Labyrinth

Chapter 12

Locke found getting to Liechtenstein a more difficult chore than he had expected. Burgess’s itinerary got him to Geneva right on schedule but the train he boarded there, the Arlberg Express, made no stops in the small country. So Chris took it as far as the border station at St. Gallen, where he found a taxi for the fifteen minute trip to Vaduz, Liechtenstein’s capital. He was surprised to find there were no checks at the border and also relieved. The less he had to expose himself, the better.

Still, Locke could not help but be taken in by the country’s beauty. The thin road taken by the driver curved comfortably through the fertile flatlands of the Rhine Valley, which was just beginning to show its spring blossoms. He could see mountains in the north layered with snow and the temperature barely broke fifty. Locke longed for a warmer coat but the sights kept his mind off the cold.

The taxi deposited him in the storybook town of Vaduz in front of the Sonnenhof Hotel at two thirty. Locke paid the driver with some of the Swiss francs he had obtained in Geneva and included a generous tip. A doorman came over and grabbed his suitcase, beckoning him toward the hotel entrance. Locke hesitated a moment to look up beyond the hotel at the sprawling, majestic structure of Castle Vaduz. Directly below it he made out a dark shape nestled amidst the lush greenery — the Hauser restaurant, where his meeting with Felderberg would take place in just over an hour. The tram leading up to the restaurant from ground level would be hidden by the trees from this angle. There would be plenty of time to locate it later.

Finally he moved toward the entrance of the Sonnenhof. The same doorman who had taken his suitcase held the door for him, and Locke tipped him handsomely as well. He had to play his role to the fullest by passing sums of money and being noticed for it. Felderberg would be asking about him, perhaps even had people watching. Any reservations the financier entertained about Sam Babbit had to be laid to rest.

Locke stopped at the front desk, flinching just for an instant when he registered under his assumed name. There had been no time for Burgess to obtain a credit card for him, so he left a deposit in cash. The clerk was friendly but methodical, finally handing Chris his key and signaling for a bellboy. Five minutes later, after another exorbitant tip, he was inspecting his room to find it tastefully and elegantly appointed in light colors corresponding to the lavish grounds beyond. There was a terrace off his bedroom, and Locke collapsed there on a chair facing the sun. The wind chilled him but after the long, confined journey he needed the open air and space. It was almost three o’clock now; an hour to go until his meeting with Felderberg.

Chris suddenly found himself uncomfortable. First he passed it off to the long, sleepless trip, but there was more. He was in a foreign country registered under an assumed name about to meet with a man who was somehow part of a monstrous conspiracy. It might have been comic if someone else had put it to him that way, and he found himself more distressed than ever. Lubeck had seen Felderberg … and Lubeck had died.

Chris moved back inside his room, closed and bolted the sliding door behind him. He picked up the phone and had the hotel operator connect him with the number Burgess had provided. He had last checked in hours earlier in Geneva.

Uncle Colin has gone fishing….

Please don’t let it be those words, Locke prayed.

“Hello,” came the friendly female voice with the sharp British accent.

“I want to speak with Uncle Colin.”

“Your number, please.”

Chris gave it to her.

“Stay put, sir. Be right back with you.”

Locke hung up. The phone rang three minutes later.

“Yes?” the girl said.

“I have another message for your uncle.”

“Go on.”

“Tell him I’ve arrived at Vaduz and all seems to be well. I’ll be meeting with Fel—”

“Please mention no names,” the girl interrupted.

“The meeting will go on as scheduled.” Locke hesitated. “Is there any way I can reach Colin directly?”

“I could have him call you at this number but it’ll take a while.”

Locke knew he’d have to leave for his meeting with Felderberg in a half hour at most. “No, it’s all right. I’ll call again after the meeting?” Then: “He’s okay, isn’t he?”

“Fine, sir, and taking all necessary precautions.”

“Good.”

Chris replaced the receiver as soon as the conversation ended. Something was nagging at him. What precautions had the girl been talking about? Did Burgess know someone was on to him? Locke couldn’t bear the thought of being totally alone again. Burgess was his only hope now. If something happened to the big Brit …

Locke stretched out on the bed and forced his mind to other considerations. London had taught him that hotels could not always be regarded as safe refuges. Unexpected happenings on the mountain could conceivably make a return to the Sonnenhof impossible. So he needed a safe locale for some fresh clothes and other basic necessities, including his passport. He wasn’t comfortable carrying it on his person, nor did he want to leave it in the hotel room. He reached deep down into his memory for an effective strategy. It had been covered in the training, repeated over and over again.

Use a public place, somewhere crowded, as a stash. A train or bus station, perhaps an airport, would be best. Use a locker.

There was a good-sized rail station on the outskirts of Vaduz. Certainly there would be lockers inside.

It took him ten minutes to change into a new suit and another five to pack a tote bag with two changes of clothes, a razor, and other toilet articles, along with his passport. In addition there were several implements Burgess had obtained in the event a disguise might be needed. Locke had the doorman get him a cab forty minutes before his appointment with Felderberg and headed for Vaduz Station. Then he told the driver to wait outside for him.

As it turned out, there were indeed lockers inside the station, a whole bank of them. But keys had to be obtained and deposits left at a central desk, which meant exposing himself to more attention. Locke weighed the situation only briefly before determining that obtaining the locker was worth the risk. The clerk was courteous, had thick glasses, and spoke very poor English. The cost of a locker was fifteen francs per day. Locke received one key. A master that was also required to open the lockers was always present at the desk, available once the customer had paid up his account as noted on the card Locke was issued. It all seemed far more complicated than a simple coin system, but he went along with it because he had to.

The driver dropped him at the tram at the base of Vaduz Mountain fifteen minutes before his meeting was scheduled to begin. The ski season had ended, so there was little activity about. A lift operator sold tickets to the few tourists who wished to take in Vaduz from an aerial angle. Another helped seat them in the small enclosed cars that looked like miniature diving bells. Chris straightened his tie, purchased a ticket, and was ushered into one of the green compartments. The door closed tight. The lift began to pull him up the mountain, taking him farther and farther from the ground. The cable squeaked and trembled every time a connecting tower station was passed. Halfway up the tram, Locke could clearly make out the Hauser restaurant, a small but stately building that seemed to be a small imitation of the castle standing above. It might once have been a carriage house by the look of it, or a guest lodging for visitors of Liechtenstein’s royalty in days of old. It was simply a restaurant, though, constructed in the sixties to capitalize on the tourist trade.

The restaurant was located up a path from the tram’s unloading platform, and Locke had started to walk toward it when a man appeared in front of him flanked by two others.

“Mr. Babbit?”

“Er, yes.”

The man’s eyes were ice blue. He had wavy blond hair and a neck as wide as his head. “We have been sent to escort you up to your visit with Mr. Felderberg. You have come alone?” the man asked, eyes darting back toward the tram.

“That was the arrangement.”

“We are merely confirming. Precautions, you understand.”

“I understand.”

