Ken McClure - The Anvil

MacLean readied himself with matches and lighter fuel but was not convinced that there would be enough petrol vapour in the gutter to trigger off the gas inside. He would wait as long as possible. The men had started to argue again and there was an air of despondency about them. He saw the driver take out a pack of cigarettes and put it to his mouth to draw out one with his lips. MacLean froze in anticipation.

The driver held up a lighter to the end of his cigarette and flicked it open. MacLean saw a flicker of yellow flame lick out from it before the car erupted in a butane flash fire. This in turn ignited the heavy petrol vapour outside and a violent explosion rocked the car. There was no question of anyone surviving the conflagration. Jean-Paul Rives was cremated along with his murderers.

MacLean walked away: he walked for two blocks then took a cab to the far side of the city and did not return until late. The night porter at the hotel told him all about the excitement he had missed, obliging him to spend a few minutes asking the questions he could be reasonably expected to ask. He then went to his room and drank whisky until whether he was asleep or unconscious was a matter of medical opinion.

MacLean plied his hangover with black coffee and faced the fact that last night had not been a nightmare; it had all happened. His friends were dead and he had murdered three men out there in the street. The burnt-out shell of the Mercedes had been removed by the police — this was Switzerland after all — but there were scorch marks on the walls of the lane nearby. He was all alone with only the name May Haas to cling to. Who was she? What was she? Presumably she worked for Lehman Steiner but as what? Doctor? Nurse? Scientist? Personnel would know but would they tell him?

At eleven o’ clock MacLean phoned Lehman Steiner and asked to speak to the chief personnel officer. There was a pause before a woman’s voice answered and asked what he wanted.

‘I wonder if you can help me,’ said MacLean. ‘My name is Dieter Haas, I’m trying to find my niece, May. I believe she works for your company?’

‘This is a very big company,’ replied the woman. ‘And we are not allowed to give out… ‘

‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ interrupted MacLean, ‘but you are my only hope. I’ve spent the last twenty years in Leipzig. My brother and I were separated many years ago by the Berlin wall. We never saw each other again. I’ve learned since that he died two years ago and that his wife is also dead. But they had a daughter, May. She is my only living relative and I would dearly like to find her. I’ve been told that she works for Lehman Steiner so I wondered if perhaps you could see your way to help me?

‘I see,’ said the woman; she sounded concerned and genuinely sympathetic. A nice person, thought MacLean; he hated conning nice people.

‘We don’t usually give out this sort of information but as this is obviously a special case… What exactly does Fraulein Haas do with the company?’ asked the woman.

‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea,’ confessed MacLean.

‘Oh dear,’ came the reply.

‘Is there a problem?’ asked MacLean in trepidation.

‘Sort of,’ said the woman. ‘It’s just that if you don’t know what type of employment she has with us then it could take some time to trace her. Perhaps I could call you back?’

MacLean thanked the woman but said that it would be better if he were to call her.’

‘Very well,’ said the woman. ‘I realise how important this must be to you. Give me an hour.’

‘Thank you,’ said MacLean. He spent most of the following hour pacing up and down the room. On the stroke of ten thirty he called back.

‘I think there must have been some kind of mistake,’ said the woman when she came on the line.

‘Mistake?’ asked MacLean with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

‘We have no one with the name of May Haas working with the company in any capacity.’

‘I see,’ said MacLean slowly.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said the woman.

‘Thank you, ‘ said MacLean, putting down the phone in slow motion. Where did he go from here?

The sun was shining but MacLean didn’t notice as he walked the city streets, deep in thought. He saw the Cathedral St Pierre appear in front of him and, on impulse, went inside. It was cool and dark with a comforting smell of age and furniture polish, its solid stonework keeping out the sounds of the street. He hadn’t realised how long he had been walking until he sat down in a pew and felt his legs appreciate the rest. The gloom and the sheer size of the place afforded him a welcome anonymity, encouraging him to stay a while and get his thoughts in order. Walking round in circles wasn’t the answer. He needed a plan of action.

The trouble was that the situation was almost too painful to contemplate. Eva and Jean-Paul had given their lives to get him a name but he had been unable to do anything with it. If May Haas really didn’t work for Lehman Steiner then he had little or no chance of ever finding her; he wouldn’t know where to begin. There was, of course, a chance that the Personnel Department at Lehman Steiner had been lying or even unaware that May Haas worked for the company, especially if she had some connection with Von Jonek or the X14 project, but MacLean could not see a way around this.

On an earlier occasion, he remembered that Jean-Paul Rives had suggested that the best way to get to X14 would be to trace Von Jonek through Personnel. Maybe this was still a possibility. At least he knew that the man worked for the company. He wondered what would happen if he asked Personnel directly about him. He needed to think of a safe way of doing that.

From talk in the hotel bar he had learned that a tall, silver-haired gentleman, staying on holiday with his wife on the floor below, was a police chief from Lyons. A police chief would always carry his warrant card, he reasoned and such a man would hardly be the sort to be easily intimidated. MacLean made a point of finding out the man’s room number. When he’d done this, he called Lehman Steiner and announced himself as Professor Phillipe Pascal. He would like to be put in touch with his old colleague, Dr Hans Von Jonek.

‘One moment please.’

For one heady moment MacLean thought that he was about to be put through to Von Jonek but the woman came back on the line to say that she was transferring him.

‘Can I help you?’ asked the new voice.

MacLean repeated his request and was asked to wait again. When the woman spoke again she asked, ‘What name was that?’

‘Von Jonek,’ replied MacLean.

‘No, your name,’ said the woman.

‘Professor Pascal.’

‘One moment please.’

MacLean was becoming nervous. He started to wonder about the company’s capacity to trace a telephone call?

‘I’m afraid Dr Von Jonek is not available at the moment,’ said the voice. ‘If you would care to leave your address and telephone number, he will be informed of your call.’

MacLean gave the name of the hotel and the police chief’s room number, then he moved a chair over to the window and sat down to wait. Fifteen minutes later he watched a blue BMW pull up outside the hotel and two men get out. From the way they looked about them when they stepped out the car MacLean reckoned that they were the people he had been waiting for. He gave them time to reach the police chief’s room before going downstairs and walking along the corridor. He heard the commotion before he saw it.

The tall policeman was almost shouting that he was not named Pascal and that he didn’t know anyone who was. No, he would not be going anywhere with his visitors. He was a policeman, not a professor, and a chief of police at that. He knew his rights and who the hell was asking him all this anyway? He wanted to see ID and he wanted to see it now.