Still, he had to know something. “Why is everyone so interested in me?”
“Oh, surely that is clear to you,” Modi answered with a tone of mild chastising. “You are a very valuable commodity.”
“Commodity?” Chris drew away from Modi with an unconscious movement.
“A poor choice of a word,” the East Indian said apologetically; “I amend it to a very valuable human being.”
“Because of my work,” Chris said.
“Well, naturally,” Modi responded. “What you do is of utmost concern to many people.”
What am I caught up in? Chris thought. Once more, he was hyperconscious of the folded papers in his pocket. If he was able to find the time to memorize what he had scrawled on them, he’d burn them. And if it came down to it, he’d burn them even if there wasn’t time for memorization. Better he lost that work than had it fall into the wrong hands.
“All right, now what?” he asked.
Modi gestured casually. “You will, I assume, proceed to your business on Mount Pilatus whatever it may be and I—”
“How do you know I’m going there?” Chris demanded.
Modi chuckled, his smile confusingly benevolent. “It is the only place you could be going, riding this boat to Alpnachstad.”
Chris felt foolish. He wanted to counter Modi and regain some kind of advantage but couldn’t think of what to say or do.
Then he thought of asking, “Who do you work for?”
“Ah, that I am not permitted to divulge,” Modi said as though the refusal grieved him. “I can only reassure you that, as long as you are in my presence, you are completely safe.”
Chris wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe somebody. Still, Modi had turned out to be not merely the good savior from London, but a man more darkly involved in Chris’s affairs. How could he trust Modi any more than anyone else right now?
“I’d like to trust you,” he said.
“Oh, please do,” Modi said. “I wish only that you get through all this turmoil totally unscathed.”
“All what turmoil, Mr. Modi?” Chris demanded in a low, taut voice.
“Why, the nightmare you have obviously been suffering through,” Modi replied.
An answer but not an answer, Chris thought. He looked at the East Indian in silence. Modi looked so damned concerned for him, it comforted and infuriated him at the same time.
“All that talk about… the mystical things in India,” Chris said resentfully, “that was bullshit, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, no.” Modi looked genuinely distressed. “These things are part and parcel of existence in my land. I would not have you—how do you say it?—‘lump’ that together with the rest of it. Reality is a shifting and confounding phenomenon. Never think otherwise. Your life will be the worse for it if you deny the truth of that.”
Chris slumped back against the seat. At this moment, he knew, if Modi chose to, he could, with the least of effort, remove the cigarette lighter from his hand, the film from his shirt pocket and the folded papers from his jacket pocket.
At this moment, he felt helpless.
***
When the boat docked at Alpnachstad, Chris walked beside Modi as they went down the gangplank and moved across the road to the cog-railway station.
“Your party is waiting for you on Pilatus?” Modi asked.
Chris looked at him suspiciously but Modi only smiled. “It was my assumption that, under the circumstances in which you are involved, you are not traveling to the top of a seven-thousand-foot mountain merely to sightsee.”
Chris exhaled tiredly. “I don’t know if anyone’s there,” he admitted. Why try to deceive the man anyway? he thought. For all he knew, Modi already knew exactly why he was going to Pilatus. “Do you know?” he asked.
“No, not at all,” Modi replied. He sounded so damned sincere, Chris thought, it was maddening. “I have no idea why you are ascending to the peak. I am, as you might say it, only ‘tagging’ along to keep the peace.”
“Yeah,” Chris said glumly. He felt like a pawn in Modi’s hands. Still, he had to continue with this. If Alexsandra was up there, he couldn’t very well not go up to find out.
To make any decision at all gave him a sense of relief and the breath he had held in shuddered out of him. Okay, that’s the plan, he told himself, trying not to face the obvious fact that it was little, if any, plan at all.