There was a suppressed tension about the man, Locke noted, something coiled in him ready to spring at an instant’s notice. He didn’t smile; there was no expression whatsoever on his face. He seemed somehow familiar to Locke and it wasn’t until they reached the entrance to the restaurant that he realized why. He had known a hundred others like him twenty years ago at the Academy. The man had the capacity to kill without hesitation. Felderberg was taking no chances.

The blond man led Locke into the Hauser, which was dimly lit and almost deserted but impressive in its furnishings all the same. The designers had done their best to create the feel of a seventeenth-century inn with thick wood tables and several functional fireplaces. A large bar dominated the central floor, huge beer mugs with Liechtenstein’s coat of arms displayed proudly on shelves suspended over old-fashioned wine bottles. Few of the tables were occupied and only three seats at the bar were taken, one by a thick-haired American-looking man whose eyes held Locke’s briefly as he passed. When Locke glanced back, the man’s attention had returned to his stein of beer.

“This way,” the blond man said, and Locke followed him with the other two men bringing up the rear.

They moved down a corridor where two additional bodyguards waited in front of a wooden door with a brass knocker.

“We will search you here,” the blond man told him.

Chris felt himself being eased gently against the wall. Then a pair of powerful hands slid over him checking for concealed weapons. Satisfied, the hands slipped off and Locke turned around to find the blond man lifting the knocker. He opened the door without waiting for a reply and signaled Locke to enter.

“Thank you, Peale,” came a voice from the room’s rear, and Chris found himself looking at Claus Felderberg. “Leave us.”

Peale headed back out the door. Felderberg stood up and started out from behind a table. Locke met him halfway across the floor.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Babbit.”

Locke took Felderberg’s extended hand. The grip was cold and clammy. Felderberg was overweight, with bulging jowls and a triple chin. His blue suit was perfectly tailored and what remained of his thinning brown hair was pulled from one side to the other to make it seem he had more. His mustache was his most outstanding facial feature, mostly because it was embroidered with strands of red. Felderberg breathed hard and noisily through his nose.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Locke said.

“My pleasure. Come, please sit down.”

“I mean, I know how busy you are. I appreciate your time.”

Almost on cue, Felderberg pulled a gold watch from a chain in his vest pocket and checked it as he returned to his seat.

“And little time I have, Mr. Babbit. Economies are booming everywhere. Many people have money they wish resettled.”

Interesting choice of words, Locke thought as he waited for Felderberg to take his seat before he followed. The financier eased his bulk down and then pulled his chair under the table, which had been set for two. Locke sat down opposite him.

Felderberg settled his legs under the table. “As I said, Mr. Babbit, my time is short, so please excuse me for dispensing with formalities. My right foot is presently resting on a button which the slightest pressure would activate, sending a signal to my men in the corridor telling them I need them immediately. They will respond fast and rashly, Mr. Babbit. That is what they are paid for.”

“I understand.”

“No, I don’t think you do. In my business precautions are everything, Mr. Babbit. Personal safety is maintained above all else. I am going to ask you a question and if the response doesn’t satisfy me, I will press my foot down and have my bodyguards deal with you.” Locke made out the fear in Felderberg’s voice. The financier’s eyes bore into him. “Who are you?”

“Sam—”

“Not satisfactory. You are not Sam Babbit and your presence here has nothing to do with desiring excessive financial resettlements as I was asked to believe.”

Locke felt numb. The ruse was up. No sense trying to continue it. “I congratulate you on your intuition,” he managed.

“Investigation was more like it,” Felderberg told him. “I had you watched at the hotel. Your tipping was impressive but no man in your alleged position would pay for a hotel room in cash. You also have no credit cards in your wallet — Peale signaled me to that fact when he entered the room. The men I deal with invariably carry a flock of them. I also understand that you made a stop at the train station on the way here.”

Locke leaned back. “I’m impressed with your thoroughness.”

“I have many enemies. Hired killers have shown up here before.”

“But you don’t consider me one,” Locke said.

Felderberg hedged. “My foot is on the button,” he said as a reminder. “But you’re right, I don’t believe you came here with violent intentions. Your cover was too thin, too shabby. Killers always come with impeccable credentials and qualifications. Peale always picks them out in an instant, and he’s quite good at dealing with them.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Every move you made was contrary to what a man who had come in quest of my life would make, starting with a rather bizarre arrangement for this meeting.”

“Then why did you agree to see me?”

“Curiosity, I suppose. Since I knew you couldn’t be one of my enemies’ hired hands, I had to ask myself who you were and what bit of desperation led you to my door.”

“Desperation’s as good a way to describe it as any….”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Christopher Locke and you’re absolutely right: I’m no professional killer. I’m no professional anything. I used to be a college professor. Now, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure what I am.”

“But you haven’t come here to quiz me on ways to finance your retirement.”

“Right now my major concern is just making it to retirement. A friend of mine didn’t. His name was Alvin Lubeck and he met with you last week, I believe.”

Felderberg’s heavy breathing stopped all at once. He wet his lips. Locke noticed they were trembling.

“I’m here to find out what you told him,” he continued.

“On whose authority?”

“Or who’s ‘running me’? That’s the popular spy phrasing, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter. The answer’s no one. I’m here on my own authority. There was someone else until two days ago but he was killed too, and there are quite a few people out there who’d like nothing better than to make me number three on their list.”

Felderberg’s breathing became even heavier. His brow was sweating. “Who was this someone else?”

“A State Department intelligence man who was once my best friend. He put me in the field to follow Lubeck’s trail because he figured I’d have the best chance of digging up what he discovered. Well, I dug part of it up all right and it buried him. He sent me to you and an English colleague of his made the arrangements to get me here.”

“You must tell me everything. From the beginning.”

Chris obliged as best he could, taking almost twenty minutes from beginning to end, almost laughing a few times at the incredibility of his story.

“Does any of this make sense to you?” he asked at the end.

“Some,” Felderberg replied. “Enough. I have no knowledge of these Spanish-speaking killers of yours but the others pulling the strings behind the scenes, the ones your friend calls ‘animals,’ they are what Lubeck came to see me about.”

“How did he get to you?”

“Through Peale, interestingly. He and Lubeck had worked together a few times before Peale came to work for me. He had met with that Colombian diplomat who tried to kill you and the meeting had raised certain questions he felt I could answer.”

“And could you?”

“Somewhat.” Felderberg leaned forward, interlaced his fingers tightly over the table. “The diplomat was his country’s delegate to the World Hunger Conference. When he learned that Lubeck was running a routine security check, he contacted him with the claim that someone powerful was plotting to sabotage the conference … and that same someone had by some shrewd manipulation become the virtual owner of Colombia.”

“An entire country?”

“Why are you so surprised, Mr. Locke? What else is a country besides land? And land can be bought in virtually any quantities for the right price. You think it’s any different in your country? See where Arab money is going these days. Land is by far the greatest investment, the only one guaranteed never to depreciate or be affected adversely by inflation or recession.”

