Critical Mass (21 page)

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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Critical Mass
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ELIZABETH MCGARVEY HELD HER MOTHER'S HANDS IN HERS. There was some traffic on the road, and she knew that there would be even more on the main highway tonight. If she could only signal a passing car or truck, indicate that they were in serious trouble, there might be a chance that the real police would be notified in time. From what she'd seen during her one year here, the Swiss were an extremely efficient people.
But the woman continued to hold the pistol on them, and Elizabeth had little doubt she would use it if need be. There was something dead and cold in her eyes and in the set of her mouth. She was certainly beautiful, in a European way, but she seemed distant, and totally devoid of normal human feeling.
Armand had been clearly surprised to see her leaving the campus after what she'd told him earlier. Providing he didn't go back to his studio to sulk, he might be talking to Toni this very moment. He'd learn about Elizabeth's mother showing up, and about some kind of trouble at home, which would seem logical to him until he found the rental car where her mother had parked. He was intelligent. He would put two and two together, realize that Elizabeth was in trouble, and would call for the police.
But why should he? There was absolutely no reason for him to sound the alarm. He'd worry about turning out the fool, as would anyone in the same situation.
The driver had glanced in the rearview mirror several times in the last minute or so. He did it again.
“Somebody is following us,”
he said in German.
German and French were Elizabeth's two languages. Her mother said she inherited the ability from her father. But this didn't sound Swiss-German. It sounded to Elizabeth more guttural, more like Plattedeutsch from the Rheinland.
“There is traffic behind us,”
Liese replied.
“Yes, but this one has passed at least two cars to get behind us, and now he is maintaining his position.”
“The little one directly behind us?”
“Yes.”
Elizabeth started to turn around, but Liese sharply nudged her cheek with the gun barrel. “Eyes straight ahead!”
“Stay away from me, bitch.”
“If need be I will kill you here and now,” Liese said.
“I don't think so. Not if you want to lure my father here.”
Liese was unimpressed. “You're correct. Perhaps I will merely break all your fingers. Or maybe bruise your cute little tits. Or you might still be a virgin. That can be fixed.”
Elizabeth was shaking with fear and rage. She started to shout something, but her mother held her back.
“Let's just do as they say, Liz. Your father will handle it when the time comes.”
Elizabeth turned to look at her mother in surprise.
“That's right dear, it won't be long now.”
With her free hand Liese picked up a complicated-looking walkie-talkie and pressed a button. “Ernst, looks as if we've got a tail,” she said, and she pushed another button.
“Right. It's a gray Fiat, from the school, I think. He passed me, but I'm coming up on him now.”
It was Armand's Fiat, Elizabeth thought. It had to be! But what did he expect to accomplish by following them? He was a beautiful fool.
“What do you want to do about it?” Liese radioed.
“Stand by,” the voice came from the speaker. “Peter, are you copying?”
“Right. I'm about two minutes from the rendezvous. Shall I abort?”
“Negative. Proceed as planned. Liese, have you got your situation under control?”
“Yes.”
“Then proceed to the rendezvous. Bruno and I will take care of our uninvited guest.”
“What?” Elizabeth asked incredulously. “He's got nothing to do with this. He doesn't even know about my father.”
“You know who is back there?” Liese asked. “Is it Armonde?”
Elizabeth was shocked. How had they known? Who were these people? “I don't know.”
“Your father hired him to watch over you, did you know that? Is he your lover? I'm told that he's quite good looking. Tell me, how is he in bed?”
Elizabeth closed her eyes tightly, and for the first time in a very long while, she was drawing some comfort from her mother's touch. This wasn't happening. It was a nightmare. Yet it was real.
They merged with northbound traffic on the Bern-Lausanne Highway. A big semi truck marked Pirokki Shipping, Ltd., was directly in front of them. Almost immediately the driver signaled he was turning right, and the truck began to brake.
Liese keyed the walkie-talkie. “We're directly behind you, Peter.”
“I see you.”
“Ernst?”
“We're approaching the intersection. Don't wait for us. Just do it.”
“We're turning off now,” Liese radioed and she put down the walkie-talkie.
