I pulled the flash from the desk drawer and played it across him. He was definitely dead.
After placing those few items I had prepared in Warbeck’s clothes, I used a handkerchief to replace the Colt in the military holster, then wrapped his cooling fingers around the weapon before dragging the body out the door and onto the veranda. I used the handkerchief to put his hat by him, then waited in the shadows. I’ve always been good at waiting. It’s what separates the real professionals from those who just think they are.
It must have been an hour before the two others slipped up the lawn through the trees. One carried a large body bag. I felt like nodding. Instead, I waited until they found the body.
“Shit. Somebody got him first …”
Both lifted their weapons, and that was enough for me. I held down the spring trigger on the disassociator. One collapsed, and the other shrieked. I waited and potted both ghosts with the disassociator, but the second one resisted. The power meter I hadn’t paid enough attention to earlier dropped into the red.
I set aside the disassociator, placed the truncheon in the hands of the collapsed zombie, and took Warbeck’s truncheon. I also thought about taking the metal hair net, thinking I might be needing it myself. Then I decided it would be more valuable on Warbeck. The other zombie looked at me blankly—still somewhat there probably because the disassociator had run out of power.
“There’s been an accident.”
“There’s been an accident,” he repeated.
“Wait here for help.”
“I wait here for help.” He wasn’t quite expressionless in his intonation, but close enough.
I had to hand it to vanBecton. He hadn’t even wanted me as a zombie, and he’d set up Warbeck. Poor Warbeck. He’d just thought he was carrying out a removal. If he succeeded, then I was out of the way, and then he would have been killed trying to escape from my murder.
Waetjen’s own boys had doubtless been told that Warbeck had gone off the deep end and to bring him back in one piece or many, but not to risk their lives. They’d also been told I was dangerous, and armed, and not to be too gentle there, either. Neither vanBecton nor the chief was in favor of my continued presence, although it would have been hard for me to convince any judge or jury of that.
That was the hell of the position I was in. If I’d waited, I’d have been dead. If I weren’t careful, I’d be in jail for murder, because I couldn’t prove, and no one outside the intelligence community would understand, that I was being set up.
My knees were weak. As I walked to the study, I was beginning to understand the difference between being an impartial agent and a directly involved victim. I didn’t like being the targeted victim, nor what it was doing to my nerves.
In the study, by the light of the flash I dialed the watch number and began screaming. Chief Waetjen got on the line.
“Who is this?” he snapped.
“Johan Eschbach! There’s been a terrible fight outside. I think … I don’t know. Get someone up here.”
“There were two men headed there. Have you seen them?”
“There are three men here. One’s dead, one’s unconscious, and the other’s a zombie.”
“Oh …”
“And, Chief, I think the dead one’s an Austro-Hungarian agent.”
“You would now, would you?”
“Well,” I said carefully, “someone has to be. The way I see it, your men tried to stop him from potting a former government minister when he started shooting at me. I probably owe them a lot. So do you.”
After that, I flipped the switch on the difference engine so that it wouldn’t come on when the power returned. Then I went to the closet and reset the circuit breakers. I shivered. Had I destroyed Carolynne as well?
A flash of white by the veranda, a glimpse of the recital dress reassured me. With that, I quickly tucked the disassociator back in the closet, and put the quilt, jacket, and beret away. The sirens echoed from across the river as I flicked through the wireset directory until I found the number. I wished I’d cultivated press contacts in New Bruges, but …
“Post-Courier.”
“News desk, please.”
“Vraal, news.”
“My name is Johan Eschbach. There’s been a murder at my house, and two zombies are walking around the yard. I used to be a government minister under Speaker Michel, but I now teach at Vanderbraak State University in Vanderbraak Centre. The murdered man is an imposter, and the two zombies are local watch officers.”
“We don’t take crank calls, sir.”
“If you look at last year’s Almanac of Columbian Politics, my name and profile are on page two hundred twenty-nine. If you don’t want the story, or if you want it buried, that’s your problem.”
A long pause followed.
“Who did you say you were?”
“I was, and still am, Johan Anders Eschbach. The Vanderbraak Centre watch chief, Hans Waetjen, is headed to my house at the moment.”
“What happened?”
“I heard someone trying to break in. When I went downstairs, someone shot at me, and there were yells and sounds of a struggle. Then I found the body on the veranda and two zombies standing there. One had a bloody truncheon in his hand. The house is off Deacon’s Lane across the River Wijk from the main part of Vanderbraak Centre. You might find it worth looking into.” While I talked, I found the number for Gelfor Hardin, who edits and prints the Vanderbraak Weekly Chronicle.
“I hope this isn’t another crank call.”
“It is scarcely that, although I must admit that I have little fondness for armed men who shoot at me and bodies appearing behind my house.”
“Why did you call the Courier?”
“The occupational paranoia of government service stays with one for life, I fear. A good news story is often a deterrent.”
“You say that one watch officer tried to break into your house, and he was killed by two others?”
“I don’t know that. That is what it looked like.”
