Vorpal Blade (38 page)

Finally, to complete the transformation, he picked up
the executive case all bankers carried with them. Inside it
would be the Glock. The only other item he lacked was
an expensive limousine. He would hire that, dressed as he was now.

Paula had a twinge of trepidation as she walked down the
side street to ACTIL's headquarters - disturbed by the
police tape fencing off the end of the street. She was still
appalled by the murders of Hank Foley, Adam Holgate
and Abraham Seale. But what was driving her on, the
controlled fury she felt, was the brutal killing of Elena
Brucan, the obscene, callous touch of placing the severed
head back on the corpse's shoulders.

Arriving at the entrance to the building she paused.
The heavy front door was not quite closed. Her right hand
whipped into her shoulder bag, gripped the Browning.
She pushed the door open slowly, soundlessly. Hinges well oiled. Immediately inside was a large rubber mat.
She carefully stepped over it onto the stone floor beyond.
Not much light.

Slowly she began to mount the old wooden staircase
beyond the door. The fifth tread creaked. Reaching the
second-floor landing, she headed for the door which had
to open into the front room where she had seen a light
the night before. Listening, she heard nothing. It was
too quiet.

Using her gloved left hand - she had slipped the glove
off her right gripping the gun inside the special pocket - she
took hold of the door handle. She turned it slowly, pushed
gently. Daylight. She would sooner have had the Browning
aimed and ready but if Roman was inside he wouldn't
have liked it. Not the best way to start a conversation.
The door opened wider and she could see inside. Roman
wasn't there.

Instead, sitting at Roman's desk, files spread out before
him on the desk, was Broden. He sat very still, staring at her, a Mauser Military Model 7.63mm pistol in his hand,
the long barrel aimed point-blank at her.

'Do come in, Miss Grey,' he said in a neutral tone. 'You
avoided the pressure pad by the front door, but the fifth
tread on the stairs creaks.'

'Yes, it does,' she said in an uncertain voice.

'Take your hand out of your shoulder bag, slowly. I hope it has nothing in it.' The same neutral tone.

She obeyed his command. He smiled, laid the Mauser
on the desk. Always before he'd looked grim and danger
ous. Now, wearing a suede jacket, zipped up at the front,
with his wide smile and
en brosse
hair, he reminded her
of a teddy bear. He offered her coffee and she refused.
Wrapping his huge hands behind his thick neck he was
still smiling. She wished he'd put the Mauser away in
a drawer. Designed long ago its engineering quality was
superb. She knew the magazine could take ten rounds.

'You're tough,' Broden remarked. 'You've looked at
some very grisly sights but I can tell you're still in con
trol.'

Paula wasn't going to fall for that approach. She held
his hard eyes as she made the remark.

'I think your security is lousy. Anyone can walk in
here.'

'I agree. But I'm under orders. Roman is coming. Hates to waste time fiddling with the two locks. I rely on the
pressure pad.' He grinned. 'With people like you the fifth
tread warns me.'

'I came to see Roman. Now I'm here maybe we could
talk.'

'My pleasure.'

'Have you met Russell Straub, the Vice-President?'

It threw him. She knew this by the crinkle of his bushy
eyebrows. He made a performance of taking out a pack of
cigarettes, offering her one, which she again refused. He lit it, stared at the ceiling while he took a puff.

'I have been briefly introduced to him by Roman. Where
does he come into the picture?'

'Anyone who was in the area when all the murders were
committed is a suspect.'

'Well, I wasn't in Pinedale when Hank Foley got his.'

'You could have been.' She was building up a head
of steam. Don't pander to this tough nut. He'll despise
panderers.

'I could?'

'By flying first to Boston on the Grumman Gulfstream
which, I'm sure, is at your disposal.'

'You are tough.' With a forefinger he twirled the Mauser
so at one moment the muzzle was aimed at her. He
continued twirling until the muzzle pointed at the wall. 'No one knows you're here, I'm sure. You take chances.'

'Know any hitmen?' She was really wound up.

'Once. One. Hired to hit my Colonel. Colonel played
poker, lost a bundle, refused to pay up.'

'Some Colonel.'

'Rank doesn't mean you're honest. I learned that in
the SIB.'

'SIB?' She knew what it was but she had him on the
defensive, talking about himself. She doubted he did
that often.

'Special Investigation Branch. The army's SIS, up to a
point. Investigates crime in the army.'

'What happened to the hit man?'

