The man in the blood-red knitted ski cap looked as if he were in his late twenties. Gaunt and pallid, he was Central Casting’s idea of a doctoral candidate. Which hardly ruled him out as an assassin. Since he had been dragged into this mess two weeks ago, the killers Charlie had eluded had been disguised as a jocular middle-aged insurance salesman, a pair of wet-behind-the-ears lawyers, and a fresh fruit vendor on the Lower East Side.
“You’re sure you saw him at the cafe?” Alice asked.
“When I doubled back to our table to leave the tip, I noticed him in the corner, flagging the waitress all of a sudden. What’s that spook saying about coincidences?”
“There are none?”
“Exactly.”
“I never say that. The summer I was eleven, I got a Siamese cat. I named him Rockford. A few weeks later, I started a new school, and there was another girl who had a Siamese cat named Rockford. Coincidence or what?”
“I always wondered about that saying.”
“In any case, why don’t we go toast your win?”
One of their exit strategies commenced with a walk to the nearest concession stand. “I would love a drink, actually,” Charlie said.
Leaving the track apron, they stepped into a long corridor between the rear of the grandstand and Lac de Morat’s southern bank. While his nerves verged on exploding, she retained her character’s bounce. In fact, if he hadn’t been in the same room this morning when she was getting dressed, he might not recognize her now. She remained a stunning woman despite a drab wig and a prosthetic nose that called to mind a plastic surgeon’s “before” photo. Ordinarily she moved like a ballerina. Now the thick parka, along with the marble she’d placed in her right boot, spoiled her stride. And her sunglasses, relatives of the ski goggle family, concealed her best feature, bright green eyes that blazed with whimsy or, at times, inner demons.
No one else was in the corridor. But would anyone fall in behind them?
Charlie’s heart pounded so forcefully that he could barely hear the crunching of his boots through the snow.
Sensing his unease, Alice took his hand. Or maybe there was more to it than that. Twelve days ago, caring only that he and his father were innocent, she decided to help them flee the United States in direct defiance of her superiors at the National Security Agency. “Girlfriend” was just her cover then. Their first night in Europe, however, it became reality. Since then, their hands had gravitated into each other’s even without a threat of surveillance.
She steadied him now.
He recalled the fundamental guiding principle of countersurveillance, which she’d taught him: See your pursuers, but don’t let them know you see them.
The spooked-up sunglasses-part mirror, and, to the uninitiated, part kaleidoscope-made it difficult to find a specific person behind him, or for that matter a specific section of grandstand. He fought the urge to peer over his shoulder. As little as a backward glance would be enough for the man in the red hat to smell blood.
“See anything?” Charlie muttered.
“Not yet.” Alice laughed as if he’d just told a joke.
They came to a white cabana tent with a peaked top. Inside, a rosy and suitably effervescent middle-aged couple popped corks and filled plastic flutes with the same champagne whose logo adorned banners all around the racecourse. Falling into place at the end of the small line enabled Charlie and Alice to, quite naturally, turn and take in their environs: Thirty or forty white-turf fans wandered among the betting windows, Port-o-Lets, and a dozen other concessions tents.
No man in the red hat.
And the corridor behind the grandstand remained vacant.
Charlie felt only the smallest measure of relief. Their tail might have passed them to another watcher. Or put cameras on them. Or fired microscopic transponders into their coats. Or God knew what.
“Sorry about this,” Charlie said.
“About what?” Alice seemed carefree. Part of which was her act. The rest was a childhood so harrowing and a career full of so many horrors that she rarely experienced fear now. If ever.
“Talking you into coming here.”
“Knock it off. It’s breathtaking.”
“To a track, I mean. It was idiotic.”
“Hermits are conspicuous. We have to get out some of the time.”
“Just not to racetracks. Of course they’d be watching racetracks.”
“Switzerland has an awful lot of racetracks, not to mention all the little grocery stores that double as offtrack betting parlors. And there’s no reason to think that anyone even knows we’re in Europe. Also this isn’t exactly a racetrack. It’s a course on a frozen lake-who knew such a thing existed?”
“They know. They always do.”
“They” were the so-called Cavalry, the Central Intelligence Agency black ops unit pursuing Charlie and his father, Drummond Clark. Two weeks ago, after the various assassins all failed their assignments, the Cavalry framed the Clarks for the murder of U.S. national security adviser Burton Hattemer, enabling the group to request the assistance of Interpol and a multitude of other agencies. With no way to prove their innocence, the Clarks knew they wouldn’t stand a chance in court. Not that it mattered. The Cavalry would avoid the hassle of due process and “neutralize” them before a gavel was raised.
Readying a twenty-franc note for two flutes of champagne, Alice advanced in line. “Look, if they’re really that good, they’re going to get us no matter what, so better here than a yodeling hall.”
She could always be counted on for levity. It was one of the things Charlie loved about her. One of about a hundred. And he barely knew her.
He was wondering how to share the sentiment when a young blonde emerged from the corridor behind the grandstand, a Golden Age starlet throwback in a full-length mink. Breathing hard, perhaps from having raced to catch up to them. Or maybe it was the basset hound, in matching mink doggie jacket, wrenching her forward by his expensive-looking leather leash.
Clasping Charlie’s shoulder, Alice pointed to the dog. “Is he the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen or what?”
Charlie realized that pretending not to notice the dog would look odd. Acting natural was part of Countersurveillance 101. The best he could muster was “I’ve always wanted a schnauzer.”
“Why a schnauzer?” Alice asked.
All he knew about the breed was that it was a kind of dog.
The starlet looked at them, her interest apparently piqued.
“I just like the sound of schnauzer,” Charlie said.
The woman continued past as a slovenly bald man stumbled out of a Port-o-Let, directly into her path. She smiled at him.
Women like her don’t smile at guys like that, Charlie thought. Especially with Port-o-Lets in the picture.
Alice noticed it too. She yawned. “Well, what do you say we head back to Geneva?”
Charlie knew this really meant leave for Gstaad, sixty miles from Geneva.
Fast.