A Woman Involved (33 page)

Came charging from across the street, four men running flat out, barging through people. Stillgoes was running flat out at them. Another car was roaring down the street. Morgan
bounded at Danziger’s car, and the first man lunged at him and Morgan swung on him with the canister and squirted, and the man sprawled. The other car screeched to a halt. Morgan flung open the back door and another man bounded at him, and Stillgoes knocked him flying. Two men leapt out of the other car and Makepeace hit the first and he whirled like a ballet dancer and his foot caught the next man in the chest. Somebody seized Morgan by the collar and slung him. He went reeling backwards across the pavement, and the man bounded after him and hit him and Morgan sprawled. The man bounded at him and seized him in an armlock and wrenched him towards the car, and Makepeace did another of his ballet numbers. He bounded and kicked, and the man crashed on top of Morgan. Stillgoes grabbed Morgan’s arm and wrenched him up and ran him towards Danziger’s car. He shoved him in and flung himself after him.

Danziger roared the car away from the kerb and the door jerked shut and Makepeace flung himself at the roofrack. They were thirty yards down the street when the Russian car lurched away from the kerb after them. Morgan looked wildly through the rear window and all he could see was Makepeace’s belly flattened against the glass. Danziger swung the car left at the monument, tyres squealing and people scattering, and the car jumped the pavement and the centrifugal force sent Makepeace’s legs flying out into midair and he clung with all his might to the roofrack. Danziger straightened the car out and roared across the pedestrian pavement, down into the one-way street, his hand on the horn. Morgan grabbed Makepeace’s belt through the window and clung fiercely.

The car went roaring down Pelikanstrasse, horn blaring, cars scattering. A hundred yards behind came the Russian car, leaping onto the pavement at the monument, and now there was the wail of a police car. It swung around the corner of the bank, at the monument. Danziger roared into the intersection of Pelikan Platz, and swung left with a scream of tyres. The Russians’ car roared down the one-way street, and the police car came screaming up behind it and the Russian swung out and the police swerved and the co-driver rasped into the transmitter:

‘
They’re doing a hundred kilometres approaching Pelikan Platz, trying to beat us off
–’

The Russian swung in front of them again and then went roaring left into the intersection. The police car swung behind, then came up on their side, siren screaming. The Russian swung back in front of him, and there was a crash of metal and the police car swerved and the Russian trod flat on the accelerator again.

Two hundred yards ahead Danziger was roaring across Peterstrasse, people scattering. Ahead was the intersection with Barengasse and the lights were red and Danziger leant on the horn and hunched over the wheel. A truck was entering the intersection, and Danziger rammed his foot flat and he swung right into the intersection, in front of the truck, tyres squealing. And a hundred yards ahead was the park with the pedestrian bridge over the canal.

Morgan clung onto Makepeace and looked back wildly through the rear window. ‘
They haven’t come round the bend yet!
’ Danziger drove at the kerb and the car leapt onto the paved park. People were scattering, yelling. Danziger drove for the canal, then slammed on the brakes, and the car screeched to a halt on the bridge.

Morgan let go of Makepeace and scrambled out. He looked wildly back, and he saw the Russian car roaring towards the park but there was no police car. Morgan raced down the steps to the canal, the others bounding behind him. There was the speedboat, engine spluttering. They leapt into the boat. Clark let go of the bank and opened the throttle, and the boat surged out from under the bridge.

It went roaring down the open canal. Morgan looked back and he saw the Russian car screech to a halt at the bridge. Four men burst out and ran to the railings. Two vaulted down onto the footpath, and started running flat out after them. But the boat was already a hundred yards away. The other Russians were frantically pushing Danziger’s car out of the way. Clark sent the boat roaring under the next bridge. Now they could no longer see the Russians. They raced under two more bridges, the water flying off the bows, then they were in the last stretch of the canal. Back at the Barengasse the Russians had pushed Danziger’s car off the bridge. They piled back into their car and roared across the bridge. They swung left into the narrow
street alongside the canal. And now there was the wail of more police cars.