'I broke his arm, the one with the gun in it. He's still
serving time for attempted murder.'

'What made you leave the army?' she pressed.

'Term of service was up. Roman had somehow heard of me. He interviewed me. He's good at that. Hired me as security chief for ACTIL. I answered him back. It impressed him. Not many people do that to Roman.'

'What sort of a boss is he?'

'All right. So long as you don't ever grovel. He admires
you, takes quite an interest in you. You must have stood
up to him. Now, if you don't mind, I think—'

'I think I should go,' she forestalled him. 'You're not
quite what I thought you were,' she said standing up.

'What did you think I was, then?' he said smiling,
standing up.

'You don't want to know.'

Leaving, she stepped over the fifth step, to amuse Broden.
On the ground floor she stepped over the pressure pad. She had just reached the pavement when a tall heavily
built figure well muffled with scarf and overcoat gently
took hold of her arm. Roman Arbogast.

'What have you been up to?' he growled.

'I've been up to your office hoping to see you. Instead
I saw Broden.'

'Couldn't have been much fun, talking to the stone face
from Easter Island.'

'Actually, I'd come to see you, but Broden was inter
esting.'

'Interesting? We can't be talking about the same man.
Can you come back and see me at, say, three this after
noon? Don't be late. I value punctuality.'

'That must be the one thing we have in common.
3 p.m. then.'

She left him before he could reply. She was dying for some coffee. Sprungli, the most famous cake and coffee
shop in Zurich, was just up the street. Absorbed, her mind
playing back the confrontation with Broden - because that
was what it had been despite his constant amiability - she
entered Bahnhofstrasse, turned left. A hand grasped her
left arm.

Her right hand dived inside her shoulder bag. She was
swinging round, the weapon half out of its pocket, when
a familiar voice spoke.

'It's me. Not going to shoot, are you?' Newman joked.

'What did you crawl out of?'

'News travels fast,' he went on, walking alongside her as
she hustled up Bahnhofstrasse. 'Pete Nield phoned Tweed
about the attempt to kill you in the Altstadt. Sent me out to
find you PDQ. I should have been with you. I am now.'

'Look, Bob, I'm going to Sprungli's. I'd like to be on
my own. Nothing personal. I've a job to do and you'll get
in the way. Nothing personal. Tweed OK'd it.'

'After what happened in the Altstadt, Tweed says I have
to stick to you like glue.'

'Bob, I can't do my job with you hanging on to my
coat-tails. I won't even try. But I
am
going to do my
job.'

They were moving fast up the street because Paula,
furious, was walking so quickly. Tweed had no right to
countermand his previous agreement. And she'd tell him
when she saw him.

'Could we compromise?' Newman suggested.

'I don't think so. You're too well known. What had you in mind?' Maybe she was being too rigid. Bob had saved
her life in the past.

'You're going into Sprungli's,' he began quietly. 'Sup
pose I stay outside. Out of sight?'

'We could try it, I suppose . . .'

They had arrived opposite Sprungli's entrance. She darted inside. Newman walked on a short distance, put
on dark glasses. He wouldn't look conspicuous. The sun
shone as a brilliant glare now.

*
*
*

Paula thought the only drawback to Sprungli's was the
staircase you had to mount to reach the first floor. The ground floor was devoted to their shop. The staircase curved dangerously, on one side the treads were narrow at the middle curve. She wondered how women with high heels managed. Of course, they went up on their toes.

At the top she paused, the cash desk on her left. Not
many customers this morning. The bitter weather. She
was about to walk to an empty table when she stiffened.
A shock. She couldn't move for a moment. Seated at a
table with her back to Paula was a woman with a fur hat.
Same colour, same type as the one Elena Brucan had worn.
Same coat. Same size.

Her legs felt leaden as she walked to the table. She stood
on the opposite side behind an empty chair, stared. The
woman was well over eighty, thin-lipped, haggard lines
barely masked with makeup. Her fierce eyes glared at Paula. She spoke in German, a language Paula under
stood.

'This is
my
table. I am expecting a friend. Plenty of
empty tables,' she snapped.

'From the back you looked like someone I know.'

Paula didn't apologize. The woman's manner, her
words, had been downright aggressive. One of the
grandes dames
who came here daily to chatter with her friend. She
chose a table well away from her. A waitress appeared
immediately and she ordered coffee. A strong hand rested
on her shoulder from behind. Paula had had enough of
people grasping her. She swung round, her expression
bleak. It was Marienetta.