Shadow of a Broken Man m-1

by George C. Chesbro

"More likely somebody looking for him. Whoever did it probably thought that Abu knew something. God damn!"

  "You could be the next target."

  "I hope so," I said evenly.

  "That sounds suicidal."

  "No. Homicidal."

  Garth looked at me for a long time. "These boys are rough, Mongo, and they seem to be in a big hurry. There was enough left of your friend to determine that he'd been tortured."

  "What's going to be done about it?" I whispered hoarsely.

  Garth took a long time to answer. "I don't think anything will be done about it; at least not by the N.Y.P.D."

  "Why the hell not?"

  "Because your friend fell out of the U.N. building. Even if we wanted to, we can't go in there without an invitation. It's like a sovereign state."

  "Why shouldn't there be an invitation?"

  "Because somebody will object; somebody always objects. Besides, it wouldn't do any good." He paused, hit his desk in frustration. "Let's suppose we did find out something- which is highly unlikely. Almost everyone in there, with the exception of the Americans, enjoys diplomatic immunity. We couldn't do anything with the killer if we did find him."

  "What about the publicity? Don't the U.N. people want the public to think they're doing something about it?"

  "Oh, the publicity will be bad for a few days, but then it'll die down. It would be even worse if they asked for a police investigation; the police would be followed and questioned by reporters for days, weeks, months, however long it took."

  "Then the murderer goes free?"

  "I'm afraid that's it. Unless he gets called on the carpet for sloppy workmanship; there are a hell of a lot of tidier ways to kill a man than to push him out the twenty-seventh floor of the U.N. building."

  "That's what I was thinking."

  "Exactly what would that be?"

  "That he wasn't pushed. There's no way the people involved in this thing would want to attract so much attention."

  Garth studied me. "You think he jumped?"

  "Yes. As a warning signal to me. He knew they were going to kill him, and he wanted to warn me that I'd be next. He'd given them my name under torture."

  "We'll give you some protection."

  Garth started to reach for the telephone and I grabbed his wrist. "I don't want it," I said. "Besides, I don't think it would do any good. If they want me, they'll find a way to get me."

  "Are you still going to Acapulco?"

  "No."

  Garth's eyes narrowed. "What do you plan to do, Mongo?"

  "I don't know." The next words forced their way out of me. "I'd like to do a little killing."

  "That's not hard to understand, but you're going to have to learn to live with it."

  "I may not be able to. They must know about me, and they're going to want to know what I know. They're going to be watching, waiting."

  "You keep your eyes open, brother."

  "What about the Morton case?"

  Garth tapped his fingers on the side of his chair. He seemed angry, frustrated. "I requested permission to reopen it. I was turned down flat. The U.N. isn't the only organization that doesn't want local cops nosing around in its business."

  "Then there has to be a tie-in with Rafferty!"

  Garth nodded. I turned and walked out of the office.

  Somebody already knew what I knew: My apartment had been broken into and ransacked. The tapes I'd made were gone. They'd ignored my gun. I cleaned and loaded it, then strapped on my shoulder holster. If they had my tapes, they didn't need me. On the other hand, they might want to make sure that I hadn't left anything out. I hoped someone would come for me. It was the only way I could avenge Abu's death.

  Waiting: For most of the afternoon I sat in a chair, sweating, watching the door. I called the Foster home four times and didn't get an answer. Mike's office hadn't heard from him either. In the evening, Ronald Tal called to invite me to a memorial service for Abu the next morning at eleven. I said I'd be there.

  After rigging up a crude alarm system, I went to bed with my hand on the gun under my pillow. I slept badly, dreaming of a man with a secret so deadly that men were willing to torture and kill almost at the mere mention of his name.

  In the morning I took an ice-cold shower and tried to pull myself together. I dressed, ate, and went out into the brilliant morning sunshine. The hard bulge of the revolver in my armpit felt reassuring.

