A Matter of Honor

Chapter Thirty-six

In Ludensdorf cafés were open and street traffic was brisk, but the sign in the airlines’ ticket office still read closed in three languages, so Tarbert Weir made his first stop at the pharmacy.

Two young men in white coats were dusting shelves and polishing glass cabinets; there were no other customers. The air was cold and smelled cleanly of alcohol, emollients and horehound drops. Weir spoke to a clerk at a rear counter. The young man hesitated a moment, then said, “If it’s for your dog, mein Herr, I could suggest a good veterinarian.”

“Thank you,” Weir said. “It’s for myself. I use a few drops of it in seltzer water as a carminative. Your German cooking is excellent but rich for my American stomach.”

The man came back in a few moments with a small bottle of colorless liquid and put it into a green paper bag. Then he put the registry book for purchasers of controlled substances onto the counter and turned it to face the general. Weir signed it “John Grimes, Rhein-Baden Spa Hotel.”

Weir pointed to the green package. “Wei steht der dollar?”

“Drei, mein Herr,” the clerk said.

The general was aware the young German was looking at him covertly, examining his uniform and rows of medal ribbons. Weir took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and said, “Bitte geben Sir mir Deutsche Marks hierfur.”

As the clerk counted out the change in German currency, the general said, “Name und Vorname?”

“Gunther Maginer,” the clerk said.

Weir smiled and gave the man a soft salute. “Sehr angenehm und Guten Morgen, Herr Maginer.”

The clerk snapped to attention and touched his hand smartly to his right eyebrow. “Guten Morgen, Herr General.”

Scotty Weir spent the remainder of the morning sightseeing. He looked into the Grimm Brothers museum, browsed through bookstores and then joined a tour group to inspect the paintings in the palace art gallery. The guide gave the information in both German and English and Weir trailed along with the crowd, studying the paintings leisurely.

Now and then he stayed behind for a longer look at a painting that held his interest. There was an oil portrait by Rembrandt of his wife, a stolid matron, and he stood longer at the Durers, feeling an empathy for the German’s realism. The artist knew that men got hurt using their hands, and how those hands looked afterward, the fingers thickened, veins like swollen rivers, knuckles bruised and big as walnuts. Weir glanced at his own hands, hanging loosely at his sides, aligned with the seams of his uniform trousers. They were big hands, fingers strong and clean, the nails clipped short, with no rings on the fingers, no scars. Unscathed hands, it would have been wrong, a betrayal of the past, of his memories, the general realized, to have struck Captain Alain Tranchet-LeRoi with those hands.

The general took a corner table for a late lunch at the Hutten-Bar. He ordered cold meats, salad and a pot of tea, then leaned back in his chair to wait, letting his eyes wander over the dining room, past the fake bamboo wall that separated the table from the bar, until he became accustomed to the darkness. A man seated at the near end of the bar ordered a Johnny Walker Black Label with ice and soda. The voice was flat, slightly nasal, a touch of New Jersey. That meant the man was not German after all.

Weir’s anger and then the long walk back to town had given him an appetite and he enjoyed his lunch. The Rembrandts and the Durers and the Grimm Brothers might be relics of another era, but they had served their purpose. He had got what he wanted from them, and from the bookstores, the museums, the old streets of Ludensdorf, and what he’d got was the fact that he was under surveillance.

The man at the bar had been on the periphery of his vision all that morning and he remembered him from the Liege airport and before that in Philo Park.

The man was about forty, bulky, muscled, with blond hair cut short, and oddly old-fashioned in his Ivy dress of twenty years ago, flannel slacks, Blucher brogues, a raglan topcoat and the buttoned down, fine cotton shirt and striped tie that identified Brooks Brothers like a thumbprint.

When Weir paid the waiter, he heard the clink of change being tossed on the inside bar. He left the restaurant and strolled to the airlines ticket office without turning around.

The clerk at Lufthansa was happy to take a credit card for flight 257 leaving that evening at nine o’clock from Munich to New York and Chicago. Weir spent some time checking out exactly what time the plane reached Chicago, whether this was a full dinner flight and could the fraulein check what inflight movie was scheduled?

