Labyrinth

by Jon Land

  The Commander swallowed hard.

  “Of course, you could let me go and have them deal with me later. Who knows, they might even succeed. I’m not too worried, though. They’re all like Keyes and I’d slice a limb off you for each one of them you forced me to kill. There’s not a dozen of them who could get me before I got you and you know it.”

  The Commander removed his rimless glasses and wiped the lenses. “I withdraw my offer. You’re out, Grendel, plain and simple.”

  “Without a going-away party? My, what’s the world coming to?”

  The Commander was shaking his head. “You could have had it easy, Grendel. All you had to do was accept the desk we offered you. A man should know when his run is over.”

  Dogan stood up. “I’ll know,” he said simply and walked away, leaving a huge chunk of his life behind. He had known he’d face this day sometime; it had been inevitable. But he came away wondering if there was something he might have said to make the Commander change his mind. The field was everything to him. Without it there’d be no purpose. Free-lancing was always possible and quite lucrative. But such mercenary work denied your identity, and Dogan had been around too long to lose his now.

  He knew the Commander would have him followed and took immediate steps to lose his tails. He never saw them but knew they were there all the same. He probably had trained many of them, but a good teacher never passes on all of his lessons. Losing them proved effortless. Dogan toyed with the notion of leaving one bound and gagged in the Commander’s bed that evening.

  He wandered about until he reached the Place de la Concorde, stopping at the spot where Louis XVI was publicly guillotined. The large fountain shot majestic bursts into the air. The water was colored by the night lights of Paris, a kaleidoscope of vitality, awesome in its beauty. But Dogan didn’t care much about beauty tonight. His life was the Division and now the Division had been taken from him. And there was no one above the Commander he could plead his case to, even if he had a case to plead. The old man was the only one he was answerable to. To other Company men, he was simply a name on a restricted file card. Dogan glanced up at the naked marble figures basking in the fountain’s spill and wondered how Louis felt the moment the cold steel spit his head into a wicker basket. He thought he might know. He sat down on a bench and focused on the symmetrical perfection of the layered brick surface of the Place de la Concorde. An anachronism of construction, just as he was.

  “Mind if I join you, comrade?”

  Dogan looked up to find Vaslov standing before him. Somehow he had been expecting this.

  “Be my guest.”

  Vaslov sat down next to him on the bench. He was wearing an elegantly tailored French suit that emphasized his finely chiseled frame. His hair was neatly styled, also western, and his eyes were bright and alive.

  “How’d you find me?” Dogan wondered.

  “I followed you, of course. Marvelous job of losing your tails, by the way.”

  “I didn’t lose you.”

  The Russian shrugged.

  “You witnessed my meeting with the Commander, no doubt,” Dogan assumed.

  Vaslov nodded. “And it wasn’t hard to judge from your physical responses—body language, I believe you Americans call it—that things were not going well. I’m not surprised. You should have let that young man kill me this morning.”

  “Not in my book.”

  “Any regrets?”

  “Only that I didn’t crush the prick’s vocal chords.”

  Vaslov leaned back and laughed easily. “Look now at how we find ourselves, two cold warriors sharing the fine French landscape. If only I had brought wine …”

  “We could toast the success of your mission today. You had a clean escape coming to you.”

  “You used a similar ruse against me in Prague with similar success. When was that, seventy-seven, seventy-eight maybe?”

  “Seventy-nine. Winter.”

  “You remember?”

  “I remember the cold.” A pause. “You spared my life then just as I spared yours today.”

  “And with good reason, comrade. When the nobility is gone from our profession, we become nothing more than simple assassins instead of knights jousting for our country’s pride.”

  “How romantic… .”

  “Indulge me, comrade. I look forward to the rivalry between us because it forces me to challenge myself, to reach for perfection. I could have had that defector collected and returned to Moscow yesterday or even the day before, but that would have prevented another match in our ongoing tournament.”

  “You took quite a risk.”

  “But well worth it. In the end, what do we have besides each other? Today I won. Tomorrow may be different.”

  “For sure. Tomorrow you’ll be the only one playing.”

  Vaslov sighed. “They pulled you, comrade?”

  “I forced the issue.”

  “This morning?”

  “And tonight.”

  “They are fools, comrade, little different from my superiors in the Kremlin. Only sometimes I think those in the Kremlin know they are fools so they leave me to run things as I wish.”

  “You’re lucky, my friend.” Strangely, addressing Vaslov as “friend” didn’t come at all hard for Dogan. This was the longest conversation they’d ever had, but through the years they’d shared things far more important than words.

  “Of course, I knew the sanction you would face, comrade,” Vaslov said in a more somber tone. “I knew you would have plenty of time on your hands, and I have a project that might command some of it.”

  “Working for you?”

  “Not exactly. What if we had a common enemy, an enemy that could devastate all the ideals we fight for along with our countries?”

  The breeze toyed with Dogan’s thick brown hair. “You’re on to something?”

  “Just talk now, random pieces of information that together make no sense. Something is in the air, that’s all I know. Our countries are strong, but vulnerable to another who knew what to look for.”

  “Another country?”

