The crammer’s school for the very rich was off the Basel to Zurich road, sufficiently close to Zurich for the lake to be visible from its expansive verandahs and stepped walkways. Here, after the struggle of prep schools, privileged children of ambitious parents were force-fed to make university entrance, just as, to the north at Strasbourg, geese had corn thrust down their throats to make pate de foie gras. The product of Strasbourg was frequently on the dining-room menu at the Ecole Gagner. Its students were frequently on the acceptance lists of Oxford and Cambridge and Harvard and the Sorbonne: only by sustaining maximum results could it remain the best and charge maximum fees.
The main building had been created in the seventeenth century in the style of a walled, turreted castle with crenellated battlements by a Frenchman who had pretensions to a military life without the stamina to make it possible. The high walls and the single drawbridged entrance to the dormitory area remained, giving the Ecole Gagner added attraction. They meant it was secure. Even so, bodyguards were an accepted feature in the school precincts. Six were assigned to a Kuwaiti prince. The son of a rancher who owned ten square miles in Paraguay had three. So, too, did Tewfik Azziz.
The regimentation at the Ecole Gagner would have pleased its military-minded architect. Everything had its order, from mealtimes to recreation to examination times. And vacation times. The longest holiday was in the summer, always starting on the Wednesday of the second week in June and not ending until the last Thursday in August: the principal considered the extended relaxation necessary after the workload imposed through winter and spring.
Most boarding schools have a travel officer. Reflecting the importance of its pupils, the Ecole Gagner had a department, staffed by four. Here, as with everything else, the precision was absolute, timetables agreed and adjusted weeks in advance to fit parents’ requirements, and usually the convenience of private aircraft. Azziz’s departure was scheduled for noon. His father had brought the Scheherazade into harbour at Monte Carlo and the Alouette helicopter, which had its own pad and hangar at the stem, could make the journey to Zurich and back to the yacht in under four hours, with the inconvenience of road travel only necessary from the school to the airport. The school’s closeness to the tight-packed foothills prevented its having a landing pad of its own.
Azziz’s car left the school grounds at eleven. All three bodyguards were with him. The American, Williams, who had been a Green Beret officer and then a contract employee for two years with the CIA, rode in the back alongside the boy. One Bedouin drove, the other sat beside him in the front; from their clothes and demeanour it was difficult to tell that they were Arabs, or had, ten years earlier, been desert tribesmen.
Obediently the driver kept to the speed limit crossing the ancient bridge, only accelerating slightly along the winding driveway through the outer grounds beyond; to the left were the playing fields, skating rink and covered swimming pool. The gateman was waiting at the boundary wall. He looked in, smiled and then operated the electrically controlled outer protections.
The car turned right, onto the main road, almost immediately picking up the river Limmat; from the hills it was possible to see the lake into which it fed.
“Looking forward to the vacation?” asked Williams. With the boy safely aboard the yacht, he would have two clear months to himself. His sister was expecting him in Houston by the end of the week.
“Very much,” said Azziz. He hadn’t found it easy, achieving the examination grades. But he had managed. He knew his father would be pleased. It was important always to please his father.
“When do you sit for Cambridge?” asked the American.
“Immediately I return. They think I’ll get in without any difficulty.” The boy knew that the assessment had already been sent, along with his end-of-term report, to his father. It was going to be a pleasant holiday.
The road began to fall away for the final descent into Zurich; from the elevation it was possible to distinguish the newness of the Bahnhofstrasse set against the tangled parts of the old quarter. The driver was familiar with the route and turned away towards the airport, missing the congestion of the town. Azziz detected the black spot of a helicopter and wondered if it were his; it was too far away to see the markings.
“We’re in good time,” said Williams, as the car turned onto the slip road to the airport. He wasn’t a good flyer and put a travel pill surreptitiously into his mouth. He hoped Azziz hadn’t noticed.
There was a separate car park for the private section, away from the main airport complex. When the car halted all three men turned instinctively towards Azziz. This was a mistake. So, too, was leaving the doors unlocked. All four opened simultaneously, the ambush perfectly coordinated.
“Move and he’s dead,” said a voice.
The. 375 Magnum was against the front of Azziz’s head, so all three men could see it; fired from that close, it would have decapitated him. The three remained motionless. It took only moments to disarm them. Williams had a Colt automatic in a shoulder holster and a short-barrelled Smith and Wesson against his leg in an ankle strap. The Arabs each had a Smith and Wesson, both long-barrelled.
“Take me too,” said Williams. His head was tilted awkwardly because a pistol was hard beneath his left ear.
“Don’t be stupid,” said the man who had first spoken. He was short and slightly built, olive-skinned and crinklehaired.
One of the Bedouin said “Pig” in Arabic. In the same language the spokesman said, “Tell his father that; tell his father we’re the worst pigs he can imagine.” He came back to Williams. “You listening?”
“Yes,” said the American.
“Tell his father to wait until he’s contacted. And then cooperate. If he tries anything, with the authorities or any people like you, we’ll kill the boy. You got that?”
“Yes,” said Williams again.
A fifth man appeared in the doorway with a gunlike object in his hand. None of the three men recognized it as an immunization compressor which injects without the necessity of a needle. There was a hiss as the man fired against the necks of the American and the driver and into the hand of the second Arab. Unconsciousness was almost immediate.
“They’re not hurt,” said the curly-haired man to the boy.
Azziz looked fearlessly across the car at him. “Get this gun away from my head,” he said. “It hurts.”
The man nodded and the pressure was relaxed.
“You won’t be harmed,” said the man. “Not if you do what you’re told. You’re going to get out of this car and be taken to another. If you try to attract any attention, we’ll shoot your legs away. You won’t die, but you’ll be crippled for life. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Azziz.
“All right,” said the man. “Now get out.”
The boy got out of the car, fully aware for the first time of the number of men who had crowded around the vehicle, shielding what was happening from anyone else who might have entered the car park.
“You’re idiots,” said Azziz. “Do you have any idea what sort of man my father is?”
“We know exactly what he is,” said the man. “That’s why we’ve got you.”
The Liberian-registered and appropriately named Bellicose, a freighter of 25,000 tons, sailed from Genoa in ballast, making easy passage with the coast of Italy and France always in sight until it reached Marseilles. Captain Sven Erlander let his first officer go ashore to arrange the loading, while he completed the official record from the rough log. He was still working on it when Raoul Edmunson entered the cabin.
“Going well,” said the first officer. “Plenty of stevedores, too.”
“Anything awkward?” asked the captain.
Edmunson hesitated. “I always think arms shipments are awkward,” he said. “I don’t like them.”
“Neither do I,” agreed Erlander. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“It’s all crated,” said the first officer. “And the general cargo is already loaded.”
“Good,” said Erlander as he completed the log. The last entry recorded was the visible passing of Monte Carlo, where the Scheherazade was expectantly at anchor. The helicopter pad was still empty.