by Fritz Galt
“Does that mean if you had the substrate, you could go into immediate production on the new computers?”
Yashito nodded, but didn’t look back at his interrogator. “Medical advances would improve your condition virtually overnight.”
“I’ll get you the substrate,” Trevor said.
Yashito shook his head reluctantly. “If you steal the substrate, we can’t create products without being discovered.”
“But this is for computers.”
“That’s right. Very fast computers.”
“And this is the information age. If your chip-producing consortium sells the fastest damn computers in the world, who the bloody hell cares how you got the chips? By then, you’re the one in control of everything from governments to advanced medical treatments.”
Yashito squinted up at his contractor. With one swift blow of predatory logic, Trevor had managed to turn the challenge back in his face.
Mick wondered how far the consortium was willing to go to get the substrate.
“Getting the irradiated substrate won’t be easy,” Yashito said. “So make sure you have a backup plan. If you have to, do what you must with the American president.”
Chapter 16
Several events postponed Everett’s test of the mortician’s puzzling phone number.
The first event was a call on the ambassador, who liked to have an informal political/intelligence briefing once a week after his horseback ride, but before his shower.
Everett pulled up to the official residence, a Hapsburg-style estate that sat alone like an neglected wedding cake on spacious grounds.
He nosed the chrome grill of his firehouse-red 1960 British Leyland MGA up to the entrance and jumped out.
The front door leaned unlocked against its jamb.
“Hello?” he called, and listened to his echo bounce around inside the hall. He pushed the door wide open.
A young female voice rang brightly from atop the staircase. “Come in.”
It was Roberta, the ambassador’s wife. Her dark hair overflowed a chartreuse hair band as she leaned over the balcony toward him.
“Hi, Everett,” she said. “Make yourself at home.”
She started to climb down the steps. As she turned and extended her long legs toward him, Everett saw a bikini struggling to contain her voluptuous form.
“Find yourself a drink in the study,” she said. “Don’t mind me. I’ll be soaking up some rays today.”
He met her large Hispanic eyes as she twisted past him, then he contemplated the contours of her posterior massaging itself against the neon green fabric.
The terrace doors swung into the sunlight, and her bare feet padded off onto the patio.
He found himself a drink in the study.
Alfred Mann, the salt-and-pepper-haired chief of the political section, joined him shortly.
Finally the ambassador appeared. A youthful upstart named Rupert Pistol, he was formerly a lobbyist for the nation’s financial holding companies.
True to form, Rupert had shaved, but not yet showered. Wearing a plush robe and slippers, he sat behind his mahogany desk. Alfred and Everett drew up leather chairs as per their custom.
Everett dreaded the deadly dull discussions of Swiss political parties. Often Rupert would pick Alfred’s brain on the intricacies of the gains and losses of one or two seats by the traditional right, the socialists or the populists as only a politico or ambassadorial neophyte would do.
The alphabet soup of party names was overwhelming even to the Swiss. Not only was it confusing, it was irrelevant to U.S. relations. Switzerland was a conservative country. No issue, revelation, scandal or quirk of social consciousness would steer the nation away from its independent course.
After twenty minutes of dissecting party politics, the conversation veered toward espionage, a more familiar theme for Everett.
Because of its official neutrality, Switzerland maintained a diplomatic presence in countries whose governments the U.S. officially shunned. Swiss embassies from Havana to Tehran acted as surrogates, performing consular and interest section functions for the United States.
Likewise, rogue governments with few friends set up embassies in Bern and sent delegates to various UN committees, commissions, conferences and congresses in Geneva.
People with Everett Hoyle’s particular professional interests found such species of diplomats fascinating, and made them the subject of intense counter-intelligence.
The latest flap concerned a surprise announcement by the Swiss Federal Justice and Police Ministry. They had ordered an unnamed French diplomat out of the country for “activities incompatible with his diplomatic status,” a euphemism for espionage. The Swiss ministry spokesman had declined to elaborate on the case.
“What gives here, Everett?” Rupert asked.
“I have no comment.”
The others broke into laughter.
“Nor did Paris, for that matter,” Alfred noted, “but they took him back.”
“Where he’s stuck reviewing visa applications,” Everett said.
“No, seriously,” Rupert said.
“I have no hard data on what he was up to,” Everett said. “He could be a she for all we know. The Swiss authorities never gave the slightest indication of his identity, even unofficially. However, I do know that the Swiss are hopping mad.”
With an intrigued smile, Rupert leaned over his neatly folded hands. “Please elucidate.”
“Number One: Why did they announce the expulsion? The Swiss expel spies all the time without going public. This time, they really wanted to make a point. Number Two: As far as we know, the Swiss have never kicked out any of their neighbors. What made them so mad at the French? And Number Three: My good friend, Inspektor Tobias Bürgi is spitting nails over the incident.”
“First of all, was the diplomat expelled from Bern or Geneva?” Rupert asked.
“I’d put my money on Geneva,” Everett said. “French diplomats swarm around the place. We would have noticed someone missing if it had happened up here.”
“So you think the guy wasn’t spying on a third country’s embassy?” Alfred said.
