Chuckling he clambered into the cockpit.
Frosser followed Sabrina into the cabin, partitioned off from the cockpit, and secured the door after him. They strapped themselves in as the pilot opened the throttle to start up the rotors. The pilot waited until the engine-rotor tachometer indicated the normal flying rpm, then raised the collective-pitch lever gradually to lift the helicopter off the ground. Once airborne he tilted the stick and altered the throttle power to increase the boost, then set his bearings and the helicopter banked sharply over the police station, heading due north-east.
Dusk had already settled over Zurich by the time the helicopter touched down at the prearranged rendezvous on a deserted airstrip five miles from Kloten International Airport. A black Mercedes was parked beside the disused hangar, its sole occupant waiting for the rotors to stop revolving before clambering from the car and heading across the overgrown runway to the motionless helicopter. The hatch opened and Frosser jumped the short distance to the ground, careful to keep his left arm extended so as not to wrench Sabrina after him. She ignored his offer of a helping hand and leaped nimbly from the cabin. The man showed his badge to Frosser then led the way back to the Mercedes. As the rotors started up Frosser glanced over his shoulder and gave the pilot an appreciative wave. The man held the back door open; as soon as Frosser had scrambled into the car after Sabrina he closed it, then climbed behind the wheel and accelerated the Mercedes away from the hangar. He guided it onto a stretch of abraded road, which had once been a busy military thoroughfare before the airfield closed down and joined up with the main highway a few miles further on.
Although the traffic was heavy there were hardly any hold-ups and consequently the Mercedes was able to reach the Zoll Bridge on the outskirts of the city centre within fifteen minutes. As they entered Museumstrasse the driver became aware of a police car behind them, its lights flashing at him in the rearview mirror. To begin with he was not sure what they wanted him to do, but when the flashing headlights persisted he pulled in to the side of the road in front of the Swiss National Museum.
‘What’s going on?’ Frosser demanded.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ the driver replied, then pressed his badge against the window as the two uniformed policemen approached the car.
One of the men squinted at the badge then gestured for the driver to open his window.
The driver hissed angrily under his breath but complied with the request. ‘We’re transporting a prisoner to the Bahnhofstrasse precinct. What’s the problem?’
‘Would you mind stepping out of the car, sir?’
‘What’s the problem?’ the driver repeated.
‘We’d like to take a look in the boot.’
Frosser leaned forward to the open window. ‘What do you want to look in the boot for? This is a police car–’
‘I appreciate that, sir, but we have our orders.’
‘Open it for them,’ Frosser snapped, then sat back.
The driver had barely climbed out of the car when the two policemen spun him round, forcing him up against the back door.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ the driver demanded, but when he tried to turn around he was shoved back up against the side of the car.
His hands were twisted behind his back and a pair of handcuffs snapped over his wrists.
A second police car screeched to a halt in front of the Mercedes and two more uniformed men climbed out. One wore the insignia of a lieutenant.
‘Captain Frosser? I’m Lieutenant D’Angelo, sir.’
‘What’s going on, Lieutenant?’ Frosser asked in bewilderment.
‘This man is one of her accomplices, sir.’
‘What are you talking about?’ the driver shouted angrily. ‘I’m with the Zurich CID. The Captain’s seen my ID.’
‘Taken from the body of the real detective,’ the lieutenant said.
‘It contains my photo; check it if you want.’
The lieutenant ignored the driver. ‘An APB was put out twenty minutes ago when the body of the real CID detective was found. We’re just glad we got her in time, sir.’
‘Captain, I don’t know who these men are but they’re obviously in league with your prisoner,’ the driver said, struggling against the handcuffs.
‘There is one way of proving our credibility. You received a personal telex this afternoon from Zurich, sir. Am I correct?’
‘Yes,’ Frosser said hesitantly.
‘I know who sent it.’ The lieutenant turned to the driver. ‘Do you?’
‘No, but–’
‘It was sent by the Commissioner. For your eyes only. Am I correct, sir?’
Frosser nodded.
‘The Commissioner asked that the information be included in the APB because nobody apart from the two of you knew about it. He’s waiting to talk to you on the radio, sir.’
‘Sir, it’s a trap,’ the driver shouted.
‘The telex was sent from the Commissioner’s office. How could we know about it unless he released the information himself?’
‘I believe you,’ Frosser said.
‘Sir, you’re being–’
‘Book him. Murder One,’ the lieutenant interceded, then opened the door for Frosser.
The driver struggled furiously as he was led away, still shouting over his shoulder at Frosser.
‘I’m grateful to you,’ Frosser said as he walked with the lieutenant to the police car. ‘I might have been in a lot of danger.’
‘That’s why the Commissioner personally intervened with the APB, sir. We’re dealing with a professional outfit here.’
Frosser cast a sidelong glance at Sabrina. ‘Don’t I know it.’
‘Help yourself, sir,’ the lieutenant said, indicating the radio.
Frosser eased himself into the passenger seat and reached for the radio. The three policemen closed in on the passenger door, blocking him from passing motorists. The lieutenant produced a dart gun but before Frosser could react he shot him in the neck. Sabrina grabbed Frosser’s body with her free hand as he slumped forward and pushed him back against the seat.
‘Hail to the cavalry,’ Sabrina said with a smile.
‘Did you notice my giveaway clue?’ the lieutenant asked as he rifled through Frosser’s pockets for the key to the handcuffs.
‘You said the driver had taken the ID disc from the body of the real detective. A UNACO operative would never kill a policeman, just immobilize him. Very subtle, Lieutenant.’
‘Call me Alain,’ he said, then unlocked the handcuff from her wrist and secured it around Frosser’s other wrist. ‘Come on, Monsieur Rust is waiting. We’ll ride in the Mercedes, with a police escort of course.’
‘What about the CID man?’
‘Sleeping peacefully like our friend here. Once we reach the warehouse they’ll be transferred back to the Mercedes and left somewhere near the Bahnhofstrasse precinct – so when they do finally wake up they’ll find they’ve reached their destination after all.’
‘Deception with a smile. All part of the UNACO service.’ She climbed into the Mercedes beside him. ‘Where’s this warehouse you were talking about?’
‘Haven’t you been there before?’ Alain asked as they followed the police car over the Wilche Bridge.
‘I didn’t even know it existed.’
‘Not many people do. It’s Monsieur Rust’s pride and joy.’
Alain swung the Mercedes into Limmatquai. The road, running parallel to the river, was lined with an assortment of converted restaurants, singles bars, nightclubs and even the occasional brothel spilling over from the Niederdorf, the city’s red-light district, situated only a few yards away. The atmosphere reminded her of Greenwich Village: a Bohemian’s paradise. They passed the baroque town hall and the Gothic water church with its exquisite stained-glass windows, then crossed the junction of the Quai Bridge and Ramistrasse into Utoquai, lying on the gently swelling banks of Lake Zurich.