Code of Blood

by George C. Chesbro

  “Thanks, but I’ll walk.”

  “Walk? Christ, Sinclair, it’s a mile out to the highway, and twenty miles to town.”

  “I can use the exercise.”

  “I’ll drive you, if you still feel the need to have me nearby to kill.”

  “It’s not you, Insolers There are the doctors and nurses, and there may be monitoring devices in this house, or your cars, that you don’t know about. I’ve already stayed here longer than I should have, and I don’t want anybody to see me leave.”

  Insolers shrugged “I guess if I’d been hunted for as long as you have, by as many people as you have, I’d be pretty careful, too.”

  Chant firmly gripped the hand that was held out to him “The woman has earned a good deal of money working for me. I’ll be opening a savings account in her name—her assumed name—at the main branch of the Houston National Bank The President of the bank will be holding her passport Tell her that when she’s well.”

  Insolers frowned, studied Chant’s face for some time. “That’s all you want me to tell her?”

  “Give her my thanks,” Chant said as he headed toward the door, “and tell her I said good-bye.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “It appears to be a labyrinth, Captain—a huge one. It’s probably very old, perhaps part of the original castle design, but it does show signs of upkeep.”

  “Any possibilities there, Sergeant?”

  Alistair watched Sergeant Major Thomas McGillis as the crippled Vietnam vet looked up from the large magnifying glass Chant had been holding for him over one of a dozen blown-up aerial photographs of R. Edgar Blake’s castle, which were strewn out over the surface of a large table in a back room of a friend’s restaurant overlooking Lake Geneva. Since Chant had rescued his onetime sergeant from the living death of a VA hospital the man had become positively animated. Especially now that John Sinclair had brought him to Europe to help plan the assault on R. Edgar Blake’s castle.

  Alistair, who sat sipping a glass of wine at the table in the curtained alcove where they came every day to have lunch and talk strategy, doubted that his employer needed any help in interpreting the photographs. Indeed, Alistair had the distinct impression that John Sinclair had already decided on a plan of attack, and was using these strategy sessions as a kind of therapy for Thomas McGillis. But then, Alistair knew that nothing was ever certain with John Sinclair.

  “Uncertain,” the sergeant major replied at last “You can tell that much of the area is camouflaged to prevent photos like this from being read properly The real question is whether the castle is primarily defended from the surrounding wall and outer perimeter of the labyrinth, or at the castle walls themselves Then, of course, there’s the problem of getting through the labyrinth once the surrounding wall has been breached, the labyrinth could be mined.”

  “Well, these photos are as good as a map for getting through it.”

  “It could very well look much different on the ground, sir.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “All right, but we have to assume that the castle grounds will be laced with sensors—probably underground, impossible to detect from casual observation.”

  Alistair turned in his seat, pulled back the curtain over a large window, and looked down at the plaza below the restaurant. Beyond the plaza, the waters of Lake Geneva reflected the brilliant blue of a bright, clear, late-winter sky The lake’s distinctive geyser shot a hundred feet into the air, plumed, caught and broke the rays of the sun into thousands of shards of light, then rearranged them to form a luminous rainbow. In the distance, R Edgar Blake’s black stone castle sat like a stain rising up from the opposite shore.

  Alistair’s old but sharp eyes swept the plaza as he looked for anyone, anything, suspicious. He frowned when he saw a tall, thin man in a light overcoat standing alone in the center of the plaza, almost directly below the restaurant The man’s thin, brown hair was blowing in the stiff breeze coming off the lake, and he was shivering in the cold—an unnecessary discomfiture, Alistair thought, since there were a number of sheltered areas close by where he could stand and wait for somebody. It appeared to Alistair that the man was going out of his way to be noticed.…

  “There’s always the possibility of creating some kind of diversion,” the sergeant continued.

  Chant shook his head. “No. There must be as little disturbance as possible—none that can be detected beyond the castle walls.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Alistair said.

  Chant looked up from one of the photographs. “What is it, Alistair?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Sinclair, but it looks like there might be something funny going on out there—a man, just standing there in the cold. He gives me a funny feeling.”

