completely open homicide investigation. Why the involvement of an OSI agent? Your explanation will be terse: because these names have cropped up in the course of an ongoing investigation into the fraudulent transfer of funds, the details of which nobody will press you to disclose. A simple cover, nothing elaborate required."
"I'll pursue the sort of investigation I've been trained to do," Anna said warily. "That's all I can promise."
"That's all I'm asking for," Bartlett replied smoothly. "Your skepticism may be well founded. But one way or the other, I'd like to be sure. Go to Nova Scotia. Assure me that Robert Mailhot really did die of natural causes. Or confirm that he didn't."
Chapter Four
Ben was driven to the headquarters of the Kantonspolizei, the police of the canton of Zurich, a grimy yet elegant old stone building on Zeughausstrasse. He was led in through an underground parking garage by two silent young policemen and up several long flights of stairs into a relatively modern building that adjoined the older one. The interior looked like it belonged in a suburban American high school, circa 1975. To any of his questions, his two escorts answered only with shrugs.
His thoughts raced. It was no accident that Cavanaugh was there on Bahnhofstrasse. Cavanaugh had been in Zurich with the deliberate intent to murder him. Somehow the body had disappeared, had been removed swiftly and expertly, and the gun planted in his bag. It was clear that others were involved with Cavanaugh, professionals. But who-and, again, why?
Ben was taken first to a small fluorescent-lit room and seated in front of a stainless-steel table. As his police escorts remained standing, a man in a short white coat emerged and, without making eye contact, said, "Ihre Hande, bitte." Ben extended his hands. It was pointless to argue, he knew. The technician pumped a mist from a plastic spray bottle on both sides of his hands, then rubbed a cotton-tipped plastic swab lightly but thoroughly over the back of his right hand. Then he placed the swab in a plastic tube. He repeated the exercise for the palm, and then did the same with Ben's other hand. Four swabs now reposed in four carefully labeled plastic tubes, and the technician took them with him as he left the room.
A few minutes later, Ben arrived at a pleasant, sparely furnished office on the third floor, where a broad-shouldered, stocky man in plainclothes introduced himself as Thomas Schmid, a homicide detective. He had a wide, pockmarked face and a very short haircut with short bangs. For some reason Ben remembered a Swiss woman he'd once met at Gstaad telling him that cops in Switzerland were called bull en "bulls," and this man demonstrated why.
Schmid began asking Ben a series of questions-name, date of birth, passport number, hotel in Zurich, and so on. He sat at a computer terminal, typing out the answers with one finger. A pair of reading glasses hung from his neck.
Ben was angry, tired, and frustrated, his patience worn thin. It took great effort to keep his tone light. "Detective," he said, "am I under arrest or not?"
"No, sir."
"Well, this has been fun and all, but if you're not going to arrest me, I'd like to head on back to my hotel."
"We would be happy to arrest you if you'd like," the detective replied blandly, the barest glint of menace in his smile. "We have a very nice cell waiting for you. But if we can keep this friendly, it will all be much simpler."
"Aren't I allowed to make a phone call?"
Schmid extended both hands, palms up, at the beige phone at the edge of his crowded desk. "You may call the American consulate here, or your attorney. As you wish."
"Thank you," Ben said, picking up the phone and glancing at his watch. It was early afternoon in New York. Hartman Capital Management's in-house attorneys all practiced tax or securities law, so he decided to call a friend who practiced international law.
Howie Rubin and he had been on the Deerfield ski racing team together and had become close friends. Howie had come to Bedford several times for Thanksgiving and, like all of Ben's friends, had particularly taken to Ben's mother.
The attorney was at lunch, but Ben's call was patched through to Howie's cell phone. Restaurant noise in the background made Howie's end of the conversation hard to make out.
"Christ, Ben," Howie said, interrupting Ben's summary. Someone next to him was talking loudly. "All right, I'll tell you what