The big truck turned onto a gravel driveway that looped through the woods for a hundred yards before leading back up to the highway. It was used as a rest stop as well as a turnaround. One other semi was parked off to the side, but the cab was dark, the driver either asleep in the back, or gone.
The Pirokki Shipping truck pulled up and shut off its headlights, leaving only its parking lights illuminated.
“We're getting out of the car here,” Liese said as they pulled up behind the Pirokki truck. The driver shut off the
Peugeot's lights and engine, and got out of the car. He opened the rear door on Kathleen's side.
“Out,
schnell
,” he said, his voice low and rasping.
Kathleen and Elizabeth climbed out of the car, and Liese, the pistol still in hand and the bulky walkie-talkie slung over her shoulder by its strap, hurried around the back to them.
“Let's go,” she said motioning toward the truck.
Their driver opened a side door in the truck, pushed some boxes aside, and then waved them on.
Kathleen was the first, and he started to help her up, when she balked and tried to pull back. “It's dark.”
He grabbed her arm and half-pulled half-shoved her up through the opening into the pitch-black interior.
Armonde's little Fiat came up the driveway, its headlights illuminating the scene, and slid to a halt. A second later a dark Mercedes pulled in behind it, and two men jumped out before Armonde could do a thing.
The Fiat's door started to come open as one of the men reached the car, and he raised his right hand.
“Armand,” Elizabeth cried at the same moment three silenced shots were fired into the Fiat.
Scherchen grabbed Elizabeth's arm and shoved her up inside the truck and slammed the door, locking it behind her.
CLOUDS HAD ROLLED IN AND IT HAD BEGUN TO DRIZZLE WHEN the blue and white Swiss Regional Police car pulled off the highway just north of the road to Estavayer-le-lac. Rain glistened on the leaves, and puddled on the gravel driveway into the truck turnaround.
As part of their routine patrol they usually checked this place once or twice on a shift. This was their first sweep for the evening.
“Looks like headlights,” Adler Boll said as they came slowly around the curve. “There,” he said.
His partner, Thoma Grillparzer, rolled down the window on the passenger side, switched on the spotlight, and shined it toward the gray Fiat sedan. Immediately they could see that something was wrong, and Boll stopped five yards away.
The driver's window was shattered, and what looked like a great deal of blood had splashed up against the inside of the windscreen and the passenger side window.
Boll snatched the communications radio handset, and keyed the push-to-talk switch. “Central Control, this is unit one-seven-green.”
“One-seven-green, roger.”
“We have a possible homicide scene, request immediate backup.”
“Rolling. Say location.”
Grillparzer got out of the car and drew his service revolver.
“Hold on and I'll cover you,” Boll said, and he quickly radioed their location and the exact situation as they knew it
at that moment. The only other vehicle in the rest area was a sixteen-wheel truck parked and dark fifty yards away.
Böll got out of the patrol car, and drew his revolver. He remained in a protected position behind the car as his partner approached the Fiat still brightly illuminated by the spotlight.
“One man down in the front seat,” Grillparzer shouted back. “There's a lot of blood. Looks like one or more head wounds. Deep.”
“Any movement?” Boll yelled.
“No,” Grillparzer said. “Wait, wait! Mother of God, I think he's still alive.”
Boll rushed across to the Fiat as his partner holstered his weapon and hurried around to the passenger side where he yanked open the door.
“Fingerprints …” Boll said, but the word died on his lips. The victim had been shot at least twice: Once in the forehead and once in the side of the head just above his left ear. He was slumped across the gearshift lever, his head and upper body resting on the passenger seat. His eyes were fluttering and he was trying to speak, but his voice was very weak.
Grillparzer looked up.
“Backup units are on the way,” Böll said. “They'll be sending an ambulance.”
Grillparzer took off his cap and leaned inside the small car. “We're police. An ambulance is coming. Can you hear me? Who did this to you?”
Boll suddenly recognized the man. He'd seen him often in Estavayer-le-lac. He was an instructor at the Design School. Armand something.
“A truck?” Grillparzer asked. “A white truck?”
Boll's eyes immediately went to the truck parked farther up the driveway. It was gray, not white.
“Elizabeth who?” Grillparzer asked. He looked up again. “There's been a kidnapping. Elizabeth someone. Whoever did it, shot him.”
