by Ted Bell
The water level inside the air lock had drained to almost floor level, emptying fast. Horst popped the hatch open and said, “Nice to meet you, Joey. We don’t get a lot of actors. So now you exit through that sliding door over there. Press the silver push plate on the wall. There’s a well-lit corridor to your left. At the end, directly beneath the mountain, you’ll find yourself at an elevator bank. We have four—two for freight, two for people. You take the third one from the left. That’s the express that goes straight to the top. It’s fifteen thousand feet straight up, but that thing is a rocket. Hold on to the handrail until you come to a complete stop.”
Joe said his farewells, climbed out of the Triton, and made his way to the gleaming stainless-steel elevator bank. He pushed the button for one of the center lifts. It opened immediately and he stepped inside. It was cavernous. The door slid silently shut and he looked at his options. The keypad listed different locations: cafeteria, dormitories, aircraft hangar, communications control, weapons command, and, at the very top, residence.
He used one hand to push that top button and then held on to the handrail for dear life. He was expecting something like a Disney World Atlas Rocket Launch, the g-forces contorting his face as he was thrust into zero gravity . . .
It didn’t happen.
The elevator was a little faster than normal, but it was certainly no rocket to the moon. It took what seemed like forever to reach the top. Hysterical people, these Swiss. And that Horst!
What a character.
Very Chatty Cathy, as they say in L.A.
Chapter Twenty-Four
St. Moritz
“I think I know who might have him, and by god, we need to get him out of there fast,” Hawke said.
“Who’s got him, Alex?” Congreve said, leaning forward while he rekindled his pipe.
“Despite all rumors to the contrary,” Hawke said, “Putin apparently might still be alive. And, if so, he’s the one who’s got Alexei.”
Ambrose looked at his friend, studying his face intently. Hawke was desperate to put a name to whoever apprehended his son and to move heaven and earth to find him. Even if it meant jumping to an unwarranted assumption about Putin’s involvement.
“How, Alex? Really? Are you so sure? And even if it is him, how in god’s name did he do it?”
“God help me, that’s what I’ve been trying to think through! A KGB operation? It almost has to be. And if it’s not Putin, if it’s not the KGB, then it’s the Chinese secret police. Bloody bastards. Those are the only two services I know of capable of mounting such a complex operation.”
He paused, and Congreve said, “Keep talking, Alex.”
Hawke seemed to have left the room. He did this when he focused intently on a mission.
“Oh, right. Sorry, thinking the whole damn thing through while I speak. This is all conjecture on my part, but here goes. Or how it could have gone. They had early intel about Alexei and me spending a Christmas skiing vacation here at St. Moritz. They had us followed. Learned our routines, Alexei’s ski school activities, for instance. Once they had that, they had the genesis of a plan for the kidnapping. Think about it. The boy and his father alone on vacation, far away from the Royal Protection officers at Scotland Yard who keep them safe day and night. They looked for something in the daily schedule that left us the most vulnerable. Then they stole an Air-Rescue chopper.”
Stoke said, “Yeah, a gondola a mile or two high is a vulnerable place to be. But, boss, they couldn’t know your plans in such detail. How’d they know you two would be on that gondola Christmas morning?”
“They’ve been monitoring calls going in and out of the hotel. They’ve been watching our every move since the moment we arrived in St. Moritz. They knew all about the Christmas Day program. And Alexei’s participation in the ski school event. Somehow, during the night of Christmas Eve, they attached a small explosive device to the gondola cable.”
“Not impossible,” Sigrid said. “Minimal security when the tramcars are out of service.”
“My thinking exactly,” Hawke said. “Next morning—”
Ambrose sat forward, puffing furiously on his pipe. “Hold on a tick, Alex. You’ve just lost me.”
“It was bound to happen sometime.”
“Righto, here’s the thing. They knew ahead of time that you’d be arriving at the gondola station fairly early on Christmas morning, yes? Because of the ski school’s printed Christmas Day program, I mean.”