“The summit is clearly visible today,” Modi commented, sounding nonchalant. “It is said that when Pilate hides his head, sunshine below will spread. Conversely, when Pilate’s head is bare—as it is this morning—of rain beware.” He made a sound of amusement. “So it is said anyway,” he went on. “The mountain is named after Pontius Pilate, of course. It is also said that his ghost walks those heights. If so, it is probably because of guilt, wouldn’t you say?”
Chris barely heard the offhanded words. He had to pull himself together, he was thinking. If he was going to get away from Modi when they reached the top, he’d have to think of something good. Benign or not, the East Indian obviously represented a group that had nothing to do with Alexsandra’s organization; he didn’t know why he was so sure of that, but he was. Neither did it seem likely that he represented the Middle Eastern group—they had been immediately violent toward him. Nor did he seem to be allied with Karl and the other man; if he were, he’d had ample opportunity to get the film.
Dear God, how many different groups were involved? he wondered again. And here he’d always assumed that his work was of marginal interest at best.
How little I know, he thought.
“Please; allow me to carry your bag,” Modi said abruptly, startling him. “It looks quite heavy.”
“No, that’s—” Chris got no further as the East Indian took the bag from him. Don’t let him do that! a voice screamed warningly in his mind. But there was nothing he could do about it. Modi seemed in total control. The notion of starting a scuffle with him seemed out of the question. Was the East Indian applying some kind of hypnosis to him? Chris wondered.
Oh, shut the fuck up, ordered his brain.
Still, his mind had to allow, there was the lingering mystery of what Modi knew. Was he aware of the microfilm and what had happened to Chris since he’d arrived in Lucerne? Lucerne, hell, since he’d left Modi that afternoon in London? Reality slippage, the thought drifted across his brain.
He was almost ready to believe it.
He watched like a child observing a parent as Modi walked over to the ticket office. Somehow, it seemed appropriate, if mad, that the East Indian should pay admission for him. When Modi returned with a pair of tickets, he only mumbled, “Thank you.”
“Oh, it is my pleasure,” Modi said. “Come, let us get our seats.”
They started toward the red car on the angled track; it was the size of a small trolley car, Chris saw.
“This is the steepest cogwheel railway in the world,” Modi told him like a cheerful tour guide. “Gradients of a one-foot rise every two feet are not uncommon. It takes about half an hour to reach the top.”
Chris looked ahead as they took their seats in the car. Oh, my God, he thought; any kind of height made him nervous and the track ahead sloped upward at an angle that looked to be at least forty-five degrees. It wasn’t enough that he had to worry about what Modi might or might not do, what might or might not happen when he reached the top. He also had to endure this nightmare ride to the peak of Pilatus.
He swallowed dryly, grimacing in dread.
“Oh, it is perfectly safe, I guarantee you,” Modi told him, looking over. “I think you will find the ride most intriguing.”
Sure, Chris thought, until the chain breaks and the little red trolley car that couldn’t goes plummeting backward down the slope at two hundred miles an hour until it reaches the end of the track.
He stiffened as the engineer came in and started the car. Immediately, it hitched forward and began to climb the steep incline. Chris caught his breath.
&nbs
p; “It really is quite safe,” Modi reassured him.
Why should I believe you? Chris thought angrily. Modi was just another spy, albeit smoother than the rest he’d met. Except for Alexsandra, of course—assuming that she was a spy and not a figment of his imagination.
He glanced over at Modi and was surprised to see that the East Indian’s eyes were closed. Sure of yourself, aren’t you? he thought. Well, why not? What could he do to Modi at this point? Set him on fire with his little cigarette lighter? Pry off the top of his head with his Swiss army knife’s can opener?
He looked across his shoulder, grimacing as he saw how high the railway car had already ascended; he could see for miles across the countryside, see the dock and steamer far below. Turning back, he did what he could to blur the focus of his eyes. Better he didn’t look.
He glanced at Modi again. Was the man really asleep or only feigning it? He waited for several minutes, then, very slowly, reached down to unbutton his jacket pocket. Eyes fixed on Modi, he removed the two folded menu sheets and opened them with one hand so that his body wouldn’t stir.