 
It was well after eleven by the time the crime scene was secured and Bern Chief Investigator Yvonne Coquillat came
over to speak with Böll and Grillparzer. They were tall, athletically built men, while she was short and slight. But she had a tough reputation. Both officers were respectful.
“We're nearly finished here,” she said. “As soon as the evidence van leaves, you can return to your duties.”
“Will you need our reports tonight?” Boll asked.
“In the morning will be soon enough,” the chief investigator said. “Unless there's anything you might have remembered in the past hour?”
Grillparzer shook his head. “Anything on the white truck yet?”
“We've put out an APB, but so far as I've heard there's been no sign of it so far.”
“What about Armonde?” Böll asked. He'd remembered the instructor's last name.
The chief investigator shook her head. “He died enroute to the hospital. The medics said his wounds were too massive. Sorry.”
“Yes, madam,” Böll said.
“Well, you can leave in a few minutes,” the chief investigator said, and she started to turn away, but suddenly stopped dead. She turned back, her eyes narrowed. “What did you say?” she asked.
Boll was confused. He shook his head. “I'm sorry?” “About the gunshot victim. You used his name.”
“Yes.”
“You know him?”
“Yes,” Boll said, realizing he was in trouble. The evidence team had identified the dead man from his papers. He hadn't thought to tell anyone that he slightly knew the victim. “I believe he was an instructor at the design poly.”
“Here?” she asked. “Just down the road?”
“Yes.”
“Why in heaven's name didn't you say something?” the chief investigator demanded.
“I didn't think it was important that I personally knew him …”
“Where is your brain? He got himself killed by stumbling
into the middle of an apparent kidnapping.” She shook her head in exasperation. “I'm going down to the school. Get in your unit and follow me.”
“Madam?” Böll asked.
“The man mentioned a woman's name. Elizabeth. Now that we know he was an instructor at the school, we might reasonably suppose that Elizabeth is a fellow instructor, or perhaps a student. In any case, we have a lead!”
 
It was three o'clock in the morning when the bedside telephone of Swiss Federal Police Supervisor Johann Meuller rang, dragging him out of a deep sleep.
His wife stirred beside him as he picked it up. “Yes?” he mumbled.
“Terribly sorry to bother you at such an hour, sir, but something has come in that I thought you would like to know about immediately.”
It was Brent Wylie, Mueller's number two, a no-nonsense cop who had worked his way into the Federal Police by dint of brilliant and tireless effort. He'd never been given to making statements lightly.
Meuller switched on his table lamp and sat up, his sleepiness leaving him instantly. “Yes, what it is?”
“It's about Kirk McGarvey.”
“Is he back?” Mueller asked angrily. Marta Fredricks had been like a daughter to him. He'd never forgiven McGarvey for making her fall in love, and his enmity had grown when she'd been killed in the crash of flight 145.
“Not yet, but he'll probably be coming.”
“Don't be cryptic, Brent. What are you talking about?”
“Sorry, sir. You know that McGarvey's daughter, Elizabeth, currently attends the Bern Design Poly in Estavayer-le-lac?”
“Yes.”
“Apparently she was kidnapped last night,” Wylie said.
“
Gott in himmel
,” Mueller muttered. “By whom, someone trying to get to her father?”
“It's unknown at this point. But it's worse than that.”
“It can't be.”
“Evidently the girl's mother was visiting the school, and she was taken along with her daughter.”
“McGarvey's ex-wife?”
“Yes, sir.”
Meuller threw the covers aside and felt for his slippers as he talked. “I'll be there within the hour. Put a call through to Washington for four-thirty our time. I want to speak with the general.”
“It'll be ten-thirty at night over there.”
“I don't care. Next, call the French and find out if they have unearthed any leads on the flight one-four-five case, especially anything that might lead back to McGarvey. Ask the same of Interpol. Oh, and see if you can find out where McGarvey is at this moment. Then gather the latest reports on this … incident, and have them on my desk.”
“Yes, sir,” Wylie said.
Mueller hung up, and shuffling into the bathroom he was struck with the notion that he'd known something like this would happen ever since he'd learned that Elizabeth McGarvey had enrolled in a Swiss school. Death and destruction followed the girl's father wherever he went.

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