When she obtained all the answers for him, she said, “We’ll want you at the airport by eight, sir. Munich is about one hundred sixty kilometers from here. Would you like me to arrange ground transport?”

Weir looked at his watch thoughtfully. “No, I’ll do that myself, thank you. Make out my ticket and send it to the hotel at five o’clock... the Rhein-Baden Spa, Room 333, General Tarbert Weir.”

Fritz Vestrick was lunching on a tray at his desk but put it aside when he saw the general in the doorway. “I’ll be checking out tonight, Fritz,” he said. “I’d appreciate it if I could spend some time with you. How about a swim?”

Weir went to his room to change into trunks and a robe. From a pocket of his tunic he took the bottle of liquid from the pharmacy, plus the car keys and other materials Captain Tranchet had given him earlier, put them all together in the waterproof map pouch, tucking the packet into the pocket of his robe.

Vestrick had also changed and stood with his office clothes carefully draped on a hanger. Fropi the hotel lobby the two men walked to a vast indoor pool, steam rising from the heated surface, and swam laps together, side by side, talking quietly between their rhythmic strokes. Then they saunaed, ordered salt rubdowns and showered.

Vestrick changed into his elegant working clothes and joined the general in the glassed-in fern gardens beyond the poolhouse. Weir gave Vestrick the map pouch, the two men embraced and the general took an elevator back to his room.

He shaved once more, put on the jogging suit he’d worn in Philo Park, collected his clothing and toilet articles and began to pack. He hung his wet swimming trunks on the bathroom door handle and put everything else in his suitcase, folding his uniform neatly and arranging his robe and slippers on top.

He checked his watch again, then lay back on the bedspread, staring at the ceiling and trying to will relaxation into his body; he remained as tense as a coiled spring, and his thoughts were racing, words forming almost involuntarily in his mind. “It’s right for me to be here, Mark. Survivors feel this way after a battle, it’s a known quality of combat. You look at your comrades, you count the casualties and you wish that you could be part of them in some way...”

A few minutes before five the general dialed room service and asked for ice, soda, a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label and two glasses. “I’m expecting an airline ticket to be left with the concierge at five,” he said. “Ask your man to bring it up with the drinks, if you will.”

He stood at the windows, back to the door, waiting for the knock. When he opened it, the man from the Hutten-Bar was standing there, liquor tray in hand, the airline ticket on the tray.

“Do you mind if I come in?” he said.

“I sure as hell do,” Weir answered. “If you’re selling anything, whether it’s black market currency or young girls or their brothers, I’m not buying.”

“Come now, general,” the man said. “I know you spotted me at least once this morning and I have a notion you’ve been on to me for some time, so I bribed room service to let me bring up your order. May I put it down somewhere?” He nodded down at the tray. “Johnny Walker Black. You’re a thoughtful host.”

“On the bureau then,” Weir said. “And you must let me reimburse you for that bribe. Or is that an expense account item?”

The man put up a hand in mock protest.

“Please, general. My pleasure.” He picked up the airlines envelope and handed it to Weir. “It’s all in order, I’ve checked it. Munich departure nine o’clock, arrival at Kennedy, transfer to American for Chicago, then a twelve-seater down to Springfield in time for supper tomorrow night. The concierge put in the voucher for the ride to the airport. It’s all there.”

The man looked around the hotel room, checking the windows, glancing toward the bathroom. “I’ve called the home office. My people want you aboard Flight 257 and my orders are to stick with you till you’re emplaned.”

He put out his hand. “I’m Lenox Riley. I’d like our few hours together to be as pleasant as possible.”

“There’s no need to introduce myself,” Weir said dryly. “You seem to know everything about me. But I’ll tell you what, Riley, I’ll buy the drinks if you’ll tell me how you got onto me. Scotch all right? I could send down for wine...”

“Scotch will do nicely,” Riley said. He removed his topcoat and dropped it over the arm of a chair. “Easy on the soda and a single ice cube.”

“Hell, every time I’m pressed into service as a bartender I either make it too light or too heavy. Mind serving yourself?”

