The SUVs shot out onto the asphalt behind us.
Something pinged off the trunk of the roadster seconds later.
Ashely frowned over his shoulder. ‘Are they shooting at us?’
I swerved around a horse trailer and looked at the wing mirror. ‘Uh-huh.’
He sighed. ‘Damn it. I hate shooting in the wind.’ He rammed another magazine into the Glock and leaned out the window.
The SUVs were forty feet behind and closing fast. Ashely steadied the gun in both hands and squeezed the trigger twice. A distant bang rose behind us. ‘Gotcha!’ He grinned and slid back in the seat.
The blown-out front tire destabilized the first SUV. It spun, flipped over twice, and crashed into the guardrail with a harsh shriek of tearing metal. The second SUV swung around the wreckage with a high-pitched screech of tires. It teetered on two wheels, righted itself at the last second, and resumed its deadly pursuit.
A couple more bullets struck the trunk of the Jag. I winced.
Ashely hung out of the window and emptied the Glock. ‘Can this thing go any faster?’ he said conversationally.
My eyes dropped to the speedometer. We were already doing one hundred and ninety kilometers per hour. ‘Not really.’
‘That’s a shame. They just lifted the rocket launcher out through the sunroof.’
I stared at the rearview mirror and saw the black mouth of the weapon on top of the pursuing vehicle. My knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. ‘That’s not good.’
‘No, it sure ain’t,’ retorted Ashely.
My gaze shifted to the road ahead. We were coming up to a roundabout. To the right of it lay the entrance to Soleil Synchrotron, a scientific facility co-owned by the CNRS and the CEA and dedicated to advanced research on sub-atomic particle acceleration. I shifted gears and swerved sharply.
The grenade missed the roadster by a couple of feet and took out the Synchrotron signboard, a huge chunk off the grassy knoll in the middle of the junction, and part of the road beyond it. Clumps of soil rained down around us and clouded the windshield. I switched on the wipers.
Ashely absent-mindedly dusted dirt off his arm. ‘At this rate, if they don’t kill us, you will.’ He looked behind. ‘So, you got any other bright ideas? ’cause these guys ain’t going anywhere fast.’
I studied the layout of the road, heart pounding in my chest. A peek in the rearview mirror showed the SUV thirty feet behind and closing.
‘Yes. Put your seat belt on.’
Five seconds later, I crossed the central reservation and accelerated toward a truck in the opposite lane. The driver’s eyes widened behind the windscreen of his cabin. He gaped and spun his steering wheel to his left.
The roadster raised a cloud of dirt and gravel as it skidded into the lay-by. The tail of the truck swung perilously close to the Jag’s front bumper before spinning lazily through a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. Bales of hay fell off the flatbed and scattered across both lanes.
The truck tilted on its wheels before coming to a juddering halt in the middle of the road.
The SUV hurtled into one of the haystacks, skidded wildly, and smashed head on into a utility pole. Flames erupted from beneath the hood and engulfed the front of the vehicle. The doors opened and dark-clad figures stumbled out.
I steered the roadster onto the road and drove off.
Ashely observed the chaos behind us before turning to me. ‘That was a bit wild.’
I shrugged. ‘It worked.’
‘You’re bleeding again.’ He indicated his right temple.
I wiped the blood dripping down the side of my head and winced at the stabbing pain radiating from my broken ribs. I merged with the traffic heading south on the N118 moments later and headed east on the A5 motorway.
It had just gone noon when I pulled into the town of Troyes. We grabbed something to eat and went in search of a cyber cafe. The incident at Gif had already made national news.
‘One student has been shot dead and three more were seriously injured on the campus of the CNRS in Gif-sur-Yvette, following an incident earlier this morning. According to the police, gunfire erupted during an apparent altercation between a number of unidentified men just after nine-thirty. Judging from the scenes of devastation around us, the use of some sort of incendiary device or bomb has not been excluded by the authorities. The men implicated in the disturbance subsequently fled the scene in separate vehicles. Two black Freelanders with unknown registrations have since been recovered within a two-mile radius of the campus. Both have been involved in crashes. One police source reports that although a significant amount of blood was evident at the sites of the accidents, no bodies have been recovered from the vehicles.’
