The Geneva Decision

by Seeley James

  Villeneuve listened to Alphonse’s report on the situation, then spoke to him in French.

  “She wants to know more about the tranquilizer dart,” Alphonse said. “Will the shopkeeper suffer injury?”

  “No,” Jonelle said. “The dart is filled—”

  Villeneuve stopped Jonelle with a wave of her hand and pointed at Pia.

  “Pardon,” Alphonse said, “but she wants to hear it from your company president.”

  Jonelle turned to Pia. “You ordered us to use them, probably best if you explain it anyway.”

  Pia looked Villeneuve in the eye. “The dart carries two doses. The first is a concentrate of Inland Taipan snake venom, a neurotoxin that affects the central nervous system with flaccid paralysis within one second of injection and lasts up to twenty minutes. The target is alert but immobile during this phase. The second dose is zolpidem, a sleep medication. It puts the target under for about four hours but takes five to ten minutes to take effect. For a few minutes, the target can hear and see but can’t move. He can’t pull the trigger on his gun.”

  Alphonse said, “Nonlethal weapon. You compete with Taser?”

  “Not yet. We still need some… testing.”

  He tilted his head.

  Pia said, “Some people have allergic reactions to the venom. We carry an antidote just in case.”

  “How many people have allergic reactions?”

  Pia shrugged and sighed.

  Alphonse translated and Villeneuve nodded. She inspected the place with her hands folded behind her back. She looked in the back room, in the cabinets, out in the courtyard. She called out questions, and Alphonse translated.

  “No sign of al-Jabal when you fired at him in back?” he asked.

  “We didn’t fire at him,” Pia said. “He took a shot at Agent Marty.”

  “Did you find any proof of al-Jabal’s presence here?”

  “No. We saw him. He ran for it. We looked around.” Her hands came up, then fell back to her sides. “Nothing.”

  Alphonse nodded. Villeneuve came back and stood next to him. She crossed her arms, faced Pia, and spoke.

  “Le Capitaine recognizes your contributions to the safety of the canton this evening,” Alphonse said, “You subdued the murderer at the party and then the Swiss citizen in his shop. It is unfortunate that there is no proof of the killer’s presence here. It is her wish that you refrain from assisting the police any further. Your intentions are honorable, no doubt, but the results,” he motioned toward the shopkeeper, “are uncertain.”

  “I understand.” Pia said. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you have a big operation going on.”

  Pia could feel Jonelle watching her.

  “Le Capitaine wishes me to escort you back to the hotel,” Alphonse said. “I will be with you in one moment.”

  Alphonse and Villeneuve spoke in the corner of the store.

  Pia looked at Jonelle, glanced over at Villeneuve and back. She said, “Good thing she didn’t arrest me. So, we’re done here. I blew it. I should’ve let you and Marty do your thing. Now she thinks I’m a wacko with a hero complex.”

  “You’re not a wacko with hero complex,” Jonelle said. “You’re a spoiled rich kid with a hero complex. She should know the difference.”

  They zipped their jackets and stepped outside. Alphonse finished up and joined them. The sidewalk was only wide enough for two, so Jonelle and Marty hung back several steps.

  Pia said, “Escorting me back—is she punishing you?”

  He shrugged and clasped his hands behind his back as he walked.

  “Oui, more or less. She is in the foul mood. Much pressure now. The police chief told her, You lost him—you must find him. She thinks I encourage you with the… admiration. But, no matter—escorting you is not the punishment. And it is the nice night for the walk, oui?”

  Chapter 5

  * * *

  20-May, 11PM

  She tugged her jacket close against the falling temperature as they strolled along Rue des Alpes. Their route took them out of the neighborhood of shops and cafés toward the glass and steel office buildings closer to the hotel. Their conversation was casual, ranging from women’s soccer to the Olympics and the next women’s World Cup. Alphonse had become a fan as a teenager when his diplomat father lived in Washington, DC. He’d dated a woman who lost to Pia’s high school team and recalled being stunned by Pia’s domination of the field.

