Labyrinth

Chapter 10

The trip to Cadgwith Cove and Bruggar House, the residence of Colin Burgess, took Locke a good part of the night and left him exhausted. After leaving the Dorchester, he had found a cab, which took him to Paddington Station. There he boarded a train traveling south for the English countryside. The journey was long to begin with and the train’s many stops — at Reading, Somerset, Taunton, Exeter, and Newton Abbot — had Locke’s nerves even more frazzled. Rest was impossible, especially during the rocky segment between Exeter and Newton Abbot as the train passed into the wilds of Dartmoor over ancient track beds. Finally it arrived in Plymouth, where Chris boarded another train for Cornwall, disembarking at the station in Truro. A single cab waiting outside then took him the final hour-long stretch through Helston onto the Lizard and ultimately into the remote village of Cadgwith Cove.

It was two A.M. when the taxi rumbled up the pebble drive of a stately, ancient manor known as Bruggar House. Locke could hear the hard sea breaking on the rocks below and could smell the thick, salt air as he climbed out of the cab and paid his fare. The man drove away and a chorus of barks started up immediately inside the house.

Locke headed toward the front door, feeling as if he were stepping back in time. Bruggar House had been erected several centuries before. It was a massive, granite-stone structure rising majestically over the cliffs with a single center tower poking up at the night sky.

Locke could only hope that the worst part of his journey was not yet to come. What if Burgess, a perfect stranger, turned him away? Worse, what if Burgess wasn’t at home?

Locke reached the front door. He rapped three times with the heavy brass knocker. Angry snarls and barks followed, then the sound of the dogs rushing at the door. He had lifted the knocker to rap it again when he heard the latch being undone inside. The door creaked open.

“Yes?” came a crusty, tired voice. Locke could see a hulking body just beyond the crack.

As it had turned out, the rest had been easy. All Chris had to do was mention Brian Charney’s name and the door was opened wide. Flanked by growling dogs at every angle, he started his story still standing in the foyer. He didn’t say much but it was enough to convince Burgess of his desperation brought on by the brutal murder of their mutual friend. The burly Englishman refused to hear more until morning. Locke was exhausted to the point of being incoherent. A good night’s sleep was in order. In the morning, things would seem more clear.

Locke fell asleep as soon as his head struck the pillow, a deep rest that ended with the barking of Burgess’s dogs as the mail arrived late the next morning. Chris rose, climbed back into his only clothes, and descended the staircase. The massive house was filled with the smell of strong coffee.

“I thought I heard you milling about,” Burgess greeted. “Trust you slept well.”

“Incredibly, yes.”

“Not so incredible, lad. The body knows best what it needs. Take it from an old soldier.”

“I owe you a great debt.”

The Englishman’s face grew bitter. “And I owed Brian Charney an even greater one.”

Locke figured Burgess to be in his mid sixties. He had a thick crop of white hair and a face creased by experience as well as time. There were several scars too, the most prominent of which ran down his forehead through his left eyebrow. His fingers stroked it constantly. They were huge fingers, coated with a crust of farm dirt, yet they possessed a gentleness Locke could feel in Burgess’s ice-blue eyes as well. They were the eyes of a man who had lost his youth but none of its ideals. His frame had sagged, though only slightly. He must have once been a mountain of a man, Locke reckoned; was still a mountain, but one that had weathered many storms. His great bulk covered the chair he sat in. He rose slightly to pour the American a steaming cup of coffee, then settled back down. His eyes were hard yet sad as well.

“Whoever got Brian will hear from me, laddy. I can promise you that much.”

“He was my friend too.”

“Then we’ll hunt the bastards down together, we will!”

“Right now all I want to do is get home.”

“You mentioned Liechtenstein last night.”

Locke sipped his coffee. It was astonishingly refreshing.

“Liechtenstein is where I’m headed first,” he said. “Brian thought you could help me get there.”

“If the country’s still on the map, lad, I’ll get you in. Bring you right to the damn border and kill anyone who gets in our way, I will. But I’d like to know what you’re on to, the thing that Brian died for.”

“I wish I could tell you. I’m just not sure.”

“You know more than you think, lad. It’s just a matter of putting things together in the proper order. Let’s talk things out, shall we? Tell me what got you into this.”