“Yes, yes! Of course they would. It’s child’s play for these KGB thugs. I’m sure they had someone out in the car park waiting for the arrival of the two Range Rovers.”
“But, Alex, what they did not know—indeed, had no way of knowing—is precisely which gondola you’d be taking up the mountain. Yes? That was all up to chance.”
Hawke’s face fell. “Yes. You’re absolutely right. God, I hadn’t even thought of that.”
“That’s why I’m here, dear boy, remember? The Brain that came from Outer Space, as you once so eloquently described me.”
Hawke smiled. “So, Constable, where does that leave us? Adrift and clueless once more?” Hawke said, disappointment coloring his words. How could he have been so stupid?
“Not at all!” Congreve said happily. “To the contrary. If my theory proves correct, we are now in the most fortunate position of being able to prove that this tram accident was no accident!”
“Elucidate, Constable,” Hawke said.
“A plastic explosive of sufficient size and power to separate the cable from the car’s roof would have to be no bigger than a golf ball. A small wad of Semtex and a remote radio fuse would do the trick, right, Stokely?”
“Absolutely.”
“So they were faced with a simple solution as to which car you would eventually take. Install explosive devices on all six cars!”
Hawke smiled. “Which means there are still five devices left on five gondolas.”
“Indeed it does! Miss Kissl,” Congreve said, “could you please shoot an email to our friend Blinky at CIA Zurich? Tell him to get a team out to the Corviglia tramway straightaway. I mean tonight, not tomorrow. Check out our new theory. If I’m right about the remaining five, have them remove them and get out of there before daybreak. We won’t be talking to local police about this.”
“Why not, Chief Inspector?” Stoke said.
“I have little interest in our enemies knowing that we may be onto them. And what our next steps may or may not be. Yes?”
They all nodded.
“So, Alex,” Congreve said, “Please continue with your fascinating narrative.”
“Well,” Hawke said, “let me back up a bit. KGB agents are inside the station. They’re monitoring passengers arriving and the gondolas leaving the tram station, waiting for Alexei, Tristan, and me to arrive. They wait until we’ve boarded and the doors are closed. Then they radio the two Swiss KGB pilots circling above in the stolen helicopter. They tell them exactly which gondola we’re aboard and that we will depart momentarily for the top.”
“Where exactly is the chopper at this point, Alex?”
“Already on station. Circling high above. Swiss Air-Rescue choppers are always flying about. Wouldn’t arouse any undue suspicion, I wouldn’t think.”
“No, it wouldn’t, boss,” Stoke said. “None at all. Folks would think they were out looking for somebody got lost, that’s all.”
“So our tram starts its slow climb upward. The pilots descend to an altitude where they can observe exactly what’s going on. At a prearranged moment in our transit, they trigger the bomb via radio signal. After the explosion, they hover above, monitoring the emergency radio channel. When they get the emergency alert, they radio other rescue services to stand down. Then they descend and fly in to effect the rescue. And there you have it.”
Sigrid said, “What about our friend Pfeffer at Swiss Air-Rescue? Wouldn’t he send out a helo?”
“No,” Hawke said, “as I said, because the on-scene chopper pilot tells them he�
�s an Alpine rescue helo with two additional rescue helos en route. Additional help is not needed. As soon as the pilot of the fake rescue helo gets the children aboard, he radios the other rescue services. He requests assistance off-loading all the adult passengers. He then sets his course for the hospital and no one is any the wiser.”
“Very good, Alex,” Congreve said. “Couldn’t have laid it out any better myself.”
“Thank you.”
“He lands on the hospital roof and then what?”
“When he lands at the hospital, he makes sure one of the children doesn’t get off. It’s the only possible explanation.”
“But why do it now, boss?” Stoke asked. “Kidnap Alexei?”
“Putin’s obviously in exile somewhere,” Hawke said. “Nearly broke and alone. He’s in financial disarray. He may demand money from me, but I don’t think that’s it. Nearly broke for Putin means he’s down to his last few billion.”
