As the assassin of record, he dared not fail. From being the monitor of the Blitzkrieger unit, he had suddenly been thrust into its deadly line of work. Not that he wasn’t a trained killer, he was; he had come from the Stasi, one of the first to switch alliances from hard-core Communist to committed Fascist. Labels, merely labels that were meaningless to men like him. He craved the access and the power to live beyond the laws, the exhilaration of knowing he was not accountable to the dictates of small-minded officials. Such bureaucrats, no matter their positions, had been terrified of the Stasi, just as the ministers of the Third Reich had been petrified of the Gestapo. That knowledge, then and now, was truly exhilarating. Yet to remain in their enviable positions, such men as he were accountable to the structures that nurtured them.
Kill the woman as soon as it’s humanly possible! Kill her!
A bullet in the head at close range in the crowded Champs-Élysées was an attractive option. Perhaps a collision, followed by a small-caliber gunshot, easily drowned out by the traffic, yes, it was feasible. Then, grabbing her purse, a trophy to be sent to Bonn, and disappearing among the crowds of afternoon strollers, time elapsed, no more than two or three seconds. It would work; it had worked four years earlier in West Berlin when he had taken out a British MI-6 officer who had made one too many sorties behind the Wall.
The man in the Peugeot unlocked the glove compartment, withdrew a short-barreled .22 revolver, and shoved it into his jacket pocket. He started the engine, swung into the street, and circled at the first break in the traffic. He pulled into the curb as a blue Ferrari lurched away from the space; the entrance to the expensive leather shop was diagonally to the left, in full view, no more than ten meters away. He could be out of the car and within feet of the woman in seconds, the moment he saw her, but not spotting her between the bodies of the erratic strollers was too great a risk. He got out of the Peugeot and made his way to the elaborate front windows of the Saddle and Bootery. He studied the extravagant items behind the glass, constantly aware of those leaving the entrance only several arm’s lengths away.
Eighteen minutes passed and the fashionably dressed assassin’s patience was coming to an end. Suddenly the pleasant face of a clerk looked at him through the window, from behind the banquette of the tasteful display. The killer shrugged amiably and smiled. Seconds later the youngish man came out of the entrance and spoke.
“I noticed you’ve been looking over our merchandise for quite a while, monsieur. Perhaps I could help you?”
“In truth, I’m waiting for someone who is quite late. We’re to meet here.”
“One of our clients, no doubt. Why not come inside, out of the sun? My word, it’s broiling.”
“Thank you.” The former Stasi officer followed the clerk through the door. “I believe I’ll look over your boots,” he continued in perfect French.
“There are none better in Paris, sir. If you need assistance, please call me.”
The German glanced around the store, at first not believing his eyes. He then slowly studied the women individually; there were seven, either standing in newly purchased equestrian finery or sitting in chairs being fitted for riding boots. She was not there!
That was why the Deuxième official had raced back to the Bureau’s automobile! He had learned what the assassin-of-record had just found out nearly an hour later. The ambassador’s wife had escaped the surveillance! Where had she gone? Who had made it possible for her to leave unseen? Obviously someone in the shop.
“Monsieur?” The killer, standing over a row of polished boots, beckoned the clerk. “A moment, please.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the employee, approaching with a smile. “You’ve found something to your taste?”
“Not exactly, but I must ask you a question. I was not entirely direct with you outside, for which I apologize. You see, I’m with the Quai d’Orsay, assigned to escort an important American woman, protect her from the vagaries of Paris, if you like. As I mentioned, she was late, but she cannot be this late. The only answer is that she came inside before I arrived, then left, and I missed her.”
“What does she look like?”
“Medium height and quite attractive, in her early forties, perhaps. She has light brown hair, neither blond nor brunette, and, I’m told, was wearing a summer dress, white and pink, I think, and obviously very expensive.”
“Monsieur, look around you. You could be describing half the women shoppers here!”
“Tell me,” said the assassin in the pinstriped suit, “could she have left another way, through a rear exit, perhaps?”
“That would be most unusual. For what reason?”
“I don’t know,” answered the would-be killer, his tone of voice conveying his anxiety. “I merely asked if it was possible.”
“Let me think,” said the clerk, frowning and looking around the store. “There was a woman in a pink dress, but I did not notice her later, as I was with the Countess Levoisier, a lovely but most demanding client.”
Again the assassin was torn. His control had called the Saddle and Bootery the “André conduit.” If he pursued his questioning too far, word of his carelessness might be sent back to Bonn. On the other hand, if the ambassador’s wife was in the back of the store or had been taken somewhere else, he had to know. Frau Courtland had left the embassy unprotected, not in a customary limousine driven by an armed escort. The circumstances were optimum and might not be repeated for days. For days! And the kill was not to be delayed. “If I may,” he said to the accommodating clerk, “since this is official business and the government would be most appreciative, could you tell me if ‘André’ is on the premises?”
“Good Lord, that name again! ‘André’ is very popular today, but there is no André here. However, when messages come for him, whoever he is, the manager, Monsieur Rambeau, accepts them. He’s left for the day, I’m afraid.”
