There it was again.
She could see it through the rain.
A light moving around the bell tower.
She first noticed it after moving into the flat last summer, doing the same thing as now: sitting at her dressing table, running a brush through her hair, getting ready for a night out. She remembered swallows darting by her windows and drawing her eyes outside. Lausanne Cathedral stood against the last flush of an evening sky.
Pretty, she thought, in an Addams Family sort of way. That’s when she saw the light in the tower, waving in her direction. It drifted out of sight, and then reappeared facing the lake. It waved once more then—poof—it was gone.
Night watchman with a flashlight, she thought.
But after a few more sightings, she realized the night watchman only appeared when the cathedral bells rang the hour. Always beginning at nine in the evening, always moving counterclockwise around the tower. East, north, west, south. Then she realized it wasn’t a flashlight in his hands, it was a lantern. And it looked as if he was shouting something from the balconies.
One night, just before nine, she stepped onto her terrace and waited. The bells rang nine times and presto, there he was. And damn if he wasn’t shouting something. But his voice was lost in the din of traffic rising from Pont Bessières. She grabbed her cell phone, texted her sister in Los Angeles.
anny u won’t believe it. they gotta lunatic locked in a bell tower over here. he’s got a lantern and screams at night. looking at him right now!
better watch out, kat. frankenstein was from switzerland
i thought he was german
that was hitler
tres weird. love to all 
come home and give it urself. parental units still way po’d abt evrthng. kids crying, gotta go
She’d forgotten about the light in the bell tower till tonight. Nine-o’clock bells and cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo.
She finished brushing her hair, looked at her face in the mirror. Twenty-six years old and not a wrinkle in sight. Little eye shadow, eyeliner, a hint of mascara. Nothing else needed. Her hazel-colored eyes did the rest. It was the flaw in her left eye, a silver squiggle in the iris. Men looked at it, then they stared, then they were hooked.
Tonight’s lucky fish, some Brit with a double-barreled name. Senior partner in London’s biggest law firm. He requested she wear her hair down on her shoulders, the way she looked in the pictures. All her clients liked her to look the way she looked in the pictures. Playboy, Girls of UCLA issue.
Barely legal, Katherine Taylor was the star with the cover shot. “Jean Seberg’s cool in the body of an angel,” read the photo caption. Inside, she was stretched naked on her back atop a pile of cash in a bank vault, highlighting her major in international economics, which it wasn’t, but who the fuck cared? Another shot straddling a bentwood chair wearing nothing but a French beret, to highlight her minor in French, which it was, but who cared again? It was a goof, something she did on a dare. But after a week of test shots, she made the cut. Suddenly it was a goof paying fifty thousand bucks. Playboy called it a scholarship. What a hoot, she thought. A million guys beating their meat and dreaming it was her fucking them, not their own grubby paws…and they call it a scholarship. She laughed all the way to the bank, wondering how goofy it could get.
The answer came a year later in the Marquis Hotel off Sunset.
A girlfriend was late for a night on the town. Katherine waited at the bar. The bartender presented a drink from someone in the room; she pushed it aside. Few minutes later, a well-dressed guy stood next to her, asking if she’d care to be presented to his boss. The guy’s accent was Arabic.
“Presented…to your boss. Let me ask you something, bud: Do I look like a birthday cake to you?”
“Please, miss, I mean no offense. My boss is sitting over there.”
Katherine saw a neat gentleman in an expensive tailored suit, alone in the corner, espresso and a glass of water keeping him company.
“So, who’s the boss?”
“He is a prince of our royal family in Saudi Arabia. He wishes me to tell you he admired your photographs very much and would like you to join him, please.”
“A prince. And you call him ‘boss.’ Wouldn’t ‘master’ be more like it?”
“They are the same, miss.”
Katherine shrugged. “Yeah, well, tell him I already have plans.”
The guy appeared perplexed as he walked across the room to deliver the bad news. The gentleman with the espresso smiled in Katherine’s direction. A few hushed words later, the guy was back at the bar.
“My boss understands your scheduling conflict, but is anxious to spend the evening with you. He asks if you might reconsider.”
The guy laid a thin red box on the bar. Katherine opened it, saw a gold necklace with a respectable-size pearl hanging from it. She snapped it shut and shoved it aside.
“Tell your boss he’s not my type.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tell him I like girls.”
The guy left the red box on the bar, made the same trip across the room to deliver the even worse news. Another smile, more hushed words, he was back. This time looking fit to faint.
