He’d be ready.
Chalet Züriberg, Davos, Switzerland
Frank was jogging alongside the last ten cars in the car park when he heard the siren. It wasn’t the same sound as a British police car, the wailing was much more grating. He reached the last car, a Passat estate, and stopped. The siren was coming quickly from his right. He waited.
There it was. And it wasn’t a police car. The bodywork was bright red with white flashes, and had red and white top-lights spinning like a crazed ballet dancer. It looked more like a fire chief’s car. As the car slowed to turn up the hill behind him, he picked out the ubiquitous white cross on a red background - the Swiss flag. And the word ‘Reha’ - white letters on a red again, on its left flank. It wasn’t fire or police. Or an ambulance. He thought maybe it was some form of mountain rescue; but the car didn’t look big enough to squeeze in a St Bernard.
And then another noise. He turned to his right, tuning his ears. A far-off, heavy clump-clump-clump, from down the valley.
A helicopter.
The unmistakable beat of its rotating wings grew louder as the siren on the red car softened. The red and white flashing lights of the car became stationary, up on the hillside above him, maybe 50 metres away.
The helicopter was still moving. It was now just short of the town and slowing. Frank couldn’t make it out, other than a bright white spotlight, presumably on its underbelly, and a couple of other flashing lights picking out the aircraft’s extremities. It was over his right shoulder now, high but not distant, and slowing further. Then, a black object against a dark grey mountainside, it turned - moving closer. Now it was hovering above the red and white flashing lights of the ‘Reha’ car, freshly fallen snow re-joining the air, whisked away and then settling on a different planet.
A helicopter-landing site?
A VIP landing.
The Dalai Lama?
Frank took off. It wasn’t in Sam’s brief - when he’d finished here he was meant to move onto another car park - but he felt oddly drawn to the meeting of the red and white car and the helicopter.
He was walking quickly; as fast as he could against the gradient. He was sweating. And breathing hard.
His phone rang. It was Sam. In less than an instant his brain replayed the scene in the Burger King.
I don’t have the capacity for love, Frank.
‘Frank?’
The image was lost.
‘Yes, sorry. How’s it going?’ Frank was struggling to get the words out between breaths.
‘Have you finished your last hotel?’
‘Yes. You?’ He was 20 metres short of the helicopter. It was above him, on a ledge.
‘Yes. Did you hear the helicopter?’
‘Yes. I’m just short of it now. I’m guessing it’s the guest of honour arriving?’
‘Oh … good. Good plan. Have a quick recce. Could be the Dalai Lama. Look, I’m going into the Kongresszentrum. I’m still working on a sniper, and that’s his most likely vantage point. I reckon Forester is going to the dinner. I should be able to pick him out with the binos. Once you’ve finished with what you’re doing, head down to the Hilton. Try and find someone in authority. Show them your SIS ID and get them to close the blinds in the Seehorn conference room. Make up any story you like. Tell them the truth, if necessary. But get the blinds closed. And then keep your eyes out for anything suspicious.’ The words in the speaker stuttered. ‘And, Frank …’
‘Yes, Sam?’
He was glad for another break. Words were difficult when your lungs were recycling as much freezing air as they could.
‘Be careful. Please.’
Frank thought he felt his cheeks warming as he instinctively dropped down to one knee and his mind emptied. He was still on the road, but his head was now above the parapet. He could see the helicopter, which turned out to be in the same livery as the car with the roof lights: red, with white flashes, a Swiss flag and the ‘Reha’ logo.
The helicopter’s blades were slowing to a halt. A man from the car had run forward to the main door in the fuselage. It was open. There was a single passenger. He was getting out.
It wasn’t the Dalai Lama.
‘Sam?’
‘What?’ Her tone was terser. She’d finished one job and was onto another. She didn’t like interruptions.
‘It’s not the Dalai Lama.’
There was a pause.
‘Who is it?’
‘Forester. He’s getting VIP treatment. And he’s definitely going to the dinner.’
Frank felt Sam tense across the airways.
‘Why do you say that, Frank?’ There was a quiver in her voice.
‘He’s in a tux. He’ll be at the Hilton in no time. He’ll be blue-lighted down in a red car with a ‘Reha’ logo on it.’ Frank stopped. He was expecting Sam to ask him to spell ‘Reha’. But she didn’t.
Because the phone had gone dead.
Outside the Kongresszentrum, Davos, Switzerland
Sam stood still. A solitary snowflake meandered its way past her nose and then dropped to the grey tarmac and vanished. Then another. And another. She stared into the distance, at the vertical planks that covered much of the Kongresszentrum. It was a curvy building, with large sections of glass interrupting a wooden exterior. Her distant focus lost the ever increasing snowfall as she worked hard to nail her mind onto something tangible. Like a building.
The temperature had dropped. But she hadn’t felt it. Soon the snow was falling in such quantity the grass surrounding the building had turned from green-black to light grey - yellow where the warm-LED car park lights ventured off the tarmac. It was going to be a cold night. The dampness on the roads would freeze and the snow would find a home there as well.
It would be beautiful.
Christmassy.
