Exposure

by Alan Russell

  “Pilgrim,” said a familiar voice. Smith.

  “How the hell did you get this number?” Graham asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer.

  He ended the call and tried to remove the phone’s battery, but it took him several tries. His hands were trembling, a combination of rage and frustration. Graham wondered if they had somehow gotten a fix on his location just by his answering the phone. His own medicine tasted bitter. How many times had he been the one doing the tracking?

  Graham huddled in the darkness, but the cloak of night didn’t help. He felt exposed and vulnerable.

  His enemies, whoever they were, were close.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Under Blackwell’s orders, Monroe continued calling Pilgrim. He had long grown tired of attempting to reach the paparazzo. Blackwell didn’t seem to realize that Monroe had a business to run, not to mention a life of his own.

  But you did what Blackwell said if you wanted to keep having a life.

  The number was ringing, but Pilgrim wasn’t answering. Monroe suspected he was scared, and for good reason, but he believed that eventually Pilgrim would break down and talk to him—the man he knew as Smith. And even if he didn’t, Pilgrim wouldn’t stay hidden long. He didn’t have the funds to escape, and it was unlikely he had the patience to stay concealed. But in the meantime, every moment of his continued existence posed potential problems. According to Blackwell, he had already told others about the brothers’ attempt to kill him.

  Jaeger was on his trail, so it was just a matter of time. In a day or two he would get him, though Blackwell was already chafing at the delay. They knew things about Pilgrim, were aware of his habits, his haunts, and his acquaintances. That was the way they did business. It eliminated surprises.

  Monroe wished Blackwell hadn’t involved him with Pilgrim. He always preferred staying in the background, and not being put in the field. But because their organization was so small, Blackwell sometimes insisted upon Monroe’s involvement. From his first meeting with Pilgrim on the oil rig to the last time they had talked on the phone, it had been his job to keep him off balance. Because Pilgrim’s past and present were so well documented, it meant his future would be very brief.

  Monroe tried both of his numbers again, but Pilgrim still wasn’t answering. The son of a bitch wasn’t making this easy. Blackwell had told Monroe to schedule a face-to-face meeting with the paparazzo where they could discuss “all the misunderstandings.” He would propose “one last job” for Pilgrim, and offer him the carrot of a completely clean slate. Naturally, Monroe would never show up to the meeting. Jaeger would be there in his stead. And knowing Jaeger, he would quickly make his “point.”

  He suspected Jaeger enjoyed his work even more than he did the money. The two men had little personal contact, which was just as well. Not that Monroe had any complaints about Jaeger’s job performance. He never failed at his work, even under the most difficult of circumstances. On several occasions, Monroe had tried to praise him for a job well done, but even to himself his words had sounded false. It was difficult to condone murder, let alone sound like a cheerleader. The money was what Monroe loved, and he tried to turn a blind eye to the rest.

  Despite his reservations, Monroe had to admit that Blackwell could not have done better in choosing his team. They all brought something to the table, and that made for symbiotic relationships. Blackwell was the leader, though he kept himself insulated from the fray, and his identity a secret from everyone except Monroe and Jaeger. The firewalls went down the line. Blackwell provided the information, Monroe had his established company with its money and resources, and Jaeger did whatever dirty work needed to be done.

  Monroe even paid much of Jaeger’s salary on his company’s books. It was laughable, actually. At his firm, Jaeger had the reputation of being a workaholic, of always doing work on the road. He handled the “foreign markets.” That helped explain his exorbitant salary, as well as his travels around the world. For appearance’s sake, Jaeger attended several large conferences every year representing the firm. Surprisingly, judging from the feedback Monroe had gotten from others, the man did very well—especially considering he was a stone-cold killer. Men and women alike found him charming. Still, Monroe was glad Jaeger rarely occupied his office at the firm. Truth be told, Jaeger scared him. Monroe knew what lurked behind his polished exterior. But the man had his uses. He spoke half a dozen languages with virtually no accent. He was smart, and he was creative. And he was utterly ruthless.

