Labyrinth (14 page)

“But he was left alive. A professional would have killed him. A professional wouldn't run from the chaos creating more.”

“Unless he was baiting us. And the trap worked. Arturo walked right into it. His fingers were still locked on his gun handle when they found him. Only a professional could have moved so fast.”

The one-eyed man shrugged. He waved away the smoke. “That is another thing that doesn't fit. So thorough a killing with no witnesses …”

“As I said, the work of a professional,” the woman reiterated, pressing her cigarette out so not to annoy the man.

“Undeniably,” he said. His face twisted uncomfortably. “The American called for the meeting with Alvaradejo?”

“Just as we discovered he would. They sent him on Lubeck's trail to kill all those Lubeck contacted, those who knew too much.”

“A college professor …”

“With six months of CIA training,” the woman said. “They say he dropped out. It was the perfect cover for his present employers.”

“Then why mention such training in his dossier at all?”

“It doesn't matter. Obviously Locke leads a double life. His teaching allows him ample time for his second vocation. And no one raises questions if a teacher travels frequently. The cover is perfect. And Georgetown University, a coincidence he chose a college in Washington, you think?”

The one-eyed man said nothing.

“Everything fits,” the woman declared boldly. “This Locke is the worst kind of professional, one that is unpredictable, whose motions seem random when each step is actually cunningly thought out.” The woman paused. “I saw Arturo's corpse. It was not an amateur's blade which tore his throat. The problem now is that we have exposed our existence to Locke. He will be expecting us and he is good. Our advantage is gone.”

“Maybe not. Where did Alvaradejo send Lubeck?”

“Claus Felderberg in Liechtenstein.”

“Then it's time to alter our strategy a bit… .”

The shock of Burgess's words hit Chris like a slap in the face.

This was the man responsible for his mother‘s death!

“I caught up with her on a beach just before dawn,” the big Brit continued. “There was a submarine surfacing a half mile off shore. They saw us and went back under. Your mother didn't put up a fight. She knew it was over.” He sought out Locke's eyes and hesitated. “A professional understands such things.”

“It's a small world, isn't it, Colin?” Chris asked with a calm that surprised him.

Burgess nodded. “And not a very pleasant one. You have the right to be angry with me, lad.”

Chris looked at him. “I can't. I can't feel angry. Part of me wants to but it's not a big enough part. Brian's dead. You're all I've got. The past is finished.”

Even as he spoke, Chris knew it wasn't quite true. For while events had shrunk down to memories, the past remained tightly woven into the present. He was there now partly because of his mother, and he found some reassurance in thinking his course had been charted long before. But when Burgess said, “Experience makes orphans of us all,” Chris knew that would have to be the truth for now.

The burly Englishman took his leave soon after but not without first obtaining Locke's measurements. New clothes were needed. Locke would be doing a lot of traveling. There were arrangements to be made, information to be obtained. Claus Felderberg was a powerful man. There was no way Locke could simply call and make an appointment as he had with Alvaradejo. A cover was needed, a means of entry. And speed was of the essence.

That last thought made Locke shudder. Lubeck would have done everything he was doing and more, yet they had gotten the Luber. Could Chris realistically expect anything different? He had been lucky in London. So much depended on his luck holding up.

Locke tried to calm down, even nap, but couldn't. Being faced with his mother's treachery again after pushing it successfully aside for years added to his strain. He also had to face his own vulnerability. He was no longer just a piece in the game; he was a major player whose moves were his own, or would be once he reached Liechtenstein.

Before Burgess left, Chris begged to be allowed to contact his family.

“Not smart, lad,” the Englishman told him firmly. “Lines are too easily tapped these days. You might give away your location … and your advantage.”

“What about a safe line?”

“Around here they're impossible to set up.”

“My family will be expecting a call,” Locke persisted. “When I don't make it, they'll get panicky. Then they'll start with their own phone calls, maybe get themselves in trouble. I don't think I can live with that.”

“Then don't think about living, lad, think about dying, because that's what will happen to you for sure if you take unnecessary risks. Give it a few more days. After Liechtenstein maybe.”

Locke reluctantly agreed.

Four hours later Burgess's return was signaled by the happy barks of his dogs. Chris watched him approach from an upstairs window and met him at the front door.

“How did it go?”

The Englishman sighed and sat down in the first chair he saw. He looked tired and worn.

“I'm not used to this anymore, lad.” He moaned. “Too old, I suppose.” He leaned back and breathed deeply. “I got what we need to set you on your way but it wasn't easy. Too many people had to be involved, which means there are too many chances for the information to slip into the wrong hands.”

“But you got it.”

Burgess tapped his jacket pocket. “All in here, including a new passport for you. I've got a suitcase full of clothes and toilet articles in the car. I still know all the tricks, lad, and God knows we'll need them if we're going to win.” He paused. “You leave for Liechtenstein tonight at nine. There was no time to arrange for private passage and most often it causes more attention than it's worth anyway. Your transportation will all be public, and a hectic schedule it is, lad. Changes will be frequent. People will be looking for you. We must keep them off balance.” Burgess paused. “My sources tell me the entire country is being scoured for an American wanted for the murder of a Colombian diplomat.”

“What? It wasn't murder!”

“It can be made to look like anything certain powerful forces want. The animals do not want you to have your own government as an ally. In fact, you're also wanted for questioning with regard to the shooting of an American State Department liaison.”

“Brian …”

“Before much longer they may have his death pinned on you too.”

“But I—”

“It doesn't matter, lad. If our enemy is as strong as you've made me believe, they could have representatives in high places everywhere. Investigations are easily redirected. The point is that lots of people are looking for you and we can't send you on the straightest route to Liechtenstein. You'll be taking the boat train into France and will make your way to Paris by rail. From there you'll fly to Geneva, making two plane changes, and then travel to Liechtenstein by train. You arrive at approximately noon tomorrow.”

