by AD Starrling
‘Not really,’ I replied reluctantly. The pages of the journal were mostly filled with scientific jargon. Occasionally a series of exclamation marks followed a particularly complex paragraph. To complicate matters further, several sections of the journal had been heavily encrypted. Neither of us could decipher the code.
‘This is interesting,’ Reid said a few minutes later. He held out a copy of a printed email.
It had been sent two years ago by the President and CEO of GeMBiT Corp and was addressed to Strauss at his UPMC mailbox. The content was brief: Burnstein was offering his congratulations to Strauss on successfully securing a research grant worth ten million dollars for his project on advanced cell cycle control and DNA transposition.
Reid whistled softly. ‘That’s a lot of money.’
I frowned. ‘Yes, it is.’
We found another email from Burnstein near the back of the journal. It was dated three months ago. Though still short, the message conveyed a certain element of urgency: Burnstein was requesting an immediate meeting with Strauss to study the latest results of his research. He also demanded access to the laboratory samples that the scientist had been working on.
Strauss had forwarded the email to a third party on a separate server. The internet address of the mail recipient consisted of a series of numbers followed by the letters fgcz.uzh.ch. Above Burnstein’s message, the scientist had written “The Americans are getting restless. We need to talk.”
The reply was encrypted with one of the codes from Strauss’s journal.
‘Isn’t this a Swiss email address?’ said Reid with a frown.
I nodded. The letters looked vaguely familiar. I reached for the document wallet containing Strauss’s research papers and leafed through the contents. ‘It stands for the Functional Genomics Center of the University of Zurich,’ I said a moment later. I showed Reid the article featuring the FGCZ logo. There was a name next to it.
It was Prof. AM Godard.
‘So, we now know who the elusive “A” is, huh?’ murmured Reid. ‘And isn’t the University of Zurich close to here?’ He rose and brought the map on the bed over to the table.
‘There’s another campus in Irchel Park, to the north of the city,’ I said thoughtfully, indicating another section of the map. ‘Let’s see what we can find at the bank first.’
The next day, we left the hotel early and went to buy some suits.
Strauss’s bank was located on the Bahnhofstrasse, one of the most exclusive shopping avenues in Europe. Almost a mile long, it was also home to the Zurich Hauptbahnhof, Switzerland’s largest railway station. After studying the building from a newspaper kiosk down the road, we crossed the avenue, stepped through a set of revolving doors and entered a large and airy lobby.
The bank’s decor was pale and fairly clinical. An armed guard stood unobtrusively next to a potted palm tree to our left. He gave us a brief nod and resumed his stoic inspection of the street life outside.
The young woman seated behind the reception desk looked up with an inquisitive smile when we crossed the cream marble floor towards her.
‘We need to see the director please,’ I said in near perfect Swiss German before she could utter a word, returning her smile.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ she asked pleasantly, unfazed.
‘I’m afraid not.’ I removed a card from the inside pocket of my suit and showed it to her. ‘This is a police matter.’
The woman’s smile became slightly strained as she studied the badge. She lifted a handset and spoke softly into the mouthpiece. At the end of the short conversation, she placed the receiver in its cradle and indicated an artfully arranged circle of seats to the right of the lobby. ‘If you would please take a seat? The Director will be with you immediately,’ she murmured politely.
“Immediately” turned out to be a quarter of an hour later. By then, Reid had loosened his tie and paced around the lobby several times. ‘I need a smoke,’ he explained at my stare.
I looked at him blankly. ‘You had one an hour ago.’
He frowned. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’
I sighed and smoothed out the wrinkles in my coat. Finally, just as I was about to rise from the seat and approach the reception desk again, a musical ting sounded from the end of the foyer. ‘I am extremely sorry; I was in a very important meeting,’ murmured the man who walked out of the lift to greet us. ‘My name is Florent Mueller. I am the Executive Director of the bank. How may I be of assistance?’ Muller was short and dapper. He had a firm hand grip and smelled faintly of menthol.