  On the steps of the U.N. plaza a woman with blue hair was standing by the spot where Abu had fallen, gesturing excitedly to the two young children she had in tow. I identified myself to a guard at the entrance, and he escorted me to a small, dimly lighted chapel. At the front was a closed casket surrounded by banks of lilies. The symbol of Islam hung on the wall behind the casket, and there was an honor guard of Pakistanis standing by the bier. Taped organ music played softly in the background.

  I stood by the bier for a few minutes staring into the reflections in the oiled mahogany surface of the casket, then turned and walked toward the back of the chapel. The pews were sparsely filled with morning-coated representatives of the various member nations. I found a black-suited Tal in the right-hand corner of the last pew.

  He rose and offered me his hand. "Hello, Dr. Frederickson," he said quietly.

  "Thanks for the call," I said. "Abu was a good friend of mine."

  "He was my friend too," Tal said softly. "Which is why I thought you wouldn't mind my asking some questions."

  "I don't feel much like answering questions, and I'm not sure this is the proper time or place."

  "It won't make much difference to Abu, will it? I'd like to find out who did this to him, but I need information. Assuming you're being watched, I thought this chapel would be the safest place to talk. We both have a reason for being here."

  "All right," I said. "Are you doing this on your own?"

  "No. The Secretary General would like to know what happened, and why. This has happened in our 'house,' so to speak. Effective steps can be taken to find out who the murderer is and have him recalled."

  "I had something else in mind."

  "We'll have to settle for what we can get. But the publicity I'll arrange will be very embarrassing to the country involved. I can almost guarantee that they'll punish whoever is responsible."

  "All right, I'm listening."

  The pew was hard and I shifted in my seat, half-turning toward Tal. As I moved, I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye that made me turn all the way around. Elliot Thomas' head jerked back almost imperceptibly. There was no way of knowing how long he'd been standing there, watching, but it was obvious that I'd startled him. He nodded slightly, then walked slowly down the aisle toward the bier.

  "Is something the matter?" Tal asked.

  "No," I said after a pause. "Just uncomfortable. I'm all right now."

  "You asked me about Victor Rafferty. Was Abu making the same kind of inquiries?"

  "Yes," I said tersely.

  "Can you tell me who hired you?"

  "Why?"

  "Perhaps it would be a clue," Tal said softly.

  "I don't think so." I wasn't ready to trust Tal-or anyone else who didn't already know-with the Fosters' name, at least not until I found out where they were.

  Thomas remained at the bier for a few moments, head bowed, then turned and walked back up the aisle. He didn't look at me as he passed.

  Tal remained silent for a few minutes, thinking. Then he said, "Victor Rafferty was obviously more than just the greatest architect of our age."

  Deciding it might be time to open up a bit, I told Tal about Lippitt, and some of what Lippitt had told me.

  Tal took some time to digest what I'd told him, then said: "It seems that everyone was satisfied as long as they believed Victor Rafferty was dead. It's the possibility of his being alive that they find so upsetting."

  "That's exactly right." I had the feeling I was being watched. I quickly glanced around me, but Elliot Thomas was nowhere in sig
ht. I was surprised to find that almost all the mourners had changed; they seemed to be coming and going in ten minute shifts. At the moment there was a large number of Asians.

  "Tell me," Tal said. "On the basis of your investigation so far, do you believe that Rafferty is alive?"

  "There are two versions of how he died," I said, turning back to him. "In both versions he ends up in a furnace filled with molten metal. Either way, there wouldn't be any trace."

  "You mean, if it ever happened."

  "Sure. But Lippitt was pretty forceful on that point. He says he shot Rafferty first."

  "He could be lying. As you point out, the furnace story would be a handy excuse not to have to produce a body."

  "Still, there was something about Lippitt that bothered me. He seemed to be taking the whole matter personally. He told me something like this could happen. I should have listened harder."

  "Then you blame yourself for Abu's death?"

  "That's right."

  "I think your guilt is misplaced."

  "Don't patronize me, Tal."

  "All right. Feel guilty if it helps you."

