Once on the autoroute the car’s blocked fuel line cleared and seemed to be all right again. He drove carefully, enjoying the darkening sky and the mountains which looked like the backdrop for grand opera.
He came into the little streets of Coppet very slowly and was looking for the high gates of the house when he noticed two grey Mercedes panel trucks. Two uniformed policemen came out of the gate as he got there. One staggered under the weight of some H & K machine pistols and the second man, an officer, carried a box of smoke grenades. Two of Kleiber’s employees were handcuffed and waiting to get inside the second truck.
Breslow decided to carry on straight past the house. The policemen looked at him with interest and paused for a moment to see which way he would go. Breslow decided it would be better to seem equally surprised. He slowed almost to a stop, turned in his seat and stared at the policemen before continuing slowly down the street.
Without hurrying, Breslow turned up towards the main road. It was not the first time that he had come so near to disaster, he’d known many such close scrapes during the war, and learnt to restrain all temptation to run. It was a wise precaution. At the intersection with the main road, there was another police car waiting. Breslow decided to turn right and continue along the lakeside towards Lausanne. He went to Nyon before turning off to get to the autoroute and coming all the way back to Geneva again. It was only when he was back in the busy anonymity of the town centre that be was able to think properly. He decided against phoning either Dr Böttger or his contact in Geneva. Who knew to what extent Operation Siegfried had been penetrated if the Swiss were taking Willi Kleiber’s men into custody. He’d phone only Edward Parker, as Kleiber had requested.
When Max Breslow saw the signs for Geneva airport he moved into the exit lane. He had decided to go home to California.
40
Colonel Pitman drove the car after he left Madame Mauring’s cake shop with Stein. Colonel Pitman no longer enjoyed driving, which was why he employed a chauffeur. Driving made him tense, and long journeys affected his bad back. A young man in a red Audi came weaving through the fast traffic carelessly enough to make Pitman brake sharply. He felt the bile rise to his throat, and winced with the pain of indigestion. The anxieties of the last few days had played havoc with his regulated working hours and disrupted his mealtimes. Now there was nothing he would like better than an Alka-Seltzer and a long doze in his favourite armchair. He rubbed his chest, hoping to alleviate the discomfort. He saw Stein looking at him; he smiled, but he couldn’t help wondering why he was chauffeuring his ex-corporal. He should have told Stein to drive the car. Instead, Stein had got into the passenger seat and told him to get going. It had always been like this: Stein giving the orders and Pitman being carried along by his energy and determination. It had been like that the first day he had met Stein, the day Pitman had arrived at the battalion headquarters-a bone-rattling, dusty truck ride from Casablanca. Lieutenant Pitman was straight from the USA, newly assigned to the tank destroyer units that everyone was promising would knock hell out of the Panzers of the Deutsche Afrika Korps.
Pitman was greeted by a snappy salute from the sentry at the gate. He felt important as he carried his kit up the hill to the tent marked ‘Report here’. It was a warm day. The tent smelt of new canvas and the waxy resin used to preserve it. The sun made the light inside the tent bright yellow, and there was the loud buzzing of flies. A middle-aged master sergeant sat at a table with a field telephone and a stateside newspaper. He was reading the sports results aloud, very slowly. Private Stein-plump, red faced and perspiring-sat on an upturned box and punctuated the sports results with sneers, jeers and snorts. Lieutenant Pitman gave them a moment or two to acknowledge his presence but when they did not do so he said, ‘Sergeant, I’m Lieutenant Pitman. I’m looking for the battalion commander.’
Master Sergeant Vanelli looked up and nodded. He folded his stateside newspaper and laid it on the table with the sort of reverence that such rare documents were given at that time, but he did not get to his feet. Stein, without moving from his position on the upended box, looked the officer up and down from the factory-fresh steel helmet, and the pale skin unused to African sunshine, to the newly issued brown boots. ‘Take my advice, Lieutenant,’ said Stein. ‘You get your leggings and your pistol strapped on and paint your bar on the front of your helmet before you see the CO.’
‘Is that your advice?’ said Pitman coldly.
‘This is General Patton’s command: twenty-five-dollar fine for officers without their pistols; and officers without leggings pay fifteen bucks.’ Stein smiled and aimed a smack at a fly which had settled on his arm, but it flew away unharmed.
‘Which is the colonel’s tent?’ Pitman asked, pointedly addressing the sergeant instead of Stein.
‘The one with the rolled tent-sides,’ said Stein. ‘The colonel likes a draught, and don’t mind the sand.’
‘Is this man your mouthpiece, Sergeant?’ Pitman asked him.
‘I guess he is,’ said the sergeant, as though he hadn’t considered it before. ‘Charlie Stein kind of runs things for us up here.’
Lieutenant Pitman looked at the two men, wondering whether to complain about their unsoldierly manner, but decided that it would be an unwise move for a newly assigned officer. He ducked his head to go out of the tent just as Stein called, ‘And ten bucks if you are not wearing a tie.’
Pitman ignored him.
‘Cut the speed a little,’ said Stein. ‘This is no time to get a ticket for speeding.’ Pitman glanced at the fat, balding man sitting beside him. Who would have guessed that their lives and fortunes could have become so interdependent? Stein was twisted round awkwardly as he pushed his brown shoulder bag on to the rear seat. The documents he placed on the floor behind him, and from time to time he reached back to touch them and reassure himself that they were still there.
‘Sounds like it’s all over for the bank,’ said Stein, hoping to be contradicted. But Colonel Pitman didn’t argue the matter. ‘Sounds like they want us to be skinned alive,’ Stein added despondently. ‘You don’t want to spend the next ten years arguing your way through law courts, do you?’ He pressed the lighter button in the dashboard, just to check if it worked. ‘It’s a good car this,’ said Stein approvingly, stroking the leather.
‘I tried to get inter-bank loans,’ said Pitman. ‘But none of the big banks are willing to cover us. Maybe they are scared of Creditanstalt. Maybe they are sore because we didn’t syndicate the deal with them.’
‘And maybe they’ve been warned off by that bastard who set us up. Or Friedman or Dr Böttger or one of those other people in on the swindle.’
‘Going away will not help me,’ said Pitman sadly. He stopped at the intersection from which a road led to the French border and the south side of the lake. Instead he turned the other way.
‘Remember Petrucci? A little Sicilian kid… a machine-gunner from one of the B-column vehicles which was knocked out ahead of us?’
Colonel Pitman rubbed his face reflectively. He could not remember.
‘Delaney still sees him. He fixed me up with fake papers: Brazilian passport, driving licence, the whole works. He’d do the same for you, and we’ve got enough money here for both of us, Colonel. We’ll split it down the middle, you and me.’