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Sanderson saw the revolver’s muzzle flash at the same time that the gilded Chronos’s heavy hammer struck the ton-and-a-half bronze bell at the stroke of nine.
The resonating loud ring startled some in the crowd. They jumped, then applauded. The bell’s ring completely masked the sound of the pistol shot. There was only the muzzle flash, and then the Sparrow stumbled forward, dropping the leather case as he went.
Sanderson raised his .45—but immediately knew that neither he nor Fritz could fire without the chance of them hitting each other.
Again Chronos struck his bell. And again there was a muzzle flash from the attacker’s revolver.
As Sanderson jumped from the taxi, the gunman snatched the briefcase and tossed it to his partner. The two men in dark clothing then separated and disappeared into the quickly panicking crowd.
Sanderson and Fritz reached where the Sparrow lay on the cobblestones.
“Get the back door open!” Sanderson ordered, then bent over and grabbed the Sparrow.
He picked up the small limp body and threw him in the backseat, on the cab’s floorboard.
Chronos hit his bell.
And there then came the wail of sirens in the distance.
Fritz jumped in the front passenger seat and slammed the door shut as Sanderson ran around the car and got back behind the wheel.
“Shit, shit, shit!” Sanderson said as he ground the Mercedes into gear and then raced down the cobblestone street.
And again Chronos struck his bell.
* * *
After accelerating heavily for two blocks, Sanderson slowed the battered taxicab to a more normal speed. The police sirens grew louder, and in the next block he saw emergency lights approaching, becoming brighter as they flashed off the walls of the buildings ahead.
“Shit!” he said again.
He spun the steering wheel and pulled into an alley, killing the cab’s masked headlights as he entered. He stopped the car and kept an eye on his rearview mirror. A moment later, the police cars sped past, their flashing lights momentarily illuminating the alley and filling his mirror.
“Close,” Fritz said, looking at him.
“Yeah, too close.” He motioned toward the backseat floorboard. “Can you check on him?”
Fritz reached down and put a finger on the Sparrow’s neck. After feeling he had a slight pulse, he put the back of his hand in front of the Sparrow’s nose and mouth.
“Still with us,” Fritz announced, “but barely.”
“Damn it!”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, and once sirens could barely be heard, Sanderson put the Mercedes in gear, hit the headlights, and drove out of the alley.
They wound their way to Aarstrasse, followed that street along the river to the next traffic circle, went through that, and crossed the River Aare on the Dalmazibrücke.
Not ten minutes later, after winding down the heavily treed Schwellenmattstrasse, the taxi pulled up to the massive wrought-iron gate of an ancient masonry-walled estate. Sanderson killed the headlights. The diesel engine rattled on in the dark.
About to tap the horn, he muttered, “Where the hell is he?”
Then a sentry in a long black overcoat appeared from the shadows just beyond the gate. Despite the heavy overcoat, Sanderson could tell that the guard carried a weapon—a Thompson Model 1928A1 submachine gun—concealed underneath.
The sentry walked up to the driver’s window and looked in as the window came down.
“Open the goddamn gate!” Sanderson flared. “What are you waiting for?”