  “I don’t think so.” Vaslov hesitated, crossed his legs. “Have you ever heard of the Committee?”

  “Just rumors. No one’s sure they really exist.”

  “Which is their greatest strength. No one believes in them, so no one bothers to stand in their way.”

  “We thought their existence was tied to disinformation on your part.”

  “Just as we thought about you, comrade. With both of us chasing our own tails, they could operate unhindered right before our eyes. True enough?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Then tell me what you have heard of the Committee.”

  “The best I’ve been able to gather is that it’s an international organization dedicated to bringing control of the world to the private sector through economic manipulation.”

  Vaslov nodded. “Their own sector, actually. It all comes down to vulnerability again. If they understood ours sufficiently, they could use it against us with greater results than any bomb.”

  “That would certainly fit the pattern. The Committee, some say, has bankrolled terrorist and other subversive activities in the hope of destabilizing governments and weakening their economic structure. Then they move in and take over the marketplace. Eventually they control the entire country.”

  “And the rest will tumble, one at a time. Like dominoes, comrade?”

  “Doubtful. Assuming the Committee really exists, they would have found the process too long and unfulfilling. You can’t take over the world a little piece at a time because the little pieces don’t mean shit.”

  “Ah, but what of the big pieces? What if the Committee had discovered a means to successfully cripple the countries it needs to the most?”

  “The United States and the Soviet Union?”

  “Precisely, comrade. The Committee is patient but you’re right, dominoes do take a long time to tumble. The world is changing fast these days. So
mething might fall in the path of the dominoes and block them. So the Committee had to find a way to strike at our nations directly.”

  “You just switched to the past tense.”

  “Because I believe they have already found this way.”

  “Why?”

  “There is talk. People have been disappearing conveniently. Funds, massive funds, have been mobilized. Money is changing hands in amounts too vast to contemplate. And all of this I think has to do with a simultaneous strike against both our nations.”

  The breeze caught part of the fountain’s spray and whipped it out at the two men. Dogan didn’t bother to wipe his brow.

  “Nuclear?” he posed.

  “To provoke a war between us, Grendel? No, a war-ravaged world would not be what the business-minded people who make up the Committee would want. Their ideals have been shaped in the marketplace. They seek to control the world by controlling its resources. That is where the weapon will come from.”

  “Which doesn’t tell us a whole hell of a lot.”

  Vaslov thought briefly, choosing his words carefully now. “Whatever strike they are about to initiate will be against something we hold in common, something that can damage us both equally. The two superpowers are what truly stand in their way. If they are to obtain global domination, our power must be neutralized. We are not vulnerable militarily, either of us. The way to strike is economically, where our shortsighted leaders have opened the door to any number of strategies.”

  Dogan found the inside of his mouth was dry. “Hell of a scenario. But everything’s too vague.”

  “That is how the Committee works, comrade. This time, though, they may have left one of their stones turned up. It will lead us to them. Our weapon will be exposure. Once in the open, they cannot function.”

  “Where is this stone?”

  “Colombia. A town called San Sebastian.”

  Part Three:

  Cadgwith Cove, Friday Morning

  Chapter 10

  THE TRIP TO Cadgwith Cove and Bruggar House, the residence of Colin Burgess, took Locke a good part of the night and left him exhausted. After leaving the Dorchester, he had found a cab, which took him to Paddington Station. There he boarded a train traveling south for the English countryside. The journey was long to begin with and the train’s many stops—at Reading, Somerset, Taunton, Exeter, and Newton Abbot—had Locke’s nerves even more frazzled. Rest was impossible, especially during the rocky segment between Exeter and Newton Abbot as the train passed into the wilds of Dartmoor over ancient track beds. Finally it arrived in Plymouth, where Chris boarded another train for Cornwall, disembarking at the station in Truro. A single cab waiting outside then took him the final hour-long stretch through Helston onto the Lizard and ultimately into the remote village of Cadgwith Cove.

  It was two A.M. when the taxi rumbled up the pebble drive of a stately, ancient manor known as Bruggar House. Locke could hear the hard sea breaking on the rocks below and could smell the thick, salt air as he climbed out of the cab and paid his fare. The man drove away and a chorus of barks started up immediately inside the house.

  Locke headed toward the front door, feeling as if he were stepping back in time. Bruggar House had been erected several centuries before. It was a massive, granite-stone structure rising majestically over the cliffs with a single center tower poking up at the night sky.

  Locke could only hope that the worst part of his journey was not yet to come. What if Burgess, a perfect stranger, turned him away? Worse, what if Burgess wasn’t at home?

  Locke reached the front door. He rapped three times with the heavy brass knocker. Angry snarls and barks followed, then the sound of the dogs rushing at the door. He had lifted the knocker to rap it again when he heard the latch being undone inside. The door creaked open.

  “Yes?” came a crusty, tired voice. Locke could see a hulking body just beyond the crack.

  As it had turned out, the rest had been easy. All Chris had to do was mention Brian Charney’s name and the door was opened wide. Flanked by growling dogs at every angle, he started his story still standing in the foyer. He didn’t say much but it was enough to convince Burgess of his desperation brought on by the brutal murder of their mutual friend. The burly Englishman refused to hear more until morning. Locke was exhausted to the point of being incoherent. A good night’s sleep was in order. In the morning, things would seem more clear.

