The Moses Virus (20 page)

“Warburg was more discreet than anyone imagined. How long before you’ll be finished with the formalities?”

“Not more than fifteen to twenty minutes, I think,” replied Alex.

“Good, I’ll meet you at the car.”

“I’ll see you there.”

Tom left the hotel by a back entrance, evading Bailitz’s men who were stationed across the street from the front of the hotel. Seven or eight minutes later, he arrived at the Saab, unlocked the car, and climbed in to wait for Alex, who joined him a few minutes later. Neither noticed that they had once again drawn the attention of Bailitz’s men. But this time, the men recognized Tom, and, by association, finally, Alex.

Alex and Tom took off in the Saab, not realizing yet that they were being followed. As Tom negotiated the busy traffic, he asked Alex, “Do you know where we’re going?”

“I looked it up on my phone. Once we get on the autobahn, we follow it along the shore of Lake Geneva. The entry to the autobahn will be on the right.”

But abruptly, the traffic ahead came to a standstill.

Tom honked the horn at the snarl of cars in front of him.

“What’s the problem?” he said.

“Looks like some kind of accident,” Alex said. “There’s a police car with flashing lights ahead.”

Tom looked in the rearview mirror. There were a dozen cars lined up behind him. He couldn’t back up.

“What time is the manager expecting us?”

Alex replied, “Sometime today before closing. We’ve got time.”

“What do we know about Chillon?” Tom asked.

“Only what Villechaise said. Apparently, it’s one of the most popular tourist sites in Switzerland. It’s about a thousand years old. It used to be a fort, then served as prison. Cordier manages the facility through its foundation and has exclusive access to the underground dungeon. That’s where they keep the vault.”

“Chillon seems like a brilliant move on Warburg’s part,” Tom said. “Top security masked by crowds of tourists. Let’s just hope it’s where he put the virus.”

While they waited, Tom noticed a white BMW that was following them. When the traffic began to move again, he floored the accelerator. The BMW similarly kept pace. He knew he couldn’t lose his pursuers, but he could hold them at bay. It was a cat and mouse game, where Tom would pull ahead of the white BMW by passing cars in front of him, increasing the gap between the two cars. As soon as Tom had done this, the BMW would accelerate, gradually reducing the gap again.

After about forty minutes of attempting to pull ahead of the Belagri car, there was a sign indicating that the Montreux turn-off was just ahead.

Tom pulled off the autobahn onto the Montreux exit ramp. He followed the signs, which led to the large parking area at Chillon Castle. There were a dozen tourist buses in the parking area. There were also many passenger cars. Nearby, there loomed a gigantic castle, and beyond that the serene blue of Lake Geneva seeming to stretch out forever. In the distance, Tom saw a wooden passenger ship bearing additional tourists heading toward the castle.

“Villechaise said there was a private entrance to the bank’s offices,” Alex said as Tom pulled into the main Chillon parking lot. “He said it was behind the main building.”

Tom glanced to the left of the entrance and spotted a small road that looked like a service driveway leading behind the main building. “That must be it,” he said and turned onto the road. At the end was a very small parking area, hidden behind a stand of pine trees. He stopped and they got out of the car.

Tom and Alex looked for the BMW.

“Where do you think it went?” asked Alex. “Could we have lost them?”

“I doubt it. The stakes are too high. We may have fooled them by coming to this remote parking area. They’ll cruise the main parking area and eventually find our car here. Let’s go in the bank.”

Directly across from the lot was a small building made of the same granite as the castle. A door opened and a uniformed guard met them.

“May I assist you?” he said.

“Yes,” Alex said. “We have a meeting with Monsieur Brocard.”

“Please follow me.” The guard closed the door, which immediately locked behind them.

Once inside the building, the guard ushered them to a private elevator. He inserted a key and the elevator door opened.

“The reception desk is on the bottom floor.”

Tom and Alex entered the elevator. The doors shut automatically. Within seconds, the elevator stopped, its doors opening onto a spacious wood-paneled room. The floor was polished wood, made of wide boards of rich cherry. There was a modern granite reception desk that reminded Alex of the reception area in the main office of Cordier, Warburg in Geneva. An attractive young woman was sitting behind the reception desk and smiled as she asked how she might be of service.

