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After a surprisingly good hotel breakfast, Skull bought a tote bag from the gift shop to hold his cash. The spring day felt fresh and clean, and snowcapped peaks loomed nearby like benevolent Nordic godlings. Flowers sprouted from boxes in the windows of colorfully painted historic buildings and modern shops alike, smells mingled with the aromas of coffee and baking bread and beer from last night’s revelry.
He walked to Geneva’s Centrum, toward the Parc des Bastions along the French-named streets – this was the historically Francophone section of the country – the Rue de Lombard, the Boulevard de Philosophes, the Boulevard de Georges-Favon. His first stop was at a Bank of Geneva branch to exchange dollars for Swiss francs. Next he went to an electronics shop and bought an airweight computer and a local prepaid smart phone with an extra SIM card and a few other items. In Europe, one could easily swap SIM cards, creating in effect an entirely new phone with a different number.
Inquiring after the location of a camera-and-optical shop, he walked a few blocks to that place. There he bought an excellent Japanese miniature camcorder with the best zoom he could get, some very fine Zeiss binoculars, and a suite of accessories including batteries, tripods for both, cleaning solution and cloths.
He also bought two rifle sights: one high-quality optical day sight and one night sight. These purchases excited no comment whatsoever; sportsmen and target shooters, police and military from all over the world routinely bought Swiss optics for their weapons.
From a bakery around the corner he also purchased a bag full of incredible pastries and a large cup of fresh-made coffee to go, munching and sipping as he walked. Tourists were common, and he deliberately fit the mold with his half-filled backpack and shopping bags. There was nothing as forgettable as another tourist in Switzerland.
He crossed the Rhone River that fed Lake Geneva, here tame and full of boat traffic passing up and down for commerce or leisure. Catching a train for a couple of miles to complete his journey he disembarked at Les Tuileries station near the northeast end of Geneva Airport.
It had only one runway, and generally aircraft took off and landed over the northeast end, using the lake for their final approach or initial departure. According to the map on his phone, there was also a considerable swath of forest, farm fields and parkland curving from the end of the runway north and westward along the edge of the airport proper. Walking along using the GPS function to track his progress, he found his way to a position on the edge of the forest there, the Bois de Foretaille. There he settled himself with his back against a tree, eating pastries, drinking coffee, and looking through his binoculars at many interesting things as the jets flew low over his head.
He made some cryptic notations in his phone, and then began to walk again. Methodically he partially circumnavigated the airport counterclockwise, first north then westward, examining the terrain, tapping the touchscreen from time to time. By the early mountain sundown he had found out what he needed to know.
He caught a taxi back to the hotel, a concession to his half-century old body that, while fit, knew more aches and pains each year. That didn’t matter; every day for the last ten years had risked his death, tempted his death, cheated his death for his cause.
He ate dinner in the hotel restaurant and took a nap; his body was confused by the jet lag, but the alarm on the phone woke him up on time to make the call.
“Allo.”
“I’m looking for my brother. He said to speak to you about a trombone.”
“Oui. Come to 14 Rue Descartes at twenty-two.”
“Oui, d’accord.” Skull hung up. Ten o’clock – “twenty-two” on the usual European twenty-four-hour clock, 2200 hours in military time – was an hour away. He spent it walking the chill Geneva streets, looking at the clear, bright stars with genuine pleasure. In Mexico City he seldom saw the night sky for the smog.
At precisely ten according to his Patek – thankfully on his wrist in this safe city – he knocked at the door of 14 Rue Descartes. It was an old door on an old street but impeccably maintained and painted, and it opened immediately without sticking or squeaking. A man of about seventy waved him in, looking at him over spectacles clipped to his nose – pince-nez, he remembered they were called.
“My brother said you might have a trombone for me?”
“Oui. You have money?”
“Of course. North American dollars. Okay?”
“Oui, pas de problem. We have some superb banks here in La Suisse. You may have heard of them.” The man’s eyes sparkled with good cheer as he led the way down a flight of narrow stairs into a basement.
Skull laughed in spite of himself. It was good to visit a place where life wasn’t grim and full of fearful citizenry. “You do have an excellent reputation.”
“Bien sur, what else has a man but his reputation? And mine is spotless.” He opened a modern steel door that went through to a short tunnel lined with white-painted brick. The door at the other end opened into a machine shop; lathes and presses and less identifiable machinery dotted the large floor. Stacks of pipes, sheet metal, and machined parts were stored neatly on shelves. The old man nodded to a middle-aged technician who was carefully tending the edge of a piece of steel with a fine wire brush as they crossed the floor to a large, immobile-seeming steel cabinet.
“Turn around, please.”
Skull did so, and when he was told to turn back, the thing had been silently swung aside like a door, revealing another workshop behind.
Inside he saw more machine tools, but these were specific to the armorer’s art. Gunsmithing was an ancient tradition here; the Swiss were among the best weapon-makers in the world. Long guns lined the walls on pegs, but no handguns. Owning a rifle here was completely normal and expected; handguns were tightly controlled.
“What kind of weapon would you like?” the man asked.
“First, untraceable. I may have to abandon it after use. Second, something in 7.62 that can take these sights I will leave with you, something very precise and accurate, nothing old and worn out. It is for distance work.”
“It will be expensive.”
“I have enough money.”
“I have no ammunition. It is too dangerous to deal in ammunition. I can tell you a place to go but you must not tell them of me.”
Skull waved the offer aside. “I have match-grade ammunition with me. I need you to scan all the cartridges and choose the best ones, then select the weapon based on this ammunition. Tune up the gun. Crown and lead-lap the barrel. Lighten the hammer. Set the trigger pull to three pounds, and fit an angle cosine indicator and a bipod.”
“Yes, yes, I can do this. Do you have the optics to boresight?”
“Yes, right here. How long will it take?”
“A day only.”
Skull chewed the inside of his cheek in thought. “Bon. Here is my number.”
“Thank you. I expect your gun will be a SIG SG 510. I have several; one of them will do I am sure. A superb weapon, if a bit dated.”
“Bon. I like old reliable things. I also need a concealment case.”
“Yes, for the trombone. No problem. And I must ask for the money in advance.”
“Of course. How much?”
The old man spoke a number, and Skull nodded, counting out considerable stacks of cash, well into high five figures. He left quite happy to have paid the fee. A workman is worthy of his wages. Every shot would have to tell if he was to achieve his goal and again live to fight another day.
