“Next? You instructed me to go back to the consulate and wait for you to return.”
“What time was that?”
“It must have been about seven minutes past ten. I remember because I checked my watch when that coach left.”
“The coach?” said Romanov.
“Yes, the one that was being loaded up with musical instruments. It left about …”
“instruments, that’s it,” said Romanov. “Now I remember what was worrying me. Cellos, violins, and a double bass that didn’t go into the trunk.” Valchek looked puzzled but said nothing. “Ring the hotel immediately and find out who was on that bus and where they are heading.” Valchek scurried away.
Romanov checked his watch: ten fifty-five. We are going to have to move, and move quickly. He pressed the intercom by the side of the phone. “I want a fast car, and more important, a superb driver.” Valchek returned as Romanov replaced the receiver. “The bus was hired by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, which is on a European tour …”
“Where are they heading next?” asked Romanov.
“Frankfurt.”
Adam strolled away from the village, having checked everything with a professional soldier’s eye. The main street was deserted but for a little boy who relentlessly kicked a plastic soccer ball into a gap in the hillside which he was using as a goal. The boy turned when he saw Adam and kicked the ball toward him. Adam kicked it back, and the boy took it in his arms, a wide smile appearing on his face. The smile disappeared as he watched Adam continue quickly up the hill. There were only a few old houses on the main road. On one side was a dangerous ravine with tree-covered hills rising in the distance, while on the other side stretched green fields in which cows, bells round their necks, munched happily away. It made Adam feel hungry.
He went further up the road until he came to a sharp bend down the hill. Standing on the corner, he could see down the hill for about half a mile without being seen. He tested the feasibility of his plan for several minutes and soon became expert at picking out British cars or cars with British license plates as far as two or three hundred yards away. It didn’t take long to work out how few foreigners bought British.
During the next twenty minutes he thumbed optimistically at seven cars with English license plates heading toward Zurich, but they all ignored him. He had forgotten just how easy it had been for him when he was a cadet in uniform. In those days almost everyone would stop. He checked his watch: he could only risk it for a few more minutes. Three more cars refused to pull up and when a fourth slowed down it only sped away again as Adam ran toward it.
By eleven-twenty Adam decided he could no longer chance being seen on the road. He stared down the ravine, realizing there was no alternative left open to him now but foot. He shrugged and began to climb down one of the steep trails that led into the valley, in the hope of meeting up with the other road that was marked clearly on the map.
He cursed when he looked at the open ground between him and safety. If only he’d started an hour earlier.
“I fear Antarctic has become expendable.”
“Why?”
“Because we now know his father was involved in helping Goering to an easy death.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No reason why you should, although it’s quite simple. That patriotic stiff-upper-lipped Englishman of yours is the son of the bastard who smuggled a cyanide capsule into Goering’s cell at Nuremberg. His reward for service rendered turned out to be the Czar’s icon.”
“But all the members of the D4 are convinced that he’s our only hope.”
“I don’t give a damn what your D4 thinks because if his father would side with the Germans during a war, why shouldn’t the son side with the Russians in peace?”
“Like father, like son.”
“Precisely.”
“So what am I expected to do?”
“Just keep us briefed as to what the Foreign Office is up to. Our agents in Switzerland will do the rest.”
“Faster!” said Romanov, aware that it was not possible, as the ambassador’s driver was proving to be a consummate professional. Not once did Romanov feel that he had missed a gap, a light, a chance to overtake. In fact another five kilometers an hour on the speedometer might well have seen them over the precipice. The moment they were on the highway with full lights blazing and the driver’s palm almost lodged on the horn, the indicator rarely fell below 130 kilometers per hour. “We must beat them to the border,” he kept repeating as he thumped his fist on the leather dashboard. After they had covered one hundred kilometers in fifty-five minutes, the three men began watching ahead of them for the coach, but it was another thirty kilometers before Valchek was able to point ahead and shout, “That must be them, about a kilometer up the hill.”
“Force them off the road,” said Romanov, his eyes never leaving the bus. The embassy driver swung out to overtake, and once he was in front immediately cut across, forcing the coach driver to throw on his brakes and swerve to the side. Valchek waved dictatorially at the coach driver to slow down, and the man stopped the vehicle just off the road on the edge of the mountain.
“Don’t either of you speak. Just leave everything to me,” said Romanov, “and remain near the driver in case there’s trouble.” Romanov jumped out of the car and ran toward the coach, his eyes already searching for anyone who might be attempting to leave the coach. He banged on the door impatiently until the driver pressed a knob and the big doors swung open. Romanov leaped on, with the other two following only paces behind. He took out his passport from an inside pocket, flashed it in the frightened driver’s face, and shouted. “Who’s in charge here?”
Stephen Grieg stood up. “I am the manager of the company, and therefore …”
“Swiss police,” said Romanov. Grieg was about to ask a question when Romanov said, “When you left your hotel in Geneva this morning, did you take on any extra passengers?”