It seemed to him his mind had never worked so fast as he raced his gaze across the equations and formulas he’d penciled down. He had to memorize them in five-second bites, eyes shifting constantly to Modi to make sure that the East Indian was still asleep. How could the man be so casual under these circumstances? he wondered. It gave him a sense of what the East Indian’s temperament was really like: action when needed, relaxation in between. A sound way to proceed and one that Chris was incapable of practicing.
In less than two minutes, he had the contents of one menu sheet committed to memory. He closed his eyes and brought up the readout on his mental computer, saw the page clearly. There, it was programmed now; he could bring it up at will.
Using the same procedure—five seconds on the sheet, one to glance at Modi—he memorized the second sheet. This time, he could see—with pleasure he could not deny, despite the tension of the moment—that one sheet led inexorably to the next, the concepts blending, the first equations like parents to the latter ones.
Done, he thought. He closed his eyes again and brought up the sheet for viewing. Good. He flipped the image to the first sheet again, nodding. There it was. Not everything, of course. He still had a way to go. But like a traveler on a new road, he knew where he was going now and that only steps and time separated him from his destination. 7 steps to midnight? his mind inquired. He scowled away the question.
Now. He looked at Modi. If the East Indian wasn’t napping, he certainly was giving a precise imitation of it.
He turned very slowly, inching around until his back was half turned away from Modi.
Then, refolding the sheets, he began to tear them in half, tearing the halves in half, the quarters in half. He tore and tore until he had to separate the pieces because they were too thick to tear all at once.
When the two sheets had been reduced to confetti, he began to drizzle pieces of them out the window of the car. If Modi had sat on the aisle to prevent him from trying to bolt, it had worked in Chris’s favor with regard to the papers. He felt a weight slowly rising from his back as more and more pieces fluttered away. He knew that the couple sitting behind them was watching him, probably with disapproval. He didn’t care. In a few minutes, the pieces were all gone and he had eliminated at least one major source of tension.
Once more, he closed his eyes and reviewed a mental playback of the two pages. Perfect. He smiled. Now let anyone try to get what he’d done so far.
Wait, he thought suddenly. What if someone administered scopolamine to him? Wouldn’t he just blurt out all of it? He made a despairing face. Had he done all this for nothing?
No, he thought irritably. It was still better than—
He jolted, opening his eyes as the car made a rattling sound. He reacted in surprise, seeing a herd of gray cows thinly spread out on a green, flowered slope, their heads lowered as they grazed. He grunted softly at the sight.
“A scene of great tranquility,” Modi said.
Chris turned quickly to look at him. Had the East Indian pretended to be asleep all this time? What would the point of that have been if, in doing so, he’d allowed Chris to get rid of those sheets? He had to assume that Modi really had been napping. “Yes,” he replied.
Modi looked at his pocket watch. “Well, we are almost halfway there.”
Chris nodded, feeling another sense of deep relief that he’d gotten rid of those sheets without Modi knowing.
“Still nervous?” Modi asked.
“I’m getting used to it,” Chris replied.
He looked ahead. There were patches of snow visible now, the green slopes becoming rocky and stark in appearance. He looked up as far as possible. The slope was so steep that he could see only blue sky ahead. He swallowed, pressed back against the seat by the extreme angle of the car. What was waiting for him up there? he wondered.
He glanced at Modi. The East Indian had his eyes shut again.
He stared at the man. Modi was not bad looking; his features were cleanly cut, his skin an interesting, bronzelike shade. Chris looked at the white turban on Modi’s head, then back at his face. He remained confused by the East Indian.
Even asleep, Modi’s expression was benevolent.
***
As the car clanked up the final slope toward the top, Chris wondered if this was the place they’d shot the James Bond film On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Fitting, if it were, he thought.
He looked at Modi. The East Indian’s eyes were open again; he smiled at Chris. “See how easy that was?” he said.