  My first reaction was anger. Then something happened which I could not understand and which frightened me; for a split second I thought I was losing my mind. I heard a sound that was not a sound; a single soft, dizzying chime inside my mind that cleared away the din of jumbled, jagged thoughts, leaving in its echoing wake an absolute stillness. Into that silence came a voice that was not a voice, an eerie sensation of speech without sound, a series of vibrations echoing in my subconscious and delivering a message I could understand and accept: Abu's death was not my fault; by the time I'd been in a position to warn Abu, it was already too late.

  I could feel the guilt being lifted from me, to be replaced by a kind of warmth and gentle sadness that allowed me to genuinely grieve for my friend. I wiped away tears.

  "Frederickson?"

  "Huh?" I'd forgotten all about Tal.

  "Are you all right? You look pale."

  "I'm all right."

  "Do you want to leave?"

  "No. Not just yet," I said distantly. I felt strangely disoriented, but at peace.

  "Did you finish your investigation to your satisfaction?" Tal asked quietly.

  "I'm finished."

  "There would appear to be a slight semantic difference."

  "No semantics involved. I'm just off the case." Any investigating I did from that point on would be done strictly in secret. I had to find the Fosters.

  "Don't you want to find Abu's killer?"

  "Yes, but not if it means more people will die."

  Tal quietly cleared his throat. "The Secretary General would like to see you continue the investigation. I think you'll find his terms generous."

  I looked up, surprised. "Why me?"

  "You're the only logical choice. You're already deeply involved; you know the case."

  "Why don't you use your own people?"

  "Because the Secretary General would like this investigation to be carried on outside of regular channels, for obvious reasons."

  "Lippitt was right," I said, looking away. "People get hurt when you start mentioning Rafferty's name."

  "That phase of it may be over; there's been too much publicity over Abu's murder. But more people could die in any case. Consider: You're undoubtedly being watched and followed in an effort to see what you turn up. If you cut off your investigation, the others may continue on their own. They won't ask questions as gently as you do. You've seen the results of their work."

  I decided to walk around the suggestion and look at it awhile longer. "It seems like pretty dirty business for a Secretary General to involve himself in."

  Tal considered it, then said, "Would you agree that Rolfe Thaag is the most effective Secretary General the U.N. has ever had?"

  "He's good."

  "Well, he's only as 'good' as the information he receives. In the world of international politics and diplomacy, information is the most valuable commodity. Facts are badly needed here if Abu's murderer is to be brought to justice. And, of course, we want to know if Rafferty is here at the United Nations, and if so, what he's doing." He paused, drumming his fingers silently on the back of the pew in front of him. "Will you work for us?"

  The crowd had shifted again; the Europeans had taken over. I pretended to mull the offer over, even though I knew what I was going to say. The case couldn't be closed for me until I learned the Fosters were safe. If I was going to look for them, I might as well be paid while I was doing it. "All right," I said. "But I'll drop it again like a hot potato if I think there's good reason to."

  "Fair enough," Tal said easily, removing a roll of bills from his pocket. He casually peeled off five hundred dollars and handed me the money. "This will be a retainer."

  "You'll get my regular rates," I said, pocketing the cash. "How can I get in touch with you easily?"

  He handed me a card. "You can reach me-or someone who knows where I am-at that number, twenty-four hours a day." He looked at me intently. "I appreciate the fact that this is a very dangerous assignment for you."

  I knew it was time to steer the conversation into other channels. "Yeah. Tell me, what's an American doing as the Secretary General's top assistant? I wouldn't think that would go down too well with about ninety-five percent of the membership."

  Tal smiled wryly. "Now it is the Americans who complain the loudest. In any case, I was appointed, not elected. The Secretary General finds me useful."

  "There are a lot of Americans who think you're a traitor to your country."

  "That's sad," he said quickly, with a hint of feeling. "Americans are no different from any other people in that they don't like to be criticized-"

  "Especially by another American who happens to be working for the Secretary General of the United Nations."

