Dark Chant In A Crimson Key

by George C. Chesbro

  "I do not. You tell me. What is Cooked Goose?"

  "I don't know," Insolers replied evenly. "I actually thought you might. It's well known that the Frederickson brothers have friends in very high places. I'm told that, over the years, the two of you—as well as your friend Veil Kendry—have picked up all sorts of. . . interesting information."

  "Mr. Insolers," I said, walking over to him and putting out my hand, "if you'll be so kind as to give me that ID card of yours, I do believe I'll call that number at the bottom after all. I know you're jerking me around, but for the life of me I can't think what you're hoping to gain. Maybe Langley will tell me—if that really is a number for Langley."

  "Cooked Goose was the reason John Sinclair packed up his career and medals and deserted," the man with the medicinal smell said evenly,-ignoring my outstretched hand. "It was why he walked out of Vietnam, leaving five dead Rangers in his wake."

  "I take it the army was really serious about trying to stop him."

  "Oh, yes. And the reason for such concern had to have been his involvement with—or knowledge of—Cooked Goose. It was the code name for a secret operation, obviously, but I don't know what that operation was, or whether or not it was actually ever executed. Very few people know what that operation was all about, and I'm not one of them. It still carries the highest classification. I think Cooked Goose is the reason there are so many intelligence operatives milling around here at the moment; they all want a shot at him, some of them quite literally. Sinclair has make a lot of enemies, embarrassed a lot of very powerful people and organizations, including the Mafia, and not a few of these interested parties would love to claim the credit for killing him."

  "Now we're talking about assassination, not capture."

  I suddenly became aware of a distant thwap-thwap-thwap sound, which was rapidly coming closer. Insolers and I both glanced out the window as an olive-drab Swiss Army helicopter zoomed past. A few seconds later the sound died, as if the craft had landed close by, perhaps on top of one of the buildings.

  "We're talking here about individuals, organizations, and governments with different agendas," Insolers said, turning back to face me. "There's no doubt some of these parties would like to kill him for revenge, but I think others want to capture him because of what he knows about Cooked Goose. To be perfectly honest with you, I don't believe the CIA much cares what I find out here. I think I'm being used as a front man to throw the people watching me off the track while some free-lancer they've hired accomplishes what they really want, which is to kill Sinclair. If Cooked Goose is so sensitive that it still carries the highest classification even after all these years, it's reasonable to assume that they certainly don't want him captured by some other intelligence outfit, or thrown into some foreign prison where he could use what he knows to bargain for his freedom, or maybe kick back and write his memoirs. No. The CIA definitely wants him dead, and I strongly suspect they've had a contract out on him for more than two and a half decades."

  I stared at Insolers in utter astonishment. When I realized that my mouth was actually open, I closed it. My throat was dry, and I swallowed hard, trying to work up some moisture. I had the distinct feeling that something bad was happening to me, and I didn't even have the slightest idea what it might be. "Jesus Christ, Insolers," I said in a rasping voice. "Aren't you spook types trained to withstand gruesome torture, or even encouraged to take a cyanide pill, before giving away the kinds of information you've just imparted to me in this casual little conversation? Why the hell are you telling me this stuff?"

  "Because," Insolers said, his voice low and very intense as he leaned forward on the sofa, "I asked you to level with me, to trust me, but I gave you no reason why you should. Now I have. You appreciate very well how badly I could be hurt if you ever breathed a word of what I've just told you to anyone else." He paused, leaned back on the sofa, crossed his legs. "You see, I'm quite convinced you're keeping secrets of your own about your real reasons for being here, and I'm equally convinced I haven't told you anything you didn't already know."

  "You couldn't be more wrong on both counts, Insolers. I have never heard of Cooked Goose, and I had no idea anybody but law enforcement officials were after Sinclair—until now."