“What do you think it is, Alex?” Sigrid said. “What do you think he wants from you?”
“Alexei is his de facto insurance plan. Whatever he’s up to, he knows he can keep me out of his way as long as he has the power to kill my son. He wants me to leave him alone. He’s planning something big, and the last thing he wants is me coming after him again. Especially after what I did to him last time.”
“Putin thinks the threat to Alexei will keep you from going after him?”
“Yes.”
“But it doesn’t?”
“Yes. It does not. And that’s where he’s made his first mistake. He’s underestimated us. In this very room, I’ve got the best hostage rescue team on the planet. With an uncanny ability to locate hostages, get inside, and get them out to safety.”
Congreve thought for a moment before he spoke. And then said: “Well, hopeful news. But none of us can even begin to assume that Alexei is safe. Putin will of course ultimately assure us that no harm will come to him. That the boy is insurance against our intervention. At least until Putin has succeeded in whatever it is he’s planning. At that point, I have no idea what he’ll do. Anything’s possible. We need to move fast, and we need to move smartly. The clock and the calendar are not our allies in this.”
Hawke was staring at the famous criminalist, nodding his head in assent. “After all, he’s slightly crazy,” Hawke said. “His fall from grace has been spectacular. We can’t afford to underestimate what he might do or promise at any given moment. Where he is, I’ve no idea. But we will find the miserable bastard.”
“Is the bar still open?” Sharkey asked, having remained silent throughout the meeting. “Tell you what, I could use a cocktail along about right now.”
Stoke smiled, but Hawke did not. He still wasn’t sure about what the Sharkman brought to the party.
With that, Hawke declared the meeting over, saying they all needed to get a good night’s sleep.
Tomorrow was another day, another chance to find his son.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was well past midnight when there was a soft knocking at his chamber door.
Three knocks . . . a pause . . . three knocks more. A signal that only one other person knew.
Hawke slipped from his bed and donned his red flannel robe. Experiencing a sudden shiver from some nameless anxiety, he collected himself, then padded out to the darkened living room to answer. For some odd reason, he thought he knew who might be waiting there.
Hoping his midnight premonition was wrong, he reached for the latch.
“Who is it?” he said in his sleep-roughened voice, cracking the door.
Sigrid.
Yes.
“It’s me,” she said, smiling up at him. “Sorry to disturb you. I can’t sleep. Can I please come in and talk to you? It’s very important.”
“Really? So important it can’t wait till morning, Sigrid? I’m trying to get some sleep. I’m driving Stoke and Sharkey to their flight at first light, remember?”
“Alex, listen. Don’t be angry with me. I’ve been going insane. I want to explain, to tell you why I was so horrible to you and Alexei. The truth is, I can’t stand being apart from you another day. Hell, another hour. Please let me come in, Alex.” She looked like hell and she’d been crying.
He swung the door open, stood back, and motioned her inside. She was oddly dressed, wearing a nightgown and a bed jacket with the Hermès scarf tied round her neck.
“Thank you,” she whispered, sliding past him, avoiding his angry eyes.
He went to the mahogany sideboard and picked up a crystal decanter. “Would you like a drink?”
“Yes, thank you. Can we sit over there by the fire? My room up in the tower is freezing. May I borrow a blanket?”
“Sure, there’s a throw rug on the sofa. Pick a chair and I’ll bring you whiskey. Rocks, right? I seem to recall that was your poison of choice.”
“No, neat tonight.”
He poured her a drink and one for himself, neat—not that he needed another, but on the off chance it would help him get back to sleep. His hopes for a restful night’s slumber had just gone up the chimney like smoke from the fire.
“There you go,” he said, handing her the whiskey and adding another log to the fire. He collapsed into the deep leather chair opposite her, gave her a wan smile, and waited for her to speak.
“Thank you for letting me stay here in Zurich, Alex. I was afraid you’d take one look at me getting off your plane and put me on the next flight back to Heathrow.”
“Don’t thank me, thank Ambrose. If he thinks you can help me find my son, that’s good enough for me. I seem to find myself in the rather unusual position of needing all the help I can get.”
