The woman behind the reception desk looked up with an inquisitive smile when we crossed the cream marble floor toward her.
I smiled back. ‘We need to see the director please,’ I said in Swiss German.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ she asked pleasantly.
‘I’m afraid not.’ I removed a badge from the inside pocket of my suit and showed it to her. ‘This is a police matter.’
The woman’s smile became strained as she studied the insignia. She lifted a telephone handset and spoke softly in the mouthpiece. A short conversation ensued. She placed the receiver in its cradle and indicated an artfully arranged circle of seats to the right of the vestibule.
‘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, Ashely had loosened his tie and paced around the lobby several times.
‘I need a smoke,’ he explained at my stare.
‘You had one an hour ago.’
He gave me a blank look. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’
I sighed and smoothed out the wrinkles in my coat. Just as I was about to rise from the seat and approach the reception desk, a musical ting sounded from the end of the foyer.
‘I am extremely sorry. I was in an important meeting,’ said 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 handshake and smelled faintly of menthol.
‘I am Agent Petersen of Swiss Interpol. This is FBI Agent Barnes.’ I indicated Ashely. ‘We’re investigating the murder of one of your clients, a Professor H.E. Strauss. He transferred a substantial sum of money to your bank a fortnight ago. We would like to study the details of the account. We’re especially interested in any transactions that may have transpired on it since then.’
Mueller glanced at Ashely’s rumpled suit and carefully studied our identification.
Qin Lee had done a first-rate job; the IDs 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 H.E. Strauss; I had had Qin Lee fax it through to the hotel last night.
Mueller inspected the paper and turned to speak to the receptionist briefly. He indicated the lift. ‘After you.’
We stepped out onto the fifth floor of the building a moment later. 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. 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. He typed and clicked on the keyboard and pad before swiveling the screen around for us to look at.
‘I’m afraid there’s not a lot to see,’ he said apologetically. ‘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 Ashely with a sinking feeling. It looked like this was going to be 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.’
‘The safety deposit box?’ I repeated, staring blankly at the man.
‘Yes. It was opened at the same time as the account,’ said Allenbach.
‘Who’s the co-account holder?’ said Ashely.
I knew the name before Allenbach said it. ‘Professor A.M. Godard.’
A light rain was falling across the city when we exited the bank a short while later.
Ashely hunched his shoulders against the cool autumnal wind sweeping down the avenue. ‘Want to check out the university?’
‘Yeah.’
A quick internet search that morning had confirmed that the Functional Genomics Center was on the Irchel campus. We took the tram toward Stettbach and got off in Milchbuck. From there it was a short walk across the park to the university.
A site map 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 as we headed for the stairs. One flight up, a glass security door appeared in our path.
A couple of students sauntered 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,’ Ashely muttered, his eyes following the pair disappearing toward the ground floor. ‘We could always break the fire glass.’ He indicated the alarm on the wall.
I touched his arm. ‘Wait.’
A young woman was approaching the security door from the other 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, head cast down.
I took a step toward her.
A gasp left her lips. The files fell from her arms.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,’ I murmured apologetically. ‘Let me give you a hand.’ I smiled and hunched down to help her gather the scattered folders.
The woman flushed and stammered a quick ‘Thank you!’ in Swiss German before dashing down the stairs. I watched her until she vanished from view.
‘Charming,’ Ashely muttered. The access card he had lifted off her waist dangled from his hand.
We swiped through the security door and entered a wide corridor. Twenty feet in, a floor-to-ceiling glass wall appeared on our left. Beyond it was a large laboratory. Figures in white coats sat behind the crowded worktops.
A door with the nameplate “Godard” affixed to it stood at the end of the passage. It was locked. Ashely 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, a suspicious expression on her 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 toward her.
The woman studied the ID. ‘And this is with regards to?’ she said, unfazed.
‘It’s a rather delicate matter, I’m afraid. 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 glanced at the man with the dreadlocks. A troubled expression flashed in their eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘We haven’t seen or heard from Sheila in a fortnight.’ She bit her lip. ‘We know she had traveling plans, but she should have been back in the lab this week.’
Unease trickled through my mind at her words. ‘Is this normal behavior for Professor Godard?’ I said, keeping my tone neutral.
The woman shook her head. ‘No. Sheila 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 the woman. I looked at the man with the dreadlocks.
‘Hmm, I just saw her assistant, Helena,’ he muttered.
‘Helena was here?’ the woman squealed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
The man flushed and pushed the bifocals up his nose. ‘I didn’t think i
t was important.’
‘When was this?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘Not that long ago. Ten, fifteen minutes maybe.’
‘Did she say anything?’
The man shuffled his feet and looked at the woman for reassurance. She nodded encouragingly.
‘She mentioned 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 in a guilty mumble. ‘I think she took something from Sheila’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 on her green scarf today.’
We bade our goodbyes and left the building swiftly.
‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’ said Ashely as we jogged across the park.
I nodded. ‘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 read five minutes to noon when we entered the central hall.
The place was packed; visitors and locals milled across the crowded floor, some browsing the arcade that lined the vast space while most rushed to and from the tall archways that led to the platforms.
We were halfway across the concourse when Ashely stopped and indicated the opposite end of the atrium. A blonde woman in a cream camel coat was disappearing inside a glass lift. There was a flash of green at her neck when she turned to face the closing doors.
We hurried over to the escalator. By the time we reached the bottom of the rolling steps, the woman had exited the lift and was heading briskly north along a wide passage in the shopping mall beneath the station. We fell into step behind her.
She stopped outside the window of a confectionary shop and looked around furtively before removing a cell phone from her handbag. She dialed a number and waited several seconds before starting to talk.
‘Can you make out what she’s saying?’ I said quietly as we strolled past.
