Romantic Road

by Blair McDowell

“Igor came to believe our employers, rather than seeking the truth so they could stop illegal activity, were simply buying insurance policies. If they had information on people in government who were in the pay of organized crime, they could use that information to their own ends.”

  Jean-Paul shook his head. “Once Igor came to that conclusion, he wanted out. He felt betrayed. His sense of right was outraged. He told me he was determined one day to see the information we’d gathered brought to light. In his next book he would name names and give dates and supporting evidence of the sickness invading our governments, our societies.”

  “I can understand that. He was a deeply honorable man.”

  “For eight years after we three retired, Igor did nothing about it. He wrote the second of his two famous books on Trotsky. He married you, and Claudette and I thought he’d finally given up tilting at windmills. But then he had his first heart attack.”

  Lacy sat back, understanding flooding in. “When he was recovering he started working on a new book. He was writing an exposé. That’s what he was doing all those months. That’s what was consuming him. Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “He thought if you knew nothing you’d be safer.”

  “But why should what he was writing endanger me?”

  Claudette sighed. “Powerful people, both in government and in criminal organizations suspected what Igor was doing. And they would have assumed you knew about it.”

  Lacy thought back to the men who had stopped her car on the road from the Berkshires. “That’s what it was about, then.”

  “What are you talking about?” Claudette set her glass down on the table abruptly.

  “I was accosted by two men who wanted to know where the manuscript was. Richard found out later they were federal agents. They flashed badges at me, but it was dark and I couldn’t see the badges very well. I told them I didn’t know anything about a manuscript. That Igor had told me nothing.”

  Jean-Paul leaned forward and stirred the fire. “I wonder who sent them. Somebody influential must be running scared.”

  Lacy’s mind rushed on. “They must’ve been looking for the manuscript when they broke into my apartment.” For the first time, it all fell into place. It made sense. “But it’s gone. The manuscript is lost. They stole his computer.”

  “No.” Jean-Paul gave a wry smile. “We devoutly hope they believe it’s gone. Igor expected something like this to happen. He feared for his life, and he feared for his book. I think he had reason to in both instances. But he was determined that even if he didn’t live, his book should survive to see the light of day.”

  “Are you telling me you have a copy?”

  “No. This would be one of the first places they’d look, after yours. I’m surprised they haven’t already been here. No. Igor left chapters of his book in different places, with different people. He said you’d asked about his past. He said now you could discover it for yourself. He laughed when he told me what he’d done. He said you should follow the Romantic Road. I gathered he wasn’t talking only about the famous Romantische Strasse in Germany, but also about his personal life.”

  In spite of herself, Lacy was intrigued. “His personal life?”

  “He left pieces of the manuscript with….” Jean-Paul hesitated.

  “With whom? What are you trying to tell me?”

  Claudette grinned. “With some of his past lovers, cherie.”

  “What?” In spite of herself, Lacy burst out laughing. “He chose this way to tell me about his past?”

  “I tried to talk him out of it.” Jean-Paul smiled. “But Igor was never very good at taking advice.”

  “But where am I supposed to start? I don’t know anything about his past.”

  “I have one name and address. That will be your starting point.” Jean-Paul hesitated and then added, “Frankly, I think perhaps you should simply to go back home and forget the whole insane business. I’m not sure what good can possibly come of it. And it could prove exceedingly dangerous for you.”

  Claudette nodded her agreement. “It’s not just the criminal element who want this book stopped. Certain people in government, powerful people, suspected what Igor was doing. They will stop at nothing to see his manuscript destroyed.”

  Lacy was silent, thinking about what Igor had planned. “If I’m able to acquire all the pieces of his manuscript, what did he want me to do with them?”

  “Why,” Jean-Paul said, “get them somehow to his publisher in London, of course. He wants to blow away the secrecy surrounding the whole mess. He wants it made public knowledge.”

  “I see. And the danger you mentioned?”

  Claudette answered, “Igor thought by coming here to the Auberge du Lac for a holiday, you could throw your pursuers off the trail for a little while, at least.”

