The Doomsday Conspiracy

“Oh. Sorry.” Strike one.

The next stop promised to be more fruitful.

“Do your tours go to Uetendorf?”

“Oh, ja.” The clerk smiled. “Our tours go everywhere in Switzerland. They are the most scenic. We have a tour to Zermatt—the Tell Special. There is also the Glacier Express and the Palm Express. The Great Circle Tour leaves in fifteen—”

“Did you have a tour Sunday that stopped to watch that weather balloon that crashed? I know my wife was late getting back to the hotel and—”

The clerk behind the counter said indignantly, “We take great pride in the fact that our tours are never late. We make no unscheduled stops.”

“Then one of your buses didn't stop to look at that weather balloon?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Thank you.” Strike two.

The third office Robert visited was located at Bahnhofplatz, and the sign outside said Sunshine Tours. Robert walked up to the counter. “Good afternoon. I wanted to ask you about one of your tour buses. I heard that a weather balloon crashed near Uetendorf and that your driver stopped for half an hour so the passengers could look at it.”

“No, no. He only stopped for fifteen minutes. We have very strict schedules.”

Home run!

“What was your interest in this, did you say?”

Robert pulled out one of the identification cards that had been given him. “I'm a reporter,” Robert said earnestly, “and I'm doing a story for Travel and Leisure magazine on how efficient the buses in Switzerland are, compared with other countries. I wonder if I might interview your driver?”

“That would make a very interesting article. Very interesting, indeed. We Swiss pride ourselves on our efficiency.”

“And that pride is well deserved,” Robert assured him.

“Would the name of our company be mentioned?”

“Prominently.”

The clerk smiled. “Well, then I see no harm.”

“Could I speak with him now?”

“This is his day off.” He wrote a name on a piece of paper.

Robert Bellamy read it upside down. Hans Beckerman.

The clerk added an address. “He lives in Kappel. That's a small village about forty kilometers from Zurich. You should be able to find him at home now.”

Robert Bellamy took the paper. “Thank you very much. By the way,” Robert said, “just so we have all the facts for the story, do you have a record of how many tickets you sold for that particular tour?”

“Of course. We keep records of all our tours. Just a moment.” He picked up a ledger underneath the counter and flipped a page. “Ah, here we are. Sunday. Hans Beckerman. There were seven passengers. He drove the Iveco that day, the small bus.”

Seven unknown passengers and the driver. Robert took a stab in the dark. “Would you happen to have the names of those passengers?”

“Sir, people come in off the street, buy their ticket, and take the tour. We don't ask for identification.”

Wonderful. “Thank you again.” Robert started toward the door.

The clerk called out, “I hope you will send us a copy of the article.”

“Absolutely,” Robert said.

The first piece of the puzzle lay in the tour bus, and Robert drove to Talstrasse, where the buses departed, as though it might reveal some hidden clue. The Iveco bus was brown and silver, small enough to traverse the steep Alpine roads, with seats for fourteen passengers. Who are the seven, and where have they disappeared to? Robert got back in his car. He consulted his map and marked it. He took Lavessneralle out of the city, into the Albis, the start of the Alps, toward the village of Kappel. He headed south, driving past the small hills that surround Zurich, and began the climb into the magnificent mountain chain of the Alps. He drove through Adliswil and Langnau and Hausen and nameless hamlets with chalets and colorful picture-postcard scenery until almost an hour later, he came to Kappel. The little village consisted of a restaurant, a church, a post office, and a twelve or so houses scattered around the hills. Robert parked the car and walked into the restaurant. A waitress was clearing a table near the door.

“Entschuldigen Sie bitte, Fraulein. Welche Richtung ist das Haus von Herr Beckerman?”

“Ja.” She pointed down the road. “An der Kirche rechts.”

“Danke.”

Robert turned right at the church and drove up to a modest two-story stone house with a ceramic tiled roof. He got out of the car and walked up to the door. He could see no bell, and knocked.

A heavyset woman with a faint mustache answered the door. “Ja?”

“I'm sorry to bother you. Is Mr. Beckerman in?”

She eyed him suspiciously. “What do you want with him?”

Robert gave her a winning smile. “You must be Mrs. Beckerman.” He pulled out his reporter's identification card. “I'm doing a magazine article on Swiss bus drivers, and your husband was recommended to my magazine as having one of the finest safety records in the country.”

She brightened and said proudly, “My Hans is an excellent driver.”

“That's what everyone tells me, Mrs. Beckerman. I would like to do an interview with him.”

“An interview with my Hans for a magazine?” She was flustered. “That is very exciting. Come in, please.”

She led Robert into a small, meticulously neat living room. “Wait here, bitte. I will get Hans.”

The house had a low, beamed ceiling, dark wooden floors, and plain wooden furniture. There was a small stone fireplace and lace curtains at the windows.

Robert stood there thinking. This was not only his best lead, it was his only lead. “People come in off the street, buy their ticket, and take the tour. We don't ask for identification. …” There's no place to go from here, Robert thought grimly. If this doesn't work out, I can always place an ad: Will the seven bus passengers who saw a weather balloon crash Sunday please assemble in my hotel room at oh twelve hundred tomorrow. Breakfast will be served.

A thin, bald man appeared. His complexion was pale, and he wore a thick, black mustache that was startlingly out of keeping with the rest of his appearance. “Good afternoon, Herr—?”

“Smith. Good afternoon.” Robert's voice was hearty. “I've certainly been looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Beckerman.”

“My wife tells me you are writing a story about bus drivers.” He spoke with a heavy German accent.

Robert smiled ingratiatingly. “That's right. My magazine is interested in your wonderful safety record and—”

“Scheissdreck!” Beckerman said rudely. “You are interested in the thing that crashed yesterday afternoon, no?”