“I havehim, sir. He’s just boarded the 9:40 for Geneva. Second-class ticket, no seat reservation.”
“Geneva? Why is he going south? He should be headed west.”
“He could be running away. Giving up, I mean.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. It’s out of his way, but he does have associations there.”
“I can have surveillance in Geneva ready to intercept him at the station.”
“No. We’ll arrange a different welcoming party for him there if that is his actual destination. This could be a misdirection.He might get off along the way, take another train to France. I need you to organize coverage at every station where that train stops between Zurich and Geneva. Also make sure he doesn’t get off before the train leaves.”
“I’m on the train myself now. I’ll babysit him along the route and update you as we get closer.”
“Alles klar.Good work.”
Riegel next called the Tech at the chateau in Normandy. “Get the Venezuelans heading south to catch up with the 9:40 from Zurich to Geneva. The Gray Man is on board, but he may try to get off along the way. The Venezuelans need to be ready to take him down at a moment’s notice.”
“Understood.”
Riegel consulted a large map of Switzerland on his desk. “Get the South Africans in Basel to Geneva. If Gentry makes it alive to the station, they’ll need to follow him out and do him in the street. There will be too many cameras and cops in the station.”
—
Court didn’t last fifteen minutes. He’d found a window seat on the top level at the back of the last car in second class. He had taken off his coat and draped it over his body. Under it, he pulled his pistol and laid it in his lap with his hand on the grip.
And then he drifted off to sleep.
“—weis.”
He woke slowly, his head leaning against the window. Though his vision was blurred by his bloodshot eyes, he watched snow flurries beating the window next to his face. He wanted to stick his tongue out and taste a fat flakethrough the glass. The countryside was covered in white, only the sheerest stony mountains shone gray and brown where the snowfall found the grade too steep for a foot-hold. The sky hung low and gray, and a village streaked by before him. It was a beautiful winter morning.
“Ausweis!”a voice said, close on his right. Court turned and looked quickly; he recognized the authority to the command.
Four uniformed Swiss police officers stood in the aisle above him. They wore gray pants and two-tone gray jackets. They were Municipaux, city cops. Not the highly trained feds. Big Glock-17s hung off their hips. An outstretched hand at the end of the outstretched arm of the oldest cop.
“Ausweis, bitte.”
Court understood travel German. The white-haired police sergeant wanted to see some ID. Not a train ticket.
Not good.
Gentry moved the gun hidden under his coat, crammed it between the plastic cushion and the wall of the train car as he sat up.
Gentry had no identification, only a ticket. Once the weapon was out of view, he fished through his coat, pulled out the ticket, and handed it over.
The cop didn’t even look at it. Instead he switched to English. “Identification, please.”
“I lost my passport. I’m heading to the embassy in Geneva to get another.”
All four policemen obviously understood English, because all four policemen looked at Court like he was full of shit.
“You are American?” asked the older officer.
“Canadian.” Court knew he was in trouble. He may have dumped the pistol, but there was a leather holster Velcroed around his ankle. These guys looked sharp enough; there was no chance they wouldnotfrisk him. When they found the empty rig on his leg, the cops would just check his seat and find his gun.
“Where is your luggage?”
“Stolen. I told you.” There was no sense in making friends. Court knew he’d probably have to kick these guys’ asses before it was all over. He didn’t feel great about knocking a bunch of innocent policemen’s heads together, but he saw no way around it. Although it would be a four-on-one fight, the American operator knew that with surprise, speed, and violence of action, he could get the upper hand in such a small space like a train aisle.