  Chant leaned across the table, pulled back the curtain a few inches, glanced down at the plaza. “You did very well, Alistair,” Chant said, and immediately dropped the curtain back into place. “Sergeant, I’d like to borrow your wheelchair for a few moments, if I may.”

  “It’s all yours, sir,” the sergeant major said, raising his arms to allow Chant to lift him out “I’m sure Alistair won’t mind keeping me propped up until you get back.”

  “You’re going to catch cold out here, Insolers.”

  Duane Insolers turned around at the sound of the familiar voice, found himself looking down at a crumpled figure in a wheelchair. The man wore a huge fedora, which shaded most of his face A blanket lay over his lap, and there was no doubt in the CIA operative’s mind that there was a gun under the blanket, aimed at his heart.

  “I’m alone, Sinclair.”

  “All right.”

  “I knew damn well you had to be in the neighborhood, and I figured if I stood around out in the open long enough, you’d find me.”

  “I’ve found you.”

  “Have you figured out a way yet to get into the lion’s den?”

  Chant said nothing.

  “I came to warn you, Sinclair,” Insolers continued. “They’ve put together enough pieces in New York and Houston to figure out that the man in the puzzle is you. Like I told you, it wasn’t hard for them, considering your MO, to guess that sooner or later you’d come here to try and off Blake. Blake’s already been advised of the situation—he was just a bit pissed at what you’d done to R E B and his assassination bureau, but he finds it quite amusing that you would even think of trying to get at him here.”

  “I would think that the CIA, not to mention the FBI and various other law enforcement agencies around the world, would be just a bit pissed at Mr Blake.”

  “Oh, they are, make no mistake about it. But I’ve already explained that situation to you All has been forgiven You haven’t even made Blake slightly nervous, Sinclair The entire focus now is on finally capturing—and probably killing—you. There are going to be a lot of people in Geneva tomorrow—combing the city, checking passports at the airport and border checkpoints. There are also going to be snipers all over the place up in the hills surrounding that castle, rotating on eight-hour shifts, just itching to get a glimpse of you in their sights—and they won’t care if it’s tomorrow, or next week. They figure you’re here, or somewhere else in Switzerland, planning, and they intend to simply wait for you to show up at the castle It’s time to go home, Sinclair—wherever that may be Whatever you’ve been cooking up won’t work now You’ve run out of time If you’re not out of Switzerland by tomorrow, you may never get out.”

  “Have they connected you to me in Houston?”

  “No At the moment, I’m their fair-haired boy, I have them convinced I got the woman out by myself, after putting a lot of pressure on you and forcing you to blow up the place. They know we were both in there at the same time, but they don’t know our paths ever crossed.”

  “What about the people in the safe house?”

  “I’m a senior field operative. They’re trained to see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil—unless they’re questioned. So far, they haven’t been questio
ned.”

  “And if they are?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Why did you come to warn me, Insolers?”

  “I thought I’d already explained that, Sinclair. I owe you my life. I’ve always liked your choice of targets, and I think the odds in this situation stink. You deserve better than to be gunned down like an animal in R. Edgar Blake’s front yard; it offends my sensibilities.”

  “Thanks, Insolers,” Chant said as he started to turn the wheelchair. “Now I’m the one who owes you.”

  “I brought Jan Rawlings with me, Sinclair. We have rooms in the Château Aumont. Do you want to see her?”

  Chant swung the wheelchair back around. “Why did you bring her?”

  Insolers smiled thinly. “Jan is the most persistent and persuasive woman, Sinclair—as I’m sure you’re well aware. She wouldn’t be denied; she says to tell you that you gave her a job, she’s not quitting, and she won’t be fired.” Insolers paused, continued quietly, “She’s in love with you. Maybe you know that.”

  “You make a lousy matchmaker, Insolers. You never should have brought her here.”

