The Key to Midnight

his overcoat, hung it across the back of a chair, and sat facing Uberman. The clerk was nearly finished with a brandy and wanted another, and Peterson ordered the same.
        After they were served, Peterson said, 'Any word?'
        Uberman was nervous. 'Monsieur Maurice Demuth telephoned four hours ago.'
        'Excellent.'
        'He will arrive Sunday with his wife.'
        Peterson withdrew an envelope from an inside coat pocket and passed it to Uberman. 'That's your second payment. If all goes well on Sunday, you'll receive a third envelope.'
        The clerk glanced left and right before quickly tucking the payoff out of sight - as if anyone who witnessed the exchange would immediately know that it was dirty business. In fact, none of the other customers was the least bit interested in them.
        'I would like some assurance,' Uberman said.
        Peterson scowled. 'Assurance?'
        'I would like a guarantee that no one…'
        'Yes? Go on.'
        'That no one will be killed.'
        'Oh, of course, dear man, you have my word on that.'
        Uberman studied him. 'If anyone were killed in the hotel, I'd have no choice but to tell the authorities what I know.'
        Peterson kept his voice low, but he spoke sharply. 'That would be foolish. You're an accomplice, sir. The authorities wouldn't deal lightly with you. And neither would I.'
        Uberman tossed back his brandy as though it were water. 'Perhaps I should return the money.'
        'I wouldn't accept it. A deal is a deal.'
        'I guess I'm in over my head.'
        'Relax, sir. You've a tendency to melodramatize. It will all go very smoothly, and no one will ever know it happened.'
        'What do you want with them anyway?'
        'You wouldn't care to know that. Just think of all those Swiss francs in the envelope and the rest to come, and forget the source of it all. Forgetting is always best. Forgetting is safe. Now, tell me, is the restaurant here any good?'
        'The food is terrible,' Uberman said.
        'I suspected as much.'
        'Try Chesa Veglia.'
        'I’ll do that.'
        'Or perhaps Corviglia at the top of the funicular.'
        Peterson put enough money on the table to cover the bill. As he stood and struggled into his overcoat, he said, 'I'm a heeder of my own advice. I've already forgotten your name.'
        'I never knew yours,' Uberman noted.
        'Did someone speak?' Peterson asked, looking around as though he couldn't even see Uberman.
        Smiling at his own joke, he left the hotel for dinner at Chesa Veglia.

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    59
        
        On Sunday they flew from Paris to Zurich. Their hotel, Baur Au Lac, stood in its own lakeside park at the end of Bahnhofstrasse.
        In their room, Alex dismantled the hair dryer yet again and put the pistol under his belt. He took the spare clips of ammunition from the talcum powder.
        'I wish you didn't have to carry that,' Joanna said.
        'So do I. But we're getting too close to Rotenhausen to risk going without it.'
        They made love again. Twice. He could not get enough of her - but he wasn't seeking sex as much as closeness.
        That night he had the dream again.
        He woke shortly before three o'clock, gasping in panic, but he regained control of himself before he woke Joanna. He couldn't go back to sleep. He sat in a chair beside the bed, the pistol in his lap, until the wake-up call came at six o'clock.
        He was grateful for his peculiar metabolism, which allowed him to function well on little sleep.
        Monday morning they boarded a train at Zurich's Haupt-bahnhof, and they headed east.
        As the train pulled out of the station, Joanna said, 'We're sure going roundabout. No one'll be able to track us down easily.'
        'Maybe they don't need to track us down,' Alex said. 'Maybe they knew our route before we did.'
        'What do you mean?'
        'I'm not sure. But sometimes I feel… manipulated… programmed. Like a robot.'
        'I don't understand.'
        'Neither do I,' he said wearily. 'Forget it. I'm just edgy. Let's enjoy the scenery.'
        At Chur they changed trains to follow the fertile Rhine Valley downstream. In summer the land would be green with vineyards, wheat fields, and orchards, but now it lay dormant under a blanket of snow. The train chugged into the lowering Rhaetian Alps, passed through the dramatic Landquart Gorge,