“ ‘Very popular … today’?” repeated the killer, stunned.
“Frankly,” said the clerk, lowering his voice, “we think the mysterious André is Rambeau’s lover.”
“You said very popular … today—”
“Oh, yes. Barely minutes ago, an adorable young lady with a body one could kill for gave me a message for André.”
“What was it? Remember, I’m an official of the government.”
“I doubt the government would be remotely interested. It’s really quite harmless, even amusing, if I’ve figured it out correctly.”
“Figured what out?”
“Cities, probably countries, as well—destinations—they’re the substitutes.”
“Substitutes for what?”
“Hotels most likely. ‘Call London’ could mean the Kensington or the d’Angleterre; ‘call Madrid,’ the Esmeralda; ‘call Saint-Tropez,’ the Saint-Pères; do you see what I mean?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Rendezvous for lovers, monsieur. Hotel rooms where strangers of either persuasion can meet without alarming those they live with.”
“The message, please!”
“This one’s really quite simple. The hotel Abbaye Saint-Germain.”
“What …?”
“The English for Allemagne, Germain—Germany.”
“What?”
“That was the message for André, monsieur. ‘Call Berlin.’ ”
In shock, the assassin studied the soft face of the clerk. Then, without a word, he raced out of the store.
25
Karin de Vries moved in with Drew at the Hotel Normandie. “We just want to save the State Department money, Stosh, and as a taxpayer, I insist upon it!”
“You’re so full of bullshit, you could be a yellow torero. Stick with the uniform and the blond hair for another day; we’ve got you watched like a Derby racehorse. I’ll explain to the hotel brass that you’re a couple of computer freaks we can’t stand but have been ordered to use.” The colloquy had ended testily; Stanley Witkowski did not like being outflanked.
; It was late afternoon and Latham was seated at the desk, reading the transcript of his older brother’s debriefing in London after his escape from the Brüderschaft valley. Karin had suggested he request it; there were too many mounting questions about Harry Latham’s list. “It’s right here,” said Drew, underlining words on a page. “Harry never claimed the names were written in cement.… Listen to this. ‘… I brought out the material, it’s your job to evaluate it.’ ”
“Then he had doubts himself?” asked Karin, sitting on the couch in the suite’s living room and lowering the newspaper in her hand.
“No, not really, but he allowed for the outside possibility, not a probability. When it was suggested that he might have been ‘fed dirt,’ he was mad as hell. Here. ‘… Why would they? I was a major contributor to their cause. They believed me!’ ”
“The same kind of anger he showed to me when I told him about the Brotherhood having a file on him.”
“He pounced on both of us for that. And right after, when I asked him who Kroeger was, he said the words that’ll stay with me for the rest of my life.… ‘I don’t think I should tell you that, Alexander Lassiter can.’ He was two people, one moment himself, the next Lassiter. That’s heavy.”
“I know, my darling, but it’s over, he’s at peace.”
“I hope so, I really hope so. I’m not religious, as a matter of fact, I don’t like most religions. The violence done in their various names is about as God-like as Genghis Khan. But if death is the proverbial Big Sleep, I’ll settle for that, and so will Harry.”
“You never went to church as a child?”
“Sure. Mother’s an Indiana Presbyterian corrupted by academic New England, and therefore felt that Harry and I should attend regularly until we were sixteen. I made it to twelve, but Harry quit when he was ten.”
“Didn’t she protest?”
“Beth was never any good at conflicts, except where track and field events were concerned. There, she was a tiger.”
“What about your father?”
“Another piece of work.” Drew leaned back in the chair, smiling. “One Sunday, Mom had the flu and told Dad to drive us to church, forgetting that he had never been there. Naturally, he got lost, and Harry and I weren’t about to help him. Finally, he stopped the car and said, ‘Go on in there. It’s all pretty much the same, so hear it from somebody else.’ Only it wasn’t our church.”
“Well, it was at least a church.”
“Not exactly. It was a synagogue.” They both laughed as the telephone rang. Latham picked it up. “Yes?”
“It is I, Moreau.”
“Any word on your secretary? I mean, on who might have killed her?”
“Absolutely nothing. My wife is distraught; she’s making the arrangements. I shall never forgive myself for what I believed.”
“Get out from under the hairshirt,” said Drew. “It doesn’t help.”
“I know. Fortunately, I have other things to occupy me. Our ambassador’s wife made her first move. About an hour ago she stopped at an expensive leather shop on the Champs-Élysées, dismissed her taxi, and then disappeared.”
“A leather shop?”
“Riding equipment, saddles, boots—they’re rather famous for their boots.”
“A bootmaker?”
“Yes, you could say that—”
“That was one of the items we found on the neo who tried to blow my head off!” interrupted Latham. “A repair receipt in the name of André.”
“Where is this receipt?”
“Witkowski’s got it.”
“I’ll send someone over to pick it up.”
“I thought you didn’t like sending Deuxième people to the embassy.”
“It’s only annoying when questions are asked.”
“Then don’t bother. Stanley’s having a car brought over to take Karin to the doctor. I’ll tell him to give the receipt to the marine escort—wait a minute!” Drew snapped his head up in sudden thought, his eyes creased as a person does when trying desperately to remember something. “You said Courtland’s wife disappeared …?”