Alex introduced herself, saying that the managing director of the Geneva office, Pierre Villechaise, had arranged a meeting with Monsieur Henri Brocard. The receptionist seemed to be expecting them. She pushed a buzzer by her desk and almost immediately, a well-dressed man entered the reception area. He was in a gray suit but wore a thin maroon sweater under the jacket, despite this being a warm summer day.

“Bonjour, Madame Cellini. I am Henri Brocard, manager of the Chillon Castle branch of Cordier, Warburg.” He spoke with a heavy French accent. “This must be your colleague, Dr. Stewart. It is a pleasure to meet you both. May I see your passports, please?” He checked them and handed them back.

“Monsieur Brocard,” Alex said, “Monsieur Villechaise said that you would be able to assist us in retrieving an item stored here.”

“I’m at your service. May I offer you some tea or coffee first?” Brocard asked politely.

“Thanks,” Tom replied quickly, “but we’re rather in a hurry. Also, Monsieur Brocard, we’re being followed by two men. They may try to gain entrance to the bank. We would greatly appreciate it if they not be allowed in.”

Brocard smiled benignly. “No one is permitted to enter for any purpose without prior clearance from the Geneva headquarters. I will, however, alert our guards.”

Brocard called the guard, then said, “As you are pressed for time, may I see your combination plate?”

Alex took the small brass plate out of her purse and handed it to Brocard.

“Ah, yes. This is in one of the older sections. Please follow me.”

They followed Brocard as he led them toward a door opening into a corridor that took them into the interior of the vast dungeon. The walls were made of large blocks of granite.

“As you can see, the bank took over this portion of the castle twenty years ago, refitting the area with suitable places to store larger valuables for our clients. It may look primitive, but let me assure you that it is equipped with the most modern security equipment available.”

Brocard, enjoying the company, could not stop himself from telling his guests more about the Chillon facility. “Over there,” he said, pointing to a stone column, “Lord Byron, the great English poet, carved his name. He wrote a poem about a prisoner in the dungeon here.”

Brocard seems to be a talker, Tom thought. Aloud, he said, “Monsieur Brocard. Please, we are in a bit of a hurry. It’s most important.”

The Frenchman, who had slowed down to point out the historic stone column, apologized and fell silent—if only briefly.

Along the corridor there were stainless-steel doors recessed directly into the stone. “It is really quite ingenious,” Brocard said. “The former prison cells have been turned into individual vaults, each with its own combination. Ah, here we are.”

They stopped in front of a door inscribed with the first four digits of the combination. Brocard punched his own code into the electronic lock pad. Brocard asked for the brass plate again, which Alex produced. Brocard held the plate with the royal crest close to the electronic lock pad. There was a discernible click, and the door opened.

“You will find the vault inside. Simply tap the full combination into the keypad. You will be asked to enter the same combination a second time. I will be waiting outside until you summon me.”

“Thank you for your help,” Tom said.

Tom and Alex entered the small chamber. The vault was directly across from them. A small table was to the left. Tom took the brass plate and entered the numbers. He then entered the numbers a second time. There was a slight whirring sound. The door opened and a light went on inside the vault automatically.

On a shelf inside, they found a small black leather suitcase. Tom retrieved it and carried it to the table. There were no markings on the leather suitcase at all. It was not locked and the latches opened easily. Inside, there were three quart-sized stainless steel canisters recessed into a molded black felt casing and secured with leather straps. Their tops were sealed with thick red wax and stamped with the letters “PM.”

“Pestilentia Moseia,” Tom said, with a mixture of fear and relief, while Alex looked on.

“Are they safe to handle?”

“The seals have not been broken, so I assume so,” Tom answered, closing the case. “I think we’re finished here. Let’s go.” He closed the vault door.

Tom and Alex exited the security room, rejoining Brocard, who was waiting for them. Brocard said, “One of you may wish to return to your car, and drive it to our lower level. This private exit is to the right, behind the house.”

“Good idea,” Tom said. “Alex, will you pick up the car? Here, take the keys. I’ll keep the suitcase with me. Monsieur Brocard, I wonder if you can accommodate us. The two men I mentioned could conceivably be waiting for Madame Cellini at our car. Could you please have one of your guards accompany her?”