“But Alvaradejo must have put Lubeck on to something far greater than clever investments.”

“Most certainly. What I said about some powerful force becoming the virtual owner of Colombia is a bit misleading, Mr. Locke. The force is only interested in great chunks of arable land, suitable for farming if not ideal. This may amount to only twenty to twenty-five percent, but much of the rest is arid. Control that twenty-five percent and you control the country.”

“Why?”

“Because all development, all industry, and all wealth will be centered there.”

Locke nodded. “And Alvaradejo sent Lubeck to you because you were the broker who sealed all the Colombian land deals for this … unknown group.”

“Yes,” Felderberg admitted. “But it wasn’t just Colombia. Every arable nation in South America has been affected. The pattern is always the same. Exact instructions are provided as to how to resettle massive funds stretching into the billions, subdivide and spread them out to make it impossible for anyone to realize that one party was behind it all. It is the kind of work I have done for twenty years, Mr. Locke, but I’ve never seen anything that even approaches the scale of this before.”

A soft knock came on the door.

“The waiter,” Felderberg told Locke. Then, in the direction of the door: “Yes?”

It opened and Peale escorted a man in white shirt and black bow tie inside.

“Some wine before our meal, Mr. Locke?”

“Thank you.”

Felderberg ordered a certain year and vintage, which the waiter jotted down on a pad before leaving. The door sealed shut again.

Locke felt a tremor in his stomach. The scope of what he was facing was finally taking shape.

“And the common denominator of all the countries and all the deals you completed was arable land,” he concluded.

“Much of it was still undeveloped, you understand. South American nations are seldom very good at utilizing their resources. But the potential for farming the lands was there. Hundreds of soil analyses from hundreds of regions in perhaps a dozen countries crossed my desk — another common denominator.”

“So your client is buying up farmland.”

“Yes.” Felderberg regarded him closely. “Obviously that interests you.”

“Charney thought food was the key to this somehow. Lubeck too.”

Felderberg nodded, leaning back. “And it all started with Alvaradejo. The Colombian contacted Lubeck and sent him to me.”

“Because he feared someone was buying up his country?”

“Not exactly,” Felderberg said. “Because he feared someone was going to destroy it.”

Chapter 13

“Destroy?” Felderberg’s response had hit Locke like a swift kick to the gut.

“Not physically, you understand. Alvaradejo’s fears were rooted in the belief my client was turning his country’s people into slaves, forcing them off land they believed they owned and leaving them destitute.”

“I told you about San Sebastian,” Locke said. “It fits.”

“What fits?” Felderberg demanded. “I apologize for my impertinence, but in my position control of the situation is everything and in this case I’ve lost mine. You described a massacre to me, hundreds of people murdered for no reason.”

“Unless they saw something, knew something.”

“Which your friend Lubeck also stumbled upon….”

“The fields,” Chris said. “It all comes back to his rantings about something in the fields. The townspeople were witnesses to it and then Lubeck became one too.”

“But what did he see? What did the townspeople know?”

“Your client was doing something on that land. Testing a new weapon, something like that.”

“Which was then burned in a fire?”

“The fire covered the effects, that’s all.”

Felderberg shook his head. “No, the key is land and by connection food.”

“An entire town wasn’t massacred over food.”

“Unless, Mr. Locke, something about that town made it a microcosm of a much greater picture.”

“The rest of South America …”

“At least those portions my client had purchased.”

Locke hesitated. “Did Lubeck come to any of these conclusions?”

“No. He had only shadows when I saw him. San Sebastian had not yet occurred and that, I’m certain, is somehow the key.”

“Along with food.” Locke ran his hands over his face. “But where does food tie in? Where does its importance lie for your client?”

Felderberg looked at him with mild shock. “Fifty percent of the world’s population goes to bed hungry every night and many, many of these suffer from true famine. A country as powerful as the Soviet Union can bargain with the United States to keep a sufficient grain supply flowing. When oil was the crisis, engineers simply built cars that used up less. When food reaches such a crisis, similar steps cannot be taken with the stomachs of man.”

“You said ‘when,’ not if.”

“Because the crisis is inevitable. A few bad Soviet harvests back to back, wars in other agricultural-producing nations, a change in the political climate of your own country — all or any of these could lead to a crisis like none the world has ever seen, ultimately bringing on a global revolution of catastrophic consequences.”

“I fail to see how—”

“Of course you fail to see!” Felderberg roared, jowls flushed with red. “Everyone fails to see, that is the problem. You think plutonium is the world’s most valued resource, or gold, or diamonds, or even oil? Hardly. Food is by far the most crucial commodity, and yet it is subject more than any other to gross mismanagement and unconscionably bad planning. Your own country is ruining its own topsoil by rushing crops in and harvesting them too fast. It takes nature anywhere from a hundred to a thousand years to create one inch of top soil. But in America’s frenzy to squeeze more food from the land, she is destroying on average an inch of topsoil every forty-five years. It is no wonder my client may well be planning for the crisis to come.”

“By buying up unused farmland in order to become an agricultural power….”

Felderberg frowned. “Except that would not explain the covert nature of their activities, nor the need for such haste. Growing crops in the abundance required for export take months, even years of effort and hard work. The motives of my client remain bathed in shadows. What are they after? What is worth the investment of literally billions of dollars?”

Neither man had an answer. Tension passed across the table between them.

“It might help if I knew who this client was,” Locke ventured tentatively.

Felderberg chuckled, but there was no trace of amusement in the sound. “You think in a situation such as this they would reveal their true identity? No. Everything has been concluded through middlemen, mostly lawyers, and mailings. The arrangements have never failed to be in order and because my commission is always paid promptly, the need has not arisen for questions.”

“But you must still pose them, Mr. Felderberg. You went through great pains this afternoon to have me checked out. I have to believe that is the rule for how you operate regularly.”

“Within certain limits. The force behind the South American land deals and the massacre at San Sebastian has gone through great pains to keep its identity secret.” He paused. “But there are clues, hints. They add up to little but still …”

“I’m listening.”

“All my commissions were paid out through the Bank of Vienna.”

“Interesting.”

“But not terribly conclusive. The Bank of Vienna is known for its willingness and ability to handle exceptionally large financial arrangements.”

“Going through Swiss institutions is more the norm, isn’t it?”

“Not so much anymore. Political pressure from abroad has forced the famed Swiss banks to become less accessible and secretive. Accordingly, persons seeking large transactions have had to look elsewhere.” Felderberg cleared his throat, fingered the stem of his wineglass. “The problem then became determining how long my client’s account had been active at the Bank of Vienna. I had the account number and knew there had to be a means to gain the information I sought.”

“But most banks take steps to make that impossible.”

“To a point, yet they must at some stage bow to procedures made necessary by the computer. There had to be a code in the account number, something in sequence the computer could use as a key. It took much time and money, but careful analysis of this account number and comparison with others whose origin I knew led to the discovery that the account in question had been active for some seventeen years.”

“Any chance of the account number leading back to its bearers?”

“Not through any means I’m aware of.”

