receptacle, wielding it to clear off the remaining shards of glass.
Footsteps behind them.
“They’re coming,” said London, glancing over her shoulder.
Simon jumped over the transom, helping London. They were outside. He headed left toward the bonded warehouses, delivery docks. He hugged the terminal building, all manner of vehicle passing them. Fuel trucks, vans, baggage carts. At the sound of a siren, he turned his head. A police cruiser, blue-and-whites flashing, barreled across the airfield, effectively blocking their path.
To their right, fifteen meters across the tarmac, was a freestanding concrete shed, candy-striped barriers surrounding it—DANGEL, a prominent construction company, stenciled across them—the shed door open.
Simon ran to the shed, vaulting the barriers. London found her way through. A sign on the door showed a lightning bolt. “Vorsicht. Heizung. Strom.” Danger. Heating. Electricity.
“In here.”
Simon entered the shed, closing the door after London, using the pistol to break off the door handle. Stairs led belowground to a high-ceilinged corridor that appeared to run endlessly in either direction, a strip of fluorescent bulbs high on the wall providing a dim, stuttering light.
“What is this place?” asked London.
Simon pointed to a large-bore steel pipe running along the center of the ceiling. “Runway heating. Hot water passing through the pipes melts the snow and ice during the winter.”
“Which way?”
Simon pointed to the right.
“But that’s away from the terminal.”
“Hope so. There has to be an access point at the other end.”
“And from there?”
“We’ll see. We have a better chance the farther away we are.”
“But they’ll know we came in here.”
“Eventually,” said Simon. “But not which way we’re going. There are three runways. That’s a lot of exits to cover. Feeling lucky?”
“You said our luck had run out.”
“Did I?”
They began to run, London setting the pace, the corridor indeed endless, passing one junction then another, similarly endless corridors stemming from each. Already fatigued, Simon began to wonder how long runways were. Two thousand yards? Three thousand?
He pulled up, placed a finger to his mouth. Voices. The patter of running feet. Closer. Closer. Fading. Fading. Gone.
“You good?” he whispered.
“Just go,” said London.
“You first,” he said.
London set off. It was apparent she could run faster and farther than he could. He redoubled his efforts but still found himself fighting to keep up. Minutes passed. Then far, far away, a shaft of natural light. Finally, they arrived at the end of the corridor. Stairs led to a door, ajar, as was the other, a sliver of sky visible.
Simon slowed, then stopped, hands on his thighs. He dropped the cartridge and counted the bullets. Seven. He couldn’t shoot a policeman. Shaka was another story.
London regarded him, hands on her hips. Ready when you are.
“Okay,” he said, straightening up, then charging up the stairs, out the door. “Come on.”
They stood at the very end of the runway, fields of spring grass on either side, farther out a fence. A kilometer beyond that, a village. He looked to all points of the compass. No sign of their pursuers. He’d been wrong about their luck.
They crossed the tarmac, a jet barreling at them, landing gear lifting off the asphalt, nose climbing into the sky, the silver belly sliding overhead, jet blast flattening the grass, buffeting them, the noise ungodly.
At the fence, Simon gave London a foot up. She clambered over the wires nimbly. He followed suit, not quite so. A path led through a forest. Ten minutes later, they stood in the center of the village of Glattbrugg. It was eight o’clock. They had been running for an hour.
They walked to the train station and climbed into a taxi. “Forty-five Grossmuttstrasse,” said Simon. “Schnell, bitte.”
“You know your way around Zurich?” said London.
“Did I ever tell you what I do for a living…I mean, when I’m not doing this?”
The Garage Foitek in Zurich-Urdorf served as the official Ferrari dealership for the city of Zurich. Similar to the high-performance Italian sports cars they sold, the building was new, shiny, and sleek. Sacha Menz, the manager, spotted Simon passing through the doors and rushed to greet him. “Simon Riske, what are you doing in my town without telling me in advance?”
“Hello, Sacha. Flying visit. Can we talk?”
“Of course. Come into my office.”
“Actually, the lot is better.”
“Whatever you say. You look rather serious. How can I help?”
At 9:03, Simon and London left the dealership, turning left onto Birmensdorferstrasse, Simon at the wheel of a red 2015 F12 Berlinetta. The car belonged to the Grand Tourer class and was the fourth fastest road car Ferrari had produced, with a 6.3 liter,