Jonathan didn’t know what had happened, whether the gas tank had exploded or if it had been something more sinister. Behind the burning car, on the hillside overlooking the meadow, a police car drew to a halt. A man jumped out.
“Dr. Ransom!” he yelled. “Stop. There’s nowhere for you to go.”
It was the officer from Ascona, the same grizzled cop he’d seen just a few minutes ago on the street.
Jonathan ran.
69
Von Daniken started down the hillside. The snow was knee-deep and wet, and it buried his leather brogues. He didn’t care. He’d bill the department for a new pair. He put his hand on his pistol, then took it away. In thirty years of service, he’d never drawn his gun and he saw no reason to start now.
A second police car pulled up on the road behind him. Several plain-clothes officers jumped out. Suits all around. He didn’t recognize any of them. No doubt they hailed from the state police.
He turned to Myer. “Radio for a cordon to be set up on Davosstrasse to make sure Ransom doesn’t get back to the main street.”
“Chief Inspector von Daniken,” someone called.
Von Daniken looked over his shoulder. The voice…he knew it. He studied the men closely. He’d never seen any of them before.
“Stay where you are,” said the familiar voice. “We have a warrant for your arrest.”
Von Daniken did a double take. Those are my words, he thought as he put a face to the voice. He saw the slight figure emerge from between the cars. The pale complexion. The red hair worn too long for a man his age.
“The charge is conspiring with a foreign intelligence service,” Alphons Marti called from up on the hill. “Come back to the car, Marcus, so I don’t have to tell my men to restrain you.”
Von Daniken continued to trudge through the snow. A warrant for my arrest. How ridiculous. Yet, deep inside, he’d been waiting for the hammer to fall. It wasn’t just what Tobi Tingeli had told him this morning, though that had sealed the deal. He’d known two nights earlier, when Marti had refused to let him call out the police to search for the drone.
He looked at Kurt Myer, but Myer was being led away, too, and forced into the back of the police cruiser.
“Are you accusing me of being a spy?” asked von Daniken.
“I let the law accuse. My job is simply to enforce it.”
Von Daniken looked from Ransom to Marti. By now, several of his men were making their way down the slope. One of them had even drawn his gun. The American was jogging in the opposite direction, away from the car. “Aren’t you going to stop him? He’s the one we’re after!”
“Not today, Marcus. Today, you’re our number-one suspect.”
By now, a crowd had gathered around the outskirts of the meadow. Several people ran toward the car, including one man with a fire extinguisher. Ransom threaded his way among them, slowing his pace to a walk, getting closer and closer to freedom.
Von Daniken began walking across the meadow, his pace quickening until he was jogging. “Ransom,” he called. “Stop! Do you hear me?”
More soldiers and policemen were reaching the scene every second. No less than ten uniformed men were making their way up the western side of the meadow, fanning out to reach the burning car. Von Daniken waved at them. “He’s over there,” he shouted, motioning toward Ransom. “In the dark suit. The tall man with black hair.”
The policemen’s eyes flitted from von Daniken to Marti. Everyone knew the members of the Bundesrat by sight. As one of the seven-member Federal Council that ruled the country, he was a prominent national figure. They were not apt to disobey his orders.
Marti barked a command to one of his aides, who radioed a message via his walkie-talkie. The assembled soldiers ignored Ransom and converged on von Daniken. Dropping his hands to his knees, the chief of the Service for Analysis and Prevention, one of the nation’s highest-ranking law enforcement officials, stopped in his tracks and waited like a common criminal for the officers to reach him. “It’s alright,” he said, out of breath. “Give me a minute.”
Marcus von Daniken straightened up and looked across the snowy meadow. Caught in the glare was the outline of a black figure, dark as a rook’s wing. Then it disappeared.
Ransom was gone.
70
Jonathan slid from shadow to shadow, concealing himself in dark corners and recessed doorways, in damp alleys and deserted passageways. His head ached from the blast and he was certain that he’d bruised a few ribs. Still, he was free, and liberty was a bracing tonic. He had just one goaclass="underline" to get out of town.
He picked his way down a side street slick with black ice. He was anxious to distance himself from the town center. If possible, there were even more policemen patrolling the sidewalks than when he’d arrived in town. A minute didn’t pass without a soldier or a policeman appearing out of nowhere and rushing past him up the hill. The column of black smoke acted like a beacon. The security teams were falling back on the red zone as if it were the Little Bighorn.
He passed several homes, an automobile garage, and an electrician’s workshop. It was difficult to walk casually. Half of him wanted to run like hell, the other half wanted to crawl into a cellar, curl up, and hide. Worst was a nearly uncontrollable desire to look over his shoulder for pursuers. Several times he’d felt certain that someone was trailing him, but upon scanning the sidewalk behind him he hadn’t been able to spot a tail.
He crossed the street and descended a steep walking path that passed between several chalets. At the bottom of the hill, the path widened. To his left rose an outdoor ice hockey stadium. To his right, a commercial road that led to the train station. A cluster of police cars were parked near the tracks. He wouldn’t get out of Davos by train.
He considered where he should go. The busier the road, the more likely he was to run into the police. He needed quiet. He needed to think. He jumped a low fence that bordered a long, low-roofed wooden hut. The stink of manure seeped from its rough-hewn log walls. Listening to the low and rustle of the cows inside, he continued to the rear of the hut.
He pulled up abruptly.
There it was again. The scratching at the base of his neck. He was certain that someone was watching him.
Pressing his back against the wall, he poked his head around the corner and stared down the path. Again, he saw no one.
He leaned his head against the wood, telling himself to calm down. He took the flash drive from his pocket. It was his key to freedom. The question remained: who held the lock?
He gathered himself, mapping out his next steps. He would find somewhere to lay up, wait until dark, and then head up the mountain. Most of the speeches were being given after six p.m. With many visitors attending the Kongresshaus, the town would be calmer, and hopefully, the police presence reduced. Once he made it past the Promenade, the going would be safer. The outer fence surrounding the town was barely two meters tall. He could be over it in ten seconds. Keeping to the mountains, he’d walk out of the valley. By morning, he’d be in Landquart, where the whole thing had begun. From there, he’d find a train or hitch a ride to Zurich.
He froze, certain that he was being watched.
Turning toward the street, he found himself face to face with a compact man several inches shorter than himself. The man was dressed in dark ski attire, but Jonathan could tell that he was no skier. The black eyes bore into him quizzically, as if he were owed an explanation. Jonathan recognized the face immediately. He was the man from the train.