The Anvil (22 page)

MacLean felt sure he was looking at the opposition but how best to tackle them? They would be armed and he couldn’t hope to take on three armed men with a couple of kitchen knives. He decided that the car was their weak point. All three were sitting down and close together; they were vulnerable and unawares. But first he had to make sure they were the killers. He decided to offer himself as bait. He moved away from the car and retreated back down the lane. He ran down the neighbouring street until he neared his hotel and stopped, knowing that when he moved on a few steps, he would become visible from the lane. The men in the car would be bound to see him.

MacLean gambled that they would not rush him. There would be no point in creating a commotion in the street when they could deal with him quietly in his room in the hotel. He steeled himself to take the next step and prayed that the men in the car saw it that way too.

He walked on, making sure that they got a good view of him by pausing under a street light to pretend to check something in his plastic shopping bag. He walked up the steps of the hotel to the entrance and into the hall to collect his key from Reception. He got into an elevator but got out again on the first floor and ran quickly back down the stairs to keep watch on the hotel entrance through the glass panel of the door leading to the stairs.

He did not have long to wait before the three men from the car came casually through the front door and asked the Reception clerk something. They walked over to the elevators and got into one which had just been vacated by four people who were laughing and joking as they crossed the hall to the exit.

The elevator doors slid shut and MacLean ran quickly across the hall, using the four laughing people as a shield between himself and Reception. He did not want the desk clerk to see him leave. Once outside, he sprinted across to the Mercedes in the lane and prayed that it had been left unlocked. It had.

The question now was, did he have enough time to booby trap the car with what little resources he had at his disposal? The men would get no answer at his room and find the door locked. They would check with Reception that they had the right number and try again before finally forcing the door. MacLean reckoned that he had five minutes max.

He got into the back of the Mercedes and emptied the contents of his plastic bag on to the seat beside him. The butane cylinders were going to play a starring role in this production. He forced the length of plastic tubing from the wine kit over the nozzle of one of the cylinders and then cut off half to fit on to the other one. He then used a kitchen knife to cut an opening into the base of each of the front seats.

The cuts were just large enough to permit the insertion of the ends of the tubing. The cylinders themselves he pushed out of sight underneath the front seats. He wanted a reservoir of gas to build up in the car but it would have to be contained in some way so that it was not flushed away when the doors were opened. The seat squabs would prevent this.

Next, MacLean needed to find the car’s flexible fuel line. It was an estate car so there was a chance he could reach it from inside the car providing he could pry off the side panels in the rear luggage space. He pulled one of the rear seats forward so that he could climb through the gap into the back. Unfortunately the backspace wasn’t empty and he had difficulty finding enough room to kneel down and turn round. There was something under a tarpaulin, which was awkward to push to one side. He struggled to get both his arms under the bundle and froze suddenly when it made a sound. Sweat broke out on MacLean’s brow; he recognised the sound. It was the sound a corpse made when trapped air was expelled from its lungs.

With his heart thumping in his chest, MacLean withdrew his arms slowly from beneath the tarpaulin and pulled it back. The bloody face and staring eyes of Jean Paul Rives looked up at him. MacLean swallowed and replaced the tarpaulin. He steeled himself to carry on.

Time was running out but any lingering doubt about the identity of the three men as the killers had just been removed. He wrenched back the side panel in the luggage space and found the flexible fuel line. He cut through the underside in a place where fuel would start to leak out through a drainage hole on to the road and form a puddle in the gutter. The car had its wheels up on the pavement: the gutter was practically under its middle.

MacLean got out of the car not a moment too soon. He had just made it to the shadows on the other side of the lane when he saw the three men emerge from the hotel. Their voices were loud: they were arguing about something. He watched as they approached the car and knew that the next few seconds would be critical. Would they simply get in or would they stand around arguing? The gas cylinders must be about fully discharged, he reckoned. Any delay and the concentration in the seat squabs would start to fall. At last the three men stopped talking and got into the car.

MacLean readied himself with matches and lighter fuel but was not convinced that there would be enough petrol vapour in the gutter to trigger off the gas inside. He would wait as long as possible. The men had started to argue again and there was an air of despondency about them. He saw the driver take out a pack of cigarettes and put it to his mouth to draw out one with his lips. MacLean froze in anticipation.

The driver held up a lighter to the end of his cigarette and flicked it open. MacLean saw a flicker of yellow flame lick out from it before the car erupted in a butane flash fire. This in turn ignited the heavy petrol vapour outside and a violent explosion rocked the car. There was no question of anyone surviving the conflagration. Jean-Paul Rives was cremated along with his murderers.

MacLean walked away: he walked for two blocks then took a cab to the far side of the city and did not return until late. The night porter at the hotel told him all about the excitement he had missed, obliging him to spend a few minutes asking the questions he could be reasonably expected to ask. He then went to his room and drank whisky until whether he was asleep or unconscious was a matter of medical opinion.

MacLean plied his hangover with black coffee and faced the fact that last night had not been a nightmare; it had all happened. His friends were dead and he had murdered three men out there in the street. The burnt-out shell of the Mercedes had been removed by the police – this was Switzerland after all – but there were scorch marks on the walls of the lane nearby. He was all alone with only the name May Haas to cling to. Who was she? What was she? Presumably she worked for Lehman Steiner but as what? Doctor? Nurse? Scientist? Personnel would know but would they tell him?

At eleven o’ clock MacLean phoned Lehman Steiner and asked to speak to the chief personnel officer. There was a pause before a woman’s voice answered and asked what he wanted.

‘I wonder if you can help me,’ said MacLean. ‘My name is Dieter Haas, I’m trying to find my niece, May. I believe she works for your company?’