‘I am Agent Petersen of Swiss Interpol. This is FBI Agent Barnes.’ I indicated Reid. ‘We’re investigating the murder of one of your clients, a Professor HE Strauss. He transferred a rather substantial amount of money to your bank a fortnight ago. We would like to study the details of the account.’ I paused. ‘We’re especially interested in any transactions that may have recently transpired on it.’
Mueller glanced at Reid’s rumpled suit and carefully studied our identification. Qin Lee had done a first-rate job: the ID cards were as good as the real things. The director hesitated. ‘I take it you have obtained the appropriate legal document to access the account?’
I reached inside my coat and produced a perfect forgery of a lifting order by the Prosecutor-General, granting Swiss Interpol access to the bank accounts of Professor HE Strauss; I had had Qin Lee fax it through to the hotel last night.
Mueller inspected the paper, nodded and turned to speak to the receptionist briefly. He indicated the lift. ‘After you.’
Seconds later, we stepped out onto the fifth floor. A man stood waiting for us inside the director’s office.
‘This is Gustav Allenbach, our Head of Accounts,’ said Mueller in heavily accented English while he made the introductions. He turned to Allenbach. ‘These gentlemen are from the International Police. They would like some information on one of our clients.’
Allenbach made a copy of the lifting order before opening a laptop on the desk. A few clicks later, he swivelled the screen around for us to look at. ‘I’m afraid there’s not a lot to see. Hubert Strauss opened an account with us two months ago, with an opening balance of two hundred and fifty thousand Euros. He transferred another one hundred thousand Euros into the account four weeks later. No further transactions have been made since then.’
I glanced at Reid with a sinking feeling. It looked like another dead end.
Allenbach frowned as he studied the monitor. ‘I do, however, note that the safety deposit box was accessed by the co-account holder last Friday,’ he added.
‘The safety deposit box?’ I repeated slowly, staring at the man.
‘Yes. It was opened at the same time as the account,’ said Allenbach.
‘Who’s the co-account holder?’ said Reid.
I knew the name before Allenbach said it. ‘Professor AM Godard.’
A light rain was falling over the city when we exited the bank minutes later.
‘Want to check out the university?’ said Reid, hunching his shoulders against the cool autumnal wind that swept down the avenue.
‘Yeah.’
A quick internet search that morning had confirmed that the Functional Genomics Center was on the Irchel campus. We took the tram towards Stettbach and got off in Milchbuck. From there it was a short walk across the park to the university.
A sitemap showed the location of the FGCZ on the first floor of a building to the north of the grounds. The entrance foyer was busy and no one paid us any attention while we headed for the stairs. One flight up, a glass security door appeared in our path.
A couple of students strolled down the steps from the floor above. They glanced at us curiously as we hesitated on the landing.
‘We can’t exactly open this one without being seen,’ Reid muttered, his eyes following the pair disappearing towards the ground floor. He paused and looked around. ‘On the other hand, we could always break the fire glass.’ He indic
ated the alarm on the wall.
‘Wait,’ I said, touching his arm.
A young woman was approaching the security door from the opposite side. She had a stack of folders in her arms and was reaching distractedly for the access badge at her waist. The door beeped and swung open. We moved silently aside as she crossed the threshold, her head cast down. I took a step towards her. A shocked gasp left her lips and the files fell out of her arms.
‘Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ I murmured apologetically. ‘Here, let me give you a hand.’ I hunched down and helped her gather the scattered folders. She flushed, stammered a quick ‘Thank you’ in Swiss German and hurried down the stairs. I watched her until she disappeared from view.
‘Charming,’ Reid said wryly, the access card he had lifted off her waist dangling from his right hand.
We swiped through the security door and headed down a wide corridor. Twelve feet in, a floor to ceiling glass wall appeared on our left. Beyond it was a laboratory. Several figures sat behind the crowded worktops. At the end of the passage was a door with the nameplate “Godard” affixed to it. It was locked.
Reid had just slipped the lock pick set from his coat when a voice called out behind us. ‘Can I help you?’