  "At the risk of sounding pompous, I'll tell you that I consider my constituency to be the people of the world. And myself a citizen of the world. If you'd grown up in Europe-say, Norway-as I did, you wouldn't find that so hard to understand. Americans are extremely chauvinistic, you know."

  "Are you really that divorced from any feeling as an American?"

  He smiled. "I'll admit that, at times, I feel little tugs of pride, shame, or anger at being an American, but I generally try to fight such emotions; they're not conducive to good work habits, and I honestly reject patriotism intellectually. There is no logic to patriotism in either a practical or a historical sense." He paused, smiled again. "Does that answer your question?"

  "When this is all over, we'll have to sit down and discuss it some more."

  "I'd enjoy that, Dr. Frederickson."

  "Assistants to the Secretary General are allowed to call me Mongo."

  "Okay, Mongo."

  We rose together to leave. I was halfway out of the pew when I saw the bald-headed man striding up the center aisle. Lippitt saw me a half-second later and stiffened. He glanced back and forth between Tal and me, then abruptly walked out of the chapel.

  "Who was that?" Tal asked. "He seemed to know you."

  "That's Mr. Lippitt."

  "The one who says he shot Rafferty?"

  "One and the same," I said, sliding the rest of the way out of the pew. "I'll be in touch."

  11

  The quiet, solemn organ music from the chapel faded away as I followed Lippitt out of the U.N. to where the city was playing a different sound: the mad, jumbled, cacophonous roar that was the urban symphony. Lippitt was waiting for me outside on the plaza. The noon sun was hot and bright, welcoming me back to the world of the living.

  "I want to talk to you," Lippitt said tersely.

  "Okay." I walked to the edge of the concourse, leaned on a concrete parapet, and watched the traffic flow up First Avenue.

  "I'm sorry about what happened to your friend," Lippitt said as he came up beside me.

  The sincerity in his voice surprised me. I looked into his face and, for a moment, he seemed different: no
longer Super Agent devoid of feeling, but a man in his fifties holding himself together well-a hard, tough man doing a hard, mean job. I suddenly realized that I wanted to know more about him; I didn't even know his first name.

  "Thank you," I said.

  His eyes and voice suddenly turned cold. "Damn it, Frederickson, I warned you something like this could happen."

  "Go to hell. I tried to take your advice, but you warned me too late. It was one of your colleagues who killed him."

  "Don't be a fool," he said contemptuously. "Bhutal was not killed by the Americans."

  "What's the difference? You're all fucking idiots!" I immediately felt childish, but it didn't make any difference. Lippitt was obviously beyond any insult I could come up with; he didn't even blink.

  "How do you know Tal?" he asked calmly.

  "How do you know him?"

  "I don't know him personally," Lippitt said evenly. "I know of him. He's not exactly a friend of the United States."

  "He's not exactly an enemy, either."

  Lippitt picked up a pebble, examined it, tossed it to the sidewalk below. "That depends on your point of view."

  "What you mean is that he doesn't always agree with our policies."

  "I mean," Lippitt suddenly shot back, "that I'd like to know what you were talking about in there."

  "That's none of your business, Lippitt."

  "It's your country's business, and that makes it my business." He was angry now, making no attempt to hide it. "When you took on this case, you opened up a Pandora's box that I thought was closed five years ago. Damn it, you've started a chain reaction, and it has to be stopped! Those stains on the concrete could well have been you!"

  "Don't worry about me," I said. "Why don't you tell me why Victor Rafferty was so important to you? Why did you kill him … if you did kill him?"

  "I killed him, but I can't tell you what you want to know. You must tell me who hired you."

  "No."

  "Will you tell me why you were hired?"

  "If I tell you 'why,' you'll know 'who.' "

  Lippitt scratched a well-groomed fingernail across the pebbled stone in front of him. Again, I had the feeling he was suppressing considerable anger. "Tell me, Frederickson: Have you run across the name Foster in your investigation?"