was a red mass. The civilian got the body all the way outside and froze the moment he set it down.
Move right, go to your right, Chavez thought as loudly as he could from so far away. Somehow the thought must have gotten there, for the unnamed man in his gray overcoat stood stock-still for several seconds, looking down, and then—furtively, he thought—went to the right.
“ ‘Somebody’s shouting from inside the bank,’ ” the translator relayed.
But whatever the voice had shouted, it hadn’t been the right thing. The civilian dove to his right, away from the double glass doors of the bank and below the level of the plate-glass bank windows. He was now on the sidewalk, with three feet of granite block over his head, invisible from the interior of the building.
“Good move, old man,” Tawney observed quietly. “Now, we’ll see if the police can get you into the clear.”
One of the cameras shifted to the senior cop, who’d wandered into the middle of the street with his cell phone, and was now waving frantically for the civilian to get down. Brave or foolish, they couldn’t tell, but the cop then walked slowly back to the line of police cars—astonishingly, without being shot for his troubles. The cameras shifted back to the escaped civilian. Police had edged to the side of the bank building, waving for the man to crawl, keep low, to where they were standing. The uniformed cops had submachine guns out. Their body language was tense and frustrated. One of the police faces looked to the body on the sidewalk, and the men in Hereford could easily translate his thoughts.
“Mr. Tawney, a call for you on Line Four,” the intercom called. The intelligence chief walked to a phone and punched the proper button.
“Tawney . . . ah, yes, Dennis . . .”
“Whoever they are, they’ve just murdered a chap.”
“We just watched it. We’re pirating the TV feed.” Which meant that Gordon’s trip to Bern was a waste of time—but no, it wasn’t, was it? “You have that Armitage chap with you?”
“Yes, Bill, he’s going over to talk to their police now.”
“Excellent. I will hold for him.”
As though on cue, a camera showed a man in civilian clothes walking to the senior cop on the scene. He pulled out an ID folder, spoke briefly with the police commander, and walked away, disappearing around the corner.
“This is Tony Armitage, who’s this?”
“Bill Tawney.”
“Well, if you know Dennis, I expect you’re a ‘Six’ chap. What can I do for you, sir?”
“What did the police tell you?” Tawney hit the speaker switch on the phone.
“He’s out of his depth by several meters or so. Said he’s sending it up to the canton for advice.”
“Mr. C?” Chavez said from his chair.
“Tell the choppers to spool up, Ding, you’re off to Gatwick. Hold there for further instructions.”
“Roger that, Mr. C. Team-2 is moving.”
Chavez walked down the stairs with Price behind him, then jumped into their car, which had them at Team-2’s building in under three minutes.
“People, if you’re watching the telly, you know what’s happening. Saddle up, we’re choppering to Gatwick.” They’d just headed out the door when a brave Swiss cop managed to get the civilian to safety. The TV showed the civilian being hustled to a car, which sped off at once. Again the body language was the important thing. The assembled police, who had been standing around casually, were standing differently now, mainly crouched behind the cover of their automobiles, their hands fingering their weapons, tense but still unsure of what they ought to do.
“It’s going out live on TV now,” Bennett reported. “Sky News will have it on in a few.”
“I guess that figures,” Clark said. “Where’s Stanley?”
“He’s at Gatwick now,” Tawney said. Clark nodded. Stanley would deploy with Team-2 as field commander. Dr. Paul Bellow was gone as well. He’d chopper out with Chavez and advise him and Stanley on the
Move right, go to your right, Chavez thought as loudly as he could from so far away. Somehow the thought must have gotten there, for the unnamed man in his gray overcoat stood stock-still for several seconds, looking down, and then—furtively, he thought—went to the right.
“ ‘Somebody’s shouting from inside the bank,’ ” the translator relayed.
But whatever the voice had shouted, it hadn’t been the right thing. The civilian dove to his right, away from the double glass doors of the bank and below the level of the plate-glass bank windows. He was now on the sidewalk, with three feet of granite block over his head, invisible from the interior of the building.
“Good move, old man,” Tawney observed quietly. “Now, we’ll see if the police can get you into the clear.”
One of the cameras shifted to the senior cop, who’d wandered into the middle of the street with his cell phone, and was now waving frantically for the civilian to get down. Brave or foolish, they couldn’t tell, but the cop then walked slowly back to the line of police cars—astonishingly, without being shot for his troubles. The cameras shifted back to the escaped civilian. Police had edged to the side of the bank building, waving for the man to crawl, keep low, to where they were standing. The uniformed cops had submachine guns out. Their body language was tense and frustrated. One of the police faces looked to the body on the sidewalk, and the men in Hereford could easily translate his thoughts.
“Mr. Tawney, a call for you on Line Four,” the intercom called. The intelligence chief walked to a phone and punched the proper button.
“Tawney . . . ah, yes, Dennis . . .”
“Whoever they are, they’ve just murdered a chap.”
“We just watched it. We’re pirating the TV feed.” Which meant that Gordon’s trip to Bern was a waste of time—but no, it wasn’t, was it? “You have that Armitage chap with you?”
“Yes, Bill, he’s going over to talk to their police now.”
“Excellent. I will hold for him.”
As though on cue, a camera showed a man in civilian clothes walking to the senior cop on the scene. He pulled out an ID folder, spoke briefly with the police commander, and walked away, disappearing around the corner.
“This is Tony Armitage, who’s this?”
“Bill Tawney.”
“Well, if you know Dennis, I expect you’re a ‘Six’ chap. What can I do for you, sir?”
“What did the police tell you?” Tawney hit the speaker switch on the phone.
“He’s out of his depth by several meters or so. Said he’s sending it up to the canton for advice.”
“Mr. C?” Chavez said from his chair.
“Tell the choppers to spool up, Ding, you’re off to Gatwick. Hold there for further instructions.”
“Roger that, Mr. C. Team-2 is moving.”
Chavez walked down the stairs with Price behind him, then jumped into their car, which had them at Team-2’s building in under three minutes.
“People, if you’re watching the telly, you know what’s happening. Saddle up, we’re choppering to Gatwick.” They’d just headed out the door when a brave Swiss cop managed to get the civilian to safety. The TV showed the civilian being hustled to a car, which sped off at once. Again the body language was the important thing. The assembled police, who had been standing around casually, were standing differently now, mainly crouched behind the cover of their automobiles, their hands fingering their weapons, tense but still unsure of what they ought to do.
“It’s going out live on TV now,” Bennett reported. “Sky News will have it on in a few.”
“I guess that figures,” Clark said. “Where’s Stanley?”
“He’s at Gatwick now,” Tawney said. Clark nodded. Stanley would deploy with Team-2 as field commander. Dr. Paul Bellow was gone as well. He’d chopper out with Chavez and advise him and Stanley on the
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