  Monroe was glad he wasn’t the paparazzo.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  With a laugh, Angelica plumped a pillow for Jaeger—a man she knew as John Hunter. He stuck his elbow down on it, and with his arm propped his head. She ran her hand along his naked, firm flesh, pausing at his face. With her index finger she traced the line of his scar.

  “How did you get this?” she asked.

  “When I was a little boy I fell off my bicycle and my face landed atop some glass.”

  Angelica kept stroking the scar. “It makes you look that much more intriguing.”

  “That’s why I never had a plastic surgeon do away with it. I knew someday I’d find a woman who found my old scar intriguing.”

  He had actually kept it as a physical reminder of the way of the world. The story he’d told her about falling off a bicycle was a lie, of course.

  Jaeger had been a boy the day the Wall came tumbling down. His father told him that he had helped take a sledgehammer to it, and had danced with the crowds in front of the Brandenburg Gate.

  His father’s disillusionment had followed. He thought the flood of Eastern Europeans descending upon his beloved Berlin was “a polluting stream.” They were, he believed, “as bad as the Turks.” Various mob factions set up shop in town, bringing prostitutes and drugs.

  His father believed that in Berlin honor became a forgotten concept.

  Honor was the reason Jaeger joined a dueling fraternity. Before taking up the Schläger he had excelled at the foil and épée, but had found those types of swordplay lacking. There had been no true consequences in crossing blades. The Mensur stood for much more. In Jaeger’s young mind, he saw it as the closest equivalent in modern times to being a knight. You might not be fighting for a maiden or a just cause, but you entered the ring and faced up to steel. As your hands wrapped around the sword’s hilt, you grasped upon an ancient tradition. Somehow it all seemed noble to him.

  That changed when Corps Normannia fought a match against Corps Marchia. When they met, everyone expected another hard-fought contest between two Berlin fraternities with a long rivalry of swords crossing. The story of Jaeger’s Godiva-like exploit had circulated throughout the fencing world, making him a minor celebrity. What Jaeger didn’t know was that in many ways it made him a marked man.

  Jaeger entered the Mensur overconfident. He had done what no duelist had ever accomplished. What else was there to conquer? He knew he was the best, and he let it show in the way he walked into the ring.

  His opponent looked at him with clear disdain. Oskar Freiherr von Saxe was a descendant of royalty, and he didn’t like pretenders to the throne. The English royal family of the so-called House of Windsor, German expatriates really, had much the same blood in their veins that Saxe had in his. His family had managed to maintain land, titles, and fortune throughout the centuries, through whatever means necessary. Given the ever-shifting political climate in Germany, that was no mean feat. Their good fortune was not accidental. His family had a reputation for treachery. At Saxe gatherings, stories of familial duplicity were brought out like old heirlooms. They had collaborated with the chancellor; they had collaborated with the Nazis. Instead of being ashamed, the men winked and laughed at tales of the “old family habit.”

  Saxe had been drinking brandy steadily for hours before his match. He had worked it out among his corps brothers tha
t he would be the one to face “Pretty Boy,” his constant reference to Jaeger.

  “Pretty Boy needs some red in his cheeks,” he told a few of his brothers.

  If Jaeger heard any of this talk, he didn’t show it. He entered the match looking exceedingly nonchalant. While the umpire talked to the two duelists, Jaeger yawned directly in Saxe’s face. Saxe took that as an affront. A commoner was trying to show him up. Whether it was the brandy or the stirred-up blood of his ancestors, Saxe felt the need to right the wrong offered him.

  He showed nothing in his face, gave no hint of what he was thinking. Generations of his forebears had been served by acting suddenly, without warning.

  “I’ve never dated a passenger,” Angelica said. “And this—well, this certainly isn’t typical of me.”

  “Don’t apologize for this evening,” Jaeger said. “It was special. It was almost perfect.”

  “Almost?”

  “It was only missing one thing. Now, what was that?”