The live feed had been shot on the Gif campus. The building housing the laboratories of the Centre de Génétique Moléculaire dominated the background. Behind the female presenter, a police cordon enclosed a large area of the lawn. Two coroner officers were zipping a body into a bag under the elm trees.
‘Police are still looking for the third vehicle involved in this incident, thought to be a black vintage Jaguar. So far no information is available on its possible whereabouts.’ The female presenter faltered. Her hand rose to her earpiece and she listened intently for several seconds. Her eyes widened. ‘I have just received some breaking news from my colleague in Paris,’ she continued excitedly. ‘The body of internationally renowned scientist Professor Hubert Eric Strauss was discovered in his apartment in the 11ème arrondissement two hours ago. Professor Strauss, who worked at the Centre de Génétique Moléculaire on this very campus behind me, is thought to have been the victim of a botched burglary. The police in Paris have confirmed that one of the professor’s neighbors reported seeing a black vintage car at the scene of the crime late last night.’
We watched the images on the computer silently.
‘Hunters put the body there?’ said Ashely finally.
‘Probably.’
I gazed blindly at the elm trees on the screen. The immortals were more than desperate; the mounting body count was proof of this. The anger simmering in my gut flared at the thought of Chapman.
‘I don’t get it,’ said Ashely. ‘If he’s the one they were looking for, why kill him?’
I tapped a finger on the cover of the late professor’s journal. ‘Maybe it wasn’t him they were after.’
Ashely looked at me blankly.
‘I think whatever they’re searching for has something to do with his work.’
He rubbed his chin. ‘Well, we’ve got his journal.’
‘Yeah. But we lost the memory stick,’ I said with a grimace.
‘I still don’t see what any of this has to do with you.’ A sigh of frustration left his lips. ‘Where’s the connection?’
I frowned. Things were getting more dangerous by the hour. Yet, I felt I was still far from finding any answers.
The monitor in front of Ashely flickered. He studied it for a couple of seconds. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got more bad news.’
I stiffened. ‘What?’
He indicated the display. ‘Looks like we both made the wanted lists.’
I leaned across and studied the fuzzy mug shots on the NCIC and Interpol pages. ‘We always look that disreputable?’ I said, arching an eyebrow.
Ashely shrugged. ‘Depends on the time of day, but yeah, mostly we do.’
A name on the Interpol site drew my eyes. The agent assigned to our case was one Christophe Lacroix.
‘I don’t know whether to call it coincidence or irony,’ said Ashely flatly.
I glanced at him. ‘Do you need to tell Sam?’
Samantha was Ashely’s ex-wife. Despite their divorce five years ago, they still got along well. I suspected they would get back together at some point in the future.
‘No, it’ll only make things worse,’ he muttered. ‘Besides, they might trace the call.’ He struck a match and lit a cigarette.
I looked past Ashel
y at the bearded colossus behind the cafe’s reception desk. ‘I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke in here.’ I flashed a smile at the man; his brow knitted into a scowl.
Ashely inhaled and blew smoke rings toward the ceiling. ‘It’s been a busy day. Anyone who wants to stop me from having a light is gonna have to kill me first and pry this from my cold, dead fingers.’
The bearded giant had rounded the desk and was heading our way like an unmoored tugboat.
I shut down the computers, rose, and dragged Ashely off the chair. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. We need to find a new set of wheels. And I’ve got a call to make.’
I found a public phone booth two streets down from the cafe and rang Gustav Lacroix.
‘What’s going on?’ said the old detective in a troubled voice. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m sorry. We never meant to cause you any trouble.’ I hesitated. ‘Tell your nephew that not everything is as it seems.’ I disconnected, a pang of guilt stabbing through my chest.
