Chapter Forty-two

Elizabeth and Canfield spent three days and nights in their rooms at the Hotel D’Accord. Only once had Canfield gone out—and he had spotted two men following him. They did not try to take him, and it occurred to him that they considered him so secondary to the prime target, Elizabeth, that they dared not risk a call out of the Geneva police, reported to be an alarmingly belligerent force, hostile to those who upset the delicate equilibrium of their neutral city. The experience taught him that the moment they appeared together he could expect an attack no less vicious than the one made on them at the Geneva station. He wished he could send word to Ben Reynolds. But he couldn’t, and he knew it. He had been ordered to stay out of Switzerland. He had withheld every piece of vital information from his reports. Elizabeth had seen to that. Group Twenty knew next to nothing about the immediate situation and the motives of those involved. If he did send an urgent request for assistance, he would have to explain, at least partially, and that explanation would lead to prompt interference by the embassy. Reynolds wouldn’t wait upon legalities. He would have Canfield seized by force and held incommunicado.

The results were predictable. With him finished, Elizabeth wouldn’t have a chance of reaching Zurich. She’d be killed by Scarlett in Geneva. And the secondary target would then be Janet back in London. She couldn’t stay at the Savoy indefinitely. Derek couldn’t continue his security precautions ad infinitum. She would eventually leave, or Derek would become exasperated and careless. She, too, would be killed. Finally, there was Chancellor Drew, his wife, and seven children. There would be a hundred valid reasons for all to leave the remote Canadian refuge. They’d be massacred. Ulster Stewart Scarlett would win.

At the thought of Scarlett, Canfield was able to summon up what anger was left in him. It was almost enough to match his fear and depression. Almost.

He walked into the sitting room Elizabeth had converted into an office. She was writing on the center table.

‘Do you remember the housekeeper at your son’s house?’ he said.

Elizabeth put down her pencil. It was momentary courtesy, not concern. ‘I’ve seen her on the few occasions I’ve visited, yes.’

‘Where did she come from?’

‘As I recall, Ulster brought her back from Europe. She ran a hunting lodge in… southern Germany.’ Elizabeth looked up at the field accountant. ‘Why do you ask?’

Years later Canfield would reflect that it was because he had been trying to find the words to tell Elizabeth Scarlatti that Hannah was in Geneva that caused him to do what he did. To physically move from one place to another at that particular instant. To cross between Elizabeth and the window. He would carry the remembrance of it as long as he lived.

There was a shattering of glass and a sharp, terrible stinging pain in his left shoulder. Actually the pain seemed to come first. The jolt was so powerful that it spun Canfield around, throwing him across the table, scattering papers, and crashing the lamp to the floor. A second and third shot followed, splintering the thick wood around his body and Canfield, in panic, lurched to one side, toppling Elizabeth off her chair onto the floor. The pain in his shoulder was overpowering, and a huge splotch of blood spread across his shirt.

It was all over in five seconds.

Elizabeth was crouched against the paneling of the wall. She was at once frightened and grateful. She looked at the field accountant lying in front of her trying to hold his shoulder. She was convinced he had thrown himself over her to protect her from the bullets. He never explained otherwise.

‘How badly are you hurt?’

‘I’m not sure. It hurts like hell—I’ve never been hit before.

‘Never shot before…’ He was finding it difficult to speak. Elizabeth started to move toward him. ‘God damn it! Stay where you are!’ He looked up and saw that he was out of the sight line of the window. They both were. ‘Look, can you reach the phone? Go on the floor. Stay down!… I think I need a doctor—A doctor.’ He passed out.

Thirty minutes later Canfield awoke. He was on his own bed with the whole upper left part of his chest encased in an uncomfortable bandage. He could barely move. He could see, blurredly to be sure, a number of figures around him. As his eyes came into focus, he saw Elizabeth at the foot of the bed looking down at him. To her right was a man in an overcoat, behind him a uniformed policeman. Bending over him on his left was a balding, stern-faced man in his shirt sleeves, obviously a doctor. He spoke to Canfield. His accent was French.

‘Move your left hand, please.’

Canfield obeyed.

‘Your feet, please.’

Again he complied.

‘Can you roll your head?’

‘What? Where?’

‘Move your head back and forth. Don’t try to be amusing.’ Elizabeth was possibly the most relieved person within twenty miles of the Hotel D’Accord. She even smiled.

Canfield swung his head back and forth.

‘You are not seriously hurt.’ The doctor stood erect.

‘You sound disappointed,’ answered the field accountant.

‘May I ask him questions. Herr Doktor!’ said the Swiss next to Elizabeth.

The doctor replied in his broken English. ‘Yes. The bullet passed him through.’

What one had to do with the other perplexed Canfield, but he had no time to think about it. Elizabeth spoke.

‘I’ve explained to this gentleman that you’re merely accompanying me while I conduct business affairs. We’re totally bewildered by what’s happened.’

‘I would appreciate this man answering for himself, madame.’

‘Damned if I can tell you anything, mister…’ And then Canfield stopped. There was no point in being a fool. He was going to need help. ‘On second thought, maybe I can.’ He looked toward the doctor, who was putting on his suit coat. The Swiss understood.

‘Very well. We shall wait.’

‘Mr. Canfield, what can you possibly add?’

‘Passage to Zurich.’

Elizabeth understood.

The doctor left and Canfield found that he could lie on his right side. The Swiss Geheimpolizist walked around to be nearer.

‘Sit down, sir,’ said Canfield as the man drew up a chair. ‘What I’m going to tell you will seem foolish to someone like you and me who have to work for our livings.’ The field accountant winked. ‘It’s a private matter—no harm to anyone outside the family, family business, but you can help—Does your man speak English?’

The Swiss looked briefly at the uniformed policeman. ‘No, monsieur.’

‘Good. As I say, you can help. Both the clean record of your fair city… and yourself.’

The Swiss Geheimpolizist drew up his chair closer. He was delighted.

The afternoon arrived. They had timed the train schedules to the quarter hour and had telephoned ahead for a limousine and chauffeur. Their train tickets had been purchased by the hotel, clearly spelling out the name of Scarlatti for preferred treatment and the finest accommodations available for the short trip to Zurich. Their luggage was sent downstairs an hour beforehand and deposited by the front entrance. The tags were legibly marked, the train compartments specified, and even the limousine service noted for the Zurich porters. Canfield figured that the lowest IQ in Europe could know the immediate itinerary of Elizabeth Scarlatti if he wished to.

The ride from the hotel to the station took about twelve minutes. One-half hour before the train for Zurich departed an old woman, with a heavy black veil, accompanied by a youngish man in a brand-new fedora, his left arm in a white sling, got into a limousine. They were escorted by two members of the Geneva police, who kept their hands on their bolstered pistols.

No incident occurred, and the two travelers rushed into the station and immediately onto the train.

As the train left the Geneva platform, another elderly woman accompanied by a youngish man, this one in a Brooks Brothers hat, and also with his left arm in a sling but hidden by a topcoat, left the service entrance of the Hotel D’Accord. The elderly woman was dressed in the uniform of a Red Cross colonel, female division, complete with a garrison cap. The man driving was also a member of the International Red Cross. The two people rushed into the back seat, and the young man closed the door. He immediately took the cellophane off a thin cigar and said to the driver, ‘Let’s go.’

As the car sped out the narrow driveway, the old woman spoke disparagingly. ‘Really, Mr. Canfield! Must you smoke one of those awful things?’

‘Geneva rules lady. Prisoners are allowed packages from home.’