  He pursed his lips and pretended to be thinking.

  “Stop it.” She lightly slapped, then caressed, his chest. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Jaeger. He reached over the side of the bed, opened his valise, and pulled out a space-age-looking container.

  “What is it?”

  “Open it.”

  Angelica took it and unsealed the top. “It’s cold.”

  “It’s a wine cooler.”

  “How ingenious.” Angelica reached inside and pulled out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame.

  “You are amazing!” she said. “Let me get some glasses.”

  “No need.”

  He took the container from her, twisted a compartment at the bottom, and pulled out two chilled champagne glasses. Angelica clapped her hands.

  “It is said that Marie Antoinette’s bosom was so exquisite, champagne glasses were modeled on her chest.”

  Jaeger reached over with a glass and rolled it along Angelica’s nipple. “But the queen’s chest could not have been as exquisite as yours.”

  “Thank you.” Her smile was a little bit forced. “That glass really is cold.”

  He didn’t immediately withdraw it. “It’s properly chilled,” he said. With some satisfaction he watched her plum-colored nipple harden.

  She took the glass from him, her way of stopping his play. Jaeger stifled his impulse to reclaim the glass and take up his game with her other nipple. If he saw her again, she would learn not to deny him his play—any of it. But he smiled as he popped the champagne cork, and then poured. As they both sipped from their glasses, he found himself getting hard again.

  Angelica noticed. “I think I’ll invest in a few cases of this,” she said, laughing.

  It was like drinking victory, Jaeger thought, which to him was the ultimate aphrodisiac.

  They both drained their glasses, and then started touching each other anew. Her eyelashes and lips worked their way up his chest, feathering him in their gentle touch, and then continued up his neck. He stopped her at his chin, taking her head in his hand, and then firmly directing her lips over to the left side of his face.

  “Follow the trail of my scar,” Jaeger said, his voice husky, even rough, “and we’ll see where it leads.”

  “Auf die Mensur!”

  “Fertig!”

  “Los!”

  Jaeger started with a quarte, took his opponent’s return low on his forte, then riposted with two more lashing quartes.

  “Halt!”

  At the seconds’ command, Jaeger’s guard relaxed, and he began to turn toward his attendants. Though his Paukbrille severely limited his peripheral vision, he sensed or saw his opponent’s blade coming his way. It was too late to raise his own Schläger. His second had already interceded with his blunt blade, blocking his sword. The second should also have been in position to protect him from his opponent’s blade, but he was moving too slowly. All this Jaeger saw in an instant. Though he didn’t even have time to blink, his reflexes were such that he still managed to jerk his face back.

  It would have been far worse if he hadn’t moved. His lips would certainly have been split apart, and he would have lost teeth. But still, it was bad enough. Saxe’s Schläger sliced open his cheek almost to his lips. In disbelief, Jaeger looked up and saw Saxe staring at him with no little satisfaction. Jaeger tried to pull his Schläger away from his second, but his blade was locked.

  The umpire was screaming that Saxe was disqualified, and Jaeger’s corps brothers were screaming bloody murder.

  “I did not hear the command to halt,” insisted Saxe.

  His performance seemed genuine, except for his eyes. Jaeger knew what he had done.

  “You are a fucking disgrace!” screamed Hildebrand. “I hope you get kicked out of the corps cum fucking infamia, you shit!”

  “I apologize, of course,” said Saxe. “It was a terrible mistake.”

  Cum infamia—meant “with infamy.” In the world of Mensur, there could be no greater stigma attached to your name. But Saxe had known what might result from his actions. His ancestors had not let their ill deeds interfere with their appetites or their sleep. They had murdered, cheated, and connived, and because of that, they had thrived.

  Yes, Saxe had lost the match, but that’s not what the mirror would say. For the rest of his life that arrogant prick Jaeger would stare into the looking glass and know what he had done. That was enough for Saxe.