  “You play like Cristiano Ronaldo,” he said. “And you would leave football to run Sabel Security?”

  “No choice.”

  “But you are too young. Twenty-five?”

  “So were Mark Zuckerberg and Sergey Brin.”

  “No, I mean too young to give up the promising career. I don’t understand this.”

  Pia inhaled the crisp air through her nose in a long deep breath, pinched her lips, and let her breath out. They crossed beneath a stoplight where Pia saw a strip of plastic in the gutter and pointed to it.

  “Hey. These are the plasticuffs we put on al-Jabal.” she said.

  “Perhaps.” Alphonse looked around. “This is where Duchamps stopped for traffic and was clubbed on the head.”

  “They were cut with something curved. You can see where the plastic fits together.” She pointed to the ends, where a slice was evident.

  He picked them up, looked curiously at them, nodded. “Thank you. We will have someone look at these for tool marks. Maybe another clue, oui?”

  Pia smiled. He smiled.

  Jonelle and Marty closed in on them.

  From three paces away, Jonelle said, “Fingerprints?”

  Alphonse looked at her.

  Jonelle said, “Gloves, evidence bag? You guys lost the prisoner before you had a chance to take his fingerprints. That strip of plastic might be a chance to discover his real identity.”

  Alphonse winced in the sodium light. He gripped the plasticuff by the edges between his thumb and forefinger, then dropped it into his windbreaker’s inside pocket. He looked up at Jonelle and gave a stiff nod.

  They resumed their walk.

  Alphonse said, “You must forgive our awkward approach to handling murders, Ms. Sabel. Geneva has the lowest homicide rate in Europe. Few officers have any real experience transporting criminals. All we know is what the manuals tell us.”

  “I thought you were on loan from France.”

  “The truth is, we have even less homicide in Chamonix.”

  They strolled on. When they reached the cross street, Quai du Mont-Blanc, he stopped and pointed in the opposite direction.

  “I highly recommend seeing the view from Pont de la Machine, the city’s first hydroelectric plant. Today it holds the gallery and café. Closed now, I’m sure. But the city view is worth the walk.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he strode onto the footbridge across the Rhone River.

  Pia glanced at her agents, shrugged, then followed him.

  In the middle of the dark river, a darker building waited. Three hundred yards to her left, upstream, Lake Léman poured into the Rhone, passed beneath the bridge, and headed toward the Mediterranean Sea.

  “You know,” she said as she caught up, “Sabel Security was asked by Clément Marot to meet with him about the Objet Trouvé.”

  Alphonse smiled. “Pardon. Could you do me the favor?”

  “Sure. What?”

  “Don’t pronounce French without the effort.” He smiled. “It is pronounced objet trouvé—it means ‘the object as it is found.’ Like natural art. Example, driftwood is the objet trouvé.” He sighed and muttered, “Américains.”

  She smiled weakly and continued walking. Behind her back she flashed Marty her hand signal for privacy. Marty tugged Jonelle’s arm, and they stayed close to the street end of the bridge. It was quiet on the lake. A rare car travelled the streets on either side of the river.

  They stopped in front of the old power plant and faced Lake Léman. Five-story buildings, shouldered together, lined both sides of the r
iver. They were lit up like Christmas in reds and greens and blues, their lights reflected in mesmerizing patterns on the water’s dark surface. Pia made a picture frame with her fingers and clicked, mimicking the noise of a camera. She giggled and shoved her hands in her pockets.

  “Anyway,” she said, leaning her back against the railing, “I looked it up. Pirates commandeered the ship off the coast of Cameroon three months ago. Remember, al-Jabal had a Cameroon bus ticket in his pockets, and—”

  “Oh. No. No.” He stepped back, glaring at her. “Tonight, three officers left their posts at the train station to answer your call at the dress shop. Al-Jabal could have walked three blocks and taken the train to Paris because of you. You mean well, you did well, but you upset Le Capitaine’s plans. It is most difficult to work distracted.”