Ashely 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 a moment 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. A flower shop came into view a short distance from the next intersection. She was about twenty feet from it when a figure stepped out from behind a pillar next to the boutique.
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 quickening. She reached inside her bag and removed a short, gray flask.
The bullet struck the center of her right temple soundlessly. Her head jerked sideways. She dropped to the ground with a 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 next to the pillar froze.
‘Helena!’ she screamed a heartbeat later. An elaborate, thick, gold sun cross pendant fell out from the open neck of her black coat as she lunged forward.
Bullets whined through the air and scored the ground around her.
She darted across the floor, grabbed the metal flask, and scurried backward, a wince distorting her features as she gripped her left shoulder.
Hunters materialized from behind the concrete columns and escalators that punctuated the mall. They raised their guns and fired at the woman crouching in the shelter of the pillar, raising a cloud of chips and plaster dust from the stonework.
Ashely and I started to run.
‘I’ll take the left!’ he shouted, drawing the Glock.
I nodded and raced across the hall, the katana in one hand and the Smith and Wesson in the other. The sound of gunshots echoed to the roof of the shopping center. Shouts of alarm and panicked screams followed within seconds.
A harsh cry suddenly erupted from my right, drowning the background noise.
‘Sheila!’
Another figure was making its way toward 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 on the stairs to my left. A volley of shots thudded into the floor next to me. I released the katana, grabbed the Glock 17, and raised both guns at the immortals on the opposite side of the concourse.
Smoke and the sour smell of gunpowder filled the air as we exchanged fire, empty cartridges clattering to the ground around me.
There was a flash to my right. I ducked and narrowly avoided the blade aimed at my neck. I let go of the guns and reached for the katana. I saw the Hunter’s sword swing down out the corner of my eyes.
I dropped and rolled, 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 hesitated, the sword raised above his head.
‘The half-breed,’ he hissed, recognition dawning on his face.
My lips parted in a grim smile. I moved.
Seconds after I delivered the killing blow, something struck my left leg. I looked down. A bullet had grazed my thigh. I sheathed the katana and grabbed the guns from the floor.
‘Hey, I’m running out of ammo!’ Ashely shouted urgently on my left.
I pitched a couple of magazines across the floor toward him and raced toward the flower shop. By the time I reached the 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 toward the opposite side of the mall. A series of flashes erupted on the ground next to them.
‘Get down!’ I yelled.
They ducked as more bullets thudded into the polished floor inches from their feet.
I spotted the two Hunters on the other side of the concourse, took aim, and fired. The men jerked and fell against a wall.
‘Go!’ I shouted.
The pair straightened and started to run. The old man glanced over his shoulder. He froze in his tracks when he saw me and turned around.
‘Adam?’ he said hoarsely. The figure next to him twisted on her heels.
I saw her face fully for the first time and felt heat flare inside my chest.
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 closed the distance separating us, tension and that strange feeling of recognition coursing through my veins.
‘Do I know you?’
The old man opened his mouth to reply. Just then, more Hunters appeared from around the mall. Bullets crisscrossed the air between us. The gunfire drowned out his words.
The woman dragged the old man toward the escalator leading to the upper level. I followed on their heels, laying down cover fire while they struggled through the mass of people swarming for the exit. Daylight framed the opening to a bustling street at the top of the stairs. I yelled out a warning as they rushed through the doorway and merged with the teeming crowd outside.
I swore and raced after them, emerging on the thronged pavement seconds later.
The whine of an engine rose from the right. I turned and saw a black four-by-four pull out of a parking space. It maneuvered around the heavy traffic and headed for the running pair.
Instinct took over. I bolted across the sidewalk, slid over the hood of a pass
ing car, landed on my feet in the middle of the road, and raised both guns. A clang of bells erupted behind me. I looked over my shoulder. My heart stuttered in my chest.
I caught a glimpse of rising panic on the face of the driver of the tram heading inexorably toward me and dove over the safety barrier on my right. A grunt left my lips as my hip struck the metal railing.
The four-by-four shot past me, mounted the pavement, and turned right into the ‘No Entry’ zone on the Bahnhofstrasse, on the heels of the old man and the woman.
The crowd on the busy strip scattered, panicked shouts soaring toward the sunny skies.
Bullets suddenly shattered the rear window of the vehicle and drew sparks from its bumper. It swerved sharply, its wing mirror grazing a lamppost. I glanced to the left.
Ashely had emerged from another escalator and was racing after the four-by-four, Glock in hand.
I vaulted over the handrail, darted across the road, and kept pace with him along the opposite pavement. Blood pounded in my ears and my breaths came in short, sharp bursts.
The old man and the woman dove out from the pavement and barely missed the front bumper of the four-by-four as it weaved toward them. A second engine gunned into life behind me. I turned.
Another SUV was racing up the packed avenue toward the couple. Tinted windows rolled down and two men leaned out of the vehicle. Muzzles glinted in the sunlight.
Time slowed. I skidded to a stop, leapt over a bench, rolled into the middle of the strip, and rose to my feet. I dropped the Glock and lifted the Smith and Wesson in both hands. Bullets flashed past my head and shoulders as the Hunters fired. I squinted, aimed, and squeezed the trigger twice.
The front right tire of the SUV blew out. The vehicle veered wildly in a squeal of burning rubber and flipped. A gasp left my lips. I threw myself to the ground.
The dark shape of the SUV passed a couple of feet above me before crashing onto the asphalt some dozen yards away. It slid on its roof in a shower of sparks and ground to a halt against a lamppost.
I pushed myself to my feet, turned, and rocked back on my heels as a hot gust of compressed air blasted down the avenue. The ground trembled beneath me. I stumbled and leaned against the bench.
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