Lake Geneva ranked as the largest body of freshwater in continental Europe. And arguably the most spectacular. On this sunny morning, the water outshone most sapphires. Alice liked Lake Geneva best for its public transit system: classic ferries that chugged between docks all around the lake.
Having sped through her morning debrief, she hopped a ferry at the Quai du Mont-Blanc in front of the Grand Hotel Kempinski. Boats made it easy to detect surveillance, forcing tails to stay close for fear of losing their rabbit. Alice was willing to believe that Geneva’s transit system alone explained the city’s status as the world’s espionage capital. As a city, especially by European standards, it had all the excitement of a post office.
Covertly scanning the sixty-seat single-decker, she reminded herself that she ought to be reveling in her liberty after two weeks that had been the surveillance detection equivalent of scaling Everest.
Just take a bloody cab and be done with it.
Then again, after nine years of deceiving and killing players on other teams, it wasn’t a terrible idea to keep an eye peeled.
She detected only one possible tail, middle-aged tourists with two toddlers. The purported family boarded the ferry at the last moment, right after she did.
Surveillants sometimes used children, and this mom and pop looked a bit too long in the tooth to be parents to such young kids. Then again, the couple could be young grandparents, or beneficiaries of the new wonders of reproductive endocrinology.
But what about the big pink teddy bear the girl dragged over the damp deck? Quite the cliche, a pink teddy bear. Regardless, if you love your teddy, you don’t drag him around like a shot deer.
When Alice got off the ferry at the next pier, the family remained aboard, squabbling, suggesting they really were a family.
Leaving the pier, she took the train to Cointrin, Geneva’s international airport, and bought a ticket for a direct flight to Atlanta.
The customs agent was a young American with a belly indicating a fondness for the local brauhaus. He studied her documents for an excessive amount of time, before finally asking, “So what’s taking you to Atlanta?”
“A reunion.”
“With bowls of potato salad and long-lost uncles, or the happily-ever-after kind?”
“No potato salad or uncles. Maybe the other one, though, if things work out all right.”
The young man looked her over. “I’m pretty sure things’ll work out.” He waved her through.