Locke told him everything: from accepting Charney’s offer, to the encounter with the bogus Customs agent, to his meeting with Alvaradejo, which had ended in death and its equally bloody aftermath in the streets; from his desperate rendezvous in the park with Charney, to his friend’s murder and as many of his final words as Locke could recall.

“Does it make sense?” Chris wondered at the end, confused and frustrated once again.

“Enough, lad, and the sense it makes is not pleasant at all.”

Locke hesitated, feeling the need to purge himself further. “He would have sacrificed me. That was his plan from the beginning.”

“It wasn’t his plan, just a risk he undertook. He had faith in you, laddy. You went through the training.”

“Twenty years ago and I never finished.”

“But what you knew came back to you yesterday, didn’t it? Pros like Bri and myself, laddy, pride ourselves on being able to size up a man’s capabilities. The fact that you made it here shows Brian was a pretty good judge of yours. He was just doing his job, lad, and it doesn’t make him any less of a friend. I worked with Bri all through the seventies. Never met a man who loved his country more.” Burgess swabbed at his watery eyes with a shirt sleeve. He cleared his throat. “Now let’s try to put together the events of yesterday from the beginning. The man from Customs issued you a gun, you say.”

“On orders from Brian, he claimed. Except Brian knew nothing about it.”

“And this Colombian was your first contact and your friend Lubeck’s first contact.”

Locke nodded. “Alvaradejo was the first step of the trail.”

“And Lubeck died in Colombia.”

Another nod. “A town called San Sebastian.” The souls of San Sebastian will be avenged…. “Lube witnessed the massacre.”

Burgess shook his head, squeezing his lips together. “We are dealing with true animals here, lad, men who have nothing to lose and obviously much to gain.”

Locke flinched. How often had he heard the word “animal” shouted at him yesterday?

“The people of San Sebastian were witnesses to something,” Burgess went on, “and had to die to keep it secret. Lubeck was killed almost surely for the same reason.” His eyes flashed. “Did the diplomat initiate contact with Lubeck?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Let’s assume he did then, lad. Obviously he knew something, had heard something, and alerted Lubeck to whatever it was that took him to Liechtenstein. The animals knew he had followed a trail to San Sebastian but they didn’t know what it was. Then you ventured into the scene, lad, assigned to pick up that very trail.”

“Wait a minute,” Locke interrupted. “How could they have known about me? My assignment was deep cover.”

“Such assignments must go through channels, lad, and all channels have leaks. These animals seem capable of anything.” Burgess leaned forward, resting his huge forearms on the table. “You venture in and the animals see a marvelous opportunity to fill in the trail Lubeck uncovered by using you as the shovel. Somehow they leak word to the Colombian that the men who butchered this town and killed Lubeck are on to him and are sending a killer.”

Locke nodded. “Me.”

“Then these animals of ours arranged for you to be given a gun, knowing you would be forced to use it in self-defense.”

“And Alvaradejo obviously thought I was part of something bigger because he addressed me in the plural. But what if I had failed?”

“Then you’d be dead and the animals would have dealt with the Colombian themselves and devised another way to come up with the rest of Lubeck’s trail.”

Locke thought briefly. “But Alvaradejo must have been part of something bigger too. The men who chased me spoke Spanish as well, shouted the same phrases and accusations he did.”

Burgess fingered his scar. “Then they must be organized. The bit with the taxi driver was not an easy stunt to pull off.”

“So we’re dealing with two forces here.”

“At least, lad, but the animals are our prime concern. These others — Alvaradejo’s people — are dangerous yet not nearly as professional; professionals do not shout in the streets.”

“And what about Brian?” Locke asked with a lump in his throat.

The Englishman’s stare went rigid. “Between your desperate phone call and meeting in the park, he went searching for answers. Apparently the answers found him first.”

They‘re everywhere, everything….

“He said they were everywhere, that the world would be theirs unless they were stopped,” Locke muttered. “Christ, they could have killed me at any time.”

“But instead they chose to use you, lad. Your friend Lubeck uncovered a trail that died with him. But it can still do the animals great harm if someone else uncovers it. Alvaradejo was the first step, Liechtenstein the second. By following you, they cover their tracks.”

“Then who was waiting for me in the hotel?”

“More of the Colombian’s friends probably. It was the animals that killed Charney, though, because he got too close to them.”

