Yet already his exuberance was waning, the triumph of the moment replaced by a fear of the future.īecker reached the silver doors at the entry to Cartier as the manager was locking up. His eyes scanned the crowd for a flurry of activity that might justify his apprehension-a guard yelling for him to halt, a determined face forcing its way through the crowd-anything out of the ordinary. It was a reflex born more of guilt than any perceived threat. He felt certain no one was following him, yet he could not help himself. Twice he stopped and looked over his shoulder. His pace was brisk, fast even for the dourly efficient executives who, like him, called Zurich their home. He would have to hurry.Ĭlutching his briefcase, Becker joined the bustling throng. He checked his watch and with dismay noted that only twenty minutes remained before the last train to the mountains left for the evening.Īnd still one errand to run. The length of the Bahnhofstrasse was festooned with row upon row of Christmas lights, strands of yellow bulbs falling from the sky like warm, electric rain. ![]() Martin Becker paused before descending the stairs of the bank and gloried in the sea of glowing pearls.
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