“His Royal Highness asks me to inquire if twenty-five thousand would change your mind regarding your…type.”
“Twenty-five thousand, as in thousands of dollars?”
“Yes, miss.”
Katherine gave the gentleman in the corner a second glance. Neatly trimmed mustache, pampered complexion, scent of sandalwood.
“Let me get this straight. We’re talking twenty-five thousand dollars, cash, for one evening?”
“Yes.”
Katherine picked up the red box and opened it for another look. “This trinket, it’s a bonus, of course?”
“Of course. It would be a token of appreciation. You will be interested to know my prince can be most generous in his appreciations.”
“Is that so?”
“Indeed, miss. May I present His Royal Highness with the happy news?”
She snapped shut the box, handed it back. “First, take this back to Prince Boss and ask him what else he’s got.”
That was the end of UCLA and the beginning of graduate studies in cultivated men of immeasurable means. Elegant men who came recommended to her by “a mutual friend.” Probably the last guy she’d balled for cash, she thought, but so what? They came bearing gifts. Four years later, she had a beachfront condo in Santa Monica, a convertible Lexus in the garage, a room full of designer clothes, and a closet full of to-die-for shoes. And a little over four hundred thousand in undeclared cash to hide from the Internal Revenue Service.
Then came the letter from the IRS asking about all that undeclared cash in account number 2087956-2 of First Union Bank of California.
Lipstick. Understated red. Hint of gloss.
That very night, she met a Swiss gentleman for dinner at Ivy at the Shore. A private banker on business in Los Angeles, looking for discreet company. He was charming, he offered advice. Protecting one’s cash assets was difficult in the post-9/11 world, he said, especially for Americans. The American security apparatus now traced every dollar in circulation around the world. And Americans, as everyone knew, were somewhat prurient toward ladies of her particular profession, especially those ladies who did well for themselves. However, if mademoiselle might consider relocating to Lausanne, things could be arranged. Say, liquidating your property in America, converting your dollars into Swiss francs to be laundered through an offshore account in Cyprus and deposited in the Lausanne branch of a reputable bank. Of course, with your financial assets, Swiss residency wouldn’t be a problem. And most important, meeting someone with the right connections to handle your business affairs. He happened to know just the person: a Frenchwoman of excellent reputation now living in Geneva, operating a discreet and exclusive agency. The Two Hundred Club, catering to the rich and powerful of Europe.
Pearls tonight. Matching earrings.
The Swiss banker even knew a wonderful place on the market in Lausanne. Top floor, corner flat with a wraparound garden terrace. Lovely views of the French Alps and Lac Léman. He could arrange a mortgage with no money down, of course. Why, the whole thing could be run through the Two Hundred Club. Madame Simone Badeaux was the woman’s name, by the way. The banker just happened to handle her financial affairs and had her number in his BlackBerry.
“Why don’t you call her now and have a chat?”
By the time the dessert arrived, Katherine’s life was sorted. And by the time she moved to Lausanne, a German pharmaceutical company announced they were buying the entire building that housed her flat. A three-hundred-thousand profit on a cash investment of zip. And she didn’t have to move for another two years.
Katherine Taylor liked Lausanne. It dripped with easy money.
She stood, let the towels drop from her body. She sprayed a small mist of Chanel over her head, let the scent fall on her hair and shoulders. She opened the armoire, found the black Versace, slipped it over the expected black Aubade lingerie. The Prada heels would make their debut tonight. They added three inches to her five-foot-nine-inch frame. The client said he liked tallish women.
Her winter coat was on the chair by the front door. Fendi mink, three-quarter length. Another token of someone’s appreciation. An Italian Formula One driver this time, as thanks for her silence when an Italian tabloid offered her a million euros for the skinny on a certain dirty weekend in Rome while the world champion’s pregnant wife was home alone in Milan. Men of immeasurable means knew how to thank a girl who could keep her mouth shut when required. She tossed on the mink, gave one more turn in front of the hallway mirror.
“Later, baby.”
She took the elevator down to the taxi waiting at the corner of Rue Caroline and Langallerie.
“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Taylor.”
“Hi, Pascal. Ça va?”
“I’m very well, mademoiselle, thank you. You are very pretty tonight.”
“Thanks, Pascal. You always say the right things.”
“The Palace, mademoiselle?”
“Please.”