The general walked to the windows, humming, pretending to savor the sight of the lights twinkling beyond the darkened windows. In the reflection of a pane he watched Riley half fill a glass with Scotch, then take a long swallow from it, adding another ounce of liquor before lopping it with soda and an ice cube.

“I’ll make my own, thanks,” the general said and walked to the bureau.

“This is a rare, on the job treat for me,” Riley said. “If I drank like this all the time I’d have a liver the size of a coconut.”

“Christ, enjoy yourself. It’s the only way to relax after a hard day.” Weir lifted his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Riley said but set down his glass. He walked to the closets, opened them and ran a hand along the empty metal hangers. He pulled open each bureau drawer and searched them. He went into the bathroom, kicking the door wide open, then checked the medicine cabinet. He noticed the wet swim trunks hanging from the doorknob.

“Forget something?” he asked.

“No. I’m not taking them. I don’t want wet luggage at thirty thousand feet.”

The man opened the suitcase on the bed and felt through the layers of clothing. Then he picked up his drink, placed the straight-backed desk chair between Weir and the hall doorway and straddled it. “You’re a neat packer,” he said. Weir nodded.

“Before we start enjoying ourselves too much,” Riley said, “I’d like to inform you that I’m armed at the moment with a .38 special, Smith and Wesson, for which I carry a German license, and like you, Weir, I’m karate trained.”

Weir nodded again without interest.

“You look CIA, Riley,” the general said flatly, “but I can think of no reason they’d have an interest in me.”

“At the moment I’m an independent, though I still have a classified number in Langley and an operator who’ll take a signal. It’s one of your own confreres who asked me to keep an eye on you, general. There’s no need to be secretive about it now.”

Weir felt a jolt of anger and satisfaction. “How did Colonel Benton know I’d left the Greenbrier?”

“For about twelve hours, he didn’t,” Riley said. “Fortunately Captain Jetter is a light sleeper. When he finally realized you’d given him the slip, he remembered dreaming about a helicopter, then decided it had been a real one. A list was made of all airports with overseas schedules within a reasonable ’copter distance from Virginia. Lufthansa was checked for their passenger lists from those depots. They got Dallas, your flight, your destination and Benton put a call through to me in Frankfurt.”

“But Germany, why did Colonel Benton believe I’d be going to Germany?”

“I asked the same question,” Riley said. “Colonel Benton informed me that was not a need-to-know priority, I could complete my assignment without that information.”

“And my trip to the Tranchet farm? I assume that was you in the pickup truck.”

“Yes. I checked your background at the American military library in Heidelberg and got the material on the Medal of Honor and your friendship with the family. I was convinced you’d head there. It’s a sixth sense that intelligence agents develop... I can’t think of a better word for it.” He sipped his drink. “Captain Tranchet-LeRoi is quite a fan of yours, by the way.”

“Did you see him before or after I did?”

“Just a short time afterward,” Lenox Riley said. “He was emotional, pretty shaken by your visit, said you’d always been like a second father to him. My most sincere condolences on the death of your son, by the way.”

“Thank you. The Tranchets and Alain were part of this sentimental journey, I suppose. After my son’s death I had a great need to touch some familiar pickets in an old fence. It’s been a healing few days. I’m ready to go home now.”

“The clerk in the pharmacy said you’d been experiencing some stomach disorders.”

“Emotions,” Scotty Weir said. “Purely emotions gone amok.” He held up his glass. “But I find this helps.”

“Good,” Riley said. “Mind if I freshen mine and switch on a few lights? It’s gloomy as hell in here.”

“Drink up,” Weir said. “I don’t want to put an opened bottle in my suitcase. We’ve got time. The front desk said they’d ring up when the limo comes round.”

The two men sat in the back seat during the drive to Ludensdorf s municipal airport. The chauffeur, wearing a uniform and a visored cap with “Rhein-Baden Spa” on the band, drove at a steady speed along the autobahn, the highway lit at intervals with antifog lamps that cast a yellow glow on the roadside snowdrifts.