I turned and studied the speaker. It was a woman in a white coat. She stood in the doorway to the lab and wore a suspicious frown on an otherwise pretty face. A tall man with blond dreadlocks came up behind her and blinked at us through thick bifocals.
‘We’re looking for Professor Godard.’ I held up the badge and took a few steps towards her.
The woman studied the ID. She seemed unfazed by it. ‘And this is with regards to?’ she said briskly.
‘It’s a rather delicate matter, I’m afraid.’ I paused. ‘We’re investigating the death of a scientist in France, a Professor Hubert Strauss. We believe he was a friend of Professor Godard.’
The woman’s eyes widened slightly at the name. She glanced at the man with the dreadlocks. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured after a pause. ‘We haven’t seen or heard from Anna in a fortnight.’ A look of anxiety had replaced the frown. ‘We know she had travelling plans, but she should have been back in the lab this week.’
Unease trickled through my mind at her words. ‘Is this normal behaviour for Professor Godard?’ I said, keeping my tone neutral.
The woman shook her head firmly. ‘No. Anna is very conscientious. This is most unlike her.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you think her absence is linked to the death of that French scientist?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ I replied truthfully. A rumble rose behind her. My gaze shifted to the man with the dreadlocks.
‘Hmm, I don’t know whether this matters or not, but I just saw her assistant, Helena,’ he muttered.
‘Helena was here?’ the woman gasped in a high-pitched squeak. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
The man shrugged and pushed the bifocals further up his nose. ‘I didn’t think it was important,’ he said, flushing slightly.
‘When was this?’ I said.
The shoulders rose again. ‘Not that long ago. Ten, fifteen minutes maybe.’
I frowned. ‘Did she say anything?’
The man shifted awkwardly and glanced at the woman for reassurance. She nodded encouragingly. ‘She mentioned that she was going to meet with someone at the Hauptbahnhof,’ he murmured. ‘She said not to tell anyone she’d been here today.’ The last words came out as a guilty mumble. ‘I think she took something from Anna’s office.’
Unease turned to alarm. ‘What does Helena look like?’ I said urgently.
‘She’s tall, slim, with long blonde hair. She was wearing a cream coat and hat,’ he replied. ‘And she had her green scarf on today.’
We bade our goodbyes and left the building swiftly.
‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’ said Reid as we jogged across the park.
I nodded briskly. ‘She’s probably meeting with Godard.’ We now had a name for the elusive “A”. The house in Riesbach had to belong to her.
It took us twelve minutes to get to the Hauptbahnhof on the tram. The clock face on the station’s stone facade was reading five minutes to noon when we entered the central hall.
The place was packed: visitors and locals milled across the crowded main floor, some browsing the arcade that lined the vast space, whilst others rushed to and from the tall archways that led to the tracks.
We were halfway across the concourse when Reid stopped and indicated the opposite end of the atrium. A blonde woman in a cream camel coat was disappearing into a glass lift. There was a flash of green at her neck when she turned to face the closing doors.
We took the escalator down to the shopping mall beneath the station. When we reached the bottom of the stairs, the woman had already exited the lift and was walking briskly north along a wide passage. We fell into step behind her. Moments later, she paused outside the window of a confectionary shop. After glancing around furtively, she removed a cell phone from her handbag and dialled a number. She waited several seconds before she started to talk.
‘Can you make out what she’s saying?’ I said quietly as we strolled past. Reid could lip-read. It was a skill that had come in handy in many of our past investigations.
‘Not in the language she’s using,’ he murmured after a while.
The woman ended the call. She stood frowning at the phone for several seconds, turned and slowly retraced her steps. We followed her past the lifts to the other side of the shopping mall, where she turned at a junction. Further along the busy concourse, not far from the next intersection, stood a flower shop. She was about twenty feet from it when a figure stepped out slightly from behind a pillar next to the shop. I caught a glimpse of soft, dark curls framing a pair of smoky eyes and felt a sudden tightening in my chest.
The woman in the camel coat lifted a hand and waved. Her steps quickened as she reached inside her bag and removed a short grey flask.
