“I know Blinky quite well, mostly from alpine climbing together. Do you think this fellow Hermann was involved with the hacking attacks on Her Majesty? Or that he was killed because he was getting close to unmasking the foreign culprits?”
“I have no idea. You both understand that Great Britain itself keeps most of its vast gold reserves throughout Switzerland. But, frankly, Blinky Schultz is far more worried about Her Royal Highness’s business than yours, my dear boy. Your name and Hawke Industries just happened to pop up in the mix of attempted hacking.”
“Rather surprising, sir; in the world’s largest money pond, I’m a very small fish.”
“And so I assume this is where Hawke and I enter the picture?” Congreve said, leaning forward. You could almost hear the eager panting as Scotland Yard’s famous old dog gnawed at a rather large new bone clenched between his teeth.
“Precisely, Chief Inspector.”
“I’m hardly a cyberwarfare sleuth, with all due respect, sir,” Ambrose replied. “Don’t even know how to tweet.”
“Tweet? What the hell is that?” C said.
“Some kind of app or other. I have no idea, Sir David.”
“An app? What on earth is this man talking about, Alex?”
“Couldn’t really say, sir.”
“You’re a fine criminalist, Ambrose, and no one expects you to tweet or climb anything. But you, Alex, are entirely another kettle of fish. You possess skills that may prove vital to the mission. Hitherto unused in the line of duty, I might add.”
“Such as, sir?”
“Mountain climbing, to be exact. I took a look round at all of the available resources in your section. All the CVs, you see. Looking at the various hobbies officers of my own C Section enjoy. No luck at all, until I thought of you. You’re simply the only man who meets professional grade qualifications. At any rate, that’s why I chose the two of you. The Brain and the Brawn, as it were.”
Congreve put his fist to his mouth and coughed discreetly. “I wouldn’t mind a bit of climbing. A gentle hill or slope, perhaps.”
“No, no, no. None of the brawny bits for you, Chief Inspector. It’s that galactic-sized brain of yours that wants exercise now. You’ll find these two tangled mysteries worthy of your talents, I assure you. Ever heard of a man called ‘the Sorcerer,’ either of you?”
“Why no, I haven’t,” Ambrose said.
“Bit of a mystery, as I say. Very few people have ever laid eyes on him in recent years. And if they did, most are all dead now. Old age or whatever. When he disappeared, he was the most powerful man in Swiss finance. He ruled the roost. And nothing happened or didn’t happen in the great Swiss financial institutions that did not have his blessing or his fingerprints on it. You’ll both hear a lot more about him from your friend Blinky. Yes, Alex?”
“It’s not often I find myself looking into crimes that actually involve both the Queen and me personally. Or have anything to do with my own business bank accounts.”
“I’ll get to all that in due time. Now. Do either of you know anything at all about the real Switzerland? By that I mean the inner workings of the country itself. Their military history, for example.”
Hawke looked over at Ambrose and said, “No, not really.”
“We’re all ears, Sir David,” Congreve said with all the eagerness of a new puppy. “Please, sally forth.”
“I don’t want to bore you with a lecture.”
“Oh, we’re never bored,” Hawke said brightly, like an overly excited honors student to his Cambridge don.
The old man got his pipe lit and said, “Here you have a tiny nation that has not fought a war in over seven hundred years. And they are fiercely determined to know how to fight one so as not to have to.”
“Jolly good!” Hawke smiled. Ambrose guffawed and added, “Marvelous!” which pleased the host no end.
“Switzerland is two times the size of the state of New Jersey, which has, by far, the larger population. Yet there are nearly a million men in the Swiss Army. It’s a civilian army, a trained and practiced militia, ready to mobilize instantly. Each citizen serves for thirty years. But all of them, a million of them, mind, are ready to grab their rifles and be present at mobilization points and battle stations all over the country. Within twenty-four hours.”
“You have got to be joking,” Hawke exclaimed, full of wonder.
“Not even slightly. Most of these citizen troops specialize in combat operations that occur at twelve thousand feet and skyward and—”
“I beg your pardon, Sir David, but is this to be a military operation as well?” Congreve asked.
“Not yet, at any rate, but we must be prepared for the path to lead us in that direction. I cannot say more. But our man Blinky is going to introduce you to someone named Baron Wolfgang von Stuka—or ‘Wolfie,’ as he likes to be called. Comes from a very long line of aristocratic warriors. Now a highly respected divisionnaire in the Swiss Army. Captain, basically. Many call him ‘Switzerland’s Guardian Angel.’ He is the soul of bravery and honesty and a man revered by most of the population, especially the women.”
“I look forward to meeting this saint in human form,” Hawke said, excitement palpable in his voice. “And finding your murderer for you, sir.”
“I’ll second that, Sir David,” Ambrose said.
“Good. Time to do one’s duty,” said Hawke, raising his eyes to the magnificent picture of his great hero, Admiral Lord Nelson, as he lay dying on the bloody deck of his flagship Victory. The last words he’d spoken were “I thank God that I have done my duty.”