We bought a secondhand Audi A4 from a dealership just outside Troyes. Ashely followed me in the new car as I headed down a series of small country roads in the Jag. I left the roadster under a dusty tarpaulin in an abandoned barn tucked in some woods at the end of a rutted lane. I would call Vauquois at our next stop and tell him of its whereabouts.
‘Where to now?’ said Ashely once we were back on the motorway.
I glanced at him, my grip light on the steering wheel of the Audi. ‘We’re going to Zurich.’
Silence followed. ‘We checking out Strauss’s bank?’ he said finally.
‘Among other things.’ I gazed at the road. ‘The number Strauss was calling is also in Zurich.’
‘You think this “A” person is there as well?’
‘I’m betting on it.’
Chapter Eight
We drove through Basel and followed the Limmat River to Zurich, reaching the city late in the afternoon.
Known as the cultural capital of Switzerland, the political center being Berne, Zurich started life as a tax collection point on the border of the Roman Province of Gallia Belgica, in the first century AD. It passed through the hands of several Holy Roman Emperors during the ensuing centuries before finally becoming part of the independent Swiss Confederation in 1291. Immortals had a heavy hand in molding the future of the country, as they did in so many others throughout the history of mankind.
I exited the motorway west of the river, crossed over the Wipkingerstrasse, and pulled into the parking lot of a hotel on the Limmat Quai. The room we booked faced over the water, the windows offering a glimpse of the lake as well as sweeping views of the Limmat and two of the city’s most famous churches, the Fraumünster and St. Peter. Ashely went in search of cigarettes while I used the hotel’s internet room to access an online reverse search database. Minutes later, I had an address for the Zurich phone number Strauss had called repeatedly over a month ago. It was in Riesbach, an affluent district on the banks of the lake.
We left the hotel shortly after six and headed east on the Uto Quai.
The drive to the Bellerivestrasse was short and uneventful. The harsh cries of black-headed gulls and the piping calls of terns echoed across the lake in the crisp evening air. To the south, fading sunlight glistened on the distant peaks of the Alps.
The house was a fairytale, three-story Swiss cottage, complete with shingled roof, bracketed eaves, gables, and decorative wood trimmings. Located on a low rise at the end of a residential street, it had spectacular views over the water.
Night soon fell and traffic slowed. The shores of the lake came alive with the lights of the city. The cottage remained dark and lifeless.
We left the car at eight and ascended the slope at the rear of the property. Hazel bushes and honeysuckle shrubs formed a hedge around the yard, and the air was rich with the sweet smell of late-blooming flowers.
Lights came on in the neighboring house as we stepped onto the edge of the lawn. We waited in the shadows and watched an elderly man close the curtains on the ground floor. Seconds later, we were on the steps of the rear porch. A pair of sturdy walking boots and a lone umbrella stood on the wooden deck.
Ashely slipped the lock pick out of his pocket and went to work on the door. Beyond it, we found a kitchen full of vivid autumnal colors. The countertops were tidy and clean. A single, cold mug of black coffee stood by the sink. From the mould coating the inside, it had been there for days. The cupboards were well stocked, while the fridge and bin stood empty.
The rest of the house was decorated in pale pastels. Oil paintings dotted the walls and corridors. An eclectic collection of antique furniture crowded the rooms, their dark lines broken by a scattering of bright throws and cushions. On the second floor, a large, black, French Rococo bed dominated a distinctly feminine bedroom. The wardrobe and drawers were full of women’s clothing, and the air smelled of oranges.
A study lined with bookcases looked out onto the lake, an imposing antique Louis XVI desk occupying the space in front of the main window. A careful search of the drawers and wall cabinets provided no clues as to the identity of the owner of the house. There was a letter on the doormat inside the front door. Addressed generically to the owner of the property, it confirmed that all the post had been diverted to a private mailbox in Geneva.
Of the dozens of picture frames that crowded the windowsills, walls, and console tables around the house, not one contained a single photograph.