  Insolers abruptly rose from the sofa with a suddenness that startled me. In an instant, his whole demeanor had changed: His pale brown eyes had gone icy, and his casual air had completely disappeared. At that moment I understood that Duane Insolers could be a very dangerous man. "Are you a player in this game, Frederickson?" he snapped. "If you are, I want to know right now, while there's still time to affect the outcome of all this. You have to read between the lines, know that you can trust me. Consider the possibility that you and I share an identical agenda."

  Suddenly I was afraid—not of Insolers, but of being caught totally off guard in a situation that thrummed with danger, but which I didn't begin to understand; I was being casually fed information that had to be classified top secret, being asked questions that had no meaning to me, all because some CIA operative who smelled like a medicine cabinet seemed to think I might have a hidden agenda concerning a monstrous human being who had no pity. I didn't .want to die by accident, and I vividly recalled Veil's warning about finding myself trapped in a deadly hall of mirrors. "I don't know what you mean," I said tightly.

  "I'm asking if you have a . . . relationship . . . with John Sinclair." He paused, then continued in a softer tone, emphasizing each word. "Frederickson, I guarantee you no harm will come to anyone as a result of you telling me the truth. I need to know."

  I pulled myself up very straight, as if that would lend weight and credibility to my words. It was suddenly very important that I make this man believe me. "I don't know what you're talking about or trying to get at, Insolers. I don't think I want to know. I told you why I came here."

  "That's bullshit," Insolers said casually as he went to the bar to fix himself another drink. "I can appreciate why you might be reticent to confide in a man you've just met, but you don't have to insult my intelligence. I mean, this city is filling up with intelligence operatives and assassins, and I'd be very surprised if there was even one of those people who hadn't heard of Dr. Robert Frederickson. They're all aware of the kinds of cases you've been involved with over the years, and they are definitely going to assume there's a link between you and John Sinclair. They're probably not yet aware that you're in town, but when they do find out, they're going to be all over you. Nobody is going to believe the story that the world's premier private investigator flew all the way to Europe just to ask the law enforcement officials how they thought they were doing. I doubt Interpol believes it. It's a very weak cover; you must have been in a big hurry to get here, or you'd have come up with something better. The fact that Neuberger has been kidnapped may mean your cover is already blown."

  "Insolers—"

  "Don't assume we have different goals, Frederickson. You really can trust me."

  "Insolers, what I told you just happens to be true. Do you understand? It's true!"

  He looked at me long and hard, shadows moving in his pale brown eyes. "R. Edgar Blake," he said at last, raising his eyebrows slightly. "I was there. I know. The countess will vouch for me."

  Insolers was a man who wouldn't take I-don't-know for an answer; incredibly, he still seemed to be trying to cue me to say something he very much wanted to hear. Thoroughly baffled, I raised my hands in a gesture of helplessness and shrugged. "Insolers, I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about."

  The hard look of skepticism on his face and in his eyes slowly gave way to one of incredulity, and I knew he finally believed me. "You jumped into the middle of this thing just to ask Interpol for a report card? That's insane."

  "I'm not the one paying the bills. Just what is it I've jumped into the middle of?"

  Duane Insolers shook his head in apparent disbelief. His manner now seemed brusque, hurried, as he set his untouched second drink back down on the bar. "
Here's a little something you can add to your report," he said in a clipped tone. "It's an item I'm certain Interpol neglected to mention. Sinclair may have pulled off a neat bit of financial and electronic wizardry to raid Cornucopia's coffers, but he wasn't the first to do it. That bucket already had a hole in it. Money's been secretly draining out of Cornucopia for a long time—probably for fifty or more years, since the day it was founded. I doubt anybody would have found out about it if Sinclair hadn't come along, and I'll bet the ranch he didn't figure out this scam on his own. He stumbled across this little secret, how money was illegally skimmed from this tax-exempt foundation, and he simply repeated the trick."

  "A back door," I said distantly. "Right."

  "Whoever designed and programmed the original computer security codes left open a back door for their own use in the electronic network. All of the codes could be bypassed."

  "Precisely. Everybody talks about how complicated the security codes are, and they're right. But Sinclair never broke the codes; all he did was find the electronic back door to the vault somebody else had been using, and he went in the same way."

