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Authors: Robert Ludlum
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chocolate for you in this office. And it is not up to you to decide when, or whether, you are released.” He leaned back in his chair, smiling gravely. “Welcome to Switzerland, Herr Hartman.”
Another man, tall and thin, in a heavily starched white lab coat, came into the room as if on cue. He wore rimless glasses and had a small bristle mustache. Without introducing himself, he pointed to a white-tiled section of the wall marked with metric gradations. “You will please to stand there,” he ordered.
Trying not to show his exasperation, Ben stood with his back flat against the tiles. The technician measured his height, then led him to a white lab sink, where he turned a lever that extruded a white paste and instructed Ben to wash his hands. The soap was creamy yet gritty and smelled of lavender. At another station, the tech rolled sticky black ink onto a glass plate and had Ben place each hand flat onto it. With long, delicate, manicured fingers, he rolled each of Ben’s fingers first on blotter paper, then carefully onto separate squares on a form.
While the technician worked, Schmid got up andwent into the adjoining room, then returned a few moments later. “Well, Mr. Hartman, we did not get a hit. There is no warrant outstanding.”
“What a surprise,” Ben muttered. He felt oddly relieved.
“Still, there are questions. The ballistics will come back in a few days from the Wissenschaftlicher Dienst der Stadtpolizei Zürich —the ballistics lab—but we already know that the bullets recovered from the platform are.765 Browning.”
“Is that a kind of bullet?” Ben asked innocently.
“It is the sort of ammunition used in the gun that was found during the search of your luggage.”
“Well, what do you know,” Ben said, forcing a smile, then tried another tack: bluntness. “Look, there’s no question the bullets were fired by the gun in question. Which was planted in my luggage. So why don’t you just do whatever that test is on my hands that tells you whether I fired a gun?”
“The gunshot residue analysis. We’ve already done it.” Schmid mimed a swabbing motion.
“And the results?”
“We’ll have them soon. After you are photographed.”
“You won’t find my fingerprints on the gun either.” Thank God I didn’t handle it , Ben thought.
The detective shrugged theatrically. “Fingerprints can be removed.”
“Well, the witnesses—”
“The eyewitnesses describe a well-dressed man of about your age. There was much confusion. But five people are dead, seven seriously injured. Again, you tell us you killed the perpetrator. Yet when we look there is no body.”
“I—I can’t explain that,” Ben admitted, aware of how bizarre his account sounded. “Obviously the bodywas removed and the area cleaned. That just tells me that Cavanaugh was working with others.”
“To kill you.” Schmid regarded him with dark amusement.
“So it appears.”
“But you offer no motive. You say there was no grudge between the two of you.”
“You don’t seem to understand,” Ben said quietly. “I hadn’t seen the guy in fifteen years.”
The phone on Schmid’s desk rang. He picked it up. “Schmid.” He listened. In English, he said, “Yes, one minute, please,” and handed the receiver to Ben.
It was Howie. “Ben, old buddy,” he said, his voice now as clear as if he were calling from the next room. “You did say Jimmy Cavanaugh was from Homer, New York, right?”
“Small town midway between Syracuse and Binghamton,” Ben said.
“Right,” Howie said. “And he was in your class at Princeton?”
“That’s the guy.”
“Well, here’s the thing. Your Jimmy Cavanaugh doesn’t exist.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Ben said. He’s dead as a doornail .
“No, Ben, listen to me. I’m saying your Jimmy Cavanaugh never existed . I’m saying there is no Jimmy Cavanaugh. I checked with alumni records at Princeton. No Cavanaugh, first or middle initial J, ever
Another man, tall and thin, in a heavily starched white lab coat, came into the room as if on cue. He wore rimless glasses and had a small bristle mustache. Without introducing himself, he pointed to a white-tiled section of the wall marked with metric gradations. “You will please to stand there,” he ordered.
Trying not to show his exasperation, Ben stood with his back flat against the tiles. The technician measured his height, then led him to a white lab sink, where he turned a lever that extruded a white paste and instructed Ben to wash his hands. The soap was creamy yet gritty and smelled of lavender. At another station, the tech rolled sticky black ink onto a glass plate and had Ben place each hand flat onto it. With long, delicate, manicured fingers, he rolled each of Ben’s fingers first on blotter paper, then carefully onto separate squares on a form.
While the technician worked, Schmid got up andwent into the adjoining room, then returned a few moments later. “Well, Mr. Hartman, we did not get a hit. There is no warrant outstanding.”
“What a surprise,” Ben muttered. He felt oddly relieved.
“Still, there are questions. The ballistics will come back in a few days from the Wissenschaftlicher Dienst der Stadtpolizei Zürich —the ballistics lab—but we already know that the bullets recovered from the platform are.765 Browning.”
“Is that a kind of bullet?” Ben asked innocently.
“It is the sort of ammunition used in the gun that was found during the search of your luggage.”
“Well, what do you know,” Ben said, forcing a smile, then tried another tack: bluntness. “Look, there’s no question the bullets were fired by the gun in question. Which was planted in my luggage. So why don’t you just do whatever that test is on my hands that tells you whether I fired a gun?”
“The gunshot residue analysis. We’ve already done it.” Schmid mimed a swabbing motion.
“And the results?”
“We’ll have them soon. After you are photographed.”
“You won’t find my fingerprints on the gun either.” Thank God I didn’t handle it , Ben thought.
The detective shrugged theatrically. “Fingerprints can be removed.”
“Well, the witnesses—”
“The eyewitnesses describe a well-dressed man of about your age. There was much confusion. But five people are dead, seven seriously injured. Again, you tell us you killed the perpetrator. Yet when we look there is no body.”
“I—I can’t explain that,” Ben admitted, aware of how bizarre his account sounded. “Obviously the bodywas removed and the area cleaned. That just tells me that Cavanaugh was working with others.”
“To kill you.” Schmid regarded him with dark amusement.
“So it appears.”
“But you offer no motive. You say there was no grudge between the two of you.”
“You don’t seem to understand,” Ben said quietly. “I hadn’t seen the guy in fifteen years.”
The phone on Schmid’s desk rang. He picked it up. “Schmid.” He listened. In English, he said, “Yes, one minute, please,” and handed the receiver to Ben.
It was Howie. “Ben, old buddy,” he said, his voice now as clear as if he were calling from the next room. “You did say Jimmy Cavanaugh was from Homer, New York, right?”
“Small town midway between Syracuse and Binghamton,” Ben said.
“Right,” Howie said. “And he was in your class at Princeton?”
“That’s the guy.”
“Well, here’s the thing. Your Jimmy Cavanaugh doesn’t exist.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Ben said. He’s dead as a doornail .
“No, Ben, listen to me. I’m saying your Jimmy Cavanaugh never existed . I’m saying there is no Jimmy Cavanaugh. I checked with alumni records at Princeton. No Cavanaugh, first or middle initial J, ever
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