The bullet hit her soundlessly, striking the center of her right temple and causing her head to jerk slightly sideways. She fell to the ground with a soft thud and lay still. A trickle of blood coursed down the side of her face and spilled into her open, unblinking eyes: the flask fell out of her limp fingers and rolled a few inches across the polished floor.
The figure behind the pillar froze. Then a scream left her lips. ‘Helena!’ An elaborate, thick, gold sun cross pendant fell out from the open neck of her black coat when the woman lunged forward. Bullets whined through the air and scored the ground next to her. She darted across the floor, grabbed the metal flask and scurried backwards, a wince distorting her features as she gripped her left shoulder.
Hunters materialized from behind the columns and escalators that punctuated the mall. There were at least fifteen of them, dressed in black suits and armed with guns and swords. They all fired at the woman behind the pillar, raising a cloud of chips and plaster dust from the stonework.
Reid and I started to run. ‘I’ll take the left!’ he shouted, drawing the Glock. I nodded and raced across the concourse, the katana in one hand and the Smith and Wesson in the other. The sound of gunshots echoed to the roof of the shopping mall. Shouts of alarm and panicked screams followed seconds later.
A harsh cry erupted from my right, drowning the background noise. ‘Anna!’
Another figure made its way towards the wounded woman behind the pillar, an ivory headed cane in hand. My eyes widened. It was the old man from the daguerreotype.
A sharp sting suddenly bloomed on my face. I turned and fired at a Hunter next to the stairs on my left. A second later, a volley of shots thudded into the floor next to me. I released the katana, grabbed the Glock 17, skidded to my knees and raised both guns at the immortals on the opposite side of the concourse. Smoke and the sour smell of gunpowder filled the air while empty cartridges clattered to the ground around me.
There was a flash to my right. I ducked, narrowly avoiding the blade aimed at my neck, and let go o
f the guns. My fingers closed over the katana. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw the Hunter’s sword swing downwards. I rolled, my heart thudding against my ribs. The tip of the blade struck the ground next to my ear, raising sparks from the floor.
I leapt to my feet. The immortal who faced me paused and frowned, the sword raised above his head. ‘The half-breed,’ he hissed, recognition dawning in his narrowed eyes.
I felt my pulse slow down. My lips parted in a grim smile. I moved.
Seconds after I delivered the killing blow, something struck my left leg. A bullet had grazed my thigh. I sheathed the katana and grabbed the guns from the floor.
‘Hey, I’m running out of ammo!’ Reid called out urgently somewhere to my left.
I threw a couple of magazines across the floor towards him, turned and raced past the flower shop. By the time I skidded to a stop behind the next stone pillar, the woman and the old man had disappeared. I looked around wildly and spotted them thirty feet from where I stood; they were making their way swiftly across the concourse. A series of flashes erupted on the ground behind them.
‘Get down!’ I shouted. They ducked as more bullets thudded into the polished floor. I spotted the Hunter on the other side of the hall, took aim and fired. The man fell soundlessly against a wall. ‘Now go!’
The pair straightened and started to run, the old man glancing over his shoulder. His eyes widened when he saw me. He froze in his tracks and twisted around. ‘Lucas?’ he said hoarsely. The figure next to him turned. I saw her face fully for the first time.
Even though pain clouded her features, there was no mistaking her: she was the woman from the black and white photograph on Burnstein’s computer. I stared at them, tension and that strange feeling of recognition coursing through my veins while I slowly closed the distance between us. ‘Do I know you?’ I said harshly.
The old man started to say something. Just then, more Hunters appeared from around the mall. Bullets whipped through the air once more. The gunfire drowned out his words.
The pair turned and ran towards the escalators leading to the upper level. I followed on their heels, laying down cover while they raced up the rolling steps through the mass of people swarming towards the exit. At the top of the stairs, daylight framed the doorway to a bustling street outside the station. They rushed through the opening and rapidly merged into the teeming crowd. I swore and shouted a warning as I raced for the exit. Seconds later, I emerged onto the thronged pavement.