Neither man spoke for several kilometers. Riley held his liquor well, Weir thought; in the hotel his speech had remained clear, his hands steady. But as the man turned to him now in the back seat, Weir noticed a small tic had begun to pull at the side of his mouth.

“I’m flattered that you thought I was CIA,” he said. “That was my berth for several years. It’s like going to a good prep school, the training always shows.” Riley looked out the rear window at the dark countryside and absently scrawled his initials on the damp glass. “They assigned me a lateral, exotic approach,” he went on. “Arbitrage banking. I actually worked in a bank in Calcutta for six years after Princeton. Had a large gentleman’s flat and half a dozen servants. Couldn’t even reach for a drink for myself. A twelve-year-old boy in red pantaloons stood by my chair to do that.”

“Why would anyone leave that kind of plush assignment?” Weir asked.

Riley was thoughtful. “I’m not homosexual,” he said, “just unmarried. But if you ask dozens of people dozens of questions about anyone’s behavior, you’re likely to find some touch of gossip, hot-tubbing in a drunken mood, a misconstrued invitation to spend the night.” He shrugged. “In spite of their investigation, I tested out like a bar of Ivory soap, general.”

“The top Army brass is still using you, Riley,” Weir said. “That’s all the vindication a man needs.”

At the airport the driver pulled past the main terminal and took a narrow road behind the maintenance sheds to a corner of the tarmac where a four-seater Bonanza was taxiing into position. The two passengers stepped from the limo, while the driver stowed Weir’s single piece of luggage in the plane, then left the field through a black and white striped exit gate.

Lenox Riley looked appraisingly at the plane, then said, “You strap into the rear passenger seat, general. I’ll sit next to the pilot.” He swung himself into the second cockpit seat, put a hand inside his jacket and removed the .38 special from a shoulder holster. He rested the gun on his knee.

“I’m presuming your German is more fluent than mine, general. Tell our pilot I understand something about planes and I can read flight plans and instrument panels.”

“I speak English,” the pilot said.

“Very well,” Riley said. “We want to deliver Mr. Weir to Munich by eight o’clock so he can be aboard Lufthansa 257 for a nine o’clock flight. And we want no mistakes.”

The pilot nodded, turned the plane one hundred and eighty degrees and began to taxi around the perimeter of the field. A row of private planes stood parked at one side of the area, dark and locked for the night. Two small feeder lines were boarding passengers at the brightly lit terminal and in the public parking lot a pair of local taxis idled, while a few parked cars shone under arc lights.

Riley sat beside the pilot, silent but alert, eyes traveling over the expanse of air field. Suddenly the plane’s headbeams picked out the black and white striped exit gate.

“Goddamnit!” Riley said abruptly. “We’re right back where we started from!”

“I’m waiting for the control tower...” the pilot began.

“Listen, you swine...” Riley’s voice broke into a yelp of pain as Tarbert Weir leaned forward suddenly and struck him a fast blow on the neck with the blade of his hand. Riley was dazed but struggling when the pilot knocked him unconscious with a second blow that caught a vital artery. The man slid sideways, breathing raggedly.

Weir reached forward and lifted the Smith and Wesson from Riley’s limp hand. Fritz Vestrick turned in the pilot’s seat to look at him. “Jesus, Scotty, you tapped him like some kid testing a ripe watermelon.”

“I’d have got him the second time,” Weir said. “He fooled me, he’s as drunk and relaxed as a turkey.” The general shook his head sadly. “I’ll take my gear now, Fritz. Can you believe that poor dumb bastard thinks he’s got a sixth sense going for him?”

Vestrick handed the waterproof pouch to Weir and a set of car keys. “My Mercedes is parked right in front of the terminal. There’s a rabbit’s foot tied to the mirror, you can’t miss it.”

“How much fuel do you have?”

“Enough to cruise at four thousand feet for a while, then enough to get him there and get me back. I’ll have him on the ground in Munich at half-past nine sharp.”

Weir opened the plane door and swung his suitcase to the tarmac. Then he reached out and gripped Vestrick’s broad shoulder. “Auf wiedersehen, pardner,” he said. “I’ll call you from Springfield when it’s all over.”