“That’s right. I may be going out on a limb here, but I’m guessing he was spying on Switzerland itself. Although spying might not be the right term.”
“No?” the ambassador said.
“Well, in my book, there are different types of espionage, ranging from Rambo to Mrs. Polifax. For example, you’ve got terrorist actions. Take it down a notch and you’ve got industrial espionage. Then there’s all the way down to stealing historical documents. All of these are possible in Switzerland.”
“Any other possibilities?” Rupert asked.
“There are also criminal reasons for declaring someone persona non grata,” Everett said. “They range from misdemeanors to felonies, from simple shoplifting to murder.”
“Or, they could be trying to squash the Grasshoppers,” Alfred said.
“Do you mean there’s a plague?” Rupert said with a twinkle in his eye. He knew full well that Alfred was referring to an upcoming soccer match between Zurich and Lyon. “I’ll put the Agricultural Attaché on the case.”
Everett enjoyed the young man’s quick wit, something he often found lacking in the upper echelons of the Foreign Service.
But Rupert’s curiosity was piqued. “What did you get out of the inspector?”
“Tobias said nothing directly, but he implied a lot by his attitude. He said the expulsion gummed up a local police investigation. The federal police had to put a stop to some local detective work, and the detectives weren’t happy. He sounded as if he wished the case could proceed to trial. He called the whole thing ‘dreckig.’”
“What does that mean?”
“Crappy, if you will, sir,” Everett said.
“Sorry I asked. So, have the French reacted unofficially?”
“They’re surprisingly angry. This wasn’t some ‘old boy’s’ game. Something nasty happened,
and underneath it all, insinuendos are flying.”
“I wonder how this will affect overall French-Swiss relations,” Alfred said.
“I want you to press Tobias further,” Rupert told Everett.
“Yes, sir.”
“Find out exactly who the diplomat was. Get a name.”
Alfred raised another possibility that Everett had not considered. “Remember that the expelled diplomat might not have been directly related to the case. This may be a tit-for-tat expulsion. Or it could simply be a warning to Paris.”
“Trade Tobias some tidbit and get the full story. I’ll have a talk with the French ambassador.”
Rupert looked ready to cover the next item on his agenda. He stood, tightened his terry cloth belt and sauntered behind his chair.
“Gentlemen, an hour ago, while I was riding my pony, I received big news directly from the White House. We must keep a lid on this information. The president is coming to Switzerland.”
Chapter 17
Anaïs jammed the Karmann-Ghia into gear. Natalie watched in suspense as the spunky motor pleaded for a higher gear. They were blending into light, midday traffic. Within a block, they’d be heading south on the lakefront Quai Wilson.
Soon, they saw wooden rowboats nuzzling up to the tree-lined promenade. Colorfully dressed families strolled along the lake, enjoying the fine day.
The car sped past the polished front doors of numerous well-appointed hotels. Once the province of affluent Americans, the buildings swarmed with Arabs, the world’s latest parvenus.
With the pyramidal Selève Mountain before them, they drove across the wide, gentle Rhône with its tourist boats gliding upstream to the lake. Natalie had just a moment to glimpse the lush gardens of Rousseau’s Island before they reached the left bank.
There, financiers and businessmen toiled in tree-shaded tranquility. Within minutes, a crooked cobblestone lane led them into the working-class neighborhood of Carouge. The recent move to rehabilitate that section of the old quarter had inflated property values, but not beyond the means of someone on a modest U.S. Government salary.
Alec’s apartment building looked its age. The drab gray masonry depressed Natalie, as it had on previous occasions when she had visited her brother-in-law.
She shut her door with a solid thud and squinted at the top floor. Beyond the barren flower boxes, steam covered the windowpanes and condensation dripped like tears inside the glass.
She exchanged glances with Anaïs, then ran into the building. In the half-light of unwashed windows, they stumbled up four flights to the top floor.
Natalie took the key and worked it into the dead-bolt lock, but found the door already open.
Pushing against the wooden door, she was met by a pungent odor. It smelled like feces and decaying flesh.
She held her breath, and stepped into what felt like a steam bath. Her foot came to rest against a soft, immovable object.
With the curtains drawn, it was too dark to see. She found a lamp and yanked on the chain.
She had run into a man’s body.
Anaïs let out a gasp.
Suppressing her horror, Natalie knelt down and felt for movement. The man was no longer breathing. Blood had leaked from a bullet hole at the base of his skull and dripped down the man’s neck, finally congealing on a long ponytail.
She didn’t recognize him.
“It’s not Alec,” she said.
Hand over her mouth, Anaïs shuffled closer to see. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know,” Natalie said. She straightened up, and whipped the curtains aside and opened some windows. She didn’t recognize the body in the better light.
It was her second corpse that week, and seeing death didn’t come any easier.
The furniture was a jumble.
“I don’t remember the apartment looking this bad,” she said.
She took Anaïs by the hand and edged down a hallway toward the back of the apartment. She skidded on a warm, wet substance.
She clicked on a bathroom light. Inside the bathroom, steam rose from the wash basin and she could hear water running and trickling onto the floor. That was what she was standing in and what had steamed up all the windows.