She tried on a smile of her own. “Ambrose and I are a pretty good team . . .”
“Hmm.”
“Please don’t be angry. Not now.”
“Why not? I’ve been angry for months. A year! Why the hell shouldn’t I be angry now?”
“Because finding Alexei and getting him to safety is the only thing we should be concerned with right now. Right? I came here to help, Alex. I hope you’ll let me? We’ll find them and then, who knows? Maybe we’ll be reunited again . . . just like . . .”
She looked tired and bruised and as if tears were near.
“I’m glad to see Alexei’s well-being is something you’re concerned about, Sigrid. You could have fooled me that night at Casa Morgano on Capri. You didn’t give a good goddamn about him then . . . or me, for that matter. Even Pelham was horrified by your behavior.”
“I know, I know. I’m so sorry, Alex. I want you to know that I come to you with a deeply repentant heart. I only hope you can find it in yours to forgive me.”
Hawke, wrestling with his demons, stared balefully into the fire. “Why, Sigrid? Why now? I’d finally erased you. And now you come back? If you only knew the pain your disappearance caused my son, you would—”
“Of course I know!” she said, “Do you think I’m a monster? Does nothing at all remain of the feelings we had for each other? The love I gave so freely? My devotion to you both?”
Hawke got to his feet and went back to the sideboard and the whiskey. “Devotion? Is that what they call it now? Not good enough, damn you, Sigrid. Not good enough by any standard of decent behavior. One minute there for us, all of us, the next not. No explanation. Look, it’s late. Maybe you should just go back to bed like a good little girl.”
“Or maybe I just need a reminder . . .” she whispered, not lifting her head.
“Reminder of what?”
“Reminder of how good little girls ought to behave—a much-needed attitude adjustment, you used to call it. Remember, Alex? The orange riding crop you bought for me in Hermès that time in Paris? The one you carried around the big suite at the Ritz like a Prussian officer’s swagger stick, slapping it against your thigh and swishing it about over your head and . . . making me crawl round and round the dining room table on my hands and knees, swatting at my rump and telling me to—Is that
what you want? Because, if it is, then—”
“Enough! For god’s sake. Have you really sunk this low? After all this, do you now turn out to be just some cheap trick? How low can you really go? That’s a question, Sigrid. Answer it.”
“No!” she cried out, sobbing. “That’s not how I turn out. I turn out to be someone who is madly, wildly, deeply in love with you. Someone who can’t go another day without you. Someone, Alex, who would do anything, anything, to get Alexei back!”
“Sigrid, will you please calm down? Stop crying. It’s not working!”
“Shall I take my clothes off? Stand in front of you with my head bowed and remove them article by article? Slowly and with great—”
“Shut up!”
Furious, he was out of his chair and standing over her in a blink. He grabbed a handful of her hair and scarf and yanked her head back. He was shocked at what he saw. The pain and fear in her eyes. The pallid skin, the badly applied makeup, the faint bruises under her eyes. The buttons on her frilly white blouse mis-buttoned, lipstick smeared on the collar, her breath hot and not sweet . . . and the yellowed bruises on her neck.
She’d come undone. “Don’t hit me, please,” she whimpered.
“Hit you? I’ve never hit you. You’ve got me confused with someone else. Who has been hitting you, Sigrid? Someone has . . . Look at these bruises on your neck. What the hell is going on?”
“Oh, Alex, it’s been a nightmare. A thousand times I wanted to pick up the phone to call you and explain everything—but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t, that’s all.”
“Explain it to me now, or back to your room and to bed with you. All right? I’m listening.”
He got up and walked over to the drinks table, adding a splash of scotch to his glass.
“All right, I’ll tell you everything. But when I’m done, you may not want me anymore, darling. Do you still want to know?”
“Yes.”
“I have to go back to the beginning for you to understand, Alex. Please be patient with me.”
“I’m listening,” he said, feeling the hot thrill of good hot whiskey down his throat.