“So all we’re left with is the probability that your client is based in Vienna, at least Austria, and has been for some time.”

“And something else. One memorandum I was issued held the traces of a stamp on its bottom. Only the top half and quite light, as if someone had stamped another page with the memorandum protruding from beneath it. I had the stamp blown up and hired detectives in Zurich to trace it down. Their report led back to my own doorstep: the Sanii Corporation in Schaan, not more than eleven miles from where we sit now.”

“What is Sanii?”

“High-tech experiments and development.”

“Weapons?”

“I suppose.”

“Then we’re back to San Sebastian again, what the people saw down there before they were killed.”

“That had nothing to do with a weapon, Mr. Locke. The key remains food. Sanii is part of an American conglomerate, but ownerships can be shielded just as funds can be.”

“Then whoever’s behind the corporation is behind the land deals, San Sebastian, everything. That’s an awful lot of power.”

“Indeed,” Felderberg agreed. “And at first I thought it was being wielded by an emerging nation with a plot somehow related to food. But everything was done too covertly. Organization and single-mindedness of the extent no country could possess. And then there was the account in the Bank of Vienna to consider. No, my client is someone from the private sector.”

“But the plot still exists.”

“And the best means for determining precisely what that plot is would be to uncover who’s behind it.” Felderberg hesitated. “I sent your friend Lubeck to the Dwarf.”

“Who?”

“I broker large financial transactions, Mr. Locke. The Dwarf brokers large transactions of information. He maintains a chain of spies and informants across the world any intelligence service would be jealous of. His fees are often even higher than mine. Nothing of the magnitude we are discussing could escape his attention.”

“You could have contacted him already yourself.”

Felderberg smiled. “Such things aren’t done. Our interests often conflict. We maintain respect for each other but we are hardly allies. No, it is you who must seek him out, just as Lubeck did. He resides in Florence. You can find him by—”

Felderberg was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come in.”

The waiter entered holding a bottle of wine. Peale followed him in and watched with arms crossed as the waiter rested the bottle on the table and pulled the cork out, handing it to Felderberg for approval.

“Excellent,” said the financier after sniffing it.

He poured a small amount into a glass and Peale stepped over, taking the glass from his employer. He held the contents in his mouth for a few seconds, then swallowed, nodding deliberately after a brief pause.

Peale and the waiter took their leave.

Felderberg poured out two glasses of rich red wine.

“So Peale also serves as a wine taster,” Locke quipped.

The humor was lost on the man across from him. “He was checking for poison.”

“My God!”

“I demand loyalty from my men, Mr. Locke. There are risks involved but they are paid exceptionally well for taking them.”

Felderberg sipped his wine. “Now, as I was saying about the Dwarf, you can reach him by—”

Felderberg’s face puckered. His mouth dropped and he gasped for air like a man choking on a piece of food. Locke was already out of his chair moving toward the financier when a violent convulsion shook the fat man backward, then forward to the table. His wine spilled across the tablecloth. The cork went flying.

The cork! Locke realized. There had to be some sort of poison he had inhaled from the cork!

Locke lifted Felderberg’s head up. His flesh was purple. His eyes bulged, veins and arteries rippling across his forehead. His whole body shook, spasmed, stilled. His breathing stopped. His eyes froze open.

Locke shook the financier in disbelief and was about to start administering CPR when one last spasm shook through the man’s legs, activating the emergency button beneath his right foot. Chris was tilting Felderberg’s head back for mouth to mouth when the door burst open and Peale rushed in with the other bodyguards behind him.

Chris hadn’t even had time to start an explanation when the blond man grabbed him with the strongest hands Locke had ever felt and flung him against the wall. His head hit first. The light in the room flickered, faded. Seconds passed, how many Chris didn’t know. Men were standing over him.

“He’s dead,” a voice said near Felderberg.

“Shit,” Peale muttered, drawing closer to Locke.

Then Chris felt himself being hoisted to his feet. The room was still spinning.

“Who sent you?” Peale demanded. “Who hired you?”

Locke opened his mouth but no words emerged. Peale hit him hard in the stomach and pain exploded everywhere. His wind was gone and he felt bile struggling to rise. He wanted to vomit, and had started to double over when Peale lifted his head up and smashed him in the gut again.

“I want to know who you’re working for!”

“Not … me.” Locke gasped. His eyes searched frantically for the cork to offer as proof. “The cork, the wai—”

Peale hit him again, under the chin this time, and Chris slipped toward oblivion.

“We’ll take him down to the office. We’ll get the information out of him there no matter what it takes,” Peale ranted as two men hoisted Locke up again.

He tried to stand on his feet but balance eluded him. “It wasn’t me,” he muttered, fighting for words and wondering if any of them could hear him. “Find the waiter. It was the waiter….”

“What is he saying?” Peale asked.

“Can’t make it out,” the man on Locke’s right replied.

“We’ll have plenty of time to hear him once we get him out of here,” said Peale. “An eternity. You two take him to the office. The rest of us will take care of the boss.” The final words were spoken with true regret, spoken bitterly by a man not used to failure.

Someone was going to pay for this, Chris knew, and it was probably going to be him. Peale was the kind of man who took things personally.

Locke found his feet finally but didn’t show it, just let himself be dragged along, hoping he might surprise the men holding him when he chose his moment of escape. Pressed close against them, he could feel their pistols beneath their jackets, reminding him that breaking free of his captors was not enough; he also had to disable them.

The two men continued to drag him along when they reached the main floor of the restaurant, oblivious to the stares of the Hauser’s few customers. Chris met the eyes of the thick-haired man seated at the bar again and could have sworn there was more in them than just surprise and shock. Then he was outside, yanked down the path back toward the tram. He had to act fast. Once on the way down the mountain in the enclosed compartment, his slim advantage would be gone.

Think!

No, he reminded himself, thinking slows you down. The training, remember the training….

React! Respond! Seize the moment and make it work for you!

They reached the wooden loading platform and started to move for the next available car. A single man was at the controls.

Then Locke was in motion. He wasn’t sure what triggered the action, probably the sight of the tram car swaying toward him. He shoved the man on his right forward into its path so that the steel frame struck him square in the back of the head and drove him into the wall. In the same instant Chris pushed hard against the man on his left, jamming his hand against the holster beneath his jacket to make drawing the gun impossible.

The man shook off his shock and went for a countermove. Locke felt a fist blast his stomach. Then the man went for his pistol, tying up both his hands and giving Chris time to recoup. He grabbed for the man’s face and shoved him viciously backward until his head smashed against the platform’s frame. The man tried futilely to pull away, but Locke slammed him backward again and blood smudged up on the dark wood. Chris slammed him one last time and let his body slide to the floor. Then he leaned over and yanked the man’s pistol from its holster. Holding it tight, he swung quickly around.

The other man was still slumped against the far wall, his head partially supported and eyes closed. The tram controller had grabbed a red telephone and was pushing a series of buttons. Locke rushed across the floor and tore it from his hands, holding the revolver up to his head.