But in the boat they did not hear it above the outboard motor. Ahead was the last bridge, the Quaibrucke. Clark swept underneath it and there was the open Zurich See, the rowboats moored. Clark swept between them, scattering ducks, and he opened the throttle wide.

Morgan looked back. He could not see the Russian car. He peered forward into flying snow. The lake disappeared into greyness. There were no other boats. His heart was still pumping hard. He put his hand on Danziger’s shoulder and shouted: ‘We have to go for the cars! The Comrades will be waiting at the plane – they must have tracked it here! How else would they know?’ Danziger looked at him, his face screwed up against the wind. ‘Did you radio the pilot we were coming?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Just “Roger”.’

‘That could have been anybody! So go for the cars!’

Danziger put his hands to Clark’s ear and shouted the instruction.

Morgan looked back at Zurich. He could hardly make out the buildings in the snow. He could see no boats following them. He looked forwards, into the flying snow. There were no boats. But there must be a Russian boat waiting somewhere. They sped down the See flat out, and now Zurich was gone in snow and lowering dusk, only a hazy twinkle of lights now.

Clark swung the boat west, and slowed down. They cruised towards the dusky shore, guns ready, peering. Clark reduced the throttle: the boat puttered up against the shore.

Morgan scrambled out, into the icy water, and held the boat. The others scrambled out and clambered onto the bank. Morgan scrambled back into the boat.

‘Hey –’ Danziger hissed ‘– where the fuck you going?’

Morgan held a finger out to Makepeace in warning, then he opened the throttle and swung the wheel and the boat surged away. ‘Hey! –’ Danziger shouted. Morgan opened the throttle wide. The boat went roaring out into the dark, snowy lake. He shouted into the wind:

‘
Just keep helping me now, God! … 
’

From Berne you take the train to Brig, way up there in the mountains. At Brig you change to the little electric train that winds up, up into the Alps, through great rock gorges, through Swiss hamlets clinging to the mountainsides; and up, up further, until at last you see the Matterhorn gleaming high and mighty into the sky, the very top of the Alps. At the foot of the Matterhorn is the ski resort of Zermatt. And from Zermatt you take a series of cable cars and tee-bar tows up to the Theodulpass. And there you are, standing on the very knife edge of Switzerland, beside the Matterhorn, and below you is Italy, the ski resort of Cervinia nestling down there, and the Alps stretching away below you, going on and on, all the way to the horizon.

It was three years since Morgan had been there, but he remembered it all clearly.

The train from Berne was half full. Many of the passengers were skiers. Morgan sat in the midst of them, his mind’s eye feverishly following that route: the electric train, Zermatt, the cable cars. He was sure he had not been followed from the shore of the Zurich See to Berne. But his eyes darted every time somebody moved, every muscle suddenly tensed to jump up and fight.

And all you do is ski down from the Theodulpass, with all the other skiers, and there you are in Italy, in Cervinia. No passport control when you leave Switzerland, no passport control in Cervinia. And from there you take a bus to the next railway town. And you take a train to Rome … 

The connecting door slid open with a bang, and Morgan jerked and turned. Then slumped his shoulders. It was a stewardess with a trolley.

And by God he needed a drink … 

He bought two bottles of beer. Then two small bottles of wine as well.

He ripped open a beer, and swallowed and swallowed and swallowed.

He sat, feeling the balm of the beer, letting the efficient Swiss train take him, looking at the lights flashing past, watching the reflections of the passengers in the window.

And when you get to Rome, then what? … 

He did not know.

He did not know what he was going to do about this. Whether he
could
do anything. He only knew he could not leave a KGB man as Secretary of State for the Vatican, stalking the corridors of power, plotting the death of the Pope, manipulating eight hundred million Catholics and heads of state for his Moscow masters. He only knew that he could decide nothing and do nothing until he had some local knowledge, knew the lie of the land, physically
saw
it. Local knowledge. Then maybe, just maybe, his options would become clearer. Then he could try to make a plan – go to his rock farm in France and think it all through. Have
time
to think.
Planning
– that’s what this whole thing had lacked so far. This was the first opportunity he had had to sit still and
think
, for Christ’s sake. He did not give a damn that he had deceived Anna, Anna was Makepeace’s problem right now –
stop even thinking about Anna, she is as safe as you can make her. … 

He tipped the second can of beer to his mouth and drank it down, down, to stop himself thinking about Anna.

