Jack kept driving and the villa’s entrance disappeared in his side mirror. “And this is where Schrader stayed?” he asked.
“Like he owned the place,” Effrem replied. “Used the card reader to get in.”
“Have you done anything to find out who it belongs to?”
“Tried. When it comes to places like this, the Swiss treat property ownership the same way they treat their banking — with rigid privacy standards.”
“Unless I missed seeing something, the perimeter is a piece of cake. Whether there’s a security system on the house itself is another question.”
“I can’t believe I’m the voice of reason on this one, but what would we gain from breaking into the place? I’m guessing our hunch is right and it belongs to Alexander Bossard. What would we hope to find inside?”
It was a good question, and Jack didn’t have an answer to it. They were unlikely to find a cardboard box labeled “Clues” in one of the villa’s closets, but they had few leads, and only two in Zurich: this villa and Alexander Bossard. He wasn’t going to brush aside either of them without some due diligence first.
That reminded Jack of something: “Have we heard back from Hacker Mitch yet on his hunt for Gerhard Klugmann?”
“Hold on,” Effrem replied. He pulled out his cell phone and sent a text. The reply was immediate. He read it, then said, “He’s getting close. Today or tomorrow, he hopes.”
“Push him a little bit.”
After Zurich, unless they decided to knock on the front door of Rostock Security Group’s headquarters and ask to see Jürgen himself, they were out of leads. Getting to Klugmann was the kind of break they needed.
To kill time before nightfall Jack drove into Zurich’s Altstadt, or Old Town, to put eyes on Bossard’s office building. The Altstadt, also known as District 1, was a collection of perfectly restored medieval buildings, Romanesque churches, postage-stamp parks, and boutique shops and restaurants all contained within a maze of alleys and streets sitting astride the Limmat River. The place reminded Jack of a real-life Santa’s village. Jack saw few cars, but the sidewalks were crowded with what looked like locals and tourists alike, the former hurrying about their business, the latter stopping every few feet to take pictures or gape at their surroundings.
They found Bossard’s building near the Grossmünster — Great Minster — church, one of the city’s oldest and most recognizable landmarks.
“Built by the very hand of Charlemagne himself,” Effrem read from his phone’s screen. “Or at least he commissioned the original church on the site. It’s almost a thousand years old, if you can believe it.”
The bright morning sun highlighted a façade and stonework that were obviously well cared for. Jack replied, “Doesn’t look a day over eight hundred.”
“Turn left here.”
Jack made the turn, then one more, and pulled onto Limmatquai, which ran abreast of the river. As they approached it, Jack found himself surprised. Rather than a model of imposing medieval architecture, Bossard’s eight-story office building was just one among a line of unremarkable structures with cream or white façades and sharply pitched red-tiled roofs. If he hadn’t known better he might have mistaken them for hotels. The entrance to Bossard’s building was a lone bronze door beneath a green awning. A small gold plaque beside the door read 94 LIMMATQUAI.
“Did you ever go inside?” Jack asked.
“No, you want me to?”
“You feel up to it?”
Effrem nodded. “What am I looking for?”
Jack passed the building, found an open parking spot at the curb, and pulled in.
“Security cameras and/or guards, whether there’s a manned reception desk and if so what’s on it — computer, telephone, intercom, and so on. Are the elevators open or access-controlled—”
“You mean by key?”
“Or card. Same question if there’s only a stairwell. Also, is there a visible emergency exit or any doors that look like they might lead to a utility room or closet? When you get inside, if there’s a desk, just walk past it and head toward the stairs or elevators. See if you get a reaction, but don’t push it. Don’t be memorable.”
“And while I’m collecting this plethora of intelligence, what’s my excuse for being there?”
“Confused tourist.”
“If there are cameras, do I hide my face?”
Jack shook his head and smiled. “No, don’t do that. I also need a rough map of the lobby and its approximate dimensions. And if you see a business directory, find out which businesses are directly above and below Bossard’s floor.”
“Jeez, anything else?”
“No.”
Effrem pursed his lips and exhaled heavily. “I guess it’s a good thing I’ve got a stellar memory.”
“Don’t spend more than three minutes in there. Get moving.”
Jack had chosen Effrem’s time limit arbitrarily. He’d seen John Clark milk a first reconnoiter for twenty or thirty minutes and walk out best friends with the person he’d just subtly interrogated. In this case, Jack wanted to see if Effrem was going to follow orders.
Two and a half minutes later he emerged from the bronze door, walked back to the car, and climbed in. “Got it.”
They drove a few blocks and found a café overlooking the Quay Bridge, which separated Lake Zurich from the Limmat River.
“Let’s hear it.”
As though he’d given a surveillance report a hundred times before, Effrem described the building’s lobby: “Forty feet square, with a long horseshoe reception desk to the right, manned by a receptionist and a man in a business suit.”
“Did he stand when you came in?”
“Yes.”
“Did he smooth his tie or fiddle with his buttons when he stood up?”
Effrem frowned. “Uh, yes, actually. Why?”
“Habit. A lot of bodyguards pick it up. In a controlled environment, when someone unfamiliar pops onto their radar it’s a way of having their shooting hand halfway to their weapon. Keep going.”
“On the reception desk, there’s two telephones, one computer workstation, and a key-card reader mounted on the raised counter. Past the desk, a bank of elevators, stairwell door, and an emergency exit. I counted three cameras: one overlooking the reception desk, one over the front door pointing inward, and one at the elevators.”
The waitress returned with their coffee, then left again.
Jack asked, “Panning cameras or stationary?”
“Stationary.”
“Exposed or shielded by a hood?”
“The latter,” Effrem replied. “It didn’t look like the elevators or stairs required a key or card, but I didn’t get very close to them before the guard called me back to the desk. He was very polite, but very firm: This wasn’t the place I was looking for; please leave now.”
“Business directory?”
“None in sight.”
Jack took all this in and nodded. “Good job.”
“Thanks. What’s all that info mean?”
“That unless we want to go in hard, breaking into Bossard’s office after hours would probably get us caught, or killed, or both. Let’s hope the villa pans out.”
They sipped their coffee in silence for a while, watching the boats on the lake and soaking in the sun. Finally Jack asked, “What did that security guard look like?”
“Six-two, maybe, broad shoulders and blond hair. Why?”