Locke drained a hefty gulp of his coffee. The caffeine was recharging him, but as Burgess dug deeper into his story, his fear deepened along with his sense of helplessness.

“So by going to Liechtenstein,” he concluded, “I’ll be aiding the cause of those Brian said had to be destroyed.”

Burgess shook his head. “Before, maybe.” He tapped his still-massive chest with an index finger. “But now you have me. I’ll show you what you need to know to stay one step ahead. They will keep you alive so long as you fill a need. We must use that to our advantage, lad. Also they have no idea now where you’re headed next. Time is on our side and we must take advantage of that too.” Burgess leaned back and crossed his arms. “You said something about Brian drawing a connection between the events.”

“It wasn’t much.” Locke sighed. “He felt the key was food.”

“Food?”

“Lubeck was investigating the World Hunger Conference when Alvaradejo met with him. And Lube died in Colombia because he saw something in the fields. His last words dealt with it.”

“Words he never had a chance to finish,” Burgess completed. “Now tell me what Brian said about Liechtenstein.”

“Only that I was supposed to go there and find a man named Felderberg.”

“Felderberg!” the Englishman bellowed in obvious surprise.

“You know him?”

“Everyone in our line of work does, knows of him anyway. Let me tell you something, lad, don’t believe everything you hear about Switzerland being the financial capital of the world. People might still keep their money in Swiss numbered accounts because they represent the ultimate in privacy. But when they want to move that money around, they go to Liechtenstein. Deals are arranged there, funds large enough to boggle the mind are transferred there. And all of it carried out with the utmost discretion, kept secret from governments … and tax services. Claus Felderberg is the leading middleman of them all, a power broker who controls the flow of money when certain parties don’t want anyone to know its true origin. He consolidates funds or spreads them out. Discretion is maintained above everything else.”

“And Lubeck saw him,” Locke said, almost in a whisper. “The next link in the chain …”

“Leading us where, I wonder, lad. What does an international power broker have to do with the massacre of a Colombian town?”

“Only Lubeck could tell us that.”

“Then we’ll have to find out for ourselves, won’t we? You came to the right place. I owe Brian Charney this much and more.”

Burgess finally asked Chris if he was hungry and proceeded to put together a giant breakfast of steak and eggs, toast, sausages, and more coffee. As they ate, the burly Englishman told his own story and Locke found himself fascinated.

He had enlisted at the very start of World War II at the age of eighteen, ending up at the German front where he was three times decorated for bravery. Twice he was wounded and twice he returned to battle, refusing to be sent home. He hated the Germans with everything he knew, wanted to kill as many of them as the army would give him bullets for. Though exact counts were never kept, it was more than possible that Colin Burgess killed more Nazis than any other single infantryman in all of England’s vast regiments.

It was the third wound that got him sent home. Burgess couldn’t argue; he was in no position to. A German grenade had torn a measure of his stomach away and sunk so deeply into his leg that some of the fragments were impossible to reach.

“Thought I’d be shitting into a bag for the rest of my life, lad,” Burgess recalled.

His recovery was miraculous but his days at the front were finished. The shrapnel had left him with a slight limp and most sudden motions were impossible. So the British command found something else for him, a task far more important and even more satisfying than his work at the front. Burgess was assigned to the OSS detail responsible for ferreting out German spies in England. Burgess loved the role because it allowed him to deal with the men he hated most face to face, not from across a battlefield.

After the war he took his sharply honed skills to MI-6, the British counterpart of the soon-to-be-formed CIA. He spent thirty years in the field, meeting up with Brian Charney on one of his final assignments, which took them to East Berlin. Things did not go well. They walked into a trap and Burgess took two bullets in the side. Charney killed his assailants and then half-dragged, half-carried Burgess three miles to a rendezvous point at the Wall with KGB agents in hot pursuit. Charney and Burgess never lost contact with each other after that night, the older man becoming a father figure to the boy-wonder of the American intelligence community, teaching him all the tricks the classroom had neglected. When Burgess retired from the field, Charney still consulted with him often and referred to the big Brit as his true mentor.

“He was like family to me, lad,” Burgess said bitterly. “I’ll get the bastards who killed him all right.”

Locke felt something sink in his stomach. “What about my family?” he said rapidly. “We’ve got to reach them and secure them from danger!”