  Locke fell asleep as soon as his head struck the pillow, a deep rest that ended with the barking of Burgess’s dogs as the mail arrived late the next morning. Chris rose, climbed back into his only clothes, and descended the staircase. The massive house was filled with the smell of strong coffee.

  “I thought I heard you milling about,” Burgess greeted. “Trust you slept well.”

  “Incredibly, yes.”

  “Not so incredible, lad. The body knows best what it needs. Take it from an old soldier.”

  “I owe you a great debt.”

  The Englishman’s face grew bitter. “And I owed Brian Charney an even greater one.”

  Locke figured Burgess to be in his mid sixties. He had a thick crop of white hair and a face creased by experience as well as time. There were several scars too, the most prominent of which ran down his forehead through his left eyebrow. His fingers stroked it constantly. They were huge fingers, coated with a crust of farm dirt, yet they possessed a gentleness Locke could feel in Burgess’s ice-blue eyes as well. They were the eyes of a man who had lost his youth but none of its ideals. His frame had sagged, though only slightly. He must have once been a mountain of a man, Locke reckoned; was still a mountain, but one that had weathered many storms. His great bulk covered the chair he sat in. He rose slightly to pour the American a steaming cup of coffee, then settled back down. His eyes were hard yet sad as well.

  “Whoever got Brian will hear from me, laddy. I can promise you that much.”

  “He was my friend too.”

  “Then we’ll hunt the bastards down together, we will!”

  “Right now all I want to do is get home.”

  “You mentioned Liechtenstein last night.”

  Locke sipped his coffee. It was astonishingly refreshing.

  “Liechtenstein is where I’m headed first,” he said. “Brian thought you could help me get there.”

  “If the country’s still on the map, lad, I’ll get you in. Bring you right to the damn border and kill anyone who gets in our way, I will. But I’d like to know what you’re on to, the thing that Brian died for.”

  “I wish I could tell you. I’m just not sure.”

  “You know more than you think, lad. It’s just a matter of putting things together in the proper order. Let’s talk things out, shall we? Tell me what got you into this.”

  Locke told him everything: from accepting Charney’s offer, to the encounter with the bogus Customs agent, to his meeting with Alvaradejo, which had ended in death and its equally bloody aftermath in the streets; from his desperate rendezvous in the park with Charney, to his friend’s murder and as many of his final words as Locke could recall.

  “Does it make sense?” Chris wondered at the end, confused and frustrated once again.

  “Enough, lad, and the sense it makes is not pleasant at all.”

  Locke hesitated, feeling the need to purge himself further. “He would have sacrificed me. That was his plan from the beginning.”

  “It wasn’t his plan, just a risk he undertook. He had faith in you, laddy. You went through the training.”

  “Twenty years ago and I never finished.”

  “But what you knew came back to you yesterday, didn’t it? Pros like Bri and myself, laddy, pride ourselves on being able to size up a man’s capabilities. The fact that you made it here shows Brian was a pretty good judge of yours. He was just doing his job, lad, and it doesn’t make him any less of a friend. I worked with Bri all through the seventies. Never met a man who loved his country more.” Burgess swabbed at his watery eyes with a shirt sleev
e. He cleared his throat. “Now let’s try to put together the events of yesterday from the beginning. The man from Customs issued you a gun, you say.”

  “On orders from Brian, he claimed. Except Brian knew nothing about it.”

  “And this Colombian was your first contact and your friend Lubeck’s first contact.”

  Locke nodded. “Alvaradejo was the first step of the trail.”

  “And Lubeck died in Colombia.”

  Another nod. “A town called San Sebastian.” The souls of San Sebastian will be avenged… . “Lube witnessed the massacre.”

  Burgess shook his head, squeezing his lips together. “We are dealing with true animals here, lad, men who have nothing to lose and obviously much to gain.”

  Locke flinched. How often had he heard the word “animal” shouted at him yesterday?

  “The people of San Sebastian were witnesses to something,” Burgess went on, “and had to die to keep it secret. Lubeck was killed almost surely for the same reason.” His eyes flashed. “Did the diplomat initiate contact with Lubeck?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Let’s assume he did then, lad. Obviously he knew something, had heard something, and alerted Lubeck to whatever it was that took him to Liechtenstein. The animals knew he had followed a trail to San Sebastian but they didn’t know what it was. Then you ventured into the scene, lad, assigned to pick up that very trail.”

  “Wait a minute,” Locke interrupted. “How could they have known about me? My assignment was deep cover.”

  “Such assignments must go through channels, lad, and all channels have leaks. These animals seem capable of anything.” Burgess leaned forward, resting his huge forearms on the table. “You venture in and the animals see a marvelous opportunity to fill in the trail Lubeck uncovered by using you as the shovel. Somehow they leak word to the Colombian that the men who butchered this town and killed Lubeck are on to him and are sending a killer.”

  Locke nodded. “Me.”