There was an opening ahead, the lake showing through the heavy trees next to the road.
The man in the passenger side of the truck pulled his entire upper body out of the window and sighted on them.
“Now, Mike. Hold the wheel and put your foot on the gas.”
She moved to take his place, and he slid his upper body out of the window and took careful aim, ducking as the AK spat bullets back at them.
“Here you go, you bugger.” He caught the driver’s eye in the rearview, rolling and mad, and took careful aim despite the wind whipping him backward. He emptied his magazine into the driver’s-side window, saw the fine spray of blood across the glass, and pulled back into the car.
The results were immediate. The Land Rover squirreled hard to the left, hit the concrete barrier and ricocheted off to the right, through the metal guardrail, which launched it into the air. It twisted as it toppled over the edge and caromed down to the water head over tail, before crashing through an old wooden dock and landing upside down in Lake Geneva.
Nicholas pulled the beaten-up valiant Mercedes to the side of the road. Mike was out the door immediately, Nicholas right behind her, their weapons drawn, but there was no need—the Land Rover and its occupants were sinking down into the freezing water.
It was over.
To Mike’s astonishment, Nicholas started laughing. “You want to know something? My back doesn’t hurt at all. I feel b
loody great.”
The sirens were on them. The Geneva police screeched to a stop, blocking the A1 in both directions. Officers scrambled down the bank to the submerged truck, and two took defensive positions in front of Mike and Nicholas, shouting in French, “Drop your weapons!”
Mike held up her FBI credentials. “I’m Special Agent Michaela Caine, FBI, and this is Chief Detective Inspector Nicholas Drummond, Scotland Yard! Call FedPol Agent Pierre Menard; we’re working with him.”
She looked at Nicholas and shook her head, her ponytail swinging in her face, trying to catch her breath. “You call that no heroics?”
73
Menard caught up to them as the divers arrived. Nicholas and Mike were drinking hot coffee out of foam cups and being questioned by a pissed-off young Contonal Police captain. After shooting up the main thoroughfare through Geneva, causing countless wrecks during the course of a high-speed chase, ending with a car in Lake Geneva and two missing bodies, the captain wasn’t inclined to allow them to leave the city, but Menard flashed his FedPol badge, spoke a few curt words in French, and he backed off, even more pissed off than he’d been when he arrived.
Nicholas said, “No one was hurt, I hope?”
“Only the two you chased into the lake,” Menard said. “What can you tell me about them?”
Nicholas said, “Both dark-haired and medium height, late twenties to early thirties. One was Caucasian and the other was Egyptian, maybe. I thought I heard a few choice phrases I’ve overheard in Cairo before. As to who set them on us, that’s the more troubling question. Either the Fox called in some hired muscle, or these guys belong to the buyer. To go to this extreme, it’s got to mean they’re panicking, which means we’re getting close.”
A diver in a wet suit broke the surface with the truck’s license plate in his hand.
Menard said, “I am thankful you and Agent Caine escaped more injury. It is probable the Land Rover was stolen, but we will trace this plate and find out to whom the truck belonged, and with luck, it will lead us to your buyer. And when we have a positive identification on the two assailants, I will let you know. I will meet you in France tonight.
“Now, the young captain will not detain you. We have secured your flight to France. It would be best for you to leave sooner, rather than waiting too long. I will manage this. But you must go now, or the captain might shoot all of us.”
Mike touched Menard’s arm. “Thank you, monsieur, you’ve been a great help.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “My pleasure, of course.” He handed Nicholas a Glock .40.
“My own. You may need this. Be careful.”
74
Paris, 14th Arrondissement
La Santé Prison
Saturday, noon
The flight from Geneva to Paris took only forty-five minutes, and the drive from Charles de Gaulle to La Santé Prison another twenty-five. Nicholas wasn’t feeling so great now. He was covered in a fine sheen of sweat when they arrived. Mike was worried about him, but he was a stubborn man, determined not to look like he was hurting, so she kept her mouth shut.
They were met by the warden of La Santé. Her name was Lucienne Badour, a striking brunette in her late forties, heavyset but with long, shapely legs more suited to dancing the cancan than walking the filthy prison halls. She spoke very nice English with a strong Parisian accent.