  “Igor arranged passports for you in other names, didn’t he?” Jean-Paul asked. “He suggested you use one of those to get from here to Rothenburg.”

  “Rothenburg? I don’t even know where Rothenburg is!” Lacy realized she had torn the Kleenex in her hands to shreds. She was having difficulty absorbing the shocks coming one after the other as they were.

  “It’s in Germany. Jean-Paul explained. “On the Romantische Strasse, the Romantic Road. Your contact’s name there is Inga Graff.”

  Lacy put her head back and closed her eyes. It was so fantastic. So absurd. So Igor.

  “Ça suffit,” Claudette said getting up. “Lacy’s had enough for one night. I suggest we not talk about this anymore. Let Lacy think about it overnight.”

  Lacy slept little that night. Should she just walk away from this as Jean-Paul suggested? She turned the problem over and over in her mind. As the first light seeped through her windows she made her decision. She would to do as Igor requested. She wanted to do this last thing for the man she had once loved. Besides, she had more than a little curiosity about Igor’s past. She wanted to meet the women he’d loved before her. Finally she fell into a fitful slumber.

  ****

  She was awakened by a loud buzzing noise seemingly right beneath her window. She jumped out of bed, ran to the window, threw it open, and leaned out. Jean-Paul was working just below her and with him was another, much younger, man. Both had their jackets open and their sleeves rolled up. The noise came from the chain saws they were welding. They were working on the huge pile of logs Lacy had noticed when they first arrived. Cutting them into fireplace lengths.

  Hastily, Lacy threw on her robe and went down to the kitchen. Claudette was sitting at the table sipping a cup of coffee.

  “What’s going on? Who’s that out there with Jean-Paul? And how’d he get here?

  “He came by water taxi early this morning. They’re cutting logs for the fireplaces in the bedrooms and the sitting room. We were in luck this year. Hydro-Quebec is putting lines through near here and we were able to get logs from the area they were clear-cutting. We always have logs from winter dead-fall, but they’re never enough for the full season.”

  “But who…”

  “It’s Max Petersen. He’s an old friend. He comes every year to help with cutting and splitting and stacking the logs. They’ll be in for breakfast soon. You can meet Max then.” Claudette studied Lacy’s face. “Let’s see. Today perhaps you should be Tracy Thompson from Kitchener, Ontario. The hair color’s wrong. But you could shampoo your hair and wrap it in a towel so he can’t see the color.”

  “But I can’t be somebody else. Not yet. Why can’t you just introduce by my own name?”

  “You have to start practicing sometime, cherie. It may as well begin with Max. Now go shower and dress. The men will be in soon.”

  ****

  A half hour later, wearing blue jeans and a loose sweater, with her wet hair wrapped turban style in a towel, Lacy entered the kitchen to see Claudette piling a very un-French breakfast of bacon, eggs, and pancakes on the plates of the two men.

  “They’ve already been working for two hours. They need sustenance.” Claude
tte looked back over her shoulder from the stove. “Max, this is Tracy. She’s from Kitchener.”

  Lacy smiled and nodded, not quite trusting herself with speech in a persona she knew less than nothing about.

  “Hi. I hope we didn’t wake you.” The young man looked up at her with a smile. “We have a full day’s work ahead of us, and we thought we’d better get an early start.” His voice was deep and resonant. Although he spoke English well, he spoke it with a trace of accent. His eyes, a soft deep brown, had laugh lines at the corners and he had a wide, generous mouth. He was an extraordinarily attractive man, Lacy thought.

  When was the last time she even noticed another man? Not once in all the years she’d been married to Igor. What was it about this one? He wasn’t exactly handsome, not in a Hollywood sort of way. No. His features were pleasant, his smile inviting, but…Lacy studied him. It was those deep dark eyes, warm and magnetic.

  “I’m Maximilian Petersen. Max to my friends.” He half stood and held his hand out to her.

  Lacy flushed, realizing she’d been staring at him. “La—That is, Tracy, Tracy Thompson.” She blinked and took his proffered hand. His handshake was firm and warm.