  Insolers bent over slightly in order to study the face under the broad brim of the fedora. “I’ll be damned, Sinclair,” he said after a few moments. “You love her too, don’t you? It’s why you tried to leave her behind in Houston. The last thing John Sinclair needs is to be in love with someone, or to have someone in love with him. You know, that’s almost touching.”

  “You shouldn’t have brought her here, Insolers,” Chant repeated. “Does she know about what’s coming down?”

  “Yep. She adamantly believes that it doesn’t make any difference at all how many men are coming, or when they come; she says you’ll still go after Blake. Is she right?”

  Chant did not reply.

  “Now the truce is over, Sinclair,” Insolers continued evenly. “In a little less than eight hours, I’ll be just one more man hunting John Sinclair. It has to be that way.”

  “I understand. Send the woman back to the United States.”

  “Leave Switzerland, Sinclair. Get out of here fast. Now.”

  “Good-bye, Insolers,” Chant said, then turned the wheelchair and rolled away.

  Alistair, who had been watching out the restaurant window as Chant talked with Duane Insolers, hurried out the back entrance as Chant left the man. He met Chant at the bottom of a ramp, took the blanket from him as Chant rose, folded the chair.

  “Sir …?”

  “It’s nothing, Alistair,” Chant said, heading up the ramp and back into the restaurant.

  Alistair hurried after, rearranged the blanket on Thomas McGillis’s lap as his employer lifted the man back into the wheelchair.

  “Alistair,” Chant said, “I want you to call ahead to Zermatt and have your staff there prepare the chalet You’ll be taking the sergeant major there I’ll be along in a day or two.”

  “You’re … staying here by yourself, Mr Sinclair?”

  “Yes.”

  Thomas McGillis glanced up quickly. “But we haven’t even begun to come up with a way to penetrate the security around the castle, sir.”

  “Sergeant, I’m afraid planning time is over.”

  “But what are you going to do?”

  Chant looked at the two men, smiled. “What I said I’d do: join you in Zermatt in a day or two” Then he turned and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Chant walked from the restaurant across the plaza and hailed a taxi. After giving the driver directions, he immediately began to remove his disguise Under the increasingly startled gaze of the driver, who kept glancing at his mysterious passenger in the rearview mirror, Chant took off his dark wig and false mustache, removed his black contact lenses. At the opposite end of the lake Chant paid the driver, got out, and casually tossed the wig and mustache into a wire trash basket on the sidewalk, along with all but two of the GTN capsules he had taken from the preparation room in the research section at R.E.B. Pharmaceuticals. The remaining two capsules he palmed, pressing them into the fleshy part of his hands between thumb and forefinger.

  The grounds of R. Edgar Blake’s castle were surrounded by a ten-foot-high stone wall topped with barbed wire, the entrance blocked off by a massive, wrought-iron gate Chant walked up to the gate, pressed the brown button on the call box mounted to the right. Two tiny television cameras mounted on top of the gate swiveled around, stopped on him.

  “Qui est là?”

  “This is the big, bad wolf,” Chant replied dryly “Let me in, or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.”

  “Go away!” the voice from the call box snapped in English. “You’re drunk! Don’t stay around here or you could be hurt!”

  Chant looked up into the television camera directly above his head, winked “My name is John Sinclair. I want to see Blake; go find him and tell him I’m here I guarantee you he’ll want to see me.”

  The call box fell silent, but both television cameras remained focused on him Almost five minutes passed before there was the click of an electronic lock and the gate popped open an inch. There were no instructions from the box, so Chant pushed open the gate and began walking up the wide driveway to the castle. He had gone no more than twenty yards when the great wooden door that was the entrance to the castle swung open and a half dozen uniformed men, carrying Uzi submachine guns, came sprinting out. Two men continued to run down the center of the driveway directly toward him, while the others fanned out, two to a side, to cover his flanks. Chant kept walking.

  “Halt!” Uwe von Deck shouted.

  Chant stopped walking, casually raised his arms All six men, automatic weapons raised, slowly converged on him until the muzzles of their guns were touching his temples, his spine, his sides. “I really hope everybody doesn’t start firing at once,” Chant said easily. “You’ll all end up killing each other.”