Locke sat down in the chair opposite Burgess. “And once I'm there?”

Burgess pulled the fresh passport from his pocket and handed it to Locke. “You check into your hotel as American businessman Sam Babbit coming to the country to make some rather large financial transactions. You have chosen Mr. Felderberg for his discretion and willingness to operate on short notice. At a rather exorbitant fee, I might add.”

“Which I'll need if the cover is to hold.”

Burgess nodded. “A man like Sam Babbit must be seen passing big bills freely. He would not have come to Liechtenstein if he was one to spare expense. Have no fear in this area, though. I have the money for you, roughly seventy-five hundred pounds.”

“From where?”

“Nothing more glamorous than my bank account, lad.” Burgess stopped and his face tightened. “Brian was a good friend. You can't put a price tag on what I owe him. In any case, you will arrive in the community of Vaduz tomorrow in plenty of time to check into your hotel before meeting with Felderberg. He will be waiting at a restaurant near Castle Vaduz at four
P.M.
The mountain is steep and the only access to the restaurant is by tram. Once you reach it, the rest will take care of itself.”

“What do I tell Felderberg?”

“I'm afraid that's up to you, lad. He will know soon enough that you are not who you claim to be; an international financier is usually quite adept at sizing up his clients. Be direct but don't reveal too much at once. Remember, it's conceivable Felderberg is working for the enemy.”

Locke's mouth dropped. “I hadn't thought of that… .”

“Then don't bother worrying about it, lad. It's unlikely anyway because Lubeck never would have made it all the way to San Sebastian if Felderberg was one of them.”

“He has bodyguards, of course.”

“Oh, several of them. But the Hauser restaurant always holds a private room for him. He meets his clients inside alone—discretion, again. But his guards will be right outside. You will be alone with him only until he directs otherwise.” Burgess's eyes bored deeply into Locke's. “I won't lie to you, lad. There's danger in this, quite a bit, in fact. But Felderberg's the key for us now, the key to what your friend Lubeck uncovered. I hate sending you out alone into the field but …” He shrugged. “Remember, though, I'll only be a phone call away.”

“But you don't have a phone.”

“The number I'm going to give you belongs to a young lady who can reach me in a matter of minutes. If an emergency arises, call her and say that you wish to speak with Uncle Colin.”

“Then what?”

“One of two things. Either the girl will ask for your number and call back immediately to take your message, or she will say Uncle Colin has gone fishing, which means they got to me and you're on your own.”

“And what about after the meeting with Felderberg?”

“You go wherever he sent your friend Lubeck, lad. The next link in the chain.”

Dogan received the Commander's message late Friday night. At first he rejected the meeting because he owed the bastard nothing. But the night quickly turned sleepless and Dogan couldn't help wondering if his superior might have reconsidered his decision of Thursday. Not that Dogan would be ecstatic about returning to Division Six. The terms would be different now, his entire essence redefined; he knew that. So why bother?

Because, simply, he had nothing better to do. His life was his work; the field, the code he shared with men like Vaslov. It was in his blood and no transfusion could clear it.

He didn't set the alarm or request a wake-up call but arose at seven all the same and walked to the Champs-Élysées after a quick shower. The Commander was at his usual table. He didn't so much as look up from his newspaper as Dogan approached, and seemed to take no note of him until Dogan sat down across the table and blocked out the sun.

“Glad you made it,” the Commander said.

“Just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

A brief glance up, squinting his eyes against the sun. “Breakfast, Grendel? Some croissants perhaps?” He pointed to a basket covered with a checkerboard napkin. “Café au lait?”

“Sure.”

The Commander poured him out a cup, then peered briefly across the table.

“There's been a change of heart” was all he said.

“Concerning?”

“Don't be coy, Grendel. It doesn't suit you.” A pause. “Your reinstatement is being strongly considered.”

“And what have I done in the past thirty-six hours to deserve such an honor?”

“It's nothing you've done. It's something you're about to do.”

Dogan felt confused. He waited for the Commander to go on.

“Simply stated, we want a man killed, taken out with a minimum of fuss.”

“Why not call on one of your new superstars, maybe another from Keyes's graduating class?”

The Commander hesitated, flipping nervously to another page of his newspaper. He didn't appear to be reading very carefully today.

“This assignment,” he began finally, “requires a rather … tactful approach. Nothing can be done officially, nothing can exist that leads back to us.”

“So since I'm no longer in the Division, I'm the perfect man for the job.”

“As I said before, do this job for us and that condition becomes temporary.”

“Any guarantees on that?”

“None that would make you any less suspicious. The Division needs you. You've really made your mark.”

“Which could end up as my epitaph if this turns out to be a suicide mission against some crazy Third World leader. Kaddaffi maybe? Or Khomeni?”

The Commander shook his head and raised his eyes. They looked small behind his glasses. “Someone far more mundane, I'm afraid. A State Department intelligence man named Brian Charney was killed yesterday by an agent he was running who's turned rogue. The man is looking for buyers of certain information,
sensitive
information he possesses that can do us extreme harm if it falls into the wrong hands. Of course you can see the need for immediacy here, as well as tact.”

“I'm sure you have a file on this target.”

The Commander nodded and pulled a manila envelope from his lap, placing it on the table. “His name is Christopher Locke.”

“Any idea who's running him now?”

“No, but it doesn't matter. We want him put away quick. What we do know is that he's headed for a meeting in Liechtenstein. You're to be on the next available plane.”

“I haven't accepted the assignment yet.” Then: “Why is he going to Liechtenstein? Who is this meeting with?”

“Claus Felderberg. I've written all the details down. No reason to go over them now.” The Commander slid an envelope across the table.