  “Sit down, Tracy.” Claudette indicated a chair. “Would you like some breakfast?”

  Lacy glanced at the food heaped on the two men’s plates. “No thanks, Claudette. I’ll just take my coffee up to my room. I need to blow dry my hair. Nice to have met you, Mr. Petersen.”

  As she brushed by Claudette to escape, her friend whispered, “Coward!”

  ****

  All that day Max Petersen and Jean-Paul worked side by side while Lacy stayed in her room, studying the backgrounds Jean-Paul had given her to match each of her passports. Periodically she looked down from her window, as the two men fed cut logs through a log splitter and then began stacking them against the back wall of the house. As the day warmed, they shed first their jackets and then their shirts. Max Petersen without his shirt awakened feelings Lacy had almost forgotten. His lithe, muscular body with its sheen of sweat...

  Claudette came into the room, catching Lacy at the window. She glanced down at the men. “He is…how you say…eye candy, non?”

  At that moment the men finished their job of stacking logs. With a laugh, they gave each other a high-five, quickly stripped, and, in the buff, ran across the lawn, and with a shout, jumped off the pier into the frigid waters of the lake.

  Lacy laughed with Claudette. “He is, indeed, eye candy. How do you come to know him?”

  Claudette’s answer was uncharacteristically vague. “He comes to stay here now and then. He likes the cutting of the logs with Jean-Paul. He comes for that every year.”

  The next morning Max was gone, and Lacy’s work began in earnest.

  Chapter Four

  As August turned to September, Claudette and Jean-Paul declared Lacy ready. Looking in the mirror Lacy hardly recognized the person staring back. Claudette had trimmed and curled her hair and died it red-gold, to match the passport photograph of Tracy Thompson, Canadian, born in Kitchener, Ontario. Even her clothes were not the ones she’d brought with her. She and Claudette had spent some days shopping in Montreal at that venerable institution, Tilly’s, and Lacy was now outfitted in true Canadian style, casual loose pants with multiple pockets both inside and out, a many pocketed vest, a Gortex jacket. All in beige. She had drawn the line at running shoes. She had her beloved Ferragamos with their four-inch heels on her feet. Lacy had to admit the beige looked good on her with her new bright hair. Large Fendi sunglasses completed the transformation.

  She had a small carry-on bag on wheels, containing two changes of clothing. Everything in it was washable and quick drying. That and her backpack were all she’d travel with.

  “Get in and out of airports as unobtrusively as possible,” Jean-Paul advised. “You can’t linger around baggage carousels.”

  “Divide as much of the cash as you can among all those pockets in your pants, vest, and jacket. That’s why we selected those particular items. The less you have to carry in your purse or backpack the better,” Claudette added.

  “Keep all your passports on your person at all times, and be sure to have the correct one handy.” Jean-Paul spoke with the authority of experience. “You have credit cards in each of your names, but don’t use them except in emergency. They’re too easily traced. You’ll need one to rent a car, but otherwise they’re just there to lend credibility to your identities if you’re ever questioned by the police or any other authority. Use cash for travel. It’s untraceable.”

  “Travel first class.” Claudette had advised. “You can sleep better on overnight flights, but more important, there’ll be fewer people and shorter lines. The less time you spend standing around in lines, the less likely you are to be spotted.”

  Jean-Paul took her back to the little town at the southern end of the lake, where she’d left her car. As Tracy Thompson, Lacy would fly out of Toronto, so she had a long drive ahead of her.

  ****

  After leaving her, Jean-Paul made a phone call. “She’s on her way, Max. I can’t say I’m very happy about this. We did our best to prepare her, but…”

  “Stop worrying, Jean-Paul. I won’t let her out of my sight. If she gets into trouble, I’ll be there to get her out. Or if it looks too dangerous, we’ll abort the whole thing as you suggested. It would help though if you could tell me a little more about this. Like who she is.”

