Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

Tonight I don’t care. I could sleep in a tent. I’m exhausted, finally losing the battle over the nine-hour time difference between the West Coast and Lucerne.

In the hallway outside his door Harry stops, looks at me, and says, “I just had a thought. Why don’t we head back?”

“What?”

“Home,” he says.

“What, you mean now?”

“Why not? We stick around, we’re just gonna swallow a big load of jet lag. If we head back now, we stay on California time and we’ll be fine. We sleep on the train to Zurich and all the way home on the plane. You heard the man. There’s nothing more we’re gonna get here.”

“I’m tired. I want to sleep. We paid for the rooms, let’s use them. Besides, how can you be so sure there’s nothing more?”

“Unless you think he was lying,” says Harry. “What else is there? We need hard evidence and there’s only two sets of records. The bank has one. The other is buried somewhere, probably stateside, and the only man who knows where is locked up in a federal pen.

“You think he was lying?” says Harry.

“You mean Korff?”

“Yeah.”

“No. I think he told us everything he knew.”

“So then we know almost everything there is to know. We just can’t prove any of it.” Harry puts the key in the lock and opens the door to his room. Harry disappears inside, but he keeps on talking and doesn’t close the door. Harry’s wound up. He wants to chat. “What else is there? Tell me?” he says.

I ignore him, open the door to my own room, and flip on the light. I can hear him still jabbering away in the other room. I yawn, cover my mouth, and make my way around the bed toward the window on the other side. When I get there I pull the curtains closed. All I want to do is collapse on the bed and sleep. I’ll shower in the morning.

“I’m talking to you,” he says. “Where’d you go?” I hear him hollering, top of his lungs in the other room. If he doesn’t tone it down they’re going to throw us out. I stumble back around the bed into the hallway toward his room. When I get to his open door I tell him as much.

“Good,” he says. “They throw us out, we can go home.” Harry has his back to me, opening the window, taking in some fresh air. With Harry, a few beers and he gets a second wind. He pulls the curtains closed as he turns to look at me. “If we stay here we’re just wasting more time. You heard the man. There are no records to be had. Not here at least.”

“There is the bank,” I tell him. “It’s a shot.”

“You mean Gruber? Yeah, right through your head. You don’t actually think they’re gonna share anything with us. You heard him. Swiss banking secrecy is carved in stone. Put there by the fiery finger of God. We go wandering over to Gruber asking questions about any of the information he gave us tonight, they’re gonna throw our asses in the Swiss pokey until we tell them who ratted them out. Then the three of us can share a cell,” says Harry.

He may be right. But at the moment I’m not thinking too clearly. “OK, but why don’t we get some sleep first?”

Harry stops talking. Instead he is looking down at something with the kind of expression you might save for a snake.

“What is it?”

“That.”

“What?”

“My comb. On the bed.”

“Jeez, you had me scared.” There’s a small pocket comb lying near the head of the bed halfway under one of the pillows.

“I didn’t leave it there,” he says.

“Maybe you did and you forgot.”

“No. I didn’t open my bag.” He lifts the rolling piece of luggage up and tosses it onto the bed. Harry unzips it and throws back the cover. He looks but he doesn’t touch anything.

“Is everything there?”

“I don’t know. But it’s not the way I packed it,” he says. Harry would know. He is phobic about such things.

I head to my room and check my bag. Before I even get it open I realize he is right. The running shoes I’d packed in the side pocket are no longer there. When I unzip the bag I find them inside, on top of my other clothes.

I leave the bag unzipped on the bed and head back to Harry’s room. When I get there he is folding up a piece of paper, something from his travel folder.

“We can sleep on the train,” he says. He’s already chugging around the bed toward me. “There’s one that leaves for Zurich at two.” He grabs the comb, tosses it in the suitcase, and zips it up.

Before I can say another word, Harry has the lights off, pulling his suitcase behind him. He closes the door to his room and ushers me down the hall to get my bag and lock up.

At this point the adrenaline has kicked in. I am no longer arguing with him. My weariness seems to have fled, driven off by my natural instinct of flight rather than fight.

The ancient covered footbridge was lit by incandescent lights high up under the gable of the wooden roof. The bright light seemed trapped inside the long span over the dark water.

But even with the illumination it was difficult from outside to see much on the bridge at night. There was only a small gap between the eaves of the roof and the solid plank walls that lined each side of the walkway. If a person fell on the bridge, unless you were walking on it yourself, you would not be able to see them.

The Libyan hiding in the shadows on the other side realized this almost immediately. He had been waiting almost ten minutes by the time he saw the old man stumbling along the quay across the river. In that time not a single soul had crossed the footbridge. The man was getting tired of waiting. Besides, from the look of it, the old guy might pass out before he got across.

About fifty meters out from the Libyan’s side of the river there was a large six-sided stone tower with a matching hexagonal roof. It appeared to be part of the bridge structure. At the tower the bridge angled sharply to the left. To that point the Libyan would have complete cover from the old man moving toward him from the other side of the river. He considered moving out onto the bridge at least as far as the tower. Then he looked at the cold, dark water flowing by, and decided against it.

If someone entered the bridge behind him when he was engaged with the old man he would have to run to the far side of the bridge to escape. The river was less than a hundred and twenty meters wide at this point. But the old wooden bridge, because it ran at a diagonal across the water, was more than two hundred meters from end to end.

If someone saw him, called the police, and they closed off the two ends of the bridge, he would have nowhere to go but over the side and into the water. He was not a good swimmer. Just downstream a few hundred meters the river washed over the baffles of a small dam, and the water was swift. The Libyan wanted no part of it.

Besides, here on dry land, he had an advantage, not only darkness and surprise, but the steps leading down from the bridge. The old man would have to navigate those. In his present state he might fall and break his neck even if no one touched him.

The Libyan moved out toward the steps leading up to the wooden bridge, passed into the shadows beyond them, and huddled down low near the ground. He would wait.

Up on the roof, his partner watched the lights in the two rooms across the river through the field glasses. The lawyers were getting ready for bed. He had seen them come to the windows and close the curtains.

Earlier in the evening as the two lawyers were having dinner, his compatriot now down by the bridge stole into their rooms at the hotel and went through their luggage. As instructed, he was looking for any documents that might be important. He found nothing. Neither one of the lawyers was carrying a computer. That seemed strange. The man doing the search was young but highly efficient. When he finished the search of the first bag he casually deposited everything back inside the suitcase, zipped it closed, and put it back on the floor. Then he locked up the room and went next door.