All three cars turned into a deserted side street off the Utoquai, the road littered with bricks and masonry from the friable walls of the derelict buildings to either side. A hoarding at the entrance to the street warned: FALLING MASONRY. CARS PARKED AT OWNERS’ RISK. A second hoarding further on was more ominous: UNSAFE STRUCTURES. DANGEROUS. KEEP OUT! The leading police car slowed on nearing the cul-de-sac and swung on to the short ramp of the last warehouse, stopping inches from the battered corrugated-iron door. The driver spoke into the radio, identified himself with a password, upon which the door was opened electronically from within the warehouse and the three cars drove inside. Sabrina had been expecting to find the warehouse alive with activity. Instead it was gloomy and deserted.
The two unconscious policemen were put in the back seat of the Mercedes and Alain gave her a wave before reversing it out into the street. The corrugated-iron door banged shut again. A rusty cage elevator ascended into view at the far end of the warehouse, and when it came to a halt Philpott and Rust emerged.
‘Are you all right, chérie?’ Rust asked anxiously.
‘Fine. You left it pretty late though.’ She gave him a mock-reproving look. ‘So what exactly is this place?’
‘UNACO’s European Test Centre,’ Philpott replied.
‘Like the one on Long Island?’
‘Run on the same principle, only this one is smaller.’ Philpott tapped his cane on the concrete floor. ‘It’s all under there.’
‘We own the whole street even though this is the only building in use,’ Rust added.
‘So you erected those hoardings?’
Rust nodded. ‘There’s nothing structurally wrong with any of these buildings. They’re derelict, that’s all. We initially had a problem with parked cars but after several were damaged by falling masonry word quickly spread around the city not to risk parking here.’
‘Don’t you mean “thrown” masonry?’ she asked.
‘Nobody was hurt, chérie, only the insurance man’s pocket. We had to protect our privacy. We even went as far as to scatter debris across the street to give the impression that the buildings were unsafe.’
‘Designer rubble in other words,’ she said, poker-faced.
Philpott and Rust winced simultaneously.
‘I couldn’t resist it,’ she said, grinning.
A red light on the wall beside the elevator suddenly began to flash, its pulsating beam sweeping across the dimly-lit warehouse.
‘What’s that for?’ she asked.
‘Watch,’ Rust replied.
A circular section of the floor descended a few inches then parted, the two halves disappearing underneath the surrounding floor. Within thirty seconds there was a hole, fifty feet in diameter, in the centre of the warehouse.
First the rotors, then the fuselage, of a Lynx helicopter came into view. It was resting on a section of floor being raised from underneath the warehouse by a powerful hydraulic press. Once it came level with the floor it locked into place.
‘I’m impressed,’ she said. ‘What else does it do?’
‘It’s going to take you to Italy so you can rejoin the train,’ Philpott said brusquely. ‘Now get in, you’re already behind schedule.’
The pilot reached over and pushed open the passenger door. She paused before climbing into the cockpit and turned back to Philpott. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Thank me by smashing this conspiracy.’
She nodded, then scrambled in beside the pilot and secured the safety harness over her body.
The pilot waited until Philpott and Rust had descended in the cage elevator before starting up the rotors.
She craned her neck to peer through the window at the roof. ‘When does it open?’
‘When I’m ready for takeoff. It works on the same basis as the floor.’ He pointed to a holdall at her feet. ‘That’s yours.’
She unzipped it and looked inside. ‘Whose idea was this?’
‘I don’t even know what it is. Monsieur Rust asked me to give it to you.’
‘I might have guessed,’ she said and held it open for him to see.
‘Is it what I think it is?’ he asked, unable to hold back a smile.
‘Exactly.’
He chuckled, then put the radio microphone to his lips. ‘Sierra-Lima-Uncle 127, ready for takeoff.’
‘Roof activated,’ came the reply.
There was a pause, then another voice came over the radio. ‘Emile, this is Jacques Rust. Don’t forget the parcel.’
‘Parcel already delivered, Monsieur Rust.’ The pilot offered the mike to Sabrina. She took it from him.
‘I’ll get you for this, Jacques.’
‘I’ll look forward to it, chérie. Au revoir.’
‘Au revoir,’ she replied with a smile and handed the radio back to the pilot.
She sat back as the helicopter started to rise.
Frosser sat alone in the captain’s office at the Bahnhofstrasse precinct, a second mug of coffee on the table beside him. Although it had been an hour since he had woken in the Mercedes his head still ached with the after-effects of the tranquillizer dart and his wrists still bore the red grooves from where the handcuffs had dug into his skin. He had sent the CID driver home; the kid had done his best. The brunt of the blame rested squarely on his own shoulders. What frustrated him most of all was that he had no legal jurisdiction in Zurich and could therefore take no active part in the operation mounted to try and recapture the woman.
There was a knock on the door but he was unable to distinguish the silhouette through the frosted-glass panel.
‘Come in,’ he called, then held out his palms towards the two-bar heater at his feet.
He shot to his feet when the door opened. Reinhardt Kuhlmann looked tired and drawn. The dark bags under his eyes stood out against his pale face and his windswept hair hung untidily over his ears and forehead. He raked the hair away from his eyes and unbuttoned his cashmere overcoat.
‘Let me take that for you, Commissioner,’ Frosser said.
‘I’ll keep it on, Bruno, I won’t be here very long,’
Kuhlmann replied and forced a weak smile. ‘Sit down, sit down.’
Frosser perched anxiously on the edge of the chair. He knew Kuhlmann would have something to say about the events leading up to the woman’s escape but he had never expected him to come in person. It only seemed to add to the seriousness of the situation.
‘I’ve just got off the phone to Captain Moussay,’ Kuhlmann said, glancing at the nameplate on the desk. ‘A handful of witnesses have already come forward to say they saw two police cars escorting a black Mercedes along the Limmatquai. None of them knows where the cars went.’
‘It’s a start, sir,’ Frosser said optimistically.
‘He won’t get any further. We’re dealing with professionals here. As good a policeman as he is, he’ll flounder about for a few days then the investigation will begin to wind down and within a couple of weeks it will become just another dossier in the mound of unsolved cases. That’s where I want it to stay.’
Frosser looked bewildered. ‘I don’t follow you, sir.’
‘I want the case shelved. Both here and in Fribourg.’
Frosser stared at the heater and thought about the telex from Kuhlmann earlier that afternoon. ‘You set me up, sir.’
Kuhlmann moved to the window and looked through the slats of the Venetian blind at the city lights spread out like some vast picture postcard. ‘I had no choice.’
‘You knew they were going to snatch the woman. You risked my life–’
‘Your life was never at risk. I knew they’d snatch the woman but I didn’t know how or where they’d do it.’