lake into Geneva. Despite the heavy gloves she wore, with her hand on the rail to keep her balance, she felt the cold penetrating the gloves. It was way below zero.
Leaving the bridge, she walked a short distance, turned into the right street, checking the numbers. Her destination turned out to be a shop with the word Antiquateren over the fascia. No sign of the name Rico Sava.
She had checked several times coming across the bridge to make sure she hadn't been followed. And the street she was in was deserted. So, it appeared, was the shop. The windows were in darkness with a grille over them. The door was ancient, heavy, and had a Judas window with bars. She pressed the bell beside it, pressed it several times when no one came. God, has he gone home, she thought. But I do need a gun.
There was a rattling sound and the Judas window opened. She couldn't see who was behind it.
'Rico Sava?' she asked.
'Oui.'
'Do you speak English?' she asked; although she was fluent in French, she thought Sava might be more convinced of her identity. 'A friend of mine, Marler. Marler.' she repeated, 'sent me here. He said you could supply me with something special.'
'I speak English. Are you alone? You say you are. Now close your eyes.'
Mystified, she did so, and a glaring light over the door came on. It was so powerful she was aware of it even with her eyes closed. She heard several locks being unfastened, bolts drawn, then the door opened. She kept her eyes shut.
'You can open your eyes now.'
The light had gone off. She blinked, stared at a small figure silhouetted in the dark. Sava told her to come in, took her elbow, warned her about a step down, then closed the door, made it secure, and switched on a normal light.
Rico Sava was small, had the beginnings of a paunch, was dressed in corduroy trousers, a dark waistcoat which was unbuttoned revealing a clean white shirt, open at the neck. In his sixties, she guessed, he had a turnip- shaped head with the short end his chin. His swarthy skin was lined but his eyes were bright, very alert.
'Describe Marler,' he said, hands on his hips.
She did so, emphasizing his upper-crust accent and languid manner.
'Mimic his voice.' Sava suggested pleasantly.
Paula did so, exaggerating the drawling manner Marler spoke with. Sava nodded, satisfied.
'You're careful.' Paula commented.
'In my business I have to be. So tell me how I can help you.' he said with a smile which lit up his previously sombre face.
'I want a. 32 Browning automatic in perfect condition. And spare mags. Have you got one?'
'You know, I think we might be able to oblige.'
Sava walked quickly to a bookcase on a wall hidden from all the shop windows. He opened the case after unlocking it, took another key from the ring in his hand, and inserted it into a keyhole Paula, even with her sharp eyes, could not see. The entire interior of the bookcase from floor to ceiling revolved open like a giant door, revealing another compartment behind it. On the shelves, neatly stored, was a large collection of handguns. He turned round to hand her a Browning.
'In perfect condition, you said. That fell off the back of a lorry on its way to a police armoury.' He chuckled. 'That is a British joke, is it not?'
'It is.' replied Paula with a smile.
She made sure the weapon was not loaded, then checked its mechanism. Sava handed her a magazine. She slid it inside the butt, rammed it home with the heel of her hand, then lifted the gun in both hands, raised it to test its weight and feel, staring along the shallow gunsight. It nestled in her hands like her own weapon back at Park Crescent.
'Great.' she said. 'Just great. How much – with the spare mags?'
'For you, three thousand francs. Including the mags.'
'And for someone else?' she teased him.
'Three and a half thousand.' he said seriously, and she believed him. 'Because you are a friend of Marler's.' he explained.
She paid him in thousand-franc notes, slipped the gun into the hip holster she was already wearing. She normally carried the weapon in a special pocket inside her shoulder bag but her fingers were so cold, as she had anticipated might be the case, she knew she could reach the gun quicker out of the holster.
She turned to speak to Sava and he had already closed and locked the fake bookcase. A very careful man.
'Thank you for your help.'
'Give my regards to Mr Marler when you next see him.'
'I will – and I'll tell him about the generous discount.'
'It was nothing.'
He spread his hands, then crinkled his brow and Paula waited, guessing he was wondering whether to say something else.
'I would never dream of asking you why you are here.' Sava began, 'but I hope you are not going near the Old City tonight.'
'Why the warning, if I may ask?'
'Of course you may. There is a murderous gang we have nicknamed the Leather Bombers patrolling that area. They are men in black leather on motorcycles and the other night they knocked down a woman crossing one of the old streets. They just picked up her body, slung it over the rear of one of their machines, and drove off.'
'That's horrible, and thank you for the warning…'
Paula hurried back to the Hotel des Bergues and had dinner at the Pavilion restaurant leading off the lobby. Tonight, she felt, was a very unknown quantity and she was more alert after a light meal.
Leaving the restaurant, she hailed a cab and asked the driver to take her to Les Armures. The driver nodded that he knew where it was and crossed the Pont du Rhone, the bridge over the river.
From that moment they left behind the bright lights of the international city of Geneva and climbed into the dark of the Old City, perched high up. Although he was driving on snow tyres the cabbie proceeded cautiously. He was climbing ever more steeply, veering round dangerous bends, and on both sides of the narrow cobbled street Paula looked out at ancient stone buildings which gave her the impression of an abandoned district. He skidded three times but managed to regain control. Higher and higher they mounted until, to Paula's relief, the cathedral, built on the summit, came into view, a menacing edifice in the moonlight.
He pulled up beside a weird stone platform and looked over his shoulder.
'The restaurant is over there. I can't get any closer,' he said in French.
She paid him off, standing on treacherous cobbles covered with ice. Then he was gone. An uncomfortable silence she could almost hear descended. No one else was about. She checked her watch. The illuminated hands registered 8 p.m. She had deliberately arrived one hour before the earliest time Archie had said he would be at Les Armures. She wanted to check out the area.
Philip's flight landed at Geneva and he went immediately to a phone and called Monica.
'Philip here. Calling from Cointrin Airport. I've just arrived. Any news of Paula?'
'Yes. Staying at the Hotel des Bergues, room number…'
'Thanks. Must go.'
'Put that phone down and you're fired.'
Tweed's voice, grim.
'To hell with that,' Philip snapped. 'I've arrived late. Plane held up at Heathrow. Something about engine maintenance. It's eight o'clock here, for God's sake…'
'Information you need.' Tweed's voice was calm now. 'I had Beck on the line over an hour ago. Carson Craig has flown to Geneva. Beck reported a motorcycle gang which is careering round the city. Killed a woman and took her away. The police can't locate the gang.'
'Got it. I'm going now…'
'Good luck.' said Tweed but Philip didn't hear the words. He had slammed down the phone.