  "Jesus, Insolers, it wouldn't make sense for Neuberger to steal from his own foundation. Would it? I mean, he's got billions of his own. What would be the point?"

  Insolers shrugged as he glanced at his watch. "What can I tell you? If Neuberger is a crook, so were his daddy and granddaddy. This computer back door has almost certainly been there from the beginning, and it's remained open through a whole hell of a lot of advances in computer science and encryption theory. Somebody—and it's probably more than one person—tends to it, maintains it. It could be that it has nothing to do with Neuberger. The answer is probably somewhere in the past, with the grandfather's associates. Incidentally, this information was uncovered by Bo Wahlstrom, the Interpol inspector who was killed. He passed on the general information to his superiors, but all of the financial records—the proof—he had are missing. Sinclair probably has them."

  "Why are you telling me this, Insolers?"

  "Because there is no harm in you knowing, and because I want you to owe me," the CIA operative replied evenly. He strode quickly to the door, opened it, then turned back. "You've convinced me you're not a player in this game, Frederickson. You're not involved in any way, but you do have a reputation for finding out things."

  "I don't plan on trying to find out anything I don't already know, Insolers. In fact, I have this sinking feeling that I already know too much."

  "Your track record shows that events and situations tend to gel around you, Frederickson. You and your brother always seem to end up in the center of the action, whether you mean to or not. Information may come your way. There's the whole question of Neuberger's kidnapping, what the motive may have been. You may not trust me, but I've given you no reason not to. I've given you a lot of very sensitive information, and I've made myself vulnerable by doing so. All I'm asking in return is that if information does come your way, you keep me plugged in; you can always reach me through Interpol. In the meantime, forget the money, and forget your investigation, or whatever it is you think you're doing here. This matter isn't about money at all. There's something very heavy coming down here, and it's my job to find out what it is. There's nothing more for you to find out here, but a lot of nasty people are likely to figure the way I did—that you're a player. These people won't ask you questions in a friendly manner. If you're smart, you'll go home."

  Chapter Five

  How smart I was seemed most arguable at the moment, but under the circumstances, going home seemed like an eminently sensible idea. I called the airport to see what flights were available and learned I just had time to catch one to Newark, if I hurried. I hurried. First I called down to the desk to say that I was checking out, and noted that the clerk sounded curt, tense. I packed my bags, then tried Harper's number one more time. She still wasn't home. I picked up my bags, went to the door, and was startled to find Inspector Pierre Moliere and a Zurich policeman standing out in the hallway. Moliere, who had been about to knock, lowered his hand. The faces of both men looked grim, and I assumed it had to have been Moliere in the helicopter that had flown past the window. I had left him only a few hours before, and I wondered what could have happened in the interim to cause him to fly to Zurich to see me, as opposed to just picking up the telephone.

  "I would like to speak with you, Dr. Frederickson," the gaunt Interpol inspector said in a tone that was decidedly less friendly than the one he had been using with me earlier.

  "Of course, Inspector," I said, glancing at my watch. "But I had planned to go home, and I have a flight to catch. Would it be presumptuous to ask for a ride out to the airport, and we could talk on the way?"

  "It is better that we talk here, Dr. Frederickson," Moliere said coldly.

  So much for the flight into Newark. "Come in," I said, setting my bags to one side and stepping out of the way. "What's the problem?"

  Moliere and the policeman stepped into the room, stopped just inside the doorway. Moliere was actually frowning as he looked at me, and his tone had grown even colder. "Do you have anything to tell me, Dr. Frederickson?"

  I took some time to think about it—probably a mistake in itself, but I had to consider the implications of an Interpol inspector and a Zurich cop showing up on my doorstep barely ten minutes after a veritable chatterbox of a CIA operative had left after giving me a large store of highly sensitive information that I had neither needed nor wanted to know. I wondered if Moliere was waiting for me to tell him about Insolers' visit, and if so, what I was expected to say. But if Moliere wanted to know what I had been doing with the operative, he could have simply asked, and so I decided that Insolers probably wasn't the issue, and it might only muddy the waters to bring him up.

