The Sigma Protocol Read Online Free PDF Page A

spoken for a few minutes. Evidently the older one either didn’t speak English or preferred not to.
    “For God’s sake,” Ben snapped in frustration, “people have been killed. A guy’s lying dead in a restaurant down there, a man who tried—”
    “ Ihren Pass, bitte ,” the rookie persisted sternly. “Do you have identification?”
    “Of course I do,” Ben said, reaching for his billfold. He pulled it out and handed it over.
    The rookie examined it suspiciously, then gave it to the senior man, who glanced at it without interest and thrust it back at Ben.
    “Where were you when this happened?” the rookie asked.
    “Waiting in front of the Hotel St. Gotthard. A car was supposed to take me to the airport.”
    The rookie took a step forward, uncomfortably close to him, and his neutral gaze became frankly mistrustful: “You are going to the airport?”
    “I was on my way to St. Moritz.”
    “And suddenly this man fired a gun at you?”
    “He’s an old friend. Was an old friend.”
    The rookie lifted an eyebrow.
    “I hadn’t seen him in fifteen years,” Ben continued. “He recognized me, sort of came toward me as if he was happy to see me, then suddenly he pulls out a gun.”
    “You had a quarrel?”
    “We didn’t exchange two words!”
    The younger cop’s eyes narrowed. “You had arranged to meet?”
    “No. It was pure coincidence.”
    “Yet he had a gun, a loaded gun.” The rookie looked at the older cop, then turned back to Ben. “And it was outfitted with a silencer, you say. He must have known you would be there.”
    Ben shook his head, exasperated. “I hadn’t talked to him in years! He couldn’t possibly have known I’d be here.”
    “Surely you must agree that people do not just carry around guns with silencers unless they mean to use them.”
    Ben hesitated. “I suppose that’s right.”
    The older policeman cleared his throat. “And what kind of gun did you have?” he asked in surprisingly fluent English.
    “What are you talking about?” Ben asked, his voice rising in indignation. “I didn’t have a gun.”
    “Then forgive me, I must be confused. You say yourfriend had a gun, and that you did not. In which case, why is he dead, and not you?”
    It was a good question. Ben just shook his head as he thought back to the moment when Jimmy Cavanaugh leveled the steel tube at him. Part of him—the rational part—had assumed it was a prank. But obviously part of him had not: he’d been primed to react swiftly. Why? He replayed in his mind Jimmy’s easy lope, his wide welcoming grin…and his cold eyes. Watchful eyes that didn’t quite match the grin. A small discordant element that his subconscious mind must have registered.
    “Come, let us go to see the body of this assassin,” the older policeman said, and he placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder in a way that was not at all affectionate but instead conveyed that Ben was no longer a free man.
    Ben led the way across the arcade, which now swarmed with policemen, reporters snapping pictures, and made his way down to the second level. The two Polizei followed close behind. At the KATZKELLER sign Ben entered the dining room, went to the alcove, and pointed.
    “Well?” demanded the rookie angrily.
    Astonished, Ben stared, wide-eyed, at the spot where Cavanaugh’s body had been. He felt light-headed, his mind frozen in shock. There was nothing there.
    No pool of blood. No body, no gun. The lantern arm had been replaced in its fixture as if it had never been removed. The floor was clean and bare.
    It was as if nothing had ever happened there.
    “My God,” Ben breathed. Had he snapped, lost touch with reality? But he could feel the solidity of the floor, the bar, the tables. If this was some elaborate stunt … but it wasn’t. He had somehow stumbled into something intricate and terrifying.
    The policemen stared at him with rekindled suspicion.
    “Listen,” Ben said, his voice reduced to a hoarse whisper, “I can’t explain