‘This is a very big company,’ replied the woman. ‘And we are not allowed to give out … ‘

‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ interrupted MacLean, ‘but you are my only hope. I’ve spent the last twenty years in Leipzig. My brother and I were separated many years ago by the Berlin wall. We never saw each other again. I’ve learned since that he died two years ago and that his wife is also dead. But they had a daughter, May. She is my only living relative and I would dearly like to find her. I’ve been told that she works for Lehman Steiner so I wondered if perhaps you could see your way to help me?

‘I see,’ said the woman; she sounded concerned and genuinely sympathetic. A nice person, thought MacLean; he hated conning nice people.

‘We don’t usually give out this sort of information but as this is obviously a special case … What exactly does Fraulein Haas do with the company?’ asked the woman.

‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea,’ confessed MacLean.

‘Oh dear,’ came the reply.

‘Is there a problem?’ asked MacLean in trepidation.

‘Sort of,’ said the woman. ‘It’s just that if you don’t know what type of employment she has with us then it could take some time to trace her. Perhaps I could call you back?’

MacLean thanked the woman but said that it would be better if he were to call her.’

‘Very well,’ said the woman. ‘I realise how important this must be to you. Give me an hour.’

‘Thank you,’ said MacLean. He spent most of the following hour pacing up and down the room. On the stroke of ten thirty he called back.

‘I think there must have been some kind of mistake,’ said the woman when she came on the line.

‘Mistake?’ asked MacLean with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

‘We have no one with the name of May Haas working with the company in any capacity.’

‘I see,’ said MacLean slowly.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said the woman.

‘Thank you, ‘ said MacLean, putting down the phone in slow motion. Where did he go from here?

The sun was shining but MacLean didn’t notice as he walked the city streets, deep in thought. He saw the Cathedral St Pierre appear in front of him and, on impulse, went inside. It was cool and dark with a comforting smell of age and furniture polish, its solid stonework keeping out the sounds of the street. He hadn’t realised how long he had been walking until he sat down in a pew and felt his legs appreciate the rest. The gloom and the sheer size of the place afforded him a welcome anonymity, encouraging him to stay a while and get his thoughts in order. Walking round in circles wasn’t the answer. He needed a plan of action.

The trouble was that the situation was almost too painful to contemplate. Eva and Jean-Paul had given their lives to get him a name but he had been unable to do anything with it. If May Haas really didn’t work for Lehman Steiner then he had little or no chance of ever finding her; he wouldn’t know where to begin. There was, of course, a chance that the Personnel Department at Lehman Steiner had been lying or even unaware that May Haas worked for the company, especially if she had some connection with Von Jonek or the X14 project, but MacLean could not see a way around this.

On an earlier occasion, he remembered that Jean-Paul Rives had suggested that the best way to get to X14 would be to trace Von Jonek through Personnel. Maybe this was still a possibility. At least he knew that the man worked for the company. He wondered what would happen if he asked Personnel directly about him. He needed to think of a safe way of doing that.

From talk in the hotel bar he had learned that a tall, silver-haired gentleman, staying on holiday with his wife on the floor below, was a police chief from Lyons. A police chief would always carry his warrant card, he reasoned and such a man would hardly be the sort to be easily intimidated. MacLean made a point of finding out the man’s room number. When he’d done this, he called Lehman Steiner and announced himself as Professor Phillipe Pascal. He would like to be put in touch with his old colleague, Dr Hans Von Jonek.

‘One moment please.’

For one heady moment MacLean thought that he was about to be put through to Von Jonek but the woman came back on the line to say that she was transferring him.

‘Can I help you?’ asked the new voice.

MacLean repeated his request and was asked to wait again. When the woman spoke again she asked, ‘What name was that?’

‘Von Jonek,’ replied MacLean.

‘No, your name,’ said the woman.

‘Professor Pascal.’

‘One moment please.’

MacLean was becoming nervous. He started to wonder about the company’s capacity to trace a telephone call?

‘I’m afraid Dr Von Jonek is not available at the moment,’ said the voice. ‘If you would care to leave your address and telephone number, he will be informed of your call.’

MacLean gave the name of the hotel and the police chief’s room number, then he moved a chair over to the window and sat down to wait. Fifteen minutes later he watched a blue BMW pull up outside the hotel and two men get out. From the way they looked about them when they stepped out the car MacLean reckoned that they were the people he had been waiting for. He gave them time to reach the police chief’s room before going downstairs and walking along the corridor. He heard the commotion before he saw it.

The tall policeman was almost shouting that he was not named Pascal and that he didn’t know anyone who was. No, he would not be going anywhere with his visitors. He was a policeman, not a professor, and a chief of police at that. He knew his rights and who the hell was asking him all this anyway? He wanted to see ID and he wanted to see it now.

‘Is something the matter?’ asked MacLean innocently as he approached.

One of the men from the company, becoming anxious that he and his colleague were beginning to attract a serious amount of attention, put his hand on the policeman’s chest to back him into the room. The policeman’s wife immediately started screaming and another resident looked out and said she’d call for the local police. MacLean watched the pantomime grow. He now knew exactly what happened when you asked Lehman Steiner about Von Jonek. As the local police arrived, he checked out of the hotel and found another.

Three in the morning is the hour when troubles double and prospects halve. For MacLean, lying awake in the darkness, it was the time when a myriad self-doubts formed themselves into a crack regiment and marched through his head. How could he possibly hope to find Von Jonek if Lehman Steiner sent round heavies at the mere mention of his name? He could hardly break into the company’s offices and start rifling through filing cabinets.