shirt. According to him, it was Gaye.”
“But it was never proved…”
“Sure it was. His family asked for a DNA test. It took three months, but the hotel manager was right. It was Gaye sure enough.”
“Are you saying that it was Lammers who applied for the replacement passport?”
“You tell me. Was Lammers one meter eighty tall, eighty-five kilos, fair hair going to gray, blue eyes?”
Von Daniken drew up an image of the prostrate corpse lying in the snow. “Close enough.”
“You know what I’m thinking, Marcus? That job out there in the desert…it was also professional.”
One point still bothered von Daniken. “But that was two years ago. Surely you blocked the passport.”
“Of course we did. We blocked it immediately.”
“So what’s the big deal? Why are you calling me from a pay phone?”
“Because a month later, someone unblocked it.”
“Who?” demanded von Daniken.
There was a moment of silence. Far away, on a crowded boulevard in Brussels, a truck blared its horn. “Someone high up, Marcus. Very high up.”
15
“Bastards!
Espèce de salopards!” Simone Noiret banged the dashboard with every epithet. “He was trying to kill you! Why?”
“I don’t know,” replied Jonathan, in a faraway voice. The heater was blasting him with a torrent of warm air, yet he couldn’t keep from shivering. The image of the policeman lamely grasping at the antenna protruding from his skull played front and center in his mind.
“But you must,” Simone insisted.
“They wanted the bags. That’s all I can think of. The guy lost his cool when I fought back.”
“The bags? That’s all? There must be more to it than that. Surely—”
“What do you want me to say?” Jonathan protested, turning toward her. “I’ve never seen those men before in my life. I’m just as frightened as you are. Arguing about it won’t help. We have to figure out what to do.”
Simone recoiled at the outburst. “Pardon me,” she said, settling into her seat. “You’re right. We’re both frightened. I didn’t mean to imply…”
“I know you didn’t. Let’s just sit here a few minutes, chill out, and figure out what we’re going to do.”
They had parked in a pine glade high on the mountain overlooking the city. Below them, no more than two miles’ distance, a swarm of flashing lights had converged on the train station. He counted ten police cars and two ambulances.
He poked his index finger into the neat round hole that the bullet had drilled into the dashboard. “Those men back there…one of them is dead, the other’s gravely injured at the least. I can’t just sit here. I’ve got to explain what happened. I’ve got to tell them that this whole thing is some kind of mistake. They went after the wrong person…”
“Look at the bullet hole, Jon. It’s your police who made it. And now you want to turn yourself in?” Simone threw up her hands in exasperation.
“What other choice is there? By now, every cop in this canton, and probably the whole country, has a description of us. Tall American with gray hair accompanied by a dark-haired woman traveling in a silver BMW 5 Series. In an hour, they’ll have our names…or at least mine. We won’t be hard to find.”
“And then what are you going to say? Are you going to tell them it was all in self-defense? They won’t believe a word.” Simone fished in her bag for a cigarette. “
Pourris,
Jon. You know what that means? Rotten. Bent. These policemen, they were no good.” She needed two hands to steady her lighter.
Jonathan opened the ID case. The identification belonged to Oskar Studer. Wachtmeister. Graubünden Kantonspolizei. It was then that he noticed that the car wasn’t equipped like other police cars. There was no two-way radio. No inboard computer. No gun rack. It was remarkably clean. Not a speck of dirt on the carpets. No empty coffee cups. The odometer read two thousand kilometers. There were some papers in the side
“But it was never proved…”
“Sure it was. His family asked for a DNA test. It took three months, but the hotel manager was right. It was Gaye sure enough.”
“Are you saying that it was Lammers who applied for the replacement passport?”
“You tell me. Was Lammers one meter eighty tall, eighty-five kilos, fair hair going to gray, blue eyes?”
Von Daniken drew up an image of the prostrate corpse lying in the snow. “Close enough.”
“You know what I’m thinking, Marcus? That job out there in the desert…it was also professional.”
One point still bothered von Daniken. “But that was two years ago. Surely you blocked the passport.”
“Of course we did. We blocked it immediately.”
“So what’s the big deal? Why are you calling me from a pay phone?”
“Because a month later, someone unblocked it.”
“Who?” demanded von Daniken.
There was a moment of silence. Far away, on a crowded boulevard in Brussels, a truck blared its horn. “Someone high up, Marcus. Very high up.”
15
“Bastards!
Espèce de salopards!” Simone Noiret banged the dashboard with every epithet. “He was trying to kill you! Why?”
“I don’t know,” replied Jonathan, in a faraway voice. The heater was blasting him with a torrent of warm air, yet he couldn’t keep from shivering. The image of the policeman lamely grasping at the antenna protruding from his skull played front and center in his mind.
“But you must,” Simone insisted.
“They wanted the bags. That’s all I can think of. The guy lost his cool when I fought back.”
“The bags? That’s all? There must be more to it than that. Surely—”
“What do you want me to say?” Jonathan protested, turning toward her. “I’ve never seen those men before in my life. I’m just as frightened as you are. Arguing about it won’t help. We have to figure out what to do.”
Simone recoiled at the outburst. “Pardon me,” she said, settling into her seat. “You’re right. We’re both frightened. I didn’t mean to imply…”
“I know you didn’t. Let’s just sit here a few minutes, chill out, and figure out what we’re going to do.”
They had parked in a pine glade high on the mountain overlooking the city. Below them, no more than two miles’ distance, a swarm of flashing lights had converged on the train station. He counted ten police cars and two ambulances.
He poked his index finger into the neat round hole that the bullet had drilled into the dashboard. “Those men back there…one of them is dead, the other’s gravely injured at the least. I can’t just sit here. I’ve got to explain what happened. I’ve got to tell them that this whole thing is some kind of mistake. They went after the wrong person…”
“Look at the bullet hole, Jon. It’s your police who made it. And now you want to turn yourself in?” Simone threw up her hands in exasperation.
“What other choice is there? By now, every cop in this canton, and probably the whole country, has a description of us. Tall American with gray hair accompanied by a dark-haired woman traveling in a silver BMW 5 Series. In an hour, they’ll have our names…or at least mine. We won’t be hard to find.”
“And then what are you going to say? Are you going to tell them it was all in self-defense? They won’t believe a word.” Simone fished in her bag for a cigarette. “
Pourris,
Jon. You know what that means? Rotten. Bent. These policemen, they were no good.” She needed two hands to steady her lighter.
Jonathan opened the ID case. The identification belonged to Oskar Studer. Wachtmeister. Graubünden Kantonspolizei. It was then that he noticed that the car wasn’t equipped like other police cars. There was no two-way radio. No inboard computer. No gun rack. It was remarkably clean. Not a speck of dirt on the carpets. No empty coffee cups. The odometer read two thousand kilometers. There were some papers in the side
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