  Jaeger stifled his impulse to strike back. He was hustled away for medical attention, and while the Butcher worked on his face, he had time to think about what had happened to him. It had been his fault. Rules or not, he shouldn’t have relaxed his guard. And he never would again—in the ring or out of it.

  The world was amoral. To be idealistic was to ask to be blindsided, much as he had been. Honor was a handicap. The immigrants overwhelming his Germany knew that. To succeed, he would do whatever was necessary, much like Saxe.

  But Saxe had made a mistake. He had wounded the lion, but not killed it. And there is nothing more dangerous than a wounded lion.

  “Yes, yes, yes . . .”

  Angelica’s eyes were closed. She wasn’t watching the man who was pushing in and out of her. She didn’t see his face, had no idea that he was reliving another rhythm, didn’t know the rapture of his thrust came not from their sex, but a particular memory.

  Among most who have dueled, there is a certain pride that comes from scars earned in a Mensur. Those who belittle such dueling think of the scars as anachronistic marks, things that don’t belong in the modern world. But in most tribes throughout the world, scarification is an important ritual, a way to distinguish the warriors from the boys.

  The night after his match, with his face sewed up, Jaeger’s corps brothers rallied around him.

  “Where there’s scar tissue,” said Frankie Obermann, pointing to his own prominent Schmiss, “no pimples will grow!”

  “That’s right,” said Witt. “Now you have a badge of pride.”

  Jaeger wasn’t buying it. “I think of what Bismarck said to a corps student who was proudly brandishing his scars: ‘In my day we parried with the Schläger, and not with the face.’ ”

  “Yes,” said Hildebrand, “the Iron Chancellor did say that, but if you look at any of his portraits or pictures you can see he had a Schmiss or two of his own.”

  “You’re not a virgin anymore,” said Witt.

  That was one thing Jaeger could agree with. “You’re right. I’ve lost my innocence.”

  A part of his mind registered that Angelica was a talker. She liked to speak during sex. It didn’t seem to matter to her that Jaeger didn’t say anything back. That was just as well, for his mind was elsewhere.

  “Oh, that’s it. Oh, yes. Oh, you feel so good. That’s it. That’s right. There, there, there.
”

  Over time, Jaeger’s face healed. At first his scar was red, but gradually it turned lighter. Over time, it became white, blending in with his skin. Now, only on very cold nights did the red show itself.

  It was on just such a freezing, cold night that he tracked down Saxe.

  Jaeger had never spoken of revenge to anyone. He had seemed to accept what happened to him with equanimity. Saxe had received the ultimate in punishment, had been thrown out of the corps cum infamia. That meant his own corps brothers had turned their backs on him.

  But that wasn’t enough for Jaeger.

  He had waited just over a year, long enough that the memory of their Mensur and Saxe’s betrayal had faded from the minds of most people. Unbeknownst to anyone, Jaeger had made Saxe his little project. He had trailed him on countless occasions, had come to know his routines and his haunts. The anticipation of their eventual meeting had been a great source of pleasure for Jaeger.

  Saxe left his girlfriend’s house at just past midnight. She had taken a very cheap apartment in the Oranienburger Strasse area in East Berlin. At that time, the area hadn’t been redeveloped. Most of the neighborhoods were dark, and not altogether safe. There had been a rash of skinhead attacks, disenfranchised young East Germans attacking people. Since the fall of the Wall, there had been numerous stabbings. Jaeger had read the accounts with great interest.

  It was a cold night. A slushy rain had fallen and driven everyone indoors. The temperature bordered on freezing. Jaeger had waited patiently. His scar throbbed in the cold.

  Jaeger intercepted Saxe on the way to his car, a new BMW.

  “I’m sure your family has warned you against slumming,” said Jaeger. “Do you make her call you Herr Graf? Do you play bed games, the lord of the manor visiting his peasant?”

  Saxe tried to hide his surprise, tried to cover up his look of alarm. He did his best to exude royal disdain.

  “I am a baron, not a count,” Saxe sniffed. What Jaeger had done was the equivalent of addressing a general as a captain.