It was Ashely who found the metal and glass casing wedged in a gap between the floorboards in an upstairs closet.
‘This looks old,’ he said, handing it to me.
My lips curved in a faint smile as I traced the antique plating with my fingers.
‘Yes, it is. It’s a daguerreotype.’ I looked up into Ashely’s blank face. ‘It’s a style of photography dating back to the early nineteenth century,’ I explained.
It had been several decades since I had last seen one of them. I turned the frame over and studied the picture under the glass. Though the image had faded with the passage of time, I could still make out the two figures in the photograph.
The first one was a tall, thin man with graying hair. Dressed in a double-breasted frock coat worn over a buff waistcoat and trousers, he had a top hat on his head and held an ivory-headed cane in his hand. The second figure was a little girl in a pale, high-waisted gown, complete with pelisse. Dark curls peeked out from beneath her bonnet and framed a pair of pale, wide eyes. She was holding on tightly to the man’s left hand.
They stood in front of a half-finished St.Vitus Cathedral, within the grounds of Prague Castle.
‘This original?’ said Ashely.
‘Yes.’ I examined the man and the little girl for silent seconds before slipping the frame inside my coat.
Although I was certain I had never met either of them before, a strange sense of recognition hovered at the edge of my consciousness.
We left the house and returned to the hotel. Once in the room, I took out Strauss’s journal and laid it on the coffee table. We had not had time to study it yet.
‘Do you understand any of this stuff?’ said Ashely after we had pored over it for half an hour.
‘Not really,’ I replied, dismayed.
The pages of the journal were filled with scientific jargon. Occasionally, a series of exclamation marks followed a particularly complex paragraph. To complicate matters further, the last pages of the journal had been encrypted. Neither of us could decipher the code.
‘This is interesting,’ said Ashely minutes later. He held out a copy of an email.
It had been sent two years ago by the President and CEO of GeMBiT Corp and was addressed to Strauss at his UPMC mailbox. The content was brief: Burnstein was offering his congratulations to Strauss on successfully securing a research grant worth ten million dollars for his project on advanced cell cycle control and DNA transposition.
Ashely whistled softly
. ‘That’s a lot of money.’
I stared at the figure. ‘Yes, it is.’
We found another email from Burnstein near the back of the journal. This one was dated three months ago. The message was short and conveyed an undeniable element of urgency: Burnstein was requesting an immediate meeting with Strauss to study the latest results of his research and had demanded access to the laboratory samples that the scientist had been working on.
Strauss had forwarded the email to a third party on a separate server. The internet address of the mail recipient consisted of a series of numbers followed by the letters fgcz.uzh.ch. Above Burnstein’s message, the scientist had written, “The Americans are getting restless. We need to talk.”
The reply to the email was encrypted.
‘Isn’t this a Swiss email address?’ Ashely asked, brow puckering.
The letters looked vaguely familiar. I reached for the document wallet containing copies of Strauss’s research papers and leafed through the contents.
‘It stands for the Functional Genomics Center of the University of Zurich.’ I showed Ashely the article featuring the FGCZ logo. There was a name next to it.
It was Prof. A.M. Godard.
‘So, we now know who the elusive “A” is,’ murmured Ashely. ‘Isn’t the University of Zurich close to here?’ He rose and brought the map on his bed over to the table.
‘There’s another campus in Irchel Park, to the north of the city.’ I indicated another section of the map. ‘Let’s see what we can find at the bank first.’
The next day, we left the hotel early and went to buy some suits.
Strauss’s bank was located on the Bahnhofstrasse, one of the most exclusive shopping avenues in Europe. At almost a mile long, it was also home to the Zurich Hauptbahnhof, Switzerland’s largest railway station. We observed the bank from a newspaper kiosk across the road before crossing the busy avenue and stepping through revolving doors.
The bank’s decor was pale and fairly clinical. An armed guard stood unobtrusively next to a potted palm tree to the left of the airy lobby. He scanned us briefly before resuming his stoic inspection of the street life outside.