Naval Institute Press
291 Wood Road
Annapolis, MD 21402
© 1987 by Denis Clift
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
First published by Ballantine Books in 1987.
First Naval Institute Press edition published in 2014.
ISBN: 978-0-87021-051-8 (eBook)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
Print editions meet the requirements of ANSI/NISO z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).
222120191817161514987654321
First printing
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
About the Author
For Artie and Ann
Each character in the novel A Death in Geneva is the invention of the author. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is both coincidental and totally unintentional.
“A most peculiar name for the yacht, you know. The Matabele were called the vanishing people, Zulu in origin, whose sole business was war.”
—Captain William Roger Renfro, DSC Royal Navy, Retired • St. Georges, Malta
Chapter 1
The rain had continued for days, often violently, with savage gusts of wind tearing through the ivy of the mansion. Now, in the momentary lull at early evening, rays of sunlight fanned through the racing banks of black clouds, illuminating the yellow of a goldfinch darting to his imperiled home.
Thirty feet beyond the nest, the silhouette of a woman crossed behind the drawn lace curtains of French doors off the second floor balcony.
“Are we late, Ellen?”
“It’s going on seven-forty, Mrs. Burdette. You have an hour. The dinner is set for eight-thirty. You are not expected until eight-forty-five, very comfortable time, no need to worry.”
Constance Starring Burdette strode across the thick yellow rug of the bedroom tying the sash of her satin robe. She seated herself at the glass-topped dressing table, tilted her head back as she switched on the hairdryer and swiveled around to face her companion. “Seven-forty; are we the same as London?”
“We’re five hours ahead of the States, the same as London,” the maid replied.
For a few moments, the drone of the machine was the only sound in the room. The newly appointed American ambassador to the European Offices of the United Nations thought through the distance which separated her from her family. Facing the mirror, she contemplated her face in silence. The guilt never goes away, does it? she thought And yet, I shouldn’t . . . the self-recrimination was fleeting. “It’s almost three in the afternoon, Memorial Day. The children said they were taking a gang to the Hamptons . . . what did Bruce write . . . run an audit on the Long Island beer industry.” A silver-handled hairbrush coursed through shining black waves of hair, pacing her words.
“Mr. Burdette called while you were showering.” Ellen set down a silver tray bearing cigarettes and a glass of sherry. “He said he was at the university grading finals . . . didn’t want to trouble you, wished you luck, wanted to tell you he was looking forward to coming over next month.”
“Thank you, Ellen, just what I need.” She took a long sip of the sherry. The rings on her fingers traded beams with the chandelier as she set to work, applying a rich emollient on her face, working gently around the eyes, stroking firmly from the lines at the corners of the mouth up over the still smooth cheeks. With a deft application of paint and powder, the features of the face were highlighted, a touch of rouge to accentuate the broad cheekbones, mascara to enhance the eyes which were somewhat too narrow, a coral lipstick to the generous mouth. She sat back to draw deeply on a cigarette, followed by another sip of sherry.
“That will have to do. What am I wearing? Yes, good,” as Ellen held up the white silk suit.
“It’s elegant, Mrs. Burdette. All eyes will be on you.”
Ambassador Burdette absorbed the praise without comment. Her eyes caught the leather document case, seal broken, on the bed where she had been poring through its contents just an hour before . . . The fools, she thought, the worthless fools, harassing Tommie with their idiot schemes . . . dangerous, mindless madness. Half the world’s tonnage laid up, a worldwide slump idling the cargo fleets, transport rates continuing to dive, only the Towerpoint fleet making a profit . . . and Adrian and the other directors pressing him to diversify . . . the Australian mining industry! . . . God give me strength. Her brother had continued to forward his most confidential, personal reports on Towerpoint for her eyes only. He trusted her judgment more than any other than his own. . . . Australian mining! . . . so he should!
She snuffed the cigarette against the crystal of the ashtray. “Ellen, remind me to call Tommie tomorrow, very important! I’ll want to have those papers. Don’t forget.”