“Yes.” Chris hesitated, then said, “Mr. Modi, I don’t know if you’re planning to stay with me up here, but I’ll have to ask you not to. If anyone is with me, the person I’m supposed to meet won’t approach me.” He had no idea if that was true, but it sounded logical.
“I see.” Modi nodded. “Well. I have no desire to hinder you in any way. I will, of course, remain some distance from you, maintaining the attitude of a stranger. If you don’t mind, however, I do feel it advisable that I keep an eye on you, however distant. I am quite sincere in my wish to see that you remain safe.”
Chris nodded. “Thank you.” There was no point in arguing with the man, he thought. With distance between them, he’d have a better chance of eluding Modi completely.
The car leveled at the top, entering a covered area beside a circular, three-story structure that Chris took to be the Hotel Pilatus-Kulm. The car jarred to a halt and he followed Modi outside; he’d grabbed the bag before the East Indian could offer to carry it. For all he knew, the man would offer to watch it while Chris searched for the person he was there to meet. He wasn’t going to give Modi an opportunity to do that.
He shivered as they stepped outside into the cold, thin air. “Wow,” he muttered.
“Yes, the air is very chill and thin at this altitude,” Modi said. “I will be sitting on that railed balcony in front of the Bellevue Hotel,” he continued without looking at Chris. He strode away as if they were strangers. Chris felt another sensation of relief as the East Indian walked off. Now, he thought. He looked around.
Was Alexsandra really here?
He looked at the hotel Modi was walking toward. It was more traditional in design, rectangular, three stories high. Was he supposed to go there to meet whoever he was intended to meet?
He stopped for a few moments to take out the square of film and hold it in his left hand, along with the bag; the cigarette lighter he held in his right hand again. He mustn’t lose caution now. If they hadn’t really brought Alexsandra here, he’d make damn sure they didn’t get the film. They might kill him for doing it, but then they might have every intention of killing him anyway.
He’d try the Hotel Pilatus-Kulm first, he decided. Entering the lobby, he crossed to the desk and asked if there was a message for him. There wasn’t. He sighed heavily. Is anything ever easy? he thought. Now what? Was anyone watching him as he
stood there?
He looked around the lobby, braced for someone to approach him. When a portly man in a gray suit quickly got up from a chair and walked toward him, he tensed, prepared to drop the bag and burn the film if necessary.
When the portly man walked past him, cursing in German under his breath, Chris relaxed in spite of his disappointment.
He went and looked inside the bar, then the restaurant, standing in the entrance of each long enough for anyone to catch sight of him if they were looking. Both bar and restaurant were crowded but no one did more than glance at him in disinterest and he was not approached.
Which leaves me where? he thought. Should he go up to each hotel corridor and search? That made no sense. Why were they being so evasive about this? Did they want the God-damn film or not? He’d come here as requested. Why hadn’t there been someone at the railway platform, waiting to accost him?
“No such luck,” he muttered.
His idea that checking the hotel corridors would be a waste of time proved to be exactly that—a lot of trudging with the heavy bag, resulting in nothing. He took the elevator down from the third floor and stepped into the lobby again. Should he sit there? he wondered, give whoever was supposed to meet him time to—
He brushed aside the thought. If someone had really been on the lookout for him they would certainly have found him by now.
He left the hotel and circled around it to the left. As he did, he saw a red cable-car glide into view. He shuddered at the sight. You are definitely not going down in one of those, he told himself.
To the right of the cable-car structure, he saw a railing and gingerly moved there. There was no one around as he approached the railing. “God,” he murmured. The view of Lake Lucerne was staggering, its deep blue vastness curving around the craggy headland the boat had passed on its way to Alpnachstad. He lifted his gaze. White-clad mountains as far as the eye could see. What had he read in that pamphlet? An unrivalled panorama of the alpine region. “You can say that again,” he murmured.
He was just turning away from the railing when he saw the body.