“Is this the only way you can communicate with the base of the mountain?”

The man, face smeared with grease, hesitated, then nodded.

“Is there any way you can stop the mechanism from up here?”

The man nodded. “Emergency switch. O-o-over there,” he said, pointing to a steel fuse box on the wall over the first of the downed men.

Locke ripped the receiver right out of the phone box. Then he hurried to the emergency switch and found three wires running to it. Two yanks and they had come free. His eyes darted back to the path leading from the restaurant. Peale and the others could appear at any time. He had to get out of there.

After stealing one last glance at the engineer, Locke pulled himself into the next tram car as it swung by, then settled himself in and closed the door behind him. As the car began to descend the mountain, Chris watched out the rear window. The engineer rushed up the path toward the restaurant. Peale and his men had not yet appeared on the platform, which passed out of sight as the car dipped sharply and continued its descent.

Locke started to breathe easier, trying to collect his thoughts. He had escaped, but was no less vulnerable, for all of Felderberg’s allies would be after him. His meeting with the financier had been fruitful, yet would he live to share his information with Burgess or anyone else?

Someone in Austria was behind everything and somehow they were connected with the Sanii Corporation in Schaan. Then there was the Dwarf, an information broker in Florence — the man who might be able to add the final pieces to this puzzle. Chris would have to find him somehow, but first there was Schaan to investigate as soon as he was off this mountain and out of Vaduz.

He was halfway down the mountain. Squinting his eyes, he thought he could make out figures on the platform above moving about, perhaps climbing into another car. No matter. At least fifteen yards separated one car from the next and Locke had a headstart of fifteen cars, maybe twenty. And with no way to stop the tram from there or call down to the mountain’s base, he should be home free. He fingered the pistol wedged in his belt, happy he wouldn’t have to use it.

He would call the contact number in Falmouth and, in order not to stay in one place for any extended period, he would tell the girl to have Burgess standing by for a second call in thirty minutes. That would be the professional way to handle matters. The burly Englishman would approve.

The tram car squeaked past a connecting station and ground to a halt.

Locke felt a flash of fear. He could only hope this was some standard procedure, and that it would be only a brief pause.

But the tram did not start up again. All the cars remained at a dead stop swaying in the wind. Locke glanced back up the mountain.

Three figures were descending on foot, following the grass directly beneath the tram line. Obviously there had been another mechanism to stop the trams from the platform above or a means to contact workmen at the base platform. Chris was trapped! A sitting duck waiting for three armed men to come and finish him. He gazed beneath him; a fifty-foot drop at the very least. It was hopeless.

Then it came into his mind — his means of escape. It was a drill he had practiced dozens of times on a wire suspended between trees or over water at the Academy. He didn’t have the proper equipment, but he had a … belt. Yes, that was it!

Chris unfastened his leather belt and yanked it from the loops. He stuck it between his teeth. Wasting no time, he opened the door to the stalled car and pushed himself forward, swinging the car toward the connecting station pole. Once, twice, three times … Finally he grabbed hold of the wood and pulled himself onto the pole from the car. His feet dangled in midair, then came to rest on a pair of spikes driven into the pole. He looked behind him.

The men had drawn to within a hundred yards. One stopped to raise and aim his gun. Chris wasn’t sure which came next, the sharp crack or the explosion of wood chips not a foot from his head. There was no more time to waste.

He pulled the belt from his mouth and strung it across the heavy cable just above him, grabbing each end with a tight hand around the leather. He bent his knees to provide a cannonball effect, then pushed off.

The results were dizzying. Wind rushed past him as he slid down the cable, helped along by the grease that eliminated any friction from leather scraping against steel.

Another car came up fast and Chris knew there was no way he could steer past it. He slammed into it feet first and absorbed the rest of the shock on his thighs and stomach. His breath exploded out and his left hand started to let go but he recovered in time to grab the belt at the buckle, steadying himself on top of the car.

More bullets, a whole series of them, rang out, clanging against steel, whizzing past his ear.

Locke lowered himself down and placed the belt over the wire again, pushing off. He kept his speed lower this time and learned quickly how to manipulate body and belt to slow his pace before reaching each of the cars. He negotiated the next one easily and required barely any time to climb over it and continue on. The next one came even easier. That left eight more to go. Peale and his men were still racing down the slope beneath the tramway but Locke was holding his lead now.

With three cars left and a thirty-foot drop beneath him, Chris’s hands became his greatest enemy. The flesh had turned raw and sweat made a sufficiently tight grip impossible. Each pass between cars became a maddening exercise in nerves as his fingers started to slip down the leather, flirting with the tips as the next car came near. He couldn’t afford to slow down, couldn’t afford the time to even wipe his hands dry. Peale’s men were too close, their bullets even closer.

After the last car came a long forty-yard segment during which the line leveled off before reaching the base platform. He tried to gather up enough momentum to make it all the way but felt himself slowing still quite a way from his target. His hands could take no more. They finally slipped off the belt with fifteen yards left to go, when the drop was twenty feet. Chris tried to tuck into a roll as he landed but one of his legs twisted and he tumbled out of control down the hill toward the loading platform. The sky had clouded up, so there were few tourists at the base.

Locke’s roll finally came to an end and he struggled to his feet, coming up lame on a right ankle full of knifing pain. He limped forward, tripped and fell, then rose with a glance to his rear to find his pursuers just fifty yards back and closing.

Chris dragged himself forward, doing the best he could to run with his bad leg like a ball and chain behind him. Bullets rang out. The pursuers were almost on top of him. He dove to the ground, turning as he tore the pistol from his pants. From his prone position, he fired a pair of shots.

Three figures sprawled for cover twenty yards away. He knew where they were now. That was something. The deserted platform was just ahead but too difficult to climb onto. Chris made it back to his feet, ducked low to use the wooden rise and steel supports as cover, and hustled around the outside of the tram complex.

Please God, let there be a cab!

Locke swung around the front corner of the building. Cement chips exploded just over his head.

A cabdriver, frustrated by the lack of fares, was inching away from the zone in front of the building.

“Stop!” Chris screamed, and then scampered into the street, fueled by the last of his adrenaline.

The taxi continued on for a few yards, then its brake lights flashed.

Locke made it to the door just as Peale and his men cleared the corner. He hurled himself inside before they could take aim.

The driver started away before speaking, accepting Locke as just another crazy tourist.

“Where to?” he asked in poor English.

Chris almost said “Out of this nightmare,” but settled for the train station.

Chapter 14

Locke had the driver drop him at the station but he didn’t enter. Felderberg knew he’d left something there, which meant Peale did too. They’d be watching for him. He needed a plan. He saw a cab of a different make and color waiting at the head of the line and limped over to it.

“Drive around for a while,” he instructed the man behind the wheel, flipping him ten Swiss francs.

The man grunted an acknowledgment.

Chris leaned back and hunched himself low so his head was out of sight from outside the cab. His ankle was throbbing and swelling too, but he could tell that the sprain was relatively minor.