Pascal remained quiet through the ten-minute drive. Katherine appreciated his silence. That’s why he was number two on speed dial, and why she always paid twice the meter. She watched Lausanne roll by in the rain. Wet asphalt reflecting blue neon signs and orange streetlamps. Rounding Rue Saint-Pierre and stopping at a traffic light, she saw the lights of Évian across the lake. Pretty, she thought, in a San Francisco sort of way.
Trolley buses rolled through the intersection till the lights changed, and Pascal crossed onto Rue du Grand-Chêne. Katherine’s eyes just about popped from her head. The Lausanne Palace was flooded in red light, tied up in red ribbons and bows, garlands and ivy hanging from six floors of balconies. The pavement was dressed with stunted Christmas trees and the limestone pillars of the portico draped with hundreds of tiny white lights. None of it was there yesterday.
“Look at that! When did they do all that?”
“Today, mademoiselle. It is the beginning of the Christmas season in Switzerland when the Palace is decorated. People from all the cantons come to see it.”
“All that, in a day?”
“We Swiss are very efficient.”
“Tell me about it.”
Pascal made a quick turn up the crescent drive. Katherine giggled.
“Gosh, it’s like living a fairy tale.”
Ten bells echoed down the dripping street.
He checked his watch: five minutes shy of the hour. He tapped the crystal and put the watch to his ear. Still ticking, just slow.
He lit a smoke, stood still a moment. He listened.
Bells, rain.
Rain, bells.
As if there should be something else.
But he had no bloody idea what it should be.
He ducked under the hotel portico and waited as the taxi rolled up to the entrance. A nice set of ankles in black heels issued forth from the passenger door. The rest of the package came wrapped in mink, topped with a veil of blond hair that caught the white lights strung about the stone columns. He watched her make a slow turn, taking in the small forest of Christmas trees along the pavement. Watched her smile and climb the red-carpeted stairs to the revolving doors that carried her into the hotel like a kid on a carousel.
“Stars in her eyes, that one.”
He dropped his smoke on the pavement, ground it underfoot. He pulled the collar of his coat tight against his neck and stepped back in the rain. He passed the oyster bar at the hotel brasserie. Saw mounds of mollusks on ice and two lads in white smocks prying open shells with blunt knives. A crowd of well-heeled types inside the restaurant living it up. White wine and assorted belons all around. He saw Blondie come through a door connecting to the hotel lobby, following the maître d’hôtel to the corner booth near the windows. Middle-aged gent stood to greet her. The gent wore a swell suit. The kind that said expense account. The waiter helped Blondie with her mink, revealing a nicely cut black dress. The kind that said nicer underneath.
He turned away and walked along Rue du Grand-Chêne, crossed over the wet road, and took the stairs down to a dark alleyway you’d miss if you hadn’t been told where to look. Stone path was like a rat’s maze, turning left then right and hooking back once or twice after coming to dead ends, to where a single lightbulb dangled above a black steel door.
No sign, no markings. Just two doormen the size of bulldozers with faces to match, standing motionless under matching umbrellas. They watched him approach. He stopped in front of them.
“Good evening, lads. I take it this is the place.”
They looked at him for a moment and then stepped aside without a word. The black metal door behind them slid open. He nodded in appreciation.
“Cheers.”
He followed a come-hither beat down a flight of stairs. Blue neon squiggle on one wall spelled GG’s and illuminated photographs of scantily clad women on the other. All the women smiling with promises of wonderful things. He hit the last step, pushed through red velvet curtains to a dim room scented thick with perfume and cigarette smoke. A beam of white light cut through the smoke to a woman on a small stage. Her body adorned with a sheer white scarf. Her alabaster-colored skin, like the scarf, reflecting the purity of whiteness as she caressed the brass pole between her legs. She leaned back, swayed in time to the come-hither beat, let the scarf fall from her body.
“Right. And it’s that kind of place.”
He checked his coat with the rather nice-looking thing who appeared from nowhere, numbered ticket in her hand and a smile on her face that could melt butter.
“Enjoy your evening, monsieur.”
He took the ticket and walked to the bar where two beauties in negligees sat with their long legs on display. Drinking colas on ice, waiting for the kindness of a stranger. Harper took a seat at the end of the bar.
One of the women, the one with the almond-shaped eyes, said, “We will not bite, monsieur.”
“Sorry?”
“Are you afraid to be close to us?”
“Maybe I’m the shy type.”
“Perhaps monsieur would like to buy us a glass of champagne and we could help you overcome your shyness.”