  The leader, von Deck, slowly shook his head. In his eyes was bewilderment—and not a little regret. “What the hell are you doing here, Sinclair?”

  “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I might just pop in to say hello to your boss.”

  “You’re a dead man, Sinclair,” von Deck said, and Chant noted the ambiguity in the man’s tone “I can’t imagine what the hell you were thinking of coming here.”

  Chant did not reply, and he stood quietly, arms still raised, as von Deck expertly searched him, running his hands over his body, emptying his pockets, feeling each seam, pulling up his pants’ legs, examining his socks and the heels of his shoes. As the body search continued, Chant glanced up and saw that a number of figures—all but two in uniform—had gathered on a balcony on an upper floor of the black stone castle. There was a stooped figure in a black, woolen cape and black hat, surrounded by security guards Hammerhead stood by himself, off to one side.

  It was almost five minutes before von Deck was satisfied that Chant carried no weapons. “Keep your hands over your head, Sinclair,” the commander of the guards said tersely. “All the way up. And walk slowly, at a steady pace. I had a small taste of just how quick and good you are, but there’s no way you can dodge six bullets. The slightest move in the wrong direction, and you get bullets in your head and spine.”

  “I won’t make any wrong moves, von Deck. Just take me to your leader.”

  With von Deck walking backward and aiming his Uzi at Chant’s middle and the other five guards flanking him, Chant walked the rest of the way up the driveway, up a steep flight of stone steps and into the gaping maw of the castle. There was a cavernous foyer of carved stone carpeted with Persian rugs and hung with richly embroidered tapestries, which served to soften and warm the cold stone. A massive door to the left of the foyer opened, and Chant was ushered into a huge library with blazing fireplaces cut into all four walls. At the opposite side of the library, silhouetted by the flames in one of the walk-in fireplaces, was R. Edgar Blake, dressed in a silk lounging robe, standing just behind two guards who also
carried Uzis.

  The old man was pencil thin, quite tall despite his stoop, and had a full head of hair, which was still jet black. He had a long, hooked nose flanked by small, rheumy eyes. Bent slightly forward, with his hands shoved into the roomy pockets of his lounging robe, he reminded Chant of nothing so much as a vulture.

  Hammerhead stood alone to Chant’s right, in front of another fireplace, his scarred, misshapen face openly displaying anger and consternation. His emerald-green eyes glowed with unnatural brightness; his long, ape arms hung loose at his sides as he unconsciously flexed and unflexed his long fingers.

  “Guard him well, Commander,” Blake said to von Deck in a thin, breathy voice. “John Sinclair is truly ninja.”

  “Yes, sir,” von Deck replied crisply, not taking his eyes from Chant’s face.

  “Well, Mr. Sinclair,” Blake said, rocking so far forward on the balls of his feet that his head almost came between the shoulders of the two men flanking him “I must say this is a most unexpected and pleasant surprise I really can’t begin to imagine why you came here. Would you enlighten me?”

  “It occurred to me the other day that I owe you money,” Chant said easily “Two million dollars, if I remember correctly.”

  In contrast to his weak speaking voice, R. Edgar Blake’s laugh was raucous, high-pitched, and echoed around the stone and wood walls of the library “Two million dollars!” he said at last, gasping for breath. “That’s wonderful! I have easily spent twice that amount paying for information and hunting you And then there is the virtual destruction of my factory in Houston, not to mention your forcing me to abandon an operation that was really quite useful to me. At the very least, I would estimate that you owe me a minimum of forty million dollars, to date, in lost property, interest, income, and general aggravation.”

  “Well, I’m a little strapped for cash at the moment.”

  Suddenly the library was absolutely still, except for the crackle of flames in the fireplaces. The old man removed the gold watch from his wrist, hefted it in his palm, looked up at Chant. When he spoke, all traces of laughter were gone from his voice and face. “You have precisely ten seconds to share with me what’s on your mind before my men take you out in the back and shoot you.”