“Why would someone be after you?”
“I don’t know—unless ! I happen to be a handy scapegoat for something.”
“Scapegoat?”
“You might remember the Colonel Nord incident.”
“Oh … you’re that Eschbach?”
“How fleeting fame is.”
“Can we call you back?”
“Yes.” I gave him the number and wired Hardin.
Hardin didn’t answer, but another voice, female, did. “Chronicle services.”
I gave an abbreviated version of the story to the woman, then walked back out on the veranda. By then, Chief Waetjen was standing there with three other officers beside the dead man and the two zombies.
“Who were you wiring?” asked Waetjen.
“The newspapers. I thought they might like the story.”
“You know, Doktor, I could end up not appreciating you very much.”
“I understand.” I bowed slightly. “But you should understand that I don’t like finding bodies outside my house, especially bodies in watch uniforms. It’s bad for my digestion.”
Hans Waetjen wasn’t as smart as he thought, because he’d used sirens and brought three watch officers with him. I was grateful for small favors, since those were the only kind I was likely to get.
He bowed politely. “You understand that my digestion also suffers when I find dead officers and officers who are zombies?”
“I can see that we share many of the same concerns, Chief Waetjen.”
“Could you tell me what happened?”
I gave him the sanitized version of Warbeck’s efforts, concluding with, “I don’t know what Officer Warbeck did, but when the shooting stopped, he was on the veranda, and the two others were just like they are now.”
“Just like this?” He clearly didn’t believe me, and he was certainly correct, but I wasn’t about to oblige him.
“I didn’t check exactly, but I don’t think anything’s changed s
ince I called you.”
“What about before that?”
“I heard the noise at the door. Then all the lights went out—”
“You didn’t mention that.”
“Sorry. They did. I reset the breakers after I called you.”
“How could you see?”
“I have a flash in my desk.” I glanced over my shoulder. “It’s on the corner now—right there.”
“How convenient.”
“No, just practical. I spend most of my time at home in the study or the kitchen. There are flashes in both places. I have a kerosene lamp in the bedroom.”
One of the other three watch officers had set up a floodlight and was taking pictures of the scene on the veranda flagstones.
Another siren wailed, and the ambulance glided up the drive and stopped behind the two watch steamers. I watched and waited until the medics carted off the two zombies with a promise to return for the body shortly.
Chief Waetjen finally turned to me. “I could insist you come in with us, Doktor Eschbach.”
“You could,” I agreed amiably. “But …” I looked at the body on the cold stone and thought of the truncheon with one of the zombies’ fingerprints all over it. “Arresting me for something someone else clearly did wouldn’t look really good. Especially since we both know that Warbeck isn’t Warbeck.”
“He isn’t?” asked one of the officers, who was using some sort of amplified magnifying glass to study the stones around Warbeck’s body.
“No.” I smiled at Waetjen, who tried not to glower at me.
“You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?”
“No. I don’t. There are people a lot more clever than either one of us, and I suggest we leave the cleverness to them.”
Waetjen paused. Then he turned to the others. “Finish up the standard procedure. Do you have prints, photographs, complete tech search?”
“We’re still working on it.”
“Don’t forget the outside knob on the door there,” I suggested. “It should have Warbeck’s prints all over it. And there are some bullets and bullet holes somewhere in the study.”
Waetjen didn’t say a word, just gestured at the watch officer with the print kit.
The wireset bell rang.
“Excuse me, Chief.”
I edged the door open by the inside of the frame and went inside to pick up the handset.
“Hello.”
“Do you come in, or do we put you in cold storage?” It was Ralston McGuiness’s voice. “Think about your friend, too.”
“This is somewhat … open.”
“Christ, all of Columbia will know something’s up. Your nominal superior downtown will call you in, and you’ll never come out.”
“I’ll come in. But where?”
“Use the bolthole we discussed.” Click.
Trouble wasn’t quite the word. More like disaster, I thought. And what Ralston had in mind wasn’t exactly friendly. Come in or we’ll ensure you never go anywhere, and, if you don’t understand, we’ll take out one Doktor duBoise. That wouldn’t happen immediately, because he’d lose leverage, and he’d want me to think about it, but he’d start with her, and then it would be my mother, Anna, Judith, Eric …
The wireset rang again.
“Hello.”
“This is Garrison vanKleef at the Post-Courier. Is this Doktor Eschbach?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think this incident has anything to do with the Nord incident?”
“I would hope not. The last time I heard, Colonel Nord was reforesting semitropical swamps outside of Eglin. And I don’t have another wife and son to lose.”
“Have the watch arrived yet?”
“Chief Waetjen is standing about fifteen feet from me with three others. He does not look terribly pleased.”
“How does he look?”
“As always, stocky, gray-haired, and not very pleased.”
“Why should we be interested in this?”
“Call it a feeling. You also might try to find out, though, why the dead watch officer was wearing a funny metal mesh skullcap.”
“A funny metal mesh skullcap, you say?”