Locke again tried to make sense of what he had learned from Felderberg. He was certain now the key was food. Somebody was buying huge masses of arable land in South America for a reason that Lubeck had stumbled upon in San Sebastian. The party behind it was based in Austria, and somehow the Sanii Corporation’s high-tech plant in Schaan was connected.

They‘re everything, everywhere….

Charney’s words rang more prophetic than ever. They had killed Felderberg ingeniously with a poisoned cork, but not before he had the opportunity to pass on Lubeck’s next stop: the Dwarf in Florence. They had set Locke up to kill Alvaradejo in London, allowed him to reach Felderberg only so they could kill him as well. Now they would follow him to Florence and the Dwarf.

Chris told the driver to stop at the next bar where there would be a phone. He needed to share his thoughts with Burgess. Five minutes later he found himself going through the complicated procedure of making a long-distance call halfway across Europe. Depositing the proper amount of change would have aroused too much attention, so he charged the call to his credit card number.

“How long will it take to get your uncle to the phone?” he demanded, after the girl answered.

“Thirty minutes. A little more maybe.”

“Say thirty. It’s an emergency. I’ll call back then. And tell him to be careful, tell him nothing’s safe.”

Locke replaced the receiver. He left the pub with a package of ice purchased from the barman. He reclined as best he could in the taxi’s backseat with his head pressed against the left door and his ice-covered ankle propped up against the right.

“Take me on a tour of Vaduz and the surrounding area,” he told the driver. “Try not to pass down the same road twice.”

“In Vaduz, that will not be easy.”

Chris settled back to think. The ice was already numbing his ankle. The decrease in pain helped him clear his mind. The train station was his next logical stop to retrieve his passport and call Colin. Peale’s men, though, would be everywhere by now, and a long phone conversation in an exposed booth was out of the question. He would just have to drive around for the next thirty minutes and call Burgess from another pub. Then he could make his way to the train station, which, at midevening, would probably be crowded.

Beyond the taxi, the sky had lost its brightness, and Locke noticed passing cars had their lights on. By the time he reached the Vaduz Station it would be dark, which would also work to his advantage. If not for the mandated retrieval of his passport, he could have taken the taxi all the way to Schaan. The strategy that earlier in the day seemed the safest route had ended up only complicating matters. Chris cursed himself for electing it.

They had moved into the countryside beyond Vaduz and Locke had the driver pull up to a mountain inn that was isolated enough to suit his purpose. Almost a half hour had passed since his call to the girl. He stepped inside and addressed himself to an elderly woman behind a counter.

“A room, sir?” she asked hopefully.

“How much do they cost?”

“One hundred twenty francs for three days.”

Locke pulled fifty from his pocket. “This is only to let me use a room for the next few minutes. I need to make a phone call. I’ll give you fifty more to dial the number direct and absorb the charges.”

“You are officially our guest,” the woman said, taking the bill Locke had slid across the counter and handing him a room key in its place. “Room eleven right down the corridor, one of the few with its own phone.”

“Thank you.”

“Please visit us anytime.”

Locke chained the door to room eleven behind him. It took five minutes to find a free long-distance line and dial the girl’s number.

“Is he there?” Locke asked without returning the girl’s greeting.

“Yes, hold—”

Then Burgess’s heavy voice took over. “Chris, what the hell’s gone on there, lad? Why the need to roust me from my fortress?”

“Felderberg’s dead.”

“Christ … Not by your hand again, I trust.”

“No, but his bodyguards think otherwise….” Locke went on to relate that part of the story.

“With a bloody cork, you say? I’ll be damned. Clever bastards, these are. We’ve got our work cut out for us, lad.”

“And a place to start, Colin. The Sanii Corporation right here in Schaan.”

“Never heard of it.”

“High-tech firm. Lots of futuristic stuff probably. They’re connected to this somehow. I’m sure there are answers to be found there.”

“In which case getting in will be a chore, lad, and a risk you’d be wise not to undertake.”

“I’ve come this far.”

“Luck pressed is usually luck lost, lad. Remember your family.”

“I haven’t forgotten them, Colin. But Charney was right, this is big, bigger than either of us imagined. If I pull out now they won’t get me tomorrow, but there’s always the next day or the day after, and one of those times they will get me.” Locke paused. “They got Felderberg and he was better protected than I could ever be. My only chance to survive is to expose them, and I’m the only one who can.” Forming those thoughts for the first time into words sent a shiver through Locke he couldn’t suppress. Finally it stopped on its own, leaving behind only a trembling in his fingers.

“Was Felderberg helpful in any way?”

“He confirmed that food is the key. Somebody’s buying up huge quantities of farmland in South America.”

“Colombia,” Burgess said. “San Sebastian …”

“Exactly. It’s only part of the story, but at least we’ve got something to follow now. Felderberg said Lubeck’s next stop was in Florence. Someone known as the Dwarf. Ever heard of him?”

Burgess chuckled. “Heard of him? If MI-6 had him on the payroll, we’d never have lost a single defector. The man’s an information warehouse. This might be right up his alley.”

“Why do they call him the Dwarf?”

“Because that’s what he is, lad! Little bastard doesn’t stand more than four feet high and most of it’s in his head. What a magnificent brain, the best in the world at what he does. But finding him won’t be easy. I can’t help you much there.”

“I’ll find a way and I’ll be careful.”

“Being careful won’t be enough, lad, not against the forces you’ve described.” Burgess took a deep breath. “I’m going to give you the address of this young lady who’s been relaying messages between us. If anything happens to me and you need to come in, use her place as a safe house. Got something to write with?”

“No. Give me the address. I’ll memorize it.”

“Two-oh-five Longfield. Falmouth, Cornwall. Got it?”

“Easy enough. I’ll call in tomorrow.”

“Cheers, lad.”

“Colin, wait. My family, I–I’ve got to speak—”

“I’ve got a friend in the States monitoring them,” Burgess interrupted. “Calling your house now would be the worst step you could take. The bastards behind all this might believe you’d passed something on to them over the line. We can’t have that. Your family’s fine, lad. Trust me.”

The phone clicked off.

Chris fought back the almost irresistible temptation to get his wife on the phone. He fought back too the urge to sprawl out on the room’s big bed and succumb to exhaustion. His ankle felt better now but his head had taken over the throbbing. He glanced at the phone for a long moment and came ever so close to lifting the receiver before he forced himself to his feet and left the room. He deposited another fifty francs at the front desk and returned to his taxi. It was dark outside now, a clear, crystalline night that would see a rapid drop in temperature. It was time to return to the train station.

Locke gave the driver a fifty-franc tip and headed into the Vaduz Station. It proved to be far more crowded now than it had been in the afternoon. So far as he could tell no one was waiting by the lockers for him to extract his bag. If there was surveillance of any kind, it was well camouflaged.

Chris bought a paper and sat down on a wooden bench with the front section in front of his face. He had to wait things out, look for something that looked wrong before he made any move. A man sat down next to him holding a crumpled newspaper. Their eyes met and the man, who looked to be about fifty with a solid day’s beard growth, smiled. Suddenly Locke had an idea.