He looked at the menu on the bar. Cheapest champers in the place listed at six hundred Swiss francs. Switzerland, land of medicinal bubbly and half-naked shrinks on call.
“How about a rain check, ladies?”
“As you wish, monsieur.”
He dug out his smokes, lit up, looked around the club. All the clientele sitting in the shadows with their drinks and cigarettes. None of them matched the photo.
“Welcome to GG’s, monsieur. You would like a drink?”
He turned to a petite woman behind the bar. Asian face, brown eyes, slender body draped in red silk.
“Vodka tonic, please.”
“With pleasure.” She mixed the drink in a tall glass, set it before him. “I hope you enjoy it.”
He tasted the drink; heavy on the vodka. Designed to get you well pissed and loosen up all those francs burning a hole in your pocket. He drank deeper.
“Sorry?”
“The drink, monsieur.”
“It’s fine.”
She gave it ten seconds.
“You’re a newcomer to Lausanne, monsieur.”
He thought about it for five.
“I suppose I am.”
“You must take time to visit the cathedral.”
“The what?”
“In the old city.”
He stared at her, wondering about the weirdness of a half-naked woman in a strip club telling him he should see a bloody cathedral.
“I’ll try to fit it in.”
The bartender gave it another ten seconds.
“Is there anything else I can offer you, monsieur?”
“Sorry?”
“I could ask one of our lovely dancers to join you for conversation, if you wish.”
“Conversation?”
She tapped a small notice on the bar: MERCI DE VOUS SOUVENIR DE GG’S: VOUS POUVEZ REGARDER MAIS PAS TOUCHER. You may look, but not touch.
He looked at her, wondering what one says to a half-naked woman.
“Actually, I’m waiting for someone.”
She opened her arms. Her breasts perked up under the silk. They were perfect. “I’m someone, monsieur. A very nice someone for you to talk to.”
“The someone I’m looking for is a man.”
She leaned over the bar, smiled somewhere between coy and coquette. “Then, monsieur, you are in the wrong place.”
He looked in the mirror above the bar. Portrait of a thirty-something chap in a tweed sports jacket and loose-fitting tie, propped at the bar of a strip club in Lausanne. Like being there and not there at the same time. His eyes fell from the mirror.
“Funny you should say that, mademoiselle.” He finished the drink, set the glass on the bar.
“You will have another drink while you wait?”
“There comes a time in the tide of human emotions.”
“Excusez-moi?”
“I’d love another drink.”
He smoked, waited for the refill. Up in the spotlight, a caramel-colored woman with long dark hair took the stage. She wore a gold sari that glimmered in the spotlight. She pulled it from her shoulder and it slid from her body like something liquid. She held it in front of her as the spotlight dimmed and blue backlight swelled, casting her naked form against the cloth. He watched the sari rise slowly to the woman’s eyes, watching her watch him. Inviting him to talk about the sensation of desire, maybe. He turned back to the bar, saw himself in the mirror again. Portrait of a thirty-something chap who couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such a thing. The bartender was back with his drink.
“I hope you enjoy it, monsieur.”
“If it’s anything like that last one, I’m sure I will.”
He stamped his smoke in the ashtray, scanned the tables again. The man from the photograph still nowhere to be seen. Strange place for a meeting, but it was the place the man wanted. Someplace safe, someplace they couldn’t be overheard. Too dangerous, time running out, must give you something. Sounded desperate, crazed even.
He sipped his drink.
An even heavier blast of vodka. Shaping up to be a rough night.
Standard operating procedure since coming to Lausanne. Couldn’t sleep in this town any more than in London. Just sit on the settee. Drink, smoke, watch the History Channel through the night, every night. Not so much getting pissed as trading the sensation of memory for all there was to know about the two and a half million years of human existence. From the moment the Homo ergaster line of hominids became bipeds, learned to control fire and file stones into hand axes. Bit of the old drinking game before pretending to sleep: pour a round and chug it down every time someone on the telly said the words “war” or “mankind.” He shook it off, lit another fag, looked around the joint. Place filling with more punters in search of conversation with a naked woman, but not the man he was waiting for. He turned back to the bar with his empty glass. The bartender in the red silk had another refill waiting for him.
“You’re a mind reader, mademoiselle.”
He checked his watch again. Eleven minutes after eleven o’clock. Flashing back again.
The last time he saw the hands of a clock in the same place.
