Closest to him, several rows of pressurized stainless-steel tanks awaited inspection. Jonathan circled them and proceeded across the floor, stopping where he saw something of interest to ask what was being manufactured. The workers were, for the most part, polite, courteous, and professional. He learned, for example, that the pressurized tanks were in fact blenders being made for a large Swiss pharmaceutical company.
Elsewhere on the floor, teams of laborers fussed over autoclaves, heat exchangers, extruders. It seemed a wide gamut for a single firm to manufacture. As the man in the restaurant had said, Zug Industriewerk was no longer in the arms business at all.
Reaching the far side of the factory, he observed an attached hall where few people entered and exited. He noted that the entry was governed by a biometric eye scan. A sign posted next to the door read, “THOR. Thermal Heating and Operations Research. Authorized Personnel Only.”
Thor. It was the name from Emma’s flash drive. The name on the memo he’d found on Blitz’s desk. Completion is foreseen for late first quarter 200-. Final shipment to client will be made on 10.2. Disassembly of all manufacturing apparatus to be completed by 13.2.
Jonathan knew better than to try to get inside the restricted area. He turned and walked in the other direction. He would have to find the answers to his questions elsewhere. In the main building.
Hanging from the wall was a QC clipboard, and near it, a box containing a half-dozen gleaming valves. He helped himself to both. Following signs posted on interior walls, he guided himself to the main administration building. A polite nod took him past the receptionist and into the elevator beyond.
The floors were marked according to function. First floor: Reception. Second floor: Accounting. Third floor: Sales and Marketing. Fourth floor: Direction. He hit “3.”
Once on the third floor, he noted that rooms were numbered sequentially: 3.1, 3.2. Beneath each number was the name or names of the executive who occupied the office. Hannes Hoffmann’s was the last office on the left. A well-coiffed secretary sat in the anteroom.
“For Mr. Hoffmann,” he said, lifting the box as if it were a Christmas gift.
“Whom may I announce?”
Jonathan gave the name of the man whose identification he’d stolen. “Samples for inspection.”
The receptionist didn’t glance at his ID.
She’s not in on it, Jonathan realized. She’s not part of Thor.
“I’ll buzz him,” the woman said.
“Don’t bother,” said Jonathan. “He’s expecting me.”
No longer thinking about consequences, propelled only by a desire to know-about Emma, about Thor, about everything-he threw open the door and entered Hannes Hoffmann’s office.
49
Hannes Hoffmann, vice president of engineering according to the nameplate outside his office, sat behind a pale wood desk, a phone to his ear, batting his agenda with a pencil as if it were a snare drum. He was stocky and bland-looking, with thinning blond hair combed straight back from a pudgy, satisfied face, his blue eyes spaced a bit too far apart. It was the face from the photograph in Blitz’s desk. It was a face Jonathan had seen a hundred times before…familiar, yet not familiar at all.
Seeing Jonathan, he stiffened. His eyes homed in like lasers. Is it him? The question was practically broadcast in neon letters across his forehead. Jonathan didn’t flinch. Foisting an underling’s smile, he asked where to set the box of valves. Hoffmann looked him up and down a moment longer, then pointed to the edge of his desk and went back to his conversation.
“The shipment has to be at the customs warehouse by ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” he was saying. “The inspectors won’t extend the deadline again. Call me if you run into any problems.” Hoffmann hung up the phone and shot an annoyed glance at his visitor. “And you are?”
“We talked yesterday on the phone.”
Hoffmann tensed. “Mr. Schmid?”
“That’s right.” Jonathan set the box on the desk. “Shout,” he said. “Now’s your chance. Go ahead. Yell for your secretary.”
Hoffmann remained immobile as a rock. He said nothing.
“You can’t, can you?” Jonathan went on. “You can’t risk having the police come running and having me tell them everything I know about the operation you had going with Eva Kruger.”
“You’re right about that,” Hoffmann said evenly. “But it cuts both ways. I can’t shout, and you can do nothing to force me to talk.”
“All I want to know is what she was involved in.”
Hoffmann crossed his arms over his chest. “Sit down, Dr. Ransom. I suggest we dispense with the game playing.”
Jonathan approached the desk with caution. He sat down on the edge of the chair, wincing slightly as the SIG-Sauer tucked into his waistband dug into his spine. “How does this setup run? A company within a company? A secret in-house project? Is that it?”
Hoffmann shrugged, a gesture of futility. “Stop this guessing.”
“I figure you’re manufacturing something you shouldn’t and giving it to someone who shouldn’t have it. What is it? Guns? Missiles? Rockets? I mean, why else set up shop in a place like this? I saw the area on the factory floor blocked off for Thor. What does ‘thermal heating operations research’ mean, anyway?”
Hoffmann leaned forward, his cordial demeanor gone. “You have no idea what you’ve stumbled into.”
“I’ve got some idea. I know that you got your hooks into Emma last year when we were in Lebanon. I figure you have someone over at Doctors Without Borders, too, who helped move me over here.”
“It goes back further than Lebanon,” said Hoffmann.
“No,” retorted Jonathan. “It all started in Beirut. I was there when she made her decision.” It had to be then, he told himself. That’s why she had the headaches, the depression. She was deciding. “Did she go to Paris to meet with you?”
“Ah, yes, Paris. I remember. All those calls you made, not reaching her at the hotel. We were supposed to forward them, but there was a glitch in technical services. Regrettable. She told me she had a friend cover for her. She said you believed her. I guess not.”
Jonathan ignored the barb. “Who do you work for?”
“Suffice it to say we’re a powerful group. Look around you. You have the Mercedes. The cash, too, I presume. You saw Blitz’s home, and something of what we’ve set up here.” Hoffmann folded his hands and placed them on the desk. He looked as benign as an insurance agent trying to sell him a whole-life policy. “I’m afraid that will have to do.”
“Not today, it won’t.”
“Turn around, Dr. Ransom,” said Hoffmann sternly. “Leave this office. Leave the country. I can make sure the police drop the warrants for your arrest. Whatever you do, don’t look back. There’s still time for you to get out of this predicament.”
“Does that also mean you’re going to call off that guy who took a shot at me last night?”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“And what about the cops who tried to steal Emma’s bags? Or don’t you know anything about that either?”
“The policemen were contracted out. They got overzealous. I apologize. However, I’d say that you ended up with the better end of the stick.”
“Then who killed Blitz?”
Hoffmann considered this for a moment. “People with a different agenda than our own.”
“People who don’t think Thor’s such a good idea? What if they don’t see fit to let me walk off into the sunset?”