  “You have no need to know more about the operation at this time. She’s traveling under the name of Tracy Thompson. We’ve arranged for you to be seated next to her on the flight. I’m just asking you as an old colleague and friend, Max. Look after the girl. She’s inexperienced, and there are some very bad people who may be after her.”

  “Okay, okay. I get it. I’ll report to you from time to time when it’s safe to do so.”

  ****

  The next day, in Terminal One, Lacy went to the Lufthansa desk and submitted Tracy Thompson’s passport.

  “Good morning, Miss Thompson. Any checked bags? “

  “No. I just have carry-on baggage.”

  “Very well. You’re in seat 3B. Boarding will begin at four o’clock, gate number A-34. Security and immigration are just through there,” the attendant said, indicating doors behind her.

  Lacy took a deep breath. First hurdle over, on to the second. Would her passport hold up under electronic scrutiny?

  The immigration officer pushed her passport into the machine and studied the screen. He pulled it out, then looked from her passport photo to her face. “Remove your glasses please.”

  “Of course. Sorry.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Frankfurt.”

  “Purpose of visit?”

  “Holiday.”

  He stamped her passport. “Next!”

  Lacy realized she’d been holding her breath. She got in the line for security clearance. Her small carry-on bag and her back pack containing only clothing and travel sized toilet articles were not hand searched. She had some anxiety as her coat and travel vest with large amounts of currency stuffed in them went into the basket and through the x-ray machine, but they came out the other side without being singled out for further inspection, and she hastily donned them and headed for the gate.

  The first class lounge was near her gate, so she spent the next two hours there, in a deep lounge chair, hiding behind an assortment of magazines and feeling faintly foolish at her precautions. Finally they announced the boarding of her plane.

  She was among the first on. The flight attendant placed her bags in the overhead compartment, offered to hang up her jacket and asked her whether she’d like a glass of champagne.

  “I’ll just keep my jacket on, thank you, but the champagne’s a fine idea.” Lacy wouldn’t at that point have minded something stronger. Only now did she realize just how nervous she’d been.

  She was settling herself comfortably into her aisle seat when a man spoke to her
apologetically.

  “Sorry. I’m in 3A.”

  “No problem.” Lacy moved to let him past.

  The flight attendant was instantly there. “Let me hang up your coat, Mr. Petersen. A glass of champagne?”

  Lacy looked up with a start.

  “Thank you, yes, on both counts.” Max Petersen turned a full wattage smile on the young woman.

  “Mr. Petersen!” Lacy stammered. “It’s La…that is, it’s Tracy, Tracy Thompson. We met at the Auberge du Lac.”

  “Of course. I didn’t recognize you at first. You had your hair all done up in a towel that day. I must say this is an improvement. And it’s Max to my friends.”

  Lacy flushed. “What are you doing here?”

  He laughed. “If I’m on the right flight, I’m going to Frankfurt, just like you.”

  The flight attendant arrived with their two glasses on a tray. Max handed one to Lacy and took the other. “Well, Tracy Thompson, if we’re going to be seat mates, why don’t you tell me about yourself.”

  Lacy stalled by taking a sip of her champagne. Who the hell was Tracy Thompson? Oh, yes. The backstory they’d built.

  “I’m a history instructor at Wilfrid Laurier University, and I’m going to Europe for a few months on a sabbatical leave.” They’d settled on the “history” bit because Lacy had always been a history buff and could probably hold her own in that field in casual conversation. “And you?” she asked hoping to divert his attention away from the fictitious Tracy Thompson.

  “Very dull, I’m afraid. I’m just a businessman. I frequently travel between Toronto and Frankfurt on business.”

  “You’re not Canadian, are you? Your accent…”

  “How very discerning of you. Not many people pick up on it. I’ve been told my English is very good.”

  Lacy smiled, relaxing a bit. “That’s the problem. It’s too good. The city is called To-ron-to only by non-natives. The locales refer to it as Tron-ah. Two syllables.” She didn’t tell him she’d picked up that bit of trivia working with Canadian colleagues at the U.N. in New York.

  “Aha! That’s information I’ll store up for the next time I try to pick up a pretty girl on an overseas flight.”