‘It’ll take a while. Someone’s going to have a trip to remember when he finally does make his appearance.’
Kolchinsky, with Graham’s reluctant permission, used the shirt the knife had lain on in the holdall to remove the bloodstains from the carpet. He then wrapped it around the knife and stuffed it into his own bag.
The smoke had cleared by the time they had finished. Graham left his compartment and made his way up the corridor to the ventilator shaft. It was a simple matter to remove the grille and retrieve the cannister from the shaft. He carefully slotted the grille back into place and returned to his compartment, where he tossed the cannister to Kolchinsky.
‘The mechanical fault,’ Kolchinsky said, turning it over in his hands.
‘Take note of where it was made.’
Kolchinsky had to hold the cannister sideways to read the printing: ‘Rosenstraat, Amsterdam.’
‘Hendrique country.’
There was a knock on the door. Kolchinsky pushed the cannister into his bag and then stood up to open the door. A youth introduced himself as the assistant conductor and looked around the compartment before turning back towards the door and beckoning Hendrique to follow him.
‘I apologise for this intrusion but I was asked to act as an interpreter. This man doesn’t speak any English and I remember you telling me the other night you don’t speak Italian. What about you, preacher? Do you speak English?’
‘English or Italian, it makes no difference.’
‘The conductor seems to have gone missing and several of the passengers are certain they saw him go into the compartment next to this one when all that smoke was about. We tried the door but it must be locked from the inside. It’s possible he locked himself in to try and evade the smoke and was subsequently overcome by the fumes. Your communicating door’s the only other way in.’
‘Then we’d better check,’ Kolchinsky said, feigning a tone of alarm.
After unlatching the door he slid it open and entered the compartment, where he stood as if by chance on the wet patch of the carpet. The assistant conductor poked his head round the door then shrugged and stepped back. Hendrique pushed past him and stared at the spot where he had left the body. There was fury in his eyes as he looked from Kolchinsky to Graham.
‘He must have recovered,’ Kolchinsky said.
‘I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later,’ Graham added, holding Hendrique’s enraged stare.
Hendrique left without a word. The assistant conductor apologized for the interruption and closed the door behind him.
Graham latched the communicating door, then turned to Kolchinsky. ‘I don’t care what the boss says, I’ll kill Hendrique if he tries anything else.’
‘You know better than to let your feelings cloud your judgement,’ Kolchinsky retorted. ‘It’s imperative that we find out where the plutonium’s going. Kill Hendrique and the whole operation could be in jeopardy.’
‘The hell I’ll be a sitting duck.’
‘Your re-evaluation comes up in two months’ time. The Colonel would skin me alive if he knew I’d told you, but he’s going to be pressing the Secretary-General to make it your last. We both feel you’ve proved yourself over the last twelve months. Don’t do anything stupid.’
Graham sighed deeply and sat down.
‘I don’t expect you to be a sitting duck, and neither does the Colonel. If you’re in danger of course you must defend yourself, but this is psychological stuff and you’re strong enough to wait it out.’
‘Like Sabrina?’ Graham said in a hollow voice.
Kolchinsky left the question unanswered.
Sabrina was officially charged with the murder of Kurt Rauff at 4.27 that afternoon. It had come as no surprise to her and even though she knew Philpott would be doing his utmost to secure her release she still felt a sense of abandonment as she watched Frosser fill in the charge sheet. She hadn’t felt so alone since her terrifying childhood ordeal in the rat-infested cellar and she longed for a familiar face, even a familiar voice, to reassure her that she hadn’t been forgotten.
If C.W. were here he would hold her hand reassuringly and put her at ease with his quiet, soothing voice. Despite her predicament she smiled to herself when trying to think of Graham doing the same. He would rather hold a handful of glowing embers and there would be little sympathy in his voice. He would tell her to stop feeling so damn sorry for herself. She knew which of them she would rather have with her right now–
She glanced at the man sitting beside her. A red-faced lawyer with thinning, windswept hair who had been appointed by the police to represent her. He had spent a frustrating twenty-five minutes trying to get her to speak. She had ignored him, preferring to stare at the wall. He seemed to be under the impression he was doing her a great favour by being there. She had been sorely tempted to put him in his place but knew he was worth neither the breath nor the effort. He was just another run-of-the-mill pettifogger. She knew if the case did go to trial UNACO would hire the best lawyer possible, regardless of cost, to handle her defence. Only then would she agree to cooperate.
A sharp rap on the door interrupted her thoughts. Sergeant Clausen poked his head inside and asked to speak to Frosser in private. Frosser banged his pen angrily on to the table and brushed past the policewoman at the door as he disappeared out into the corridor. A few minutes later he stormed back in, a telex clenched in his hand. He beckoned the lawyer forward and they discussed the telex briefly in murmured voices. The lawyer returned to the table.
‘You’re to be transferred to Zurich for further questioning.’
She instinctively knew Philpott was involved in this latest development. If they were going to question her about the Dieter Teufel case she would have been taken to Lausanne, not Zurich. They had nothing to link her to any crime in Zurich. She knew Philpott must have a plan in mind and that lifted her spirits considerably.
Frosser noticed her smile and leaned over the table until his face was inches from her.
‘Remember one thing. Where you go, I go.’
He left the room.
When he returned fifteen minutes later he was carrying a folder in one hand and her trenchcoat in the other. He tossed the trenchcoat on to the table in front of her. ‘The helicopter’s arrived.’
No sooner had she slipped her trenchcoat on than Frosser pushed up her right sleeve and snapped a handcuff around her slender wrist. He attached the other handcuff to his left wrist and led her to the door. The lawyer picked up his briefcase and hurried after them.
She stopped abruptly and turned to face him. ‘And where do you think you’re going?’
‘Garbo speaks,’ Frosser said in amazement.
‘I’ve got a chaperon,’ she said, jerking her manacled wrist. ‘I don’t need another one.’
‘This is a very serious–’
‘And I’ll handle it my way,’ she cut in. ‘You’re fired.’
The flummoxed lawyer turned to Frosser for support.
Frosser merely shrugged. ‘It’s her right to dismiss you.’
The lawyer tried to reason with her but she turned her back and tugged on the handcuffs.
Frosser led her along a narrow corridor, down a fire escape and out into the car pound at the back of the police station. The centre of the pound had been cleared to allow the Apache helicopter space to land. Its rotors were motionless, the pilot in a huddled conversation with the rookie who had been assigned to clear the cars. They looked up at the approaching figures, their eyes taking in and lingering on Sabrina. The rookie came out of his trance, saluted Frosser, then scurried back to the police building.
The pilot, a captain in the Swiss Air Police, grinned at Frosser, ‘I like your date, Bruno.’