Burgess thought for a moment. “Leave that to me, lad.”

“But Charney said there was no one I — we — could trust.”

“In his government, not mine. I’ll call some people I know in the British intelligence community, free-lancers mostly. Everything will be unofficial, a few favors called in. Within eight hours I’ll have your family under watch and guard. You’ll have nothing to worry about from that end.”

Locke shook his head slowly. He stared across the table as though in a daze. “I don’t know if I’m up to this, Colin, I just don’t know….”

Burgess’s expression became tight and sure. “I do, lad. You see, Brian Charney was not a man to leave things to chance. He contacted me this afternoon and said there was a possibility I’d be hearing from you and if so it would mean he was dead. He read me a portion of your file he knew would be of … interest to me. That portion convinced me that you had it in you to complete the mission for him, that you could uncover the implications of what’s already happened and prevent what might be about to. You see, it’s in your blood.”

And then Locke realized. “You know about my mother.”

“More than that, lad,” Burgess said with no emotion in his voice. “It was I who captured her.”

Chapter 11

“What we got here, gentlemen,” Calvin Roy said, “is a mess that stinks worse than a corn pasture ’round planting time.”

The Undersecretary of State leaned over his desk and faced the two men seated before it: Louis Auschmann, deputy National Security Adviser, and Major Peter Kennally, director of the CIA.

“The autopsy on Charney just came in,” Roy continued. “Some bastard shot him four times and we can’t find hide nor hair of the man he put in the field.”

“I should have been consulted about that,” Kennally said dryly. “You don’t send amateurs into the field without proper clearance and cover.”

“Sprinkle your manure somewhere else, Major,” Roy snapped. “Charney had full clearance to do whatever he damn well pleased whenever he damn well pleased. He answered only to this department and I approved of the human option deployment, as did the Secretary himself.”

“And now your human option is the subject of a manhunt in London. Killed a Colombian diplomat and damn near killed a cabdriver.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure he had his reasons and I’m betting Charney’s death confirms them.”

“Unless he killed Charney as well. He could have been a foreign all the time. We’ve got to consider the possibility that this whole scenario was set up by him.”

“The bullets that killed the Colombian don’t match up with the ones that killed Charney,” Auschmann pointed out.

“Standard procedure dictates he wouldn’t have used the same gun twice,” Kennally said.

“Screw your standard procedure up your asshole, Major!” Roy’s face was furious. “I asked you here to help me figure out what in hell is going on, not to recite chapter and verse from the spy manual. You read the report I sent over summarizing what Charney thought he was on to?”

Kennally nodded. “And all I could draw from it was that he wasn’t on to anything concrete.”

“Not then anyway, but it looks plain to me that whatever it is seems to be hardening real fast and I’d like to find out what before someone else gets buried, maybe a whole mess of people. Charney was pro, Major. He worked for you long enough for you to know that.”

“All the same, he placed a lot of credence in Lubeck’s report.”

“You heard the tape. You blame him?”

“You’re saying there’s a connection between Lubeck’s death and Charney’s….”

Roy feigned shock. “Man, oh, man, move that boy to the head of the class.”

“So where does Locke fit in?”

“Right now, Major Pete, nowhere we can find him.”

“And San Sebastian?”

“Fire stopped last night. Just got the first report from the team that went in. Nothin’ within twenty miles that’ll tell us a damn thing. Lots of human bones, though, roasted clean through. Whole town’s been burned to a crisp.”

“Obviously someone went through great pains to cover their tracks,” Auschmann concluded.

“When I want the obvious stated, Louie, I know I can always turn to you. Now how ’bout telling me something less obvious, like what in the hell happened to Charney?”

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t call nobody, that’s what I mean. Instead of using the regular channels and making an emergency report, he gets himself killed trying to deliver it to our Professor Locke.”

“There’s no record of his having requested backup at any time yesterday,” reported Auschmann. “Also no contact was made with our people at the embassy.”

“Charney was never the solo type,” noted Major Kennally.

“So what made him change?” Roy wondered. “Maybe he didn’t cross the usual channels ’cause he was afraid they might collapse under him.”

“A leak?” from Kennally.

“Maybe.” Roy paused. “Or maybe something worse than a leak.”