“Under his watch helmet. I thought I once saw one in the Babbage research center. A rather odd coincidence, I thought, especially after the recent accident that killed the Babbage research director at the University.”
“So do I, Eschbach.” A laugh followed. “You have a body and two zombies there. Any thoughts on why this happened to you?”
“One thing I did learn from all my years in Columbia was that speculations are just that. It’s Chief Waetjen’s job to get to the bottom of the mess.”
“Do you think he will?”
“On or off the record?”
“On, of course.”
“I think the chief will devote a great deal of effort to this investigation, and I trust that he will discover why one of his officers apparently went beyond the call of duty.”
“You spent too much time in Columbia, Eschbach. Good night.”
I walked back outside.
“More press?”
“Of course. Isn’t the press a man’s safeguard?”
“Sometimes. If the feds don’t get there first.” Waetjen snorted.
I understood. The government can’t force retractions, but it can suggest that stories never be printed—if it knows in advance. The press still likes good stories, and they like to scream about direct censorship. It’s a delicate balancing game, and I’d tried to upset the balance.
Neither of the other three watch officers said anything. So I stood and watched while they poked, prodded, and photographed everything. What they didn’t do was take my prints, and that obviously bothered me, because it wasn’t an oversight.
It was well past midnight when the chief left and I locked up the house. After pulling the study drapes closed, I plugged the disassociator into the standard recharging socket, and it seemed to work, just the way Bruce had designed it. That was one reason I liked Bruce. When he built something, it did what it was designed to do.
“These things are beyond all use, and I do fear them.” Carolynne floated in the study doorway.
“I have gotten a similar impression. The question is what I should do about it.”
“Do not go forth today … not go forth today …” Carolynne’s voice seemed faint.
“Do not go forth? What about the people who sent the false watch officer?”
“Graves have yawned and yield up their dead; fierce fiery warriors fight upon the clouds.”
If she meant that both the ghosts and the powers that be in Columbia were after me, she was right, but having a ghost’s confirmation on that wouldn’t help me in Columbia City. So I began to stack all the materials I would need on the side of the desk.
“When beggars die, there are no comets seen … alas, my lord, your wisdom is consumed in confidence.”
“Probably, but I’m no Caesar. And I can’t fight enemies in the federal city from here. Not any longer.”
“Let me, upon my knee, prevail in this.”
“All right.” I had to laugh. “I probably should leave tonight, but I’m too tired. Besides, if he detained me right now, Chief Waetjen would look as though he were trying to run on foam. He’ll need to go through all the procedures, and that will take a day or two, making sure that I am very visible. Of course, if I disappear, then I will be presumed guilty. But if I don’t I’ll either be charged or killed while resisting arrest.”
Carolynne listened, but she said no more as I gathered together identity documents and copied real and false memoranda and all the supporting materials. I carried the whole mess upstairs.
I packed quickly but carefully, with working clothes on the top of the valise and suits in the hanging bag. The top suit was shiny, hard gray wool, a threadbare and very cheap old suit I had kept around in case I might need it. I had always hoped I wouldn’t, but you always plan for the worst.
Then
there was the equipment bag—all the gadgets I’d collected over the years and never turned in. All of us who worked those jobs have such bags. You never know when you might need them again. Some I knew—and I thought Bruce might have been one—did keep firearms they had picked up. You didn’t keep issue weapons, not since they really tallied those. But how could anyone tell if you used eight or eighteen yards of plastique, or an electronics installer’s belt, or tree spikes, or mountain gear?
Mine had a coil of thin plastic, nearly ten yards’ worth. I had two radio detonators, plus a handful of contact detonators. There was the truncheon, plus a complete Federal District watch uniform, including the Colt revolver I’d never used. I’d been undercover back in 1986 when the French president in exile pleaded for Columbian support against Ferdinand, and the federals were afraid that the Jackal’s group might try an assassination. We’d had a tip that they had a plant in the watch. They’d had two, actually, and I’d turned in one’s uniform instead of mine. Larceny, I know, but when dealing with thieves total honesty is suicide.
I looked up, but Carolynne was gone. Even ghosts don’t like being ignored or being thought of as part of the furniture. I sighed, although I wasn’t quite sure why, before pulling out the next item, a set of blue coveralls, almost identical to every electrical installer’s in the country, and very useful for a variety of purposes. I shook the dust off them and packed them in the bag.
After laying everything out, I collapsed into bed, setting the alarm for an hour earlier than normal, wishing I could get more than five hours’ sleep.
But I did sleep, even if I dreamed about ghosts, and iron bars, and driving endlessly on unmarked roads through rain and fog.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Half awake already when the alarm jolted me out of the darkness, I was still exhausted. After putting on the kettle, I showered, shaved, and dressed quickly, then let the Imperial Russian tea steep while I loaded the Stanley.
First, the equipment bag, the disassociator, and the toolbox went in the false back of the Stanley’s trunk; then the rest went into the main part, clearly the artifacts of a traveling sales representative, down to the slightly battered sample book and the worn leather order book.
Ghosts of Columbia Page 26