She should ski tomorrow. She hadn’t been this winter. And she so loved to ski. And then go home. Find another menial job. Get a boyfriend - or girlfriend. Tony the tills would do. Watch TV. Walk in the park. Have nights in, and pub meals out. Have rubbish sex, but appear grateful. Get a cheap car. Avoid the pills. Drink less.
Get old. And die.
That’s what she would do.
Her new plan. It was better than every alternative she could think of.
If she could get her body to move. If the sodding thing would listen to her.
Nee-naw.
The noise cut through her like an east wind. It destroyed her wistful imagineering. Her new life shattered into a million pieces, and scattered - and frozen - onto the snow accumulating around her feet.
She turned. And looked.
There it was. Red and white flashing lights, heading down the hill high to her right. It would be down in the town in no time.
Sam was a minute from the Kongresszentrum. It was in front of her. She was in the shadows of another building, but had an uninterrupted view. Wood interspersed with glass. A massive, decorative overhang protected and proclaimed the entrance. Then, to the side of the entrance and one floor up, a series of windows facing the main road - and the Hilton. Seven useful ones, if you were a sniper. Four medium to large sets of panes. Three dusty ones; long - almost floor to ceiling. Dusty meant light, but no see. They could be loos. Or a small laboratory, where those inside didn’t want prying eyes.
The shooter would be behind one of the seven. The angles were right. The distance perfect. She’d know which one when they opened the window. They would have to do that for observation, and also to prevent early deviation to the round. The sniper would be half a metre back from the opening to offer himself some cover whilst giving the best field of view. If the window at the firing end were shut, even a millimetre displacement caused by the round cutting through the early glass would deflect the bullet 15 centimetres at the target’s end - and that’s before the round shattered the triple glazing of the conference room. The round would miss. Someone might die. But not the intended target.
The sniper would open a window. She was sure of it. And
she would know.
What to do?
It was a minute before Forester arrived at the hotel.
A minute from the Kongresszentrum.
There was a fight in her head. But it didn’t last long.
Any serving member of SIS would have broken into the Kongresszentrum. Make a detailed but sharp search of the premises with the aim of spooking an assassin. They’d go in armed if possible. If not, they would find a makeshift weapon from somewhere. They would enter quietly and look behind the doors that shielded the seven windows. They may not be able to disarm the shooter, but they would stop him.
Professional assassins were never ideological. They do a job and they do it secretly. And every contract has a get-out clause. If someone interrupts their shoot, they bail out. Ready for the next job.
She should break into the Kongresszentrum. Stop the sniper. She should do that.
I should.
But she didn’t. The siren was enchanting; mystical - like a siren should be. It pulled at her. Dragged her to an abyss. It fought protocol and common sense. It was overwhelming.
She walked.
The siren got louder.
She was 100 metres from the Hilton. She could see the front door. A smartly-dressed porter held open a gold-handled door for guests dressed for a banquet. Tuxes and cocktail dresses. Furs and beautifully tailored, long woollen coats. Black ties and big jewels.
Eighty metres now. It was a trance-like approach. Iron filings to a magnet. Her brain was fluff. She had no plan. She had no weapon - not even her wit. She was heading for a fight there was no way she could win.
Nee-naw.
The red car, as Frank had described. It was decelerating as it neared the entrance to the Hilton. Heading in her direction as she crossed the road and joined the pavement that ran alongside the front of the hotel.
Sixty metres.
She should run?
No. She couldn’t.
The siren had stopped, but the flashing lights continued. The car was at the entrance to the hotel. The porter hesitantly opened the kerbside door of the car.
Sam stopped.
Waited.
It took a few seconds for the man to unfurl himself from the back seat of the red car with white flashes.
He stood.
Forester stood.
It was him.
A small crowd, who had previously been trying to get into the hotel, had paused. Forester greeted them. There was bonhomie. And smiles.
Sam tried to shout something. She didn’t know what. But nothing came out.
She tried to move. But nothing worked.
And then they were gone. Inside the hotel. Into the warmth. Away from the cold. And the snow.
Sam hadn’t realised there was an accumulation of snowflakes on her eyelashes. Her shoulders were white, as was her beanie. If she stood still much longer she would be covered. Someone would put some lumps of coal down her front and a carrot where her nose was.
Her brain gave no instructions.
She stood. Fixed. An immovable object; a depository for snow.
And then she saw Frank. He was jogging past the red car. He hadn’t been in her earlier dreams of tomorrow’s new life. The one with the nights in and pub meals out. She’d excluded him from the equation. He was too good for her. She would bring him down. He deserved better.
Maybe Tony did too?
She hated herself then. She hated herself for thinking Tony would want her regardless of the fact she was a freak.
‘Sam!’
Frank was beside her. She looked at him. He was red-faced and out of breath, his back bent slightly, his hands on his thighs.
‘I thought you were going to the Kongresszentrum?’
Poor Frank. He loved her, and she couldn’t love him back. She had too much else going on upstairs. Her mind was locked in a duel. There was no room for company.
‘Sam!’
He’d raised his voice. Her eyes moved. Looked him up and down. Trying to take in her new world. The one where she was here and now - but not quite. She had form, but no control. It was an inner body experience.
