thought, was a classic of Anglo-Saxon unpredictability and deviousness.
The philosophising intensified Anderson’s headache. He went back to the kitchen and fried some eggs and bacon. He stared at the sizzling food for a few moments, then poured the contents of the frying pan into the garbage bucket.
* * *
At the same time that Anderson was disposing of his brunch, Helga Keller was driving her grey beetle Volkswagen out of the drive of her father’s house. She had called the Investors’ Club and told them she was sick.
As she drove through the streets of Zurich, watching the snow peel off the bonnet of the car, she sang to herself. She had with her information that she thought would please Karl – a photostat of the guest list for the April meeting of Bilderberg borrowed, from the American banker. Karl’s name was on it.
After they had drunk champagne and eaten and made love, she would broach the subject that had been on her mind for weeks. She wanted to go to Russia, to see for herself the picture gallery that he had painted in her mind.
Ah, love and shared ideals. I’m so lucky, she sang to herself, as she turned off the autobahn and drove through the swirling snow towards the ski-resort.
From the picture window Prentice could just see the road. He saw the Volkswagen pass by the end of the drive. He glanced at his watch. 1.30. He would give it another three hours.
Anderson showered, shaved and dressed slowly. He could think of only one course of action that might revive him. He picked up the telephone and called a girl named Rita Geiser, whom he had met filling in the Christmas vacation from university at a toy store on the Bahnhofstrasse. The children had been absorbed with the excellent German and Swiss mechanical toys on her counter, and there had been no shortage of fathers accompanying them because she was very well built and her blouse was cut unseasonably low.
Yes, she said, she would be delighted to have dinner with him and, yes, it would be a good idea to have a few drinks at his apartment first. Anderson began to clean up the apartment, moving like an automaton, keenly anticipating the period between drinks and dinner.
His thoughts wandered as desultorily as his movements. When had Prentice received the summons to Berne? Certainly not last night; well, not as far as he could remember ….
Anderson yawned and activated the cassette that had been recording Danzer’s conversation in his apartment. The tiny tape whirred smoothly but without sound, Anderson pressed the playback button.
‘Let’s go to the chalet tomorrow.’ (Today)
‘That would be lovely, darling.’
Anderson listened to the end. So he wasn’t the only one planning recreation for the evening …. He frowned: there was something disquieting about the tape. What was it? He played it again. Then he had it. It wasn’t the end of the conversation. Prentice had abruptly terminated it. As though he had made a decision.
Anderson stood in front of the window watching the snow pouring from the sky. The disquiet persisted. He consulted his address book in which the digits of all telephone numbers were shuffled. He found the contact number Prentice had given him months ago in Berne. He reshuffled the digits, called the number and asked for Kimber, Prentice’s code-name.
‘Who’s calling?’ A woman’s voice.
‘Parsons.’ (Apparently a man named Parsons compiled the crossword in the Sunday Telegraph, Somewhere, well hidden, Prentice had a sense of humour.)
‘I’ll see if he’s available.’
Then a man’s voice, wary: ‘Who is it?’
‘Parsons.’
A pause. ‘I’m afraid Mr Kimber isn’t here.’
‘But I thought —’
‘Thought what, Mr Parsons?’
‘Wasn’t he summoned?’
A lengthier pause. ‘Not so far as we are aware. Would you care to leave a message?’
‘No,’ Anderson said, staring at the receiver in his hand, ‘no message.’
Anderson paced around the living-room. Unease gnawed at him. He tried the handle of Prentice’s bedroom; it was locked. He took the skeleton key from his ring and opened the door. The room was tidy except that the bed was unmade.
Anderson crossed the room to the built-in wardrobe. Locked. He opened it with another key. There was the Dunlop golfing bag. Even before he had opened it he knew ….
Empty!
Holy shit! The disquiet splintered into panic. He grabbed a sheepskin jacket, shoved a Magnum pistol in the pocket and ran out of the apartment.
His rented white Mercedes 450 SE was parked in a side-turning. It looked like an igloo. Anderson swept the snow from the windshield and windows with his arm.
The starting motor whined. Come on, you sonofabitch! The engine fired, faltered, then roared the third time. The clock on the dashboard said 4.48 as the Mercedes took off, rear wheels spewing snow.
Rita Geiser would have to buy her own dinner tonight.
Prentice slipped a Walther automatic, two lengths of wire and a roll of masking tape into the pocket of his parka and left the rented house in the blue Alfasud at 4.40 pm. It was still snowing and already the day was assuming the sullen textures of an early winter evening.
He drove slowly, watching the snowflakes charge the windscreen before veering away. He stopped at the brink of the hill leading down to the village. There was a light burning, in Danzer’s chalet, the girl warming the nest. The other chalets appeared to be unoccupied.
The cables were motionless and Prentice doubted whether the cars had been in use that day. He drove on down the hill and parked the Alfasud across the empty square from the control cabin.
The windows of the car began to steam up. Good. He adjusted the neck of the black sweater and pulled the hood of the parka forward. A little girl ran across the square pulling a puppy behind her. Otherwise the place was deserted. Forgotten. Preserved in snow and ice.
Here and there lights from the windows of the old-fashioned village houses lit the falling snow. He could hear a choir singing in the church. It was possible, Prentice thought, that the cable-car operator might confer with the two attendants – one stuck at the top of the mountain, poor sod – and decide to call it a day. In which case Danzer would have to walk up to the chalet through the pine trees; he would still die, but the execution wouldn’t be so neat ….
Prentice remembered the colour photograph of the Hun garian whose body had disintegrated. He felt many things as he recalled the weals, the bloody swellings, but compunction was not among them.
He consulted his watch. 5.20. the light was fading. An orange Porsche drove into the square and stopped. A man climbed out, locked the doors and began walking towards the control cabin. It was Danzer.
At least he knew the way. Had driven to the chalet half a dozen times before to interrogate Danzer.
Anderson left the autobahn too fast, skidded, drove into the skid and straightened out onto the side road.
What was it with Prentice? Anderson pressed his foot down on the gas-pedal. Danzer had said something about the last ski-lift. Well, that would be about now give or take a few minutes.
The wheels spun on the hard snow beneath the day’s fall, then gripped again.
Anderson assumed that Prentice intended to kill Danzer when he reached the chalet. Which means that I’ve got to catch that last lift.
The Mercedes reached the top of the hill. Below lay blurred lights. The village. Anderson steered the car down towards the lights. The snow poured down from the darkening sky.
Danzer walked briskly across the square. He felt elated, truly elated, for the first time since Anderson had stopped him that nightmarish