She reached in the fog for the enamel handle.
“Ouch!”
She pulled her hand away and sucked on her finger. The fixtures were too hot to touch.
She wrapped a towel around her good hand and jammed the handle shut.
The hot water dribbled a few seconds longer, then stopped.
Anaïs was staring down the hallway where a lamp burned in the final room. It was Alec’s bedroom.
“Let’s check it out,” Natalie whispered.
Crouching low, she led the young woman the final distance down the hall. The mixture of smells and steam nearly asphyxiated her.
She crossed to the drapes and threw them open. Then she unlatched the window and swung it out on its hinges.
Brilliant sunlight poured into the room, filling in the shadows of Alec’s bed.
In the humidity, paint from the ceiling had blistered and fallen onto the disheveled sheets. Otherwise, the bed was empty.
Why the smell?
Anaïs rushed to a prone form on the floor. It was Alec’s golden retriever, dead, with blood congealed on the hardwood floor.
Blood from the poor beast was also spattered between the wound and the wall. Then Natalie saw why. On the pockmarked wall above the headboard, someone had hastily scrawled the word “Proteus” in blood.
Natalie returned to a pile of metal objects that she had stepped on earlier. She rolled her toe over the handful of small cylinders. They were spent cartridges.
“Poor Dogmatix,” Anaïs whispered, and combed the dog’s golden fur.
Natalie turned to the open window and gulped in fresh air. Then she sucked on her burnt finger and leaned against a splintered dresser, its surface cleared by a burst of automatic gunfire.
She looked at the word “Proteus” in crooked letters. The Proteus Jihad was clearly more than “thinking Lucerne.” It was out to kill Alec.
It took several minutes of air circulating throughout the room for the worst of the smell to clear and for Natalie to feel that she wouldn’t faint.
She wasn’t cut out for such work. Where was Mick when she needed him?
Anaïs no longer stared at the poor animal. Instead she seemed filled with hope as her eyes reflected the bright light from the window.
“Maybe Alec isn’t dead after all!” she said.
Chapter 18
Mick was learning more about Alec’s work from the Japanese businessman than he ever did from his wife. And he waited eagerly for the conversation about superconducting chips to resume.
The gondola door slid shut automatically. Mick and the small group of hikers grasped for support as the car swung out of the station like a ski jumper launching off a slope.
Through a window worn cloudy from the abuse of ski tips, he saw patches of old snow clinging to the shadows of the mountain.
“Too late to jump,” Zafina whispered in his ear. This time, he felt more than her strong fingers on the short hairs of his neck. He felt her tough, defined arm and thigh muscles wrapping around him and clutching him tighter with every lurch of the car.
Soon the smell of snow was in the air. They passed over massive fields of snow and rock and cruised alongside deep crevices of the gray and white Fee Glacier.
The upper portion of the mountain wore a full mantle of snow. Summer sunshine created small rivulets of melted ice that tripped merrily downhill, dangerously undercutting other snowfields.
The top station was a cold, concrete building designed to herd skiers on busy winter days.
The party entered a long, dark tunnel. They walked past colorfully clad skiers with skis and snowboards on their shoulders. They passed an exit carved out of snow that led to summer skiing on the glacier.
Engineers had drilled a further tunnel through the peak of Mittelall
alin and laid funicular tracks at a forty-five degree angle leading to the top of the glacier.
At 11,550 feet above sea level, the “Metro Alpin” was the world’s highest subway.
Sir Trevor O’Smythe shepherded them onto a waiting train car. The conveyance scarcely complained over the next four minutes as it chugged upward through 1,650 feet of rock.
Grinning from ear to ear, Trevor and his cronies stepped out of the shadow of a two-story revolving restaurant onto a sun-drenched terrace.
Trevor handed out sunglasses, and Mick saw a red and white Swiss flag snapping smartly in the wind. Fingers of clouds explored the peaks around him.
Yashito rushed around excitedly. He pushed the party, including Mick, into a corner of the empty sun deck. Then he stepped back.
“Smire.”
Mick had no choice, and cracked a grin.
Yashito took a picture.
“Ice and rock,” Yashito said as he joined the group again. “That’s all you can see.”
“I thought you’d enjoy this trek,” Trevor said. Then he addressed Mick, “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“For the moment.”
“It does make for a splendid break in the day.”
“Ice and rock,” Yashito repeated.
“You said that already,” Trevor said.
Yashito drew Trevor to one side and started to explain. “It’s like film and substrate. You see, the snow melts, but the rock remains firm. You can use the substrate over and over again.”
“You already made that point.”
“Cosmic rays are showering us,” Yashito continued. “Especially at this altitude. Such is the magnetic flux over the chip. It destroys the superconductivity.”
“Slow down,” Trevor said. “You’re not coming across.”
“The Americans will bombard the substrate with protons to create crystalline faults. Holes in the rock. Like this metro tunnel. Then the magnetic field will dissipate.”
“I’m sure all this will come clear to me someday,” Trevor said. “But do we need to talk about it now?”