“Great, les flics,” he said, jabbing his thumb behind his shoulder. He glanced at Lea as she turned in her seat to look at the cops, her face lit intermittently by the flashing blue of their lights. Even in the middle of all this he noticed there was something haunting her eyes that hinted of a long-ago tragedy.
Then more gunshots. Vetsch was firing blind over his shoulder as he raced through the night. A split second later the Twingo’s windshield was covered in bullet holes, then it smashed completely and Hawke could see nothing.
“Kick it out!” he said.
Lea leaned back in her seat, raised her legs and kicked at the reinforced glass with everything she had, and four or five kicks later the shattered windshield flopped out of its frame and spun off to the right of the car, hitting the white metal fence at the side of the bridge and dropping into the freezing river below.
A rush of icy air hit their faces as they accelerated towards Vetsch, the annoying nee-naw of the Swiss police sirens getting louder as the much more powerful Passat behind them made short work of the Twingo’s weak acceleration.
Hawke floored the throttle and the small car’s runaround engine labored in response but the Honda was still getting way. Back on busier streets Vetsch had no advantage, but on the straight of the bridge the bigger engine was leaving them behind — with the police closing on them fast.
But now the bridge was coming to a close and Vetsch zoomed off the end, cutting in front of a bus outside the Four Seasons, and leaving Hawke and Lea far behind him.
By the time the bus had moved along and cleared the road, the Honda was halfway up a narrow road lined with boutique restaurants running parallel to the river.
“He’s getting away, Joe!”
“Not if I have anything to do with it.”
In the rear-view Hawke saw the police car get clipped by the front of the bus. It spun around in a circle several times before sliding down the riverbank.
“That’s the rozzers out of the way,” he said.
Ahead, Vetsch had met with similar misfortune and failed to avoid a large Kronenbourg truck which had turned the corner too fast and without warning.
Vetsch swerved to avoid it but his speed left no time to navigate a safe passage between the truck and a concrete lane divider, which he struck with considerable force.
The Honda’s rear spun to the left and the car tipped on its side before coming to a steaming, smoking stop against an apartment block. Hawke pulled up a safe distance from it and they approached with caution.
The Honda’s front wheels were still spinning by the time they reached the wreckage. Everything smelled of gasoline. Hawke leaned inside and saw at once that Kaspar Vetch was dead, hanging upside down in his seatbelt with a broken neck, eyes bulging in their sockets. His head lay on the deflating airbag like it was a pillow.
Hawke reached in and pulled out the Glock and Vetsch’s phone. “His address will be in here,” he said. “I’ll give Cairo a call and let her know she’s missed all the fun.” He tossed the gun back to Lea, who caught it with ease and slipped it back inside her jacket.
“I told you I’d get my Glock back,” she said.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Vetsch’s apartment was a luxurious affair above a cyber café in Les Pâquis, a bohemian district on Geneva’s right bank. Despite the cold and the hour, people milled about in the streets outside, laughing and joking. As Hawke and Lea climbed the apartment steps, a young couple stepped into an Italian restaurant opposite, kissing as they opened the door.
“Seems like too a nice place for such a scumbag,” Lea said.
“All paid for by Zaugg, no doubt,” said Hawke.
They opened the door with Vetsch’s keys and took a quick look around — minimalist, clean lines, empty cupboards. On a glass coffee table was a copy of Plato’s Immortality of the Soul. Lea picked it up.
“A little heavy for a man like Kaspar Vetsch, wouldn’t you say?”
“De mortuis nil nisi bonum dicendum est,” Hawke muttered under his breath.
Lea stepped into the back of the apartment, gun raised in defense, while Hawke began a search of the main living space. It was open-plan and had few hiding places. The search ended with a look through the kitchen cupboards.
“Anything back there?” he shouted.
“Maybe. You?”
“Nothing, Just instant coffee and some vodka — and a packet of old biscuits.”
“Sounds like he was a real party animal,” Lea said as she walked back into the lounge. “I found this in his bedroom. Check it out.”
She handed Hawke a manila folder three inches thick.
“What is it?” he asked, opening it.
“Looks like Vetsch’s career. By the looks of the files inside I’d say it was a list of his hits.”
Hawke looked through the folder. “This could be something,” he said, passing a file back to Lea. It was a single sheet of paper with a black and white mugshot of a man in the top center. “All the others have a nice red line through their faces but not this guy — and check out his name.”
Lea read the file. “Yannis Demetriou. Should I know him?”
“Look at his occupation.” He pointed at some text at the bottom of the page.
Lea read on, her eyes widening. “Professor of Classical Antiquities at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens. My God — this must be his next hit.”
“I think so. And now Vetsch isn’t around to do it I guess Zaugg will just hire someone else, maybe even this Baumann maniac. We have half the golden arc, but the other half is still in the National Archaeological Museum in Athens. Zaugg can’t know that, because only we know that the Poseidon Vase contained only half the code.”
“But he must know he needs a specialist like Demetriou to translate or he wouldn’t have had Vetsch put him on his hit list. We have to get to him first, Joe. Heaven only knows what they’ll do to him if they get their hands on him.”
“You’re right. We have to warn him. Get his number from the internet if you can.”
Lea started searching on her iPhone.
There was a knock on the door and Scarlet walked into the room spinning the Lexus’s keys on her finger. “Honey, I’m home,” she said. “And I brought the kid, too.”
“Who?” Ryan asked, looking over his shoulder. “Oh, very funny.”
“Any news?” Scarlet asked, flopping into Vetsch’s white leather sofa and quickly arranging her hair.
“You mean apart from Vetsch’s tragic end on the banks of the Rhône?” Hawke asked.
“Of course.”
“Just this,” Lea handed Scarlet Vetsch’s hitlist.
“Oh my goodness gracious me,” Scarlet purred. “He was a naughty boy. He must have been one of the most active hitmen in Europe.”
“Western Europe, actually,” said a voice behind her.
They all spun around, guns raised.
Standing in the doorway was a young woman, standing alone, her hands raised in anticipation of their defensive reaction. She had dark brown hair, and was in her mid-twenties, tall and confident. Her eyes were intelligent and keen, but a weariness in them told Hawke she’d been around the block a few times.
“Who are you?” Hawke asked, Sig pointed squarely in her face, unwavering.
“My name is Sophie Durand,” she said. “I’m with the DGSE.”
“And who are they when they’re at home?” Ryan asked, looking up from his MacBook.
“The DGSE,” explained Hawke, “is the Direction générale de la sécurité extérieure, or, in English, the General Directorate for External Security. It’s the French equivalent of MI6 or CIA.”
“Oh, French secret service” Ryan said, going back to his computer. “What’s she doing here?”