  "Look, if you're talking about the nasty business in New York, I only just found out about it, and—"

  "How did you find out about it?"

  "I tried to call Neuberger to give him a report on my conversation with you people, and I got a cop who's a friend of mine. He told me."

  "I am not talking about the nasty business in New York. I am asking about your business here in Switzerland."

  "You know about my business in Switzerland."

  "We have reason to believe you have not been completely forthcoming with us, Dr. Frederickson."

  "Look," I said, half turning and gesturing toward the large room beyond the foyer, "maybe we should go in and sit down."

  Moliere ignored my suggestion. Now I noticed that beneath his suddenly cold and hostile demeanor, there seemed to be an air of disappointment, resentment, and perhaps betrayal. "Two hours ago a message for you was telephoned to the desk of this hotel. I would like you to explain it."

  "Two hours ago I was having lunch with my chauffeur in a quiet little restaurant in a quiet little town between here and Genève . And the desk clerk hasn't informed me of any message."

  "No, she did not, because she was instructed not to. When the call came in, she quite properly called the police. The police called me, which is why I am here."

  "What did this message that I wasn't given say, Inspector?"

  "The caller said you should be told that you had been warned. He identified himself as John Sinclair."

  Suddenly, I felt slightly dizzy. I sat down on my suitcase and stared at the floor, trying to think, searching for a link between the message and anything else that had happened, perhaps Duane Insolers' visit or the things he had told me. I suspected now I should have mentioned Insolers to my current visitors at once, but felt that bringing him up at this juncture could only make matters worse. "I don't understand what it means," I said at last, looking up to meet Moliere's accusing gaze.

  "Have you ever been in contact with John Sinclair, Dr. Frederickson, either before or after your current visit to Switzerland? This is a gravely serious matter, and I advise you to think very carefully about your answer."

  "I know it's a gravely serious matter, Inspector, and I do
n't have to think about my answer. No, I have never been in touch with John Sinclair, nor with anybody representing him, which is why I don't understand what the message could mean."

  "I see your bags are packed, and you yourself told me you were on the way to the airport. Yet, earlier today you cheerfully informed me that you were looking forward to the arrival of a lady friend and a vacation in Zermatt. Then a message for you is received from a man identifying himself as John Sinclair; the message says that you have been warned—and now you are on your way to the airport. If you have not spoken with Sinclair or his agents, how do you explain this?"

  "I see your point," I said with a small sigh, and I knew that it was no longer possible to avoid the subject of Duane Insolers. "I had a visit from a CIA man just before you arrived, and he made me very nervous."

  The Zurich policeman spoke for the first time, in perfect English. "Why did you not tell us this before?"

  "I didn't think it was important," I replied lamely. "It was Duane Insolers, whom I believe you know, Inspector. He was interested in what I might know about John Sinclair. I told him I didn't know anything but what I'd read in the newspapers or seen on television. Nothing of what he said made any real sense to me, but the conversation convinced me that I was in danger of becoming involved in something here that was way over my head. That's why I was leaving."

  "Indeed," Moliere said archly, drawing himself up very straight. "I do not believe you, Dr. Frederickson. I believe you came to Switzerland under false pretenses."

  "Look, Inspector—"

  "Something important has happened in the short time since you left my office, sir. Two corpses have been found on a riverbank just outside the city. Both men were murdered, and maimed, in the same manner as Inspector Wahlstrom and Nicholas Furie. Both men are unidentified, but a note was found on one of the bodies. The note said that Robert Frederickson would be meeting with the man and his partners at the prearranged time and place and that you would have the money with you." The tall man paused, sighed, passed a hand over his eyes. "What have you involved yourself with here, Dr. Frederickson? What was your real reason for coming to Switzerland? Why did Bo Wahlstrom, Nicholas Furie, and these other men have to be tortured and killed by this monster, Sinclair?"