The Doomsday Conspiracy Page 0,14

to have the names of those passengers?"

"Sir, people come in off the street, buy their ticket and take the tour. We don't ask for identification."

Wonderful. "Thank you again." Robert started toward the door.

The clerk called out, "I hope you will send us a copy of the article."

"Absolutely," Robert said.

The first piece of the puzzle lay in the tour bus, and Robert drove to Talstrasse where the buses departed, as though it might reveal some hidden clue. The Iveco bus was brown and silver, small enough to traverse the steep Alpine roads, with seats for fourteen passengers. Who were the seven, and where had they disappeared to? Robert got back in his car. He consulted his map and marked it. He took Lavessneralle out of the city, into the Albis, the start of the Alps, toward the village of Kappel. He headed south, driving past the small hills that surround Zurich, and began the climb into the magnificent mountain chain of the Alps. He drove through Adliswil and Langnau and Hausen, and nameless hamlets with chalets and colourful picture-postcard scenery, until almost an hour later, he came to Kappel. The little village consisted of a restaurant, a church, a post office, and a dozen houses scattered around the hills. Robert parked the car and walked into the restaurant. A waitress was clearing a table near the door.

"Entschuldigen Sie bitte, Fraulein. Welche Richtung ist das Haus von Herr Beckerman?"

"Ja." She pointed down the road. "An der Kirche rechts."

"Danke."

Robert turned right at the church and drove up to a modest two-storey stone house with a ceramic tiled roof. He got out of the car and walked up to the door. He could see no bell, and knocked.

A heavyset woman with a faint moustache answered the door. "Ja?"

"I'm sorry to bother you. Is Mr Beckerman in?"

She eyed him suspiciously. "What do you want with him?"

Robert gave her a winning smile. "You must be Mrs Beckerman." He pulled out his reporter's identification card. "I'm doing a magazine article on Swiss bus drivers, and your husband was recommended to my magazine as having one of the finest safety records in the country."

She brightened and said proudly, "My Hans is an excellent driver."

"That's what everyone tells me, Mrs Beckerman. I would like to do an interview with him."

"An interview with my Hans for a magazine?" She was flustered. "That is very exciting. Come in, please."

She led Robert into a small, meticulously neat living room. "Wait here, bitte. I will get Hans."

The house had a low, beamed ceiling, dark wooden floors and plain wooden furniture. There was a small stone fireplace and lace curtains at the windows.

Robert stood there, thinking. This was not only his best lead, it was his only lead. People come in off the street, buy their ticket and take the tour. We don't ask for identification ... There's no place to go from here, Robert thought grimly. If this doesn't work out, I can always place an ad: Will the seven bus passengers who saw a weather balloon crash Sunday please assemble in my hotel room at 1200 tomorrow morning? Breakfast will be served.

A thin, bald man appeared. His complexion was pale, and he wore a thick, black moustache that was startlingly out of keeping with the rest of his appearance. "Good afternoon, Herr ...?"

"Smith. Good afternoon." Robert's voice was hearty. "I've certainly been looking forward to meeting you, Mr Beckerman."

"My wife tells me you are writing a story about bus drivers." He spoke with a heavy German accent.

Robert smiled ingratiatingly. "That's right. My magazine is interested in your wonderful safety record and ..."

"Scheissdreck!" Beckerman said rudely. "You are interested in the thing that crashed Sunday afternoon, no?"

Robert managed to look abashed. "As a matter of fact, yes, I am interested in discussing that, too."

"Then why do you not come out and say so? Sit down."

"Thank you." Robert took a seat on the couch.

Beckerman said, "I am sorry I cannot offer you a drink, but we do not keep schnapps in the house anymore." He tapped his stomach. "Ulcers. The doctors cannot even give me drugs to relieve the pain. I am allergic to all of them." He sat down opposite Robert. "But you did not come here to talk about my health, eh? What is it you wish to know?"

"I want to talk to you about the passengers who were on your bus Sunday when you stopped near Uetendorf where the weather balloon crashed."

Hans Beckerman was staring at him. "Weather balloon? What weather