Playing the drinking game in a one-room flat. Telly filled the dark room with blue flickering light. Holy Crusaders on the screen, slaughtering their way to Jerusalem in the name of Jesus. Streets running with blood. Telephone rang. He stared at it. Couldn’t remember the last time the telephone rang, couldn’t even remember where the hell he was. He got up from the sofa bed, pulled aside the window shade. Huge yellow brick building across the road. Clock tower atop the building reading 11:11.
“Where the hell am I?”
He closed the shade and sat back on the bed. Let the phone ring, thinking the bloody thing would give up sooner or later. It didn’t. He grabbed the remote and turned off the telly. The room wholly dark but for the glow of streetlamps against the window shade. He picked up the receiver, didn’t speak, just waited. Silence. Till a man’s voice came down the line.
“Good evening, Mr. Harper.”
“Who?”
“Jay Harper, on the Euston Road at King’s Cross Station?”
“King’s Cross?”
“Yes, the yellow brick building just outside your window. The one with the clock.”
His eyes scanned the bed, the floor. Bottles of vodka in varying stages of emptiness, a wallet, British passport, an ashtray stuffed with dead butts, a couple of packets of smokes. He reached for the passport. Photo inside with a name: Jay Michael Harper. Born: London, 1971.
“Who the hell’s this?”
The voice on the line answered as if the question were for him.
“Guardian Services Limited, Mr. Harper. Representing freelance security specialists such as yourself. We’ve engaged your services many times in the past.”
Harper had no idea what the voice was talking about. “Little late for a bloody sales call, isn’t it?”
“This isn’t a sales call, Mr. Harper. We’ve been trying to contact you for three days.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, looked around the room. Books, newspapers, rubbish scattered about. He shook his head, trying to come to. “Right.”
“There’s a job for you in Lausanne.”
“Where?”
“Lausanne, Switzerland.”
“Lausanne.”
A wave of sickness came over him, his head throbbed with pain. Coming to was proving difficult.
“Look, this really isn’t a good time.”
“I apologize for the hour.”
“No, it’s not…Look, I’m not up for any sort of job, not just now.”
“Mr. Harper, may I ask you if you are in a position to choose?”
“To choose?”
“Our records indicate you’ve been without work for some time. One would have thought you could use the work.”
The voice let him think about it. He grabbed the wallet and opened it. Thirteen pounds sterling, no pence. No other forms of ID, no credit cards, no bank cards. Like the voice said, no choice.
“What kind of job are we talking about, then?”
“Oh, the usual sort of thing.”
Harper had no idea what the fuck that meant. Then again, when there’s no choice, there’s no choice.
“So, what next?”
Walk across the road tomorrow morning, six o’clock. Find St. Pancras Station around the back of King’s Cross. Second-class rail ticket to Paris in your name at the Eurostar desk. Guy waiting on the platform, holding a sign: GUARDIAN SERVICES LTD. Doesn’t introduce himself, doesn’t say a word in English, mumbles in French. Somehow Harper catches the drift: Métro strike, need a taxi to Gare de Lyon, running late already. Hands over a ticket for the TGV Lyria to Lausanne, leads Harper to a waiting taxi on Rue de Dunkerque. Driver speeds through traffic, talks nonstop. Harper listens to the guy babble about the state of the world. Très mal, monsieur, on marche complètement sur la tête…Bloody world’s been turned on its head—in a bad way. Stares at the back of the driver’s head, wondering, Where the hell did I pick up French? Makes the train for Lausanne, just.
Four hours of clickity-clack later, Harper was in a small office of smoked-glass windows and a view of a parking ramp. On the desk, a Swiss residency card and work permit, a mobile phone and desktop computer, a letter addressed to him. The letter welcoming him, listing the address of a flat for his use on Chemin de Préville. Keys could be collected from the accounting office along with five thousand Swiss francs for expenses. A briefing book, a set of business cards.
Jay Michael Harper
Security Consultant
International Olympic Committee
Like waking up and finding yourself in someone else’s life.
First weeks not much to do other than make sure everyone parked in the right places and the overnight lads pulled down the shutters at night and wore blue cloth booties over their shoes so as not to scuff up the marble floors.
Just as well, he thought; anything more complicated might’ve tipped off his employers he didn’t know why the fuck he was there. Then, a manila envelope marked Confidential appeared on his desk. Inside were ten pages of handwritten scribble. Numbers and equations, charts and graphs. Attached memo advised him to get to the bottom of this. Getting to the bottom had gotten him as far as GG’s, waiting for a man named Alexander Yuriev.