  “What? I thought you—”

  “No, I am not discussing this investigation with you. Last summer you played soccer in the Olympics. Last week you played soccer for Potomac Women’s Club. You are good. Maybe as good as Sandrine Soubeyrand. Maybe. But tonight, you play detective—in a country where you do not speak any languages. Why? Because your father gives you the company like the toy. Do you really think the job is so easy? Yes, you tackle the killer. Thank you. The rest you leave to professionals.”

  He turned to the river, leaned his elbows on the railing and huffed.

  His glanced at her and shrugged. “Even if we are not so professional, we do what we can.”

  Pia studied his profile. “Um. I’m sorry, Alphonse. I didn’t mean to wreck your…”

  Her voice trailed off, and she looked for a new conversation.

  Alphonse wore a pin in his jacket with the same logo she’d seen on Capitaine Villeneuve’s shirt. Pia pointed to it. She said, “Is that a police fraternity of some kind?”

  He glanced at it, confused for a moment. Then came that great smile.

  “Oh, no. It is the Association Nationale des Professionels de la Sécurité des Pistes, ANPSP. How do you say in America? Ski Patrol, oui?”

  She nodded. “Your capitaine had the same logo on her shirt.”

  “For many years, she heads the school for the training. In Chamonix, it is common for the gendarme to take the second job doing the ski rescues. I am instructor there also.”

  They inhaled the chilled night air as the conversation died. Pia thought of several things to say and pushed them back. She glanced at a diagram affixed to the railing. It showed the hydroelectric system as it was built in 1887: the lake, intake, penstock, turbines, and generators. Annotated in four languages.

  While she stared at the sign, she considered her attraction to him. Was it his looks? No, he was handsome but not exceptionally so. His demeanor? Maybe. Most of her boyfriends had been fine until they grasped the extent of her wealth. Then they turned into self-prostrating suck-ups. Alphonse’s directness was refreshing, even admirable. At least, so far.

  His phone chirped three times before he took the call, quickly turning around and taking a few steps. She listened to his voice. Maybe it was his baritone. While she listened, she recognized the words Pont de la Machine and wondered if she might learn French someday. She was impressed that he spoke English so well.

  Alphonse spun around. “I must leave at once. Terrible news. There has been another shooting. Another murdered banker.”

  He turned and ran down the footbridge, past Jonelle and Marty and into the darkness.

  Jonelle put her palms out, asking if everything was OK. Pia considered yelling to her and decided to text instead. A car pulled up at the opposite end of the footbridge as she thumbed out the news to Jonelle. Some other couple would arrive to take in the romantic sights. Until then, she would savor the mood.

  A second murdered banker in the world’s banking capital. What was going on? Should she try to figure it out or take Jonelle’s advice and leave it alone? Marot had never hired them to do anything. Her inexperience had made matters worse at the dress shop. If she stuck around trying to solve Geneva’s problems, she was bound to make more mistakes. Jonelle was right. Murdered bankers were not her—

  Pia’s ears picked up a noise. Someone was running. She knew the sound of running footsteps, athletes on grass, people on treadmills, college girls in boy’s dorms. This was different—not an athlete’s precision-planted steps but aggressive steps, angry steps.

  She looked over her shoulder toward the far shore. A man charged straight toward her. His posture was aggressive. Too aggressive. Her muscles froze. Halfway up the bridge, forty yards out, he stopped and raised an arm. He pointed at her—a blond guy, spiky hair, black boots. Al-Jabal’s accomplice. Beyond him was a small gray car, the driver’s door open.

  She dropped into a squat, then burst up and sideways as a shot banged through the air. She’d faked out defenders around the world, but bullets were faster. Her tricks would probably not work for long against the soldier. She leaned left and snuck a peek over the railing. The plant’s intake platform floated on the water below her, a few yards out. She spun around and ran right as another bang shattered the quiet night.

  Behind her, Agents Marty and Jonelle were closing in as fast as they could but were still not close enough for Sabel darts. She ran for the building, looking for refuge—a column, a bay to hide behind, anything. She needed a few seconds of cover to dig out her gun and return fire. Nothing. The building was a flat brick front.

