asphalt, nose climbing into the sky, the silver belly sliding overhead, jet blast flattening the grass, buffeting them, the noise ungodly.
At the fence, Simon gave London a foot up. She clambered over the wires nimbly. He followed suit, not quite so. A path led through a forest. Ten minutes later, they stood in the center of the village of Glattbrugg. It was eight o’clock. They had been running for an hour.
They walked to the train station and climbed into a taxi. “Forty-five Grossmuttstrasse,” said Simon.“Schnell, bitte.”
“You know your way around Zurich?” said London.
“Did I ever tell you what I do for a living…I mean, when I’m not doing this?”
The Garage Foitek in Zurich-Urdorf served as the official Ferrari dealership for the city of Zurich. Similar to the high-performance Italian sports cars they sold, the building was new, shiny, and sleek. Sacha Menz, the manager, spotted Simon passing through the doors and rushed to greet him. “Simon Riske, what are you doing in my town without telling me in advance?”
“Hello, Sacha. Flying visit. Can we talk?”
“Of course. Come into my office.”
“Actually, the lot is better.”
“Whatever you say. You look rather serious. How can I help?”
At 9:03, Simon and London left the dealership, turning left onto Birmensdorferstrasse, Simon at the wheel of a red 2015 F12 Berlinetta. The car belonged to the Grand Tourer class and was the fourth fastest road car Ferrari had produced, with a 6.3 liter, naturally aspirated V-12 engine capable of generating 730 horsepower with a top speed of 280 miles per hour. In short, an ass-kicker of the first order.
In minutes, Simon had them on the A4 driving south through the Sihltal in the direction of Zug. He kept his foot to the pedal, passing where it was safe, and often where it wasn’t. There were radar traps everywhere—cameras carefully hidden to record your speed—and he knew that his friends at the dealership would be receiving letters from the traffic authority very soon containing photographs of an F12 Berlinetta with Simon and London visible inside the cockpit and their speed emblazoned across the bottom.
He wasn’t thinking about the fines, however. Of course he’d pay them, though he’d never be legally allowed to drive in Switzerland again. He was thinking about something else altogether.
It had been too easy.
Chapter 63
Cannes
Alight rain fell on the Côte d’Azur. Samson Sun left his villa in the hills above Cannes at nine for the short trip into the city. He was a cautious driver and negotiated the winding road well below the speed limit. By the time he reached the bottom of the hill, a line of cars ten long stretched behind his Bentley, including a tractor. He paid them no heed. With less than twelve hours to go before the premiere, he did not intend on risking injury.
He turned right onto the Rue Jean de Riouffe, pleased to be back on a straight, flat road. Traffic moved slowly toward the coast. It was the festival. He saw the first sign of it soon enough. Policemen in fluorescent vests stood in the median, directing traffic. Accompanying them were soldiers dressed in blue utilities, armored vests, machine guns cradled to their chests. He had made sure his credentials were visible, hanging from a lanyard around his neck.
Traffic came to a halt, and he checked his appearance in the mirror. His head was newly shaven, and was as smooth and white as marble. His glasses were polished and in the sleekest order. No suit today, but white linen trousers and a billowy black shirt with a scarf tied at the neck. He was a pirate ready to storm the Barbary Coast. A Chinese Captain Blood. Errol Flynn, beware!
It promised to be a busy day. Lunch at the Martinez with an American film executive. Tea at the Carlton with a French distributor. Then home to get ready for his big night. A facial. A manicure. A massage, if there was time. At five p.m., a car would arrive to take him to the Palais des Festivals. There would be a press call, then the walk on the red carpet, a speech to the audience before the film began. And then, voilà: the world would get to see the wondrous project into which he’d put his very heart and soul.
But before any of that, a visit to the office of festival security.
A roadblock at the Boulevard de la Croisette stopped traffic dead. Traffic barriers lined the sidewalk. More soldiers patrolling. Policemen advanced on his car from every direction. All necessary, thought Sun, feeling safer because of them.