“Do you speak English?” he asked the man.

“English!” the stranger exclaimed. “Is like a secoont langooge to me. I iv studied long and hart.” He smiled proudly.

“I need a favor. Would you like to make some money?”

“How mooch?”

“A hundred francs.”

“What can I dooth for you?”

Locke reached into his pocket, pulled out a card and key, and handed them to the man. “Take these to the service desk and say you wish to get into your locker. The clerk will—”

“I know the proceese.”

“There’s a small bag inside the locker. Bring it to me on track two.” The next train to Schaan would be leaving from there in fifteen minutes.

“That ese all?”

“That and no questions.”

The man nodded. “You have mooney?”

Locke handed him the hundred francs.

“I go now,” the man said and stood up. He looked down and winked. “You in trooble, eh?”

“A little.”

“Wooman?”

“No questions, remember?”

“I une-der-stand. I weel help you.”

The man walked away.

Locke rose quickly and moved from the bench with a measured pace, trying to match that of the people who shuffled around him. By the time he had reached the track entrance, the man was leading a clerk to the row of lockers. No sooner had he stuck his key in the slot then out of nowhere a herd of men converged on them from every corner of the station. The man was grabbed and wrestled to the floor. The clerk was escorted roughly away. Now the man was being spirited off too, screaming at his captors to no avail.

It was the distraction Locke had hoped for. He couldn’t get his passport or clothes now but at least he could escape. He turned quickly.

An old hag, dressed in tatters, grabbed him at the lapel with one bony, filthy hand.

“American, you got money?”

Chris shoved her aside, eyes darting about feverishly to see if he had been noticed.

The hag poked him from behind.

“I know you got money. Give some to me. I not eat in three days. Please, American, please!”

Locke had swung to push her away again when he felt something hard jab into his ribs from beneath her bulky sweater.

“Don’t say a word or I kill you here.”

Locke started to speak. The hag poked him harder with her pistol.

“Walk forward to the track,” she whispered.

Chris obeyed, moving toward the knot of people waiting near the track for the next train to Schaan. He might be able to knock the hag’s gun aside and neutralize her there but in doing so would draw too much attention to himself. The building would still be crawling with Peale and the others after him for Felderberg’s murder. He couldn’t risk alerting them.

“Keep walking,” the hag instructed, the steel beneath her ancient sweater never moving from his ribs.

Who had sent her? Locke wondered. Obviously not Felderberg’s people, or she’d be leading him back to the station lobby instead of away from it.

They moved beyond the crowds and down into a tunnel where a sign warned NO PASSENGERS BEYOND THIS POINT in five languages. The air was dark and sooty, the only light provided by ceiling lamps strung irregularly. Locke knew the woman was taking him to his death now, but he dared not moved against her until he was sure they were out of earshot from the loading platform.

The hag slowed her pace, eyes searching for a closed-off spot to finish him.

That was Locke’s cue.

He whirled backward in a blur, grabbing the barrel of the gun and forcing it away from him through the sweater, shredding the material. He went for the hag’s throat with his other hand but she slithered backward, still trying to pull her gun free, and sank her teeth into his palm. Locke opened his mouth but managed to suppress a scream that would have drawn attention to their struggle.

The hag sank her teeth in deeper and clawed for his face with her free hand. Chris felt her nails find flesh and begin to tear as he threw himself sideways against the wall. His left hand lost the barrel briefly, then regained it. A shot rang out, kicking up dirt and cement chips behind him.

Locke yanked his hand from the hag’s mouth and smashed her hard across the face. She winced, bellowed, and came at him again, free hand tearing for his eyes. Chris deflected the fingers and grabbed them, jerking the bony hand back over. The hag howled in pain and started kicking wildly out with her scrawny legs. Locke’s shins and ankles bore the brunt of the assault as he pedaled sideways, trying to tear the pistol free from beneath her mangled sweater. But the hag’s grip was iron. Her eyes were bulging with rage.

He let go the fingers he was certain he had snapped and pounded her nose hard. The hag screamed again and blood gushed from both her nostrils. The hand he had snapped backward before shot forward and down. Chris felt the pressure on his groin like a vise closing and lost his breath. The hag shrieked as she squeezed as tight as her hand would let her. Locke tried briefly to pry the grip off but the fingers had taken hold like a pit-bull’s bite.

Finally, with the pain stealing all his breath, Chris latched his right hand over his left and pulled. The hag’s pistol came free and tore through her ragged sweater. Her eyes swelled with shock and she clamped her fingers harder over Locke’s groin in a grasp born of desperation.

This time it was Chris who found the breath to scream in agony as he brought up the pistol and smashed it across the hag’s face. She pitched to the side with a grunt. Blood poured down the side of her face.

Locke slid down the wall, his mind holding onto consciousness through the horrible pain in his groin. Holding the pistol tightly in both hands, he leaned over and puked his guts out.

The hag rushed him from her knees.

Chris turned the gun on her, cocked its hammer.

She stopped. Locke pushed himself to his feet.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

The hag spit at him.

“I’ll kill you slowly,” he threatened. “A bullet here, a bullet there. I owe you a lot of pain.”

She spit again. “Hah! You have all caused enough pain for a lifetime, you bastard.”

“All? What are you—”

“Their souls scream out for vengeance. You killed children! You are the scum of the earth!”

Then Locke realized. “The people who tried to kill me in London sent you!”

The hag spit a third time. “San Sebastian will not be forgotten. All of you will pay.”

The tunnel rumbled with the approach of a train.

“Kill me,” she ranted. “It doesn’t matter. Another will take my place. We are many and we will see you all burn in hell!”

The train roared closer.

The hag struggled to her feet, ignoring the blood that covered her face. Locke moved toward her. She stepped backward, keeping her distance.

“Who are you people?” he asked her. “You’ve got to tell me who sent you! Who do you think I work for? Please, you’ve got to tell me.”

“You will all die! San Sebastian will be avenged!”

The train thundered forward, catching them in the spill of its front lights.

The hag glanced at it and smiled.

“No!” Chris screamed, already in motion, reaching for her with his free hand. “Noooooooo!” It was too late. With a horrible wail the hag leaped off the platform directly into the path of the onrushing train. The train hurtled by, leaving nothing.

Chris leaned over and vomited again.

Kill me. It doesn‘t matter. Another will take my place. We are many and we will see you all burn in hell!

The hag’s people wanted him dead because they thought him part of the very force he was fighting. He was, incredibly, on their side. But they didn’t know it. And he didn’t know who they were.

Everywhere he turned he found new pieces that didn’t fit the puzzle. Chris started back toward the platform, limping again.

It was time to head to Schaan. Maybe the Sanii Corporation had some answers.

Peale waited in the shadows across the street from the Schaan Station. There was only one exit from the small building, so he knew exactly where his target would be emerging. He tightened the silencer around the Browning’s barrel and steadied it over his left arm, squeezing one eye closed to check his aim.

