He began to shiver. What was he waiting for, then? He rang the buzzer. A minute passed. He stepped back and gazed up at the building. The movement caused the gash in his neck to tear anew. Just then, a woman approached and used her key to enter the building.
“I’m here to visit Miss Kruger,” he said. “She’s my sister-in-law. Do you mind if I wait in the entry?”
The woman’s eyes fixed with alarm on his neck. Glancing at his reflection in the plate glass, he saw that the gauze was soaked red.
“Are you alright?” she asked, not quite kindly.
“An accident. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“You should see a doctor.”
“I am a doctor,” he said, pasting on a smile, trying to make light of the situation. “I can treat myself once I’m inside. I’m sure you know Eva. About yay high. Auburn hair. Hazel eyes. Wears glasses.”
The woman shook her head, considering all this. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “I don’t know Miss Kruger. I think it would be better if you waited outside.”
“Of course.” Keeping his smile firmly in place, Jonathan turned away and counted to five. When he looked over his shoulder, the foyer was empty. The front door was closing in slow motion. It had an inch to go before it locked. Rushing forward, he rammed his toe into the doorjamb. It was too late. The bolt had struck home.
He turned in a circle, cursing his bad luck. He thought about ringing all the buzzers to see if someone would pass him through, but that was too risky. He’d already been spotted by one resident. He didn’t want to be reported to the police.
He dug his hands into his pockets. His fingers touched Emma’s key chain. Maybe he did have a key…
He produced Eva Kruger’s key chain. Besides the car key, there were three others, each marked by a color-coded rubber ring. He tried one at a time in the door. The black one didn’t fit. Neither did the red. The green key slid home. With a flick of the wrist, he freed the bolt. He was inside a moment later.
A well-lit staircase wound up and around the elevator shaft. There were three apartments on each floor clustered around an art deco landing with a plant, a side table, and a mirror. As was Swiss custom, the resident’s name was engraved below the buzzer. He found Eva Kruger’s flat on the fourth floor. He rang the doorbell, but no one answered.
It goes back further than Lebanon.
Hoffmann was McKenna from Kosovo. And Kosovo was five years prior to Lebanon. It might go back further than Lebanon, but Lebanon was as far back as Jonathan could go. Somehow, he couldn’t get his mind around the bigger implications. Maybe he didn’t want to.
The fact was that he no longer had any choice.
Jonathan slipped the key into the lock and opened the door to Eva Kruger’s apartment.
Across the hall, the woman watched through her peephole as the injured man entered the apartment. Of course she knew Eva Kruger. Not well, mind you. It was impossible to have more than a passing acquaintance with a woman who traveled so frequently. Still, on several occasions, the two had spoken and she’d found her nice enough. She knew better, however, than to trumpet the fact to a stranger. Certainly not to a man who was bleeding all over himself.
It was not the first time this week that unknown people had been looking for Fräulein Kruger. Two nights earlier, she’d seen a pair of men acting strangely outside the building. She’d entered without speaking to them, and later, she’d heard noises on the landing and looked out her peephole in time to see them entering Eva’s apartment. She still felt bad for not having alerted the police.
And now a man with a neck wound who was practically bleeding on the ground!
She would not make the same mistake twice.
Returning to her living room, she picked up the phone and called the police. “Yes, Officer,” she said. “I’d like to report a…” She wasn’t sure what it was. The man did, after all, have a key. She brushed off her worries. He was an intruder. “I’d like to report an intruder at Waldhoheweg 30. Please come right away. He’s inside now.”
They had been there . This time they hadn’t taken care to conceal their presence, Jonathan observed. What he saw before him was evidence of a painstaking and methodical search conducted without fear of discovery.
The living room was large and sparsely furnished, lit by track lights. Directly in front of him was a black leather couch, its cushions removed, lined up beside it as if it were to be cleaned. Books had been pulled from the shelves and stacked on the floor. Magazines likewise. A Persian carpet had been rolled up and not quite rolled back. There was an Eames chair. A sleek coffee table with too much chrome and polished metal. A tortured sliver of steel that passed as a sculpture. Someone had lived here…but it wasn’t Emma.
He slid the driver’s license from his pocket and stared at the picture of his wife. The furniture matched the chic glasses, the severe hair, the glaring lipstick. It was Eva Kruger’s furniture.
He forced himself to make a tour. The kitchen was clean to the point of being antiseptic. Cupboards open. Plates removed, stacked on the counter. Glasses likewise. He opened the refrigerator. Orange juice. White wine. Champagne. A tin of beluga caviar. An onion. A loaf of packaged black bread. A jar of pickles. It was an apartment in which to entertain during her “lightning safaris.”
In the freezer, there was a bottle of Polish vodka in an ice ring. He checked the brand. Zubrowka. Made from buffalo grass. Two frosted shot glasses sat on the rack above it.
Opening the bottle, he poured himself a shot. The vodka was colored a pale yellow and had the consistency of syrup. He put it to his lips and knocked his head back. “To Emma,” he said aloud. “Whoever you really were.”
The liquid slid down like silk on fire.
A fulsome sadness settled on him. The weight pressed on his shoulders and made the ten steps to the study an epic journey. It was another small room. Immaculate. A metal desk and the Aeron chair that Emma coveted but could never afford. The computer had been removed, but the power cords lay on the floor next to a laser printer. No papers. No notes.
He walked into the bedroom. The sheets had been removed and thrown into the corner. The pillows cut open. The closets held a few outfits. A symphony of black. Armani. Dior. Gucci. Shoes to match. Five and a halfs. Emma’s size. (Why must he constantly check when he already knew?) And one cocktail dress, also black, cut to elicit gasps from the most jaded guest.
Against his will, he imagined Emma walking into the room wearing it. His eyes traveled up her long legs, stopping to admire her cleavage, then taking in the auburn hair that fell in waves to her shoulders. Yes, he decided, it would fulfill its purpose. She’d chosen the perfect attire to serve vodka and caviar for two.
Emma Ransom and Eva Kruger. Two people. Two personalities. But which one was real? How was he supposed to tell the difference between truth and fiction? And if he couldn’t, how had Emma?
It dawned on him that he was a part of it, too. Dr. Jonathan Ransom, globe-trotting physician conveniently stationed in all the world’s hot spots. After all, he’d been moved to Geneva for Emma to be involved in this…in Thor…whatever it was. Why shouldn’t it have happened before?
Jonathan as pawn.
No, not as pawn. As cover.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up the phone. The dial tone purred in his ear. He called the international operator and asked for the number of St. Mary’s Hospital, Penzance, England.