The evil old man had said to go to Switzerland, so the team went to Switzerland. They landed at Zürich airport, with its sweeping, modern architecture and shiny escalators, and took advantage of its parade of services and conveniences. Shortly after landing, they were climbing into a silver rental Ford and making their way towards the city of Zürich. The multicultural city by the water was an intricate mix of urban life and nature, humming with commotion by day and by night, and less than an hour from the ancient and spectacular Swiss mountain ranges.
This time, Quaid drove, still trying to wrestle with the newfangled automatic gearbox and in-car technology. Mason was beginning to think he just loved to complain about it as a way of clinging to the past. Quaid would never grow accustomed to the onward march of technology, not because he wasn’t able but simply because he preferred the old ways.
Sally, in the back seat, spoke up as they drove through the outskirts of the big city. ‘Just out of interest,’ she said, ‘and since I’m still in training, what would you have done to Bellaire if he’d simply refused to give us an answer?’
Mason leaned back and closed his eyes. This was part of the problem when you trained civilians. He’d been trained in war, for war. He’d been taught to kill or be killed by ruthless men. To be as ruthless as they were and stay alive any way he could. Bringing those attributes into a civilian situation was risky. He was no teacher.
‘We’re teaching you to stay alive in a combat situation,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave the mind games alone for another year.’
‘Mind games?’
‘You have to make them believe you’re willing to kill, to hurt, to maim,’ Roxy said quietly. ‘It’s all in the head.’
‘Well, Bellaire believed you.’
Mason thought about that. The old man had folded, but he’d done so at the last possible moment, as the cops drew near. The hard truth was, if he’d waited just a few minutes more, Mason would have been forced to back down and run. Maybe Bellaire hadn’t heard the sirens. Maybe he’d got to the end of his endurance. Maybe he assumed Mason was working with the cops.
Whatever it was, Mason knew they couldn’t trust a word Bellaire had told them. Even now, heading towards the address Bellaire had spilled, Mason was racking his brains for a plan B.
‘Those baby blues look worried,’ Roxy said to him. ‘You think Bellaire was lying?’
‘I think we have to follow up anyway,’ Mason said. ‘I don’t like it, but I think that’s what we have to do.’
Quaid followed the satnav on what felt like a roundabout route as they skirted the main city. They were all hungry and stopped for half an hour to make use of a fast-food restaurant on the way. Once they’d eaten, they continued their journey, which, Mason saw, was almost at an end.
‘It’s leading us to this warehouse district,’ he said, looking left and right as they started threading their way through an old industrial estate.
‘Remote and yet very accessible,’ Hassell said. ‘Plenty of ingress and egress routes. I’d choose this place if I was in Cassadaga’s shoes.’
Mason nodded. Hassell was the expert. He watched as Quaid negotiated several more streets, taking them to the heart of the district. Finally, the car slowed and pulled up at the side of a kerb.
‘It’s back there,’ he said. ‘I drove past it.’
Mason nodded. He had noticed the building that corresponded to the address Bellaire had given them. It bore a small black number 39 on its brick frontage and a narrow, incongruous golden sign that read: Elstead Holdings. He studied it over his shoulder as the car ticked quietly.
‘Thoughts?’ he asked the team.
‘We do as Bellaire said,’ Hassell spoke up first. ‘We go inside.’
‘And then return twenty-four hours later,’ Quaid said. ‘Easy.’
Mason knew the building would be locked tight, but he was also aware it wouldn’t be a problem for Hassell. The guy could pick his way into anything. To left and right, similar buildings stood blanketed by a similar silence. The only movement he could see was in an office ahead of them where a guy was cleaning the windows as a secretary talked to him. The little parking area in front of that building was full of cars.
Not so the one they were interested in.
‘Wait for the window cleaner to finish,’ Hassell said. ‘Then we move.’
Mason nodded. The other side of the road was the backs of warehouses, all without windows, so it wasn’t as if they were overlooked. And Hassell could find a way into the building in seconds, Mason was sure. He sat and watched the window cleaner for a while.
‘He’s taking his time.’
‘That might have something to do with the secretary.’ Roxy smiled.
Eventually, as early afternoon passed, the window cleaner made his exit, and the secretary vanished. Mason took a last look around before exiting their car, followed by the others. It was cool outside, with a cold snap in the air. Mason felt it on his exposed arms and face. He started walking briskly towards the building.
‘We’re meant to be here,’ he said. ‘Act like it for anyone watching.’
Hassell led the way, reached the door first and already had his lock picks in his hand. A few quick twists and turns of the carbon fibre sticks, and the metal door handle clicked. Hassell eased it open. Mason followed him inside, ready for anything.
The office was a dark shell, populated only by an empty desk and a plastic chair. There were no filing cabinets, no shelving, no sign that the place was in use. Mason had to assume there was some surveillance equipment inside through which they would now be observed before they left and returned in twenty-four hours. It was an obscure and roundabout way of doing business, but it had helped keep Cassadaga free for decades.
‘You think that’s enough?’ Roxy was walking around the place, turning on the spot.
‘I think they’ve got your good side.’ Quaid smiled.
‘I hope it’s not a dead end,’ Mason said.
‘It sure feels like it,’ Roxy said, staring around at the empty place.
Mason looked out the front windows. It was still quiet out there; their silver car looking incongruous parked at the side of the road. The only person he could see was a postal worker about a dozen doors down.
A car turned into the street. Mason wasn’t sure why he kept on watching it – maybe it was because he had nothing else to do, maybe it was that eternal suspicion that his army days had instilled in him – but he stared at the vehicle as it cruised slowly by. It was silver, like theirs, but bigger like an SUV. The windows comprised smoked glass, but the driver was staring right at the building they were in.
Mason felt a tremor of anticipation. Was he imagining it, seeing something that wasn’t really there?
Or was the driver staring right at him?
A second car turned down the street. Suddenly, it seemed rather busy outside. This one was big and brown and cruising along just as steadily as the first. It too had a driver who took a long look at the building that they were in.
Both cars disappeared around the bend at the bottom of the street. Mason kept watching. He called Roxy over. Sure enough, thirty seconds later, both cars reappeared and started back along the street.
‘I think we have trouble,’ Mason said.