He slumped back trying to feel the balm of it.
You cannot think any more until you have local knowledge.

And when you have it? What? Go and tell the Pope that his Secretary of State is a KGB man waiting to murder him? Let him sort it out, set his own house in order? But how do you get to see the Pope? Without letting anybody else in the Vatican know why. This must be for the Pope’s ears only – otherwise the cat will be out of the bag. And, would the Pope believe him? He might say it was just an old Nazi plot to discredit the Church. And if the Pope did investigate it, who would he entrust? – would that man be trustworthy? Or might he also be a KGB man, recruited by the Secretary of State himself? Maybe the Pope
himself
was under their control now.

Oh Jesus.
Just take one day at a time. Right now all you worry about is getting there.

He unscrewed the cap off a bottle of wine and took a swallow.

But one thing was sure – the Comrades now knew that he had that microfilm, and they would be in Rome in force. And pretty damn soon the British would know about his little bunfight outside the Union Bank of Switzerland, and they would be in Rome too. Both the bastards gunning for him.

Just take one day at a time.

Think of Anna … Thank God he hadn’t brought her today.

He took another swallow of wine. Don’t think about Anna either. You’ve done the only bloody thing you could! Where else could she go to be safe? England? … No way. Not with Her Majesty’s secret services so shameless that they try to heist her inside the Hong Kong & Shanghai bank in New York – what would they do if they found her in England?

Oh, Jesus, the whole business shocked him to the marrow!

Shocked him! The Vatican, the KGB, his own British! … 

Oh, God, he was a babe in the woods … 

Now cut that out. You’ve done well. You’ve done marvellously! You’ve beaten the sons of bitches off in New York and Amsterdam and Zurich! Now all you worry about is getting to Rome. Right now Anna is Makepeace’s problem, that’s why you’ve got Makepeace. …

It was eight o’clock when the electric train pulled into Zermatt, the ski resort nestling below the Matterhorn.

He waited till all passengers had left his coach. When he got down onto the platform, nobody was lingering. He walked into the main street.

The snow crunched underfoot. It was cold. The street was pretty and alpine, the shops twinkling, and the bars looked cosy. There were quite a lot of people about, their faces ruddy. There were horse-drawn cabs with bells, and small electric-powered taxis, for no cars are allowed in Zermatt. He walked fast, hoping to find a ski shop still open. But they were all closed. The Matterhorn was hidden in cloud. He came to the Platz: There was the hotel he remembered, the Monte Rosa. He walked in.

It is a lovely hotel, with low-beamed ceilings and panelled
walls. He had not stayed here on his holiday in Zermatt, but he had used the bar.

He got a room, in the name of Jefferson, and paid. He walked into the bar.

It was cosy. He sat down at the mahogany bar and ordered a whisky. He took a big sip. It burned, tasting good. And he suddenly felt better, in a respectable public place. They wouldn’t dare roll him in here.

The bar was half-f. There was a group of well-scrubbed, middle-aged Americans, talking earnestly. He wondered why Americans talk so goddam loudly. He heard ‘related experiences’ and ‘re-evaluations’ and ‘participated realization’ and ‘grown-up responses’, and he wondered why Americans love abstract nouns so much. And then he realized they were talking about Swiss
wines.
He thought, Amazing people … But they were somehow reassuring. And he envied them. Next week they would return to their nice mortgaged homes in Hartford, Connecticut, and Boysie, Idaho, and nobody would try to kill them. The only thing they might die of prematurely was terminal sincerity. He wished he was like that. Just then another one walked into the bar.

She was about thirty-five, and pretty, in a bruised sort of way. Her coat had snow on it. She wore a tweed skirt and fur boots. She glanced around, and then made for the empty stools near Morgan. She flashed him a smile as she sat down. ‘Hi.’

‘Good evening.’

‘A bourbon on the rocks, please,’ she said to the barmaid. ‘Gee, it’s cold outside,’ she said to Morgan.

‘Very.’

‘How’s the skiing been?’