“She went in and never came out. My people think she was taken somewhere else; they found a delivery entrance in the rear with a small parking area. Why?”
“It’s probably a losing long shot, Claude, but there was something else on our Bois de Boulogne Nazi. A free pass for an amusement park on the outskirts of the city.”
“A strange item for such a man—”
“That’s what we thought,” Latham broke in. “We were going to check it out, along with the bootmaker’s, when that arsenal at the Avignon Warehouse went up in smoke. It sidetracked us.”
“You think she might have been driven there?”
“As I say, it’s a long shot, but as we both agree, a free pass to a fun house is a pretty strange ticket for a Nazi killer to keep buried in his wallet.”
“It’s certainly worth a try,” Moreau said.
“I’ll reach Witkowski; he’ll be sending the car for Karin soon. When it gets here, I’ll have the receipt and the pass. In the meantime, you order up one of your fancy vehicles and wait for me at the side entrance of the hotel.”
“It is done. Have you a weapon?”
“Two. I didn’t give Stanley’s sergeant Alan Reynolds’s automatic last night. He was so pissed off at me for going out, I thought he’d wear gloves, shoot me, and say Reynolds did it.”
“Good thinking. One of my people probably would have. A bientôt.”
“Make it soon.” Drew hung up the phone and looked over at Karin, who was now standing in front of the couch, her expression none too pleasant. “I’m calling our colonel, want to say hello?”
“No, I want to go with you.”
“Come on, lady, you’re going to the doctor’s. You think you fooled me last night, but you didn’t. You got up and went to the bathroom, and you were there a hell of a long time. I turned on the light and saw the blood around your pillow. Later I found the bandage in the wastebasket. Your hand was bleeding.”
“It was nothing—”
“Let the doctor tell me that. And if it’s true, why is your right arm bent at the elbow so your hand is across your chest, somewhat ignoring gravity? Are you in the middle of a benediction, or would you rather not have the bandage soiled again?”
“You’re very observant, you bastard.”
“It hurts, doesn’t it?”
“Only in spasms, and only now and then. You’re probably responsible.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said in quite a while.” Latham got up from the desk; they crossed to each other and embraced. “My God, I’m glad I found you!”
“It’s a two-way street, my darling.”
“I wish I could say things better, say the things I feel. I haven’t had much practice, not in a genuine way—I guess that’s a dumb thing to say.”
“Not at all. You’re a grown man, not a monk. Kiss me.” They kissed, long and sensuously, searching their swelling arousal. Quite naturally, the telephone rang. “Answer it, Officer Latham,” said Karin, gently disengaging herself and looking up into his eyes. “Someone’s rightfully trying to stop us. There’s work to do.”
“Did that uniform make me a general?” said Drew, now in civilian clothes. “If so, whoever it is, the son of a bitch is going to do fifty years in Leavenworth.” He walked to the desk and picked up the telephone. “Yes?”
“If you were really under my command,” said Colonel Stanley Witkowski harshly, “you’d be spending the rest of your life in Leavenworth for dereliction of duty!”
“Exactly my thoughts, but in the reverse. Only I’ve lost my rank temporarily.”
“Shut up. Moreau just reached me and asked if I’d talked to you about the amusement park.”
“I was just going to call you. I had an acid attack—”
“Thank you,” whispered De Vries.
“Cut the crap!” the colonel continued over the line. “The car’s on the way for Kar
in, and the sergeant has what you need. I think I should be with you boys, but Sorenson wants me to stick around. We’re trying to figure out how to make Courtland’s homecoming as easy as possible.”
“How did he take the news?”
“How would you if Karin turned out to be a neo?”
“Don’t even think it.”
“Courtland did better than that. He was shattered but convinced. Wesley’s an old-timer, like me. He doesn’t pull a put-around unless he has sufficient background confirmation to make it irresistible.”
“You speak a funny language, but I understand you.”
“The bottom line is that the ambassador’s going along with us. He’s going to play his part.”
“Better you should get the actor Villier. That’s going to be one hell of a ‘homecoming’ bed tomorrow night.”
“That’s what we’re working on. Courtland’s frightened to be alone with her. We’re orchestrating a series of late-night emergencies.”
“Not bad. With the cumulative jet lag, it might work.”
“It has to. How’s your friend?”
“She continually lies to me. Her hand hurts and she won’t admit it.”
“A real soldier.”
“A real idiot.”
“Our car will be there in ten minutes. Wait till the marines are inside, then take her out.”
“Will do.”
“Have a good hunt.”
“I don’t want a useless one.”
Latham, in gray trousers and a blazer, climbed into the backseat of the armored Deuxième car beside Moreau and handed him the bootmaker’s receipt and the pass for the amusement park.
“This is my associate—Jacques Bergeron—Jacques will do,” said the head of the Deuxième, gesturing at the man in the front passenger seat. Amenities were exchanged. “And I believe you’ve met our driver,” added Moreau as the agent behind the wheel angled his head around.
The Apocalypse Watch Page 43
