The Scarletti Inheritance - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,119

two people rushed into the back seat, and the young man closed the door. He immediately took the cellophane off a thin cigar and said to the driver, 'Let's go.'

As the car sped out the narrow driveway, the old woman spoke disparagingly. 'Really, Mr. Canfield! Must you smoke one of those awful things?'

'Geneva rules lady. Prisoners are allowed packages from home.'
Chapter Forty-three
Twenty-seven miles from Zurich is the town of Menziken. The Geneva train stopped for precisely four minutes, the time allotted for the loading of the railway post, and then proceeded on its inevitable, exact, fated ride up the tracks to its destination.

Five minutes out of Menziken, compartments 04 and Dj on Pullman car six were broken into simultaneously by two men in masks. Because neither compartment contained any passengers, and both toilet doors were locked, the masked men fired their pistols into the thin panels of the commodes, expecting to find the bodies when they opened the doors.

They found no one. Nothing.

As if predetermined, both masked men ran out into the narrow corridor and nearly collided with one another.

'Halt! Stop!' The shouts came from both ends of the Pullman corridor. The men calling were dressed in the uniforms of the Geneva police.

The two masked men did not stop. Instead they fired wildly in both directions.

Their shots were returned and the two men fell.

They were searched; no identifications were found. The Geneva police were pleased about that. They did not wish to get involved.

One of the fallen men, however, had a tattoo on his forearm, an insignia, recently given the term of swastika. And a third man, unseen, unmasked, not fallen, was first off the train at Zurich, and hurried to a telephone.

'Here we are at Aarau. You can rest up here for a while. Your clothes are in a flat on the second floor. I believe your car is parked in the rear and the keys are under the left seat.' Their driver was English and Canfield liked that. The driver hadn't spoken a word since Geneva. The field accountant withdrew a large bill from his pocket and offered it to the man.

'Hardly necessary, sir,' said the driver as he waved the bill aside without turning.

They waited until eight fifteen. It was a dark night with only half a moon shrouded by low clouds. Canfield had tried the car, driving it up and down a country road to get the feel of it, to get used to driving with only his right hand. The gas gauge registered rempli and they were ready.

More precisely, Elizabeth Scarlatti was ready.

She was like a gladiator, prepared to bleed or let blood. She was cold but intense. She was a killer.

And her weapons were paper - infinitely more dangerous than maces or triforks to her adversaries. She was also, as a fine gladiator must be, supremely confident.

It was more than her last grande geste, it was the culmination of a lifetime. Hers and Giovanni's. She would not fail him.

Canfield had studied and restudied the map; he knew the roads he had to take to reach Falke Haus. They would skirt the center of Zurich and head toward Kloten, turning right at the Schlieren fork and follow the central road toward Bulach. One mile to the left on the Winterthurstrasse would be the gates of Falke Haus.

He had pushed the car up to eighty-five miles an hour, and he had stopped at sixty within the space of fifty feet without causing a dislocation of the seats. The Geneva Geheimpoüzist had done his job well. But then he was well paid. Damn near two years' wages at the going Swiss rate of Civil Service. And the car was licensed with the numbers no one would stop - for any reason - the Zurich police. How he had done it, Canfield didn't ask. Elizabeth suggested that it might have been the money.

'Is that all?' asked Canfield as he led Elizabeth Scarlatti toward the car. He referred to her single briefcase.

'It's enough,' said the old woman as she followed him down the path.

'You had a couple of thousand pages, a hundred thousand figures!'

They're meaningless now.' Elizabeth held the briefcase on her lap as Canfield shut the car door.

'Suppose they ask you questions?' The field accountant inserted the key in the ignition.

'No doubt they will. And if they do, I'll answer.' She didn't wish to talk.

They drove for twenty minutes and the roads were coming out right. Canfield was pleased with himself. He was a satisfied navigator. Suddenly Elizabeth