He checked his watch again. Eleven forty.
The man named Yuriev was late.
Harper dug his mobile and some scraps of paper from his pocket. He sorted through the papers looking for a number. He found it and dialed. Four rings later, an annoyed-to-be-disturbed voice picked up.
“Oui?”
“Is that Hôtel Port Royal?”
“I cannot hear you. There is too much music.”
Harper cupped his hand over the phone. “Hôtel Port Royal?”
“Yes, yes, what do you want?”
“Could you connect me to a guest in your hotel? Alexander Yuriev.”
“He is not here.”
“Could you leave him a note that I called?”
“No, because he is checked out with his baggage.”
“When?”
“Today, before I came on shift.”
“Did he leave a number or forwarding address?”
“I don’t know, I’m only the night clerk. Call tomorrow during the day.”
“Fine, but I’ll give you my number in the event he calls in for messages tonight.”
He sorted through the scraps of paper in his hand, found one of his Olympic Committee business cards, read off the number. The night clerk sounded anxious to hang up.
“Okay, good-bye.”
“Wait, read it back to me.”
“What?”
“My number, read it.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t think you wrote it down.” He heard the rustle of papers down the line.
“Okay, I have a pencil now. Give me the number.”
The night clerk got it on the third try. Harper hung up, finished his drink, waved for the bill. The woman behind the bar gave him a little-girl pout.
“You do not want another drink, monsieur? We have a special midnight show. It is very enjoyable.”
“Thanks, but I’m well numbed as is.”
“Perhaps he will still come.”
“Who?”
“The man you’re looking for.”
Harper scanned the club once more. “Doubt it. How much are the drinks?”
“Three hundred francs, monsieur.”
“How much?”
“Three hundred francs.”
He opened his wallet, dropped the cash on the bar. “Could I have a receipt, please?”
“Tout de suite, monsieur.”
He pulled on his coat. Stuffed his smokes and matches in the pocket. He was presented with a pink piece of paper with the silhouette of a woman’s naked form and a handwritten script: 300 francs. Merci de votre visite au GG’s.
“Will this be acceptable, monsieur?”
He folded the paper, stuffed it in his coat. “I’m sure the accountants will piss themselves with merriment.”
“Please come again, monsieur.”
“Just out of curiosity, are there many places like this in town?”
“There are many exotic nightclubs in Lausanne, monsieur, but only one GG’s.”
“Look, but don’t touch. Not the greatest advert for a place like this, is it?”
She smiled. “The locals do not come to GG’s. We cater to newcomers, like you.”
“Lucky me, then.”
He made his way through the club and up the stairs to the street. Fresh air fired the alcohol in his blood and slapped him silly. The bouncers watched him wobble. Their matching black umbrellas were now neatly folded, handles in hands as if they were waiting for a bus.
“Strong drink down there.”
The bouncers nodded.
Harper looked up to the sky, watched a few stars coming out from behind the clouds. He took a deep breath. Whoosh again. Best leave the club-crawling to another night, he thought. He looked at the bouncers.
“Same way out as coming in, yeah?”
Ditto nods one more time.
“Cheers.”
He did the rat-through-the-maze routine in reverse. Got it right the whole way and found his way to Rue du Grand-Chêne and the Lausanne Palace Hotel. Passing the windows of the oyster joint, he saw Blondie in the corner booth near the window. Carefully sipping her wine, staring at her dinner companion as he talked. As if she cared deeply for his every word.
Harper turned away, walked along the forest of Christmas trees and into the blazing lights at the hotel portico. He stopped, leaned against one of the columns, feeling as if he wanted to stay awhile. The hotel doors spun open; a man dressed like a Prussian general appeared. Wasn’t a Prussian general, was the hotel doorman. And the doorman didn’t like the look of the someone in a beat-up coat leaning against one of his five-star pillars.
“Just passing through, mon général.”
Harper moved on and followed the spiderwebbed shadows of bare plane trees on the pavement. Twelve bells sounded over Lausanne. He looked back through the trees, beyond Flon and above the Palud quarter.
He saw Lausanne Cathedral reaching for the clouds. Something caught his eye in the belfry—something in the shadows of the arches and pillars. Bright as firelight, floating from side to side. The light drifted away and the floodlights went black.
“And so concludes our special midnight show.” He walked on.
The History Channel was waiting.