The telephone rang punctuating the assignment. “It’s Mr. William Pinkerslaw, Mrs. Burdette, calling from downstairs. He has your papers for this evening.”
“Have the . . . the butler, I must learn his name . . . tell him I’ll be down in a minute. Make sure he is offered a drink.”
She dressed quickly. “I should wear the flag tonight, don’t you think?” Ellen removed a richly wrought creation of sapphires, rubies, and diamonds from the bottom drawer of one of the jewel cases and opened the clasp.
“I don’t look like a marine, do I? Perhaps the sapphire and diamond spray would . . .”
“The flag is stunning, Mrs. Burdette. Shall I bring your sherry downstairs?”
“No,” . . . a quick check in the floor-length mirror—“no; we should go. You have my speech?”
“Good evening, Ambassador Burdette.” The deputy chief of mission rose, closing a notebook and tucking it under his left arm. He gave a quick twist to his red-and-black-striped bow tie as he stepped forward to greet her.
“Let’s sit down over here, Mr. Pinkerslaw. Do you have the president’s statement at Arlington today?”
“Yes I do, Ambassador Burdette. A telegram of the advance came in two hours ago.” He handed her the text. “I have taken the liberty of having the paragraph on America’s friends and allies retyped in speech type, thinking you would probably wish to use it this evening.” He drew his copy of the speech from his notebook. “I thought, if you agree, that it might read well up near the front, top of page two, right after your introductory remarks where . . .”
“The President was eloquent today”—she handed the message back to him—“a strong, good statement . . . Now, Mr. Pinkerslaw, what do you propose?”
“That you take this paragraph, Ambassador, and use it here.”
“I see . . . yes.” She placed the text on the round glass coffee table. “Do you think the speech will be well received?”
Pinkerslaw instinctively fumbled with the pipe in his sports coat pocket. Courage restored, he ran a hand along the sharp crease of his trousers. The speech was his, his personal product. He had sacrificed his weekend mixed-doubles match to the speech. He had researched his new ambassador’s past, her earlier public statements, to give it just the right personal touches. The few points of fresh substance had been cabled back, cleared with Washington.
Th
e pipe emerged. He pointed the stem at the ambassador’s reading copy. “It is an extremely good speech, Ambassador; in all candor, I was truly impressed by the way you took the draft immediately after that long, overnight flight. It makes all the right points, and does so in a very refreshing, personal style. The American Club is a good test. They’re looking forward to meeting you. Your speech is the perfect introduction.”
“Louison, the president of the Club, will introduce me? You have the names of everyone I should recognize?”
“Louison, yes, marvelous person . . . and the others, yes, Ambassador.” Pinkerslaw produced two three-by-five cards from his notebook. “There are only two, the phonetics are in parentheses.” He passed the cards to her and leaned forward as she studied the names.
“Lou-duh-man? Du-ba-tee-a?”
“Perfect, Karl Luedemann and Jacques Debatier.” He felt as if he had just guided a jumper over the toughest stone-wall obstacle.
“Fine, fine.” The cards disappeared into the speech folder. She checked her watch, rose, and disappeared into the adjoining study to return with another folder. “How is the mission reacting to Ambassador Burdette, Mr. Pinkerslaw?”
“You will be pleased with the staff. With very few exceptions, they are a very capable group, and if I may say so, you have brought some very impressive credentials, not the least of which was your swearing-in in the Oval Office. . . . And, that wasn’t lost on the UN crowd or the Swiss either. You will find that the mission has some very busy periods, and some quite slack. The new mission, of course, is a vast improvement over the quarters on Rue de Lausanne. . . .”
“So I understand. . . .” She removed the speech from its folder, folded it once, taking care not to crease it, and placed it with the cards in her evening bag. “Well, time . . .”