“Certainly,” Brocard said. He spoke quietly to one of his security personnel who came over to Tom and Alex. Brocard introduced him, “This is Philippe. He is pleased to accompany Madame Cellini.”

Brocard left with Alex and Philippe, guiding them to the elevator to the upstairs entrance. Alex and Philippe then walked to the small parking lot so she could retrieve the Saab and drive it to the lower loading area. Brocard returned to Tom. “Come, I’ll take you to the exit for our lower-level pickup.”

Brocard and Tom arrived at the glass enclosure leading to the lower loading area at exactly the same moment as Alex’s Saab pulled up. Philippe was walking alongside the car. Tom opened the glass security door and walked toward the car, holding the suitcase.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the white BMW pulled up and blocked the Saab. Two men jumped out and ran toward Alex. Philippe stepped forward with his revolver in his hand to protect Alex. One of the Germans fired his own gun, equipped with a silencer. There was a spitting noise, and Philippe collapsed to the ground. The other German yanked Alex’s front door open and pulled her out. He held a knife to her throat.

“She dies unless you give us the suitcase,” he yelled at Tom. The other man moved toward Tom, holding his gun pointed at Tom.

“Let her go!” yelled Tom.

“The case,” the German in front of him barked.

Tom hesitated, looking for a way out. He took a step forward, seemingly offering the case to the intruder, then quickly swung it, knocking the gun out of his hand.

“No tricks, or the girl dies,” the other man, holding Alex, yelled and ran the knife across her left arm. She cried out in pain as the cut started to bleed. Alex fell to her knees.

“You bastard!” Tom cried.

The German who had come after Tom had recovered the gun and hit Tom hard in the head. He collapsed onto the ground.

“I’ve got the case,” the German said to his partner. “Take the girl.”

The two Germans, one with the black leather case, and the other literally dragging a bleeding Alex, dashed to their BMW. Alex was thrust into the BMW’s backseat.

Brocard had remained inside the glass enclosure when Tom had left through the secure door to join Alex. The moment he saw the BMW pull up, he locked the door electronically to protect Cordier, Warburg from any forced entry that the two armed men might try. Simultaneously, he pushed a concealed emergency button to the right side of the door, which signaled the police in Montreux, the receptionist, and the bank’s security people, as well as Villechaise in Geneva. Then Brocard watched and waited. He thought to himself that he was doing the right thing to stay inside. His job, he reminded himself, was to protect the bank.

When he saw Alex, bleeding, fall to her knees, Brocard called the receptionist and told her to have the bank’s medical officer join him immediately. Two bank guards who had been summoned by the emergency button were already standing beside Brocard, waiting for orders. The medical officer came running up, out of breath. The BMW had now left the area with the two Germans, Alex, and the black leather case.

Brocard released the electronic locks on the glass security door. The two guards, the medical officer, and Brocard walked quickly toward Philippe. It turned out that the bullet had grazed Philippe’s head, entering his left cheek and exiting without doing permanent damage. Philippe was regaining consciousness, but was bleeding profusely. The medical officer told Philippe that the ambulance was on its way to take him to the hospital. The medical officer gave Philippe a sedative and applied a bandage to the wound to cut down on the bleeding.

The medical officer next examined Tom and realized that Tom had been knocked out, but had not sustained any serious injury. He waved a vial of smelling salts under his nose and Tom began to come to. He coughed at the acrid scent of the smelling salts that burned his nostrils. Seeing that Tom was going to be all right, the medical officer returned to Philippe to stay with him until the ambulance arrived.

Tom stood gingerly, his mind cloudy as he pulled himself together. Suddenly, everything came back to him. He saw that Alex had been taken, and the suitcase with the virus was gone as well. Tom suddenly felt helpless—everything had gone wrong. He had been working desperately to find the Moses Virus; moments ago, it had been in his hands. Abruptly, it was gone, taken by Belagri, which would use it for destruction of human lives. Bad as this was, Alex now also was gone, taken from him, and hurt. Then a wave of anger and urgency swept over him. He cried aloud to no one in particular, and to everyone, “We’ve got to go after them—they’ve got the suitcase and Alex.”