  She glanced at the shooter, planted her feet and flew backward two yards in a single bound, forcing another miss. His third shot shattered the glass inches from where she’d been. She landed on her butt and rolled in a backward somersault.

  Her memory reeled in lessons from the firing range. A Sig Sauer held eight bullets. He had five left. If she jumped, she might make it to the intake platform. It was lower, unlit, and would force him to turn his back to Jonelle and Marty if he wanted to shoot her. A risk he might not take. They’d arrive before he could kill her. Maybe. It was her best chance.

  She ran for the railing.

  From the car on the street, an Arabic voice shouted, “Eyreh be afass seder emmak!”

  She’d heard that phrase during games in the Middle East. The ugliest insult an Arab could muster.

  Al-Jabal.

  Pia vaulted the railing.

  In midair she realized her mistake: the platform was too far.

  She plunged into shocking cold water. Something tugged at her torso, pulling her down. The current of the Rhone flowed out of Lake Léman and into a narrow penstock, or inlet tube, that once fed the power plant’s turbines. She was in that current, slipping into that penstock. She had to swim out immediately or get sucked into a kilometer-long tube. Clawing at the water, she struggled upward, sinking as much as she rose. She shrugged off her jacket and kicked off her shoes. Graceful efficiency, a swim coach had once told her when describing underwater swimming form. She’d have to be less panicked to reach graceful.

  Her lungs burned. A land-athlete, she lived and breathed air without a second thought. The more she fought, the more air she wanted, which meant she needed to make better progress against the current. Otherwise, fatigue would force her lungs to do what they craved, to expand and fill regardless of the consequences. Already she had to exert even more energy to keep her mouth closed.

  She wondered why she’d even made the jump. She was no gymnast, no vaulter. She was tall and strong and fast, not light and lithe and fluid. The platform had been a mistake, possibly a deadly one.

  She clawed harder and kicked. She felt eddies of water behind the trailing edge of her skin, the sign of ineffective paddling. The exertion of swimming against infinite tons of water used up the remaining oxygen in her blood. She was exhausted. She had nothing left. She struggled to commit her arms to one more stroke.

  Dying in that freezing river because of al-Jabal was not an option. The bad guys were not going to win this game. Pia Sabel always won.

  It was time to fight. She willed herself to make it out alive. Recalling her instruct
or’s guidance to treat the water as a solid object, she pressed her fingers together, imagining them pushing against a rock wall, and pressed hard against it. Progress. Her knees locked, and her kicks gained traction. She fought back another overwhelming urge to gasp for air. Her arms moved upward with better form and downward with more power. Stroke by stroke, she made a little progress and got away from the strongest part of the current.

  The water lightened above her. City lights—the surface had to be close. Her body burned with an uncontrollable desire to breathe in anything. Just a little farther. Another stroke or two. Her muscles ached; her lungs were on fire. She pushed herself harder than she imagined possible.

  Kicking her way to the surface, she broke through and sucked in lungs full of air. For a minute that was all she could do—breathe.

  She looked around for a way out. Nothing but darkness. A wall separated her from the open river, while the current tried to tug her back into the deep. Exhausted, she swam along the wall until she reached her intended destination, the platform, and hauled herself onto it.

  Marty’s voice reached her ears. He and Jonelle found an access walkway and made their way toward her.

  Brushing the water off her tracksuit, she thought about the escalation. The assassin was trying to kill her. She stood up and met her agents halfway across the platform. Marty handed her his leather jacket.

  She slipped it on, shivering. “Did you get them?”

  “The darts don’t have much range,” Jonelle said. “They ran for it.”

  “Still think this is none of our business?”

  Jonelle’s face tightened.

  “Trouble is, he’s on the other side of the Capitaine’s roadblocks,” Marty said, “and we don’t have a car.”

  “That’s OK. I know where he’s going.” Pia shivered again as she began the soggy walk to the hotel. “What kind of person says, ‘Eyreh be afass seder emmak,’—A thousand dicks in your mother’s ribcage—anyway?”