They followed her from the drawing room. Her eyes caught the carved walnut secretary with its brass pulls—top brass pull on the left, concealed security alarm—first briefing the day she had arrived. “Thank you, Mr. Pinkerslaw, for having come out; I do hope I haven’t ruined weekend plans for you.” She held out her hand. “You’re off duty now. I’ll be soloing this evening; my first Geneva solo. Thank you, Mr. Pinkerslaw.” She smiled again and shook his hand.
His disappointment did not show. He pursed his lips and nodded his head vigorously in approval. The chauffeur slid from his seat to open the rear door of the gray limousine at the first glimpse of Ambassador Burdette descending the marble stairs, accompanied by the butler who held an umbrella to protect her from the rain that had begun to fall again as twilight deepened in the hills south of Geneva. The tires crunched against the gravel of the semicircular drive. The limousine paused at the high-walled gate, then turned on to the road.
Pinkerslaw waved his notebook. “She is the accomplished performer, isn’t she? No staff, first Geneva ‘solo,’ good call on her part, wouldn’t you say, Ellen?” He beamed a professional smile. “I’m looking forward to the Burdette era.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Pinkerslaw.”
The beam from the reading light shut out everything but the text of the speech in her lap. She worked her way slowly through the pages once more, penning diagonal strokes at each spot where she would wish to pause . . . pace the audience, have them with you, she reminded herself . . . applause following the first paragraph, for the head table, for the President’s quote . . . don’t push ahead, feel the rhythm, let them feel your confidence. Her mind skipped to Bruce and Evelyn, glorious young people racing into the freezing Atlantic surf. Her husband’s voice, calm, antiseptic, crowded in: “It is, of course, your decision, Connie, and I will respect you for it. We’ll miss you, but we will be very, very proud of you. It is your decision. . . .”
She carefully refolded the speech, returned it to her purse, and turned off the lamp. “Are we nearly there?”
“We are in Geneva proper, now, Ambassador. That’s the flower clock on the right. Normally, you’d see the jet d’eau behind it, out in the lake . . . pumps are being repaired.”
She felt the stones on her fingers as she looked out through the rain-speckled window following his tour. “Is it Lake Geneva or Lake Leman? I’ve seen them both on the maps.”
“Either will do, Ambassador. Most Americans stick with Geneva. This is the Pont du Mont-Blanc, lake on the right, the Rhône River takes over on the left. If we still had some light, you would see the white swans; the parks are nice here.” The limousine left the bridge. “I believe you wanted to go by the old mission. Is that right, Ambassador?” Looking in the rearview mirror, he saw her nod as she continued to look out at the city.
“Business district?”
“A little of everything, business, several auto outlets, shops, hotels, a good number of apartments.” He slowed and pulled over. “This is it on the right. The arcade was the entrance. You took the elevator up to the mission, the upper floors.”
“I see. I’m glad we left. Looks like an office, not an embassy. Thank you, driver.”
The limousine pulled away from the curb again. She leaned back and closed her eyes. The chauffeur frowned as a motorcycle came alongside. The faceless rider in visored helmet, leather jacket and pants glistening with the rain, held his position abreast for a moment and then fell back. Too close, wet roads, fool. A silent curse from the chauffeur.
Another set of lights was close behind him. Idiots! He slowed, anticipating the light at Avenue de France. The lights slowed. In the mirror he saw the cycle rider alongside a van. Van driver giving him hell, good! With the green light, he turned left, north up Avenue de France. The lights of a train passed silently beneath as the limousine crossed the bridge. The 8:35 to Lausanne.
The motorcycle was alongside again. The chauffeur’s impulse was to roll down the window, give him a yell, a shake of the fist . . . an impulse easily dismissed, too many years with the mission for such nonsense. Too many years! The instinct and security training hit him like an icy spike in the base of his neck. He drew himself straighter, glanced at the ambassador. She was resting. . . . no need to disturb her . . . false alarm. He flipped the safety on the 9mm SiG Sauer pistol he kept in the left front door holster, placed it on the seat beside him. His hand went to the radio mike, squeezing the button as he brought it to his mouth.