“Like,” Auschmann said, “discovering that certain forces in our government were part of what he had uncovered.”

“Yup, Charney must have found that the shit on somebody’s shoes led right back to our doorstep.”

“He wouldn’t have called in because the wrong person might have answered,” added Auschmann, a dapper man in his early thirties with a Harvard degree and high aspirations. “Time was probably a factor. He had to go it alone.”

“But he went to Locke,” said Kennally.

“The only one he knew he could trust when they started closing in.”

“When who started closing in?” Roy asked loudly. “What I got, fellas, is one dead agent and one college professor running around England wanted for murder.”

“Has Scotland Yard been of any help?” asked Kennally.

“Dumb bastards couldn’t find a pile of shit if they were standing knee-deep in it. They threw a net over the Dorchester and Locke slipped through it. Didn’t even realize he had until they decided to plant a man in his room and found Charney’s body and evidence our professor had just left. The trail was still hot but before they could follow it, somebody set off the damn fire alarm.”

“Locke maybe,” Auschmann said.

“In which case he’s a lot more resourceful than we gave him credit for, unless you cover such things at the Academy, Major Pete.”

“And now he’s alone,” said Kennally.

“Maybe not,” said Roy. “Charney would have sent him to someone. Poor guy didn’t drag himself all the way up there with four bullets in him just to die on the plush carpeting. No, he told Locke something, a whole lot more than we know now.”

“The solution’s obvious,” said Kennally. “We find Locke.” The major leaned back. “Only where do we start? Charney could have sent him anywhere.”

“No,” countered Auschmann, “not anywhere. Since Locke hasn’t made contact with any government branch or foreign embassy yet, it’s safe to assume Charney steered him away from us.”

Roy nodded, interlacing his fingers. “Pull Charney’s file, Louie, and go over it with a magnifying glass. Brian had lots of contacts in England. Find the one he would have sent Locke to.”

“Why England?”

“Because Charney was a pro and he knew Locke wasn’t. Distance would be a factor, travel something to be avoided at all costs.”

“And since Locke didn’t come in,” said Kennally, “it’s possible, even probable, that Charney used him to replace himself.”

“Which would win him the benefit of Charney’s killers … and Lubeck’s,” added Auschmann.

“Unless we find him first,” said Roy, “and that, fellas, is just what we’re gonna do.”

The one-eyed man walked into the bar quietly, doing his best not to be noticed. It was difficult. He was large and powerfully built, with dark features, black hair, and a pair of eyes that were sharp as steel. People moved out of his way, stealing a brief extra glance, as he walked toward a table in the rear occupied at present by a single dark-haired woman chain-smoking over a glass half full of melted ice cubes.

“We lost him,” the woman reported.

“So I gathered,” said the one-eyed man. He sat down. “Something confuses me about your report. You say the American came alone to the park?”

“Yes.”

“That isn’t right. They should have sent others.”

“There was only Alvaradejo, they thought. Hardly the need for others.”

The one-eyed man pulled his chair in closer. “You also say the American rushed from the park. Would you describe his motions as panicked?”

“Desperate perhaps. That’s what our man in the cab said.” She added, “He’s going to be all right.”

“Professionals aren’t desperate. The American should have discarded his gun in the bushes and walked calmly away. Instead he ran, as though surprised by the unexpected.”

“Alvaradejo had a gun.”

“He should have allowed for that possibility.”

“The American’s aim was perfect,” the woman persisted, lighting a fresh cigarette.

“From an extremely close range. Doesn’t mean a thing.”

The woman hesitated. “He could have known about our ploy with the cab or guessed it. The panic might have been a facade meant to take our man’s guard down. Apparently it succeeded.”

The one-eyed man wasn’t satisfied. “Yet he still waited until our cabdriver had gone for his gun before he acted.”

“He could be a showman. Americans have always gone in for the quick draw, cowboy stuff. Besides, he did quite a job on our man when it was called for.”

“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.

“Felderberg,” Dogan said, “the financier. A broker in dollars, not information. Seems strange this Locke would be heading for him.”

The Commander nervously cleared his throat. “No questions, Grendel. Do you want the assignment or not?”

Dogan tore a croissant in half and stood up over his untouched coffee, picking up the envelope. “I’ll send you a postcard from Liechtenstein.”