The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [131]
‘That would be difficult for two reasons, Henning: one, we don’t have time to rustle up any false documents and the Swiss always need to see a passport; and two, I don’t look remotely like anyone famous.’
‘So . . .’ Henning looked at her questioningly.
‘So, we tell them that I’m big in television and that my new film is about to come out and when it does I am going to be huge.’
‘Huge?’
‘HUGE.’
Henning grinned and touched his GPS screen. A map of Switzerland spun into view.
‘We go down all the way to Chur, then along the valley past Bad Ragaz, then Sargans. Hoffenschaffen is in the mountains above it, at the end of a valley.’
‘Meaning no-through traffic.’ Stevie pointed to the spot on the map. ‘Anyone coming in or out of the valley will be noticed. A good spot to choose if you’re security conscious.’
Henning nodded. ‘It’s also right on the border with Liechtenstein, a stone’s throw from Austria. Easy to just slip out of the country if things turn.’ He gave Stevie a look. ‘We’ve got about two hours before we reach Hoffenschaffen. You should try to rest a little. Remember, you are poisoned and a genuine convalescent.’
‘I’m fine. Anyway, it will just make me more authentic. Paul said they do vitals when a patient checks in. I can’t be too healthy.’
Henning shook his head. ‘You’re not. What else did Paul tell you about the clinic?’
‘It’s very exclusive—not many guests. I think they can take a maximum of twenty-five patients/guests at a time. The staff-to-inmate ratio is very high.’
‘If they are that cautious,’ Henning mused, ‘I suppose I’ll need a cover, too.’
Stevie thought about this, scanning her memory for scenarios they might use. She found one.
‘Last year, there was an up-and-coming young music star. She checked into a clinic citing “exhaustion and dehydration” after a horse tranquilliser binge brought on by the pressures of a stalker—who turned out to be her estranged father, by the way. Anyway, the details aren’t important but she had a special “Health and Image” supervisor. He was a sort of manager, drug dealer, fashion stylist and yes-man all at once—’
‘That sounds like a role tailor-made to fit me, Stevie,’ Henning said with considerable scepticism. ‘Especially since I know nothing about show business, have never even worn a pair of jeans, and smoke and drink, possibly excessively.’
‘But that’s the point,’ Stevie gestured emphatically. ‘No one in Hollywood is who they say they are.’
‘But this isn’t Hollywood. This is a very particular Swiss clinic. The staff won’t believe it.’
‘Of course they will,’ Stevie insisted. ‘In my dealings with divas, I have realised anything is possible and the most outrageous demands are rarely questioned.’
With that, she rested her head against the window and fell into a deep sleep.
As they rounded the last rocky precipice that hid this valley from the one before, the sanatorium came into view.
It had been built towards the end of the nineteenth century, when the railways had opened Switzerland to tourists, most notably the English, coming in search of healthy air. The building was rather imposing, eight stories high, built in grey stone and peppered with windows, their wooden shutters painted forest green. Four small towers rose in each corner, their tops crenellated. A Swiss flag writhed around on a flag pole.
Hoffenschaffen perched on a granite rise, its back to a jagged granite cliff. A thick pine forest circled the rise like a felt skirt. The cliff face was bearded with milky blue icicles several stories high, once-quick rivulets and waterfalls that had frozen to smooth, still fingers of ice.
At the bottom of the precipice, where the sun’s rays would never reach, there flowed an indigo river only a couple of metres wide. It was a forbidding place, even from a distance.
‘Not the sort of place one immediately associates with good health and sparkling vigour, is it?’ Henning lifted a wry eyebrow.
Stevie wanted to say something