“Rampart, Rampart, this is Chariot, over.” He continued along the rainswept Avenue de France, cleared his throat. “Rampart, Rampart, Chariot, over!”
The rain was much heavier now. He could no longer spot the motorcycle. The van was so close its lights were blinding in the rear window, the mirrors. His thumb snapped at the buttons. Typical, new ambassador, Sunday night, no response. . . . I’ll have Weems’s ass, file a report in the morning, security officer! What the hell sort of security is this? He touched the pistol, then grabbed the mike again, slowing, pulling far to the right, indicating the van should pass. It stayed with him.
“Rampart, Ram . . .” At the intersection of Chasse Eugene-Rigot he spun the steering wheel and floored the heavy, gray limousine, which fishtailed coming through the hard right turn and then raced ahead through the darkness.
“What is it, driver?” Ambassador Burdette struggled to regain her balance. “What are you doing; is there a problem?”
“I hope not, Ambassador . . . have to be certain.” The chauffeur’s turn had taken the pursuers by surprise. He had gained one hundred fifty to two hundred feet, but there were still three lights in his mirrors. The motorcycle was back in the lead; they were closing. “Probably some drunks, Ambassador. They chase a set of diplomatic plates for the thrill, doesn’t make it any more right . . .” He turned hard again, right on Avenue de la Paix, blazing past the night shapes of the Botanical Garden, right again, skidding, powering ahead onto Rue de Lausanne. The limousine was racing in a circle, aiming for the heart of Geneva where he would find police.
Ambassador Burdette’s mouth was dry. Fear, fear of the limousine’s hurtling speed in the winding wet darkness confused with oncoming lights. She squinted out of the rea
r window, her right hand instinctively reaching for the diamonds on her ring finger. “Who are they driver, not thieves for heaven’s sake. Where is the police station?”
“Please move to the side now, Ambassador. Do not let yourself show in any window. Stay low!” The big car ran a red light, swerving left and southbound along the lake, then right on Rue Chateaubriand. “The primary radio does not seem to be working, Ambassador. Please hand your telephone receiver to me.”
She did as she was asked. Fear turned to bitter frustration. This mad chase. Radios that don’t work. She would get on top of things . . . fast! The driver, good God, the driver would have to go. She had been told he was excellent. Now, she was late. She would arrive at the dinner disheveled, flustered, not in control. Her mind clutched at a decision; the speech would be canceled, no, postponed, another evening.
“This is insane,” she burst out. “Everything will be ruined for the future. It will be in the press. Good God, no! Stop the car, driver. Stop immediately!”
Her command was ignored. The limousine continued its dash along Rue Chateaubriand. Ahead, through the rain, a car with its trunk lid up . . . someone was loading or unloading. She was thrown against a rear door as the limousine moaned through a skidding turn into Rue Jean Charles Amat. “Rampart, Rampart, this is Chariot, Condition Red, repeat Condition Red, this is Chariot . . .”
The motorcycle slid alongside. The bullets from the first clip of the machine pistol riveted the driver’s window and door, the fat, unbroken taps of a woodpecker drilling a tree. The chauffeur kicked down on the brakes with all his strength. The street was too narrow. He snapped the limousine into reverse, swinging out to the left, but the van was on top of him.
The second wave of the attack was swift. Two HK-53 machine pistols emptied a salvo against the weakly armored glass of the chauffeur’s side window. The main assault of armor-piercing bullets clicked smoothly through the curved clip of an AK-47 automatic rifle, tearing with deafening slams into the glass and body of the limousine. Blood streaming from his face lacerated with glass splinters, a black, growing wound in his neck, the chauffeur fired twice through the broken window in the direction of the nearest barrel flashes. He threw the limousine into forward, ramming and dragging the motorcycle before crashing, the machine wedged beneath, into cars parked on the side of the street. The spit of bullets continued. In the next second, two caught him in the left ear and temple.
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