Charlie had studied the maps on the airplane and formulated a plan. First, he went shopping. In a department store he bought a pair of field glasses and a new change of clothes. Then he caught a streetcar to the Marketplatz square, where he made two additional purchases: a GSM disposable mobile phone for thirty-three Swiss francs, cash, and a telephone “smart” card.
Horst Laboratories was an old two-story brick building on the edge of a residential neighborhood. It took up half a city block, set behind a chain-link fence monitored with security cameras. Charlie lingered several blocks away, working out in his head how he was going to meet Ivan Vogel.
He walked up the street to the east of the building, scouting for a sheltered vantage point. Finally he chose a stone ledge along a tree-lined walkway, giving him an obstructed view of the entrance. Not perfect, but probably the best he’d find. It was 12:09.
At a glass-sided phone kiosk down the hill, Charlie inserted his smart card and called the number listed for Horst Laboratories. He listened to the recorded greeting, then pushed 2 for the automated directory. Pushed 1 for Stefan Drosky. The phone rang, once, twice.
A woman’s voice.
There was silence on the other end. Most people in Basel spoke German and French, he knew. Charles Mallory spoke both passably.
“I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting. Can I ask what this is regarding?”
“Just give him my message, please.”
Charlie hung up. Twelve minutes later, he called back. “This is Ivan Vogel. For Mr. Drosky,” he said.
He waited four minutes before calling again. Received the same response. Then called five minutes later. On the fifth try, Drosky came on the line. “Hallo? Drosky.”
“Hello, Ivan. I’m glad you decided to take my call. That was smart.”
Charles Mallory listened to Ivan Vogel breathe.
“Who is this?” the voice at the other end said, in English.
“Someone who knows about you.”
“You have wrong number,” he said, speaking now with a slight Russian accent.
But he didn’t hang up. That was the interesting thing. He stayed on the line for a long time before Charlie finally heard the dial tone.
Seven minutes later, he called again; this time, the call went to voice mail.
Charles Mallory walked up the street, keeping his eyes on the entrance. Imagining what Vogel was thinking. At 12:53, a limousine with tinted windows stopped across the street from the building and parked. A thin, tall, stooped man in faded jeans, loafers and a gray overcoat came out of the building and walked toward the car, glancing nervously up and down the street. Vogel.
Mallory followed the car once it pulled away from the curb, trotting along the sidewalk half a block behind. Traffic was heavy, and it wasn’t difficult to stay with him for a while. But then Vogel got a block ahead and Charlie lost him. He tried a shortcut, jogging through an alley and across another block, and saw the car again, several blocks ahead, in the left lane. He hailed a taxi, asked to be taken downtown. Saw the car again a block ahead, preparing to turn left. “Left lane,” he told the cab driver.
A dozen blocks on, the traffic jammed again. Mallory paid the driver and got out. They were in the Gundeldinger District, near the central train station. He began to jog in the direction he had seen the limousine going.
The car was right on the next block, parked illegally at the curb. Charlie crossed the street. Saw Vogel emerge and walk into the Gundeldingerhof restaurant.
Mallory crossed the road as the car eased back into motion. He pretended to study the menu, watching Vogel through the glass as he settled at a table. It was a simple-looking, airy bistro with white tablecloths and flower arrangements at the larger tables. Vogel sat near the wall across from a busty young woman with deliberately unkempt blond hair and heavy make-up. Her fingers were playing with a flute of champagne, which she had nearly finished.
Charlie entered the restaurant and asked for a table behind theirs. He sat, lifted his menu.
He was in the woman’s line of vision, but she was absorbed with her lunch date. She was in her mid- twenties, he guessed, with a toothy, inviting smile and wide cheekbones. She smiled easily, every time Vogel spoke.
Charlie ordered a bowl of cucumber soup and a bottle of mineral water. He opened his newspaper and continued to watch. They were speaking in German, but not loud enough for him to understand.
Ivan Vogel seemed pale and a little sickly, his gray hair patchy. His smile was uneven and kind of scary, the lower lip a strange shade of red, as if he were wearing lipstick. The woman several times adjusted the neckline of her dress as they talked, apparently to give Vogel a better look, glancing around the restaurant first each time to make sure no one was watching. Charles Mallory began to sense that this was what Vogel was paying her to do.
Vogel ordered salmon with bok choy and noodles. He drank a bottle of Kolsch beer, then a second. The woman had saffron seafood risotto and two more flutes of champagne. Charlie slowly sipped at his cucumber soup, watching them.
Throughout the meal, she continued to pull open her dress, allowing him to see increasingly generous amounts of cleavage as they seemed to engage in serious conversation. Vogel peered at her like a scientist studying a specimen. Occasionally, he set paper money on the table and the woman placed it in her purse. It was some sort of game that Vogel was paying her to play. Human aberrations didn’t surprise Charles Mallory much anymore, although he had never seen this particular variety before.
As they prepared to go, the woman allowed him to quickly grope her breasts by the doorway. Then Vogel pushed open the door and walked to his car, which was parked illegally again at the curb.
The woman checked her watch and pulled a cell phone from her purse. Charlie watched her step to the curb to flag down a cab.
He paid his bill, tipping the waiter generously. The waiter graciously bowed.
“Die Frau, die dort mit Herrn Drosky sa??” Charlie said.
“Ja?”
He frowned at Charles Mallory and shook his head, but his expression changed when Charlie pulled out a hundred-franc note.
“Adele. Sie ist ein arbeitsmadchen.”
THIRTY-NINE
TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES AFTER THE limousine returned Vogel to his office, Charlie called him on the disposable cell phone.
“Ivan Vogel calling for Stefan Drosky,” he said.
The fourth time, Vogel took it. “Look here. What’s this about? Who is this?”
“I just wanted you to know, Ivan: I was right behind you as you walked into the Gundeldingerhof. I watched you as you ordered the salmon. Adele is very attractive, by the way. Now, you don’t want her hurt, do you?” He listened to Vogel breathe. “Ivan?”
“Who is this?”
“Whatever I was going to do to you, I could have done then. To Adele, also,” he added. “I could have walked up behind you and shot you in the back of the head. Both of you. I don’t plan to hurt you, though, unless you make it necessary. It’s your choice.”
“What do you want?”
“I suggest you be careful about what you say right now. Okay?” Charles Mallory felt his anger shifting into higher gear and he took a breath. This was the man his father had been chasing. Who had been a key figure in the