‘Sam. It’s Frank. Come on, we’ve got things to do. You wanted me to get the blinds closed in the conference suite. I need to do that. You need to get to the Kongresszentrum and disrupt any potential shooters.’
She stared at him.
He lifted his hand and waved it in front of her eyes.
She saw that. And had heard every word. But there was a disconnect. The words were for somebody else’s ears.
Smack!
Frank slapped her across the face. It wasn’t a gentle slap, like waking a drunk from the couch. It was a full-strength, angry smack.
And it stung like hell.
Stars. Connections.
‘What the hell are you playing at, Frank?’
She was back. She didn’t know for how long. But everything was connected again. She instantly raised her hand to hit him back. He dipped his head and raised his own hands in submission.
‘Sorry, you … just … well …’ A whimper from Frank.
The tension fell away. She lowered her hand. She moved her jaw to lessen the pain in her cheek.
Her mind raced.
‘Me too. Sorry.’
Think.
‘Go and do as I asked. You create a diversion, close the blinds - do something. I’ll deal with Forester and the shooter. I reckon I can do one before I do the other. We’ve maybe got an hour.’
‘How come. They’ll be in the conference room any moment now.’
‘The sniper will wait for the speeches. I’m pretty sure of it. And we’re looking for one of those seven windows on the Kongresszentrum to open, the ones up and to the right of the main entrance.’ Sam was pointing. ‘As soon as one does you’ve got no more than three minutes. Now go!’
Chapter 21
Hilton Garden Inn, Davos, Switzerland
Sam gave Frank a 15 second head start whilst she came up with a plan - which didn’t transpire. With no obvious option materialising she applied her ‘sod it’ principle and followed him through the main entrance. Forester had a couple of minutes on them. He’d be at the bar, or in an adjoining reception room where the guests would be up to their collars in cocktails and canapes.
She needed to find him. She wanted him to know she was here. That would be enough for her for now. He couldn’t touch her in public. But she could unnerve him. Let him know he was not alone. That his plan was unravelling. Maybe then he’d do something rash which would make him easier to find next time.
The porter opened the door for her and as soon as she was in the warm she took off her beanie and jacket. Underneath she was wearing a black roll-neck, a green and red chequered fleece gilet and blue, heavy-cotton trekking trousers. And walking shoes. She was hardly dressed for a party.
It would have to do.
The Seehorn conference suite was up a short flight of steps to her right. A second set of doors to its left led to another, smaller room on which poshly-dressed guests were converging. Through the melee Sam spotted an elaborate candelabra and small circles of people oozing confidence - and money.
Movement to her left.
There!
The Dalai Lama. As per his Twitter profile. Orange, red and yellow robes. Round glasses. Big eyebrows. Sandaled feet. A genuine smile that would turn the devil.
And ...
… Forester. She hadn’t spotted him before. He must have been hidden behind a pillar.
The Dalai Lama was heading for the smaller room. Forester was on intercept.
Sam moved. Quickly.
There were three other monks with the main man. She dodged them, only to the extent that one reached for her and grabbed her by the arm. She let her arm go to its full extent, dragging behind her ... but it didn’t stop her getting to the Dalai Lama’s side.
He noticed her immediately. And stopped. And smiled.
Sam bowed, a reverential nod.
‘Your Holiness.’ She
held out her hand. She’d heard The Queen didn’t like to be touched and to do so would land you in the Tower. She had no idea if the same rules applied here.
She felt the warm touch of an immense but gentle human being, and immediately sensed a surge of goodness flowing through her. The minder monk let go of her arm.
‘Yes, child. How may I help you?’ Perfect English.
Sam’s mind went into overdrive. In a few seconds he had done so much already. But there was still more to be done.
‘I think, your Holiness, I might ask this woman to leave you in peace.’
It was Forester. He was in the circle now. All sharp creases, starched shirt and patent leather shoes. Sam glanced at him. She could do no more.
‘Not at all … mister?’ The Dalai Lama replied.
Forester didn’t answer.
With me here he’s having to work through his aliases.
‘His name is Freddie Forester, your Holiness.’ Sam filled the void.
She’d said it. Out loud. The ‘F’ word. The Dalai Lama had given her renewed strength.
‘And he’s …’ She was being lifted from her feet. A hand under each armpit. Two beefy, Hilton security guards were on her. They dragged her away. ‘... planning to have you assassinated!’ She shouted the final words over her shoulder, her eyes keeping contact with the Dalai Lama’s. His look was one of bewilderment. But not fear.
And then he was gone. Taken into the second room by his monk entourage, followed closely by Forester, who didn’t look back.
They literally threw her into a small office. She pivoted off a desk and managed to find a seat to collapse into. One of the security men entered with her. The other closed the door from the outside.
‘Who are you?’ The man’s English was good, with a German clip.
Who am I now?
Her mind raced for the right answer. She went for something close to the truth.
‘Sam Green. I’m working with the British Special Intelligence Service. I don’t have a card, but if you let me use my phone …’ She reached for her pocket.
‘Don’t even think about it!’ He grabbed her wrist. And squeezed it - hard.
On the Back Foot to Hell Page 42