Peale knew Locke was good and also knew from a tape recording of his conversation with Felderberg that he would be headed for the Sanii Corporation there in Schaan. Peale never bothered to question Locke’s motives or aims. He had killed the blond man’s employer and that was all that mattered. Peale had never lost a man he was protecting before. The score had to be settled, and his soldier’s mind did not seek additional complexities. Life was easier that way.

People began squeezing from the station and Peale waited for his target. He had spoken barely thirty minutes ago with his people in Vaduz to learn that Locke had eluded them at the station there. Peale had expected as much. He held the pistol tighter, hunching lower in the darkness.

Locke emerged from the station, eyes nervously searching for a taxi. There were none to be found immediately. He started walking. Peale noticed his limp, glad for it because it would assure him of more than one shot if needed.

Peale focused his eye, ready to pull the trigger.

There was a scratching sound behind him and he swung quickly. A dark figure whirled before him. Something glimmered and Peale felt a tingle in his wrist as he spun away and tried to refocus in the darkness.

Long blond hair danced before him.

God, it was a woman!

Peale started his gun up to finish her, found it was gone, and looked down to see his hand was … gone too.

He realized the tingle had been the sensation of a blade slicing through his flesh. He screamed horribly as it came for him again. He dodged but it ripped into his shoulder on the side already missing the hand.

Now his mind accepted death as inevitable, but the woman had to be taken too. She came at him again but he rolled free, noting that she actually held two knives, one in each hand. They were Kukhri blades, weapons of the Gurkha soldiers from India.

Peale’s roll had taken him to his lost gun, still clenched in his severed hand. He tore it free and lurched to his feet, screeching to fuel his fury and deaden his pain.

The Kukhri knives came down together, meeting in his chest and carving it in two before he ever found the trigger. Peale’s last sight was of his killer, blond hair waving about the coldest eyes he had ever seen.

He took their memory with him into eternity.

Chapter 15

The meeting started late, much to the distress of the participants who had traveled far and wished above all not to have their absences from the places they were supposed to be noticed and recorded.

They had come from several corners of the globe to the small Austrian village of Greifenstein on the bank of the Danube. From there they were driven up the narrow mountain road to Kreuzenstein Castle, which had been bought and refurbished several years before by the woman who was their leader. The ancient castle had become their symbol, its regal towers and steeples reminding them of the nations they represented and sought to destroy. Kreuzenstein had stood for eight hundred years and had needed to be rebuilt only once, after being destroyed by the Swedes during the Thirty Years War. It had weathered many storms and sieges, had been a refuge from the Black Death and a strategy center in World War II when bombs had exploded everywhere but within its walls.

The members of the Committee looked on that as divine providence. The choice of the castle as their headquarters had not been random.

There were four of them present that day, all members of the executive board, with only the British representative missing. They met in a huge room that years before had been used by kings and princes for lavish balls to entertain visiting royalty. The hard oak table, easily long enough to accommodate the Committee’s one hundred direct representatives, was being used that day because the woman who had orchestrated the most daring operation they had ever undertaken preferred it for reasons of tradition.

They had been speaking quietly among themselves for nearly twenty minutes after the sun had set beyond the windows when the double doors opened and Audra St. Clair strode majestically in. The four men rose out of respect as well as etiquette.

Audra St. Clair was past seventy now but she looked a full twenty years younger. Her silver hair was styled traditionally, and the gray hat she wore was a perfect complement to the tweed dress that elegantly covered the fine lines of her body. Her face was remarkably free of wrinkles and other marks of age, as if her power could overcome time along with nations.

“We have much to discuss, gentlemen,” she announced, taking her customary seat at the head of the table. “I apologize for my lateness but I’ve just received a report from the agent I dispatched to Liechtenstein to clean up the mess Mr. Mandala has gotten us into. Let us begin today’s agenda by considering this poorly handled threat to our security.”

Mandala leaned forward. His features were strikingly dark, as though perpetually tanned. His hair was combed neatly off his forehead to cover the tops of his ears, and his long, radiant teeth sparkled like daggers. It was his eyes that were most striking, liquidy black and piercing.

“I was simply doing as ordered, madam” came his response. “I offer no excuses.”

“And I’m not looking for any,” St. Clair snapped. “Excuses are meaningless to the Committee.”

Mandala leaned back and held his tongue. He was not used to being chastised. Men, as well as women, had died for far less than the old bitch’s words. But at this point he didn’t dare cross her. His time was coming. He flashed the smile that had won him friends, influence, and women, suggesting his acceptance of St. Clair’s criticism.

“I also believe your handling of San Sebastian was rash and overdone,” the Committee’s chairwoman continued. “You jeopardized everything for the elimination of that town.”

“All the same,” began the American representative, a silver-haired man who, with the Committee’s help, had risen to an extremely high position in U.S. government, “if it wasn’t for the unexpected presence of the American agent, the massacre wouldn’t have become a factor.”

“The fact is that it happened,” said St. Clair, “and it forced us to realign our strategy.”

“For the better in many ways, I think,” noted Werenmauser, the German, a large, heavy-lipped man with bulging cheeks. “Thanks to San Sebastian, Locke was drawn in. And thanks to Locke, we are eliminating the only holes left in our very long trail.”

“In addition to encountering our mysterious enemy face to face for the first time,” added the curly-haired Russian, Kresovlosky. “An enemy who has been doing its utmost to subvert our efforts in South America for some months.”

“Not exactly face to face,” said St. Clair. “We still don’t know who they are.”

“The identity of the man your agent disposed of in London should help us find out.”

“He carried no identification,” the chairwoman reported. “No papers or clues of any kind. We will learn nothing from his corpse, I’m afraid. We must rely on Locke at this point to lead us to them.”

“But leaving Locke alive presents too much of a risk,” argued the American nervously. “He has become too dangerous to be considered an asset any longer.”

Audra St. Clair leaned over the table. The flickering light from the chandelier danced and darted across her face. “He is simply a puppet on a string we pull. We can direct him any way we desire. Cutting that string now would be a gross error.”

The American shook his head. “I don’t think you understand my position. For the rest of you membership on the Committee is a simpler matter to conceal than it is for me. My movements are scrutinized constantly. I am taking a terrible risk by being here now. If Locke slips from our grasp and gets too close, I’ll be the first one exposed.”

“Apparently it’s you who doesn’t understand, Mr. Van Dam,” the chairwoman said firmly. “Locke is the only thing standing between us and a rather significant force potentially capable of bringing harm to Tantalus. We will continue to monitor his movements, filling in the holes he shows us, and ultimately he will lead us to our unseen enemy.”

“Where exactly is he now, can you tell me that, madam?” Van Dam said sharply. “Well, there’s a man named Calvin Roy in the State Department with the nose of a bloodhound. He authorized Locke’s deployment in the first place, and sooner or later he might sniff out our puppet and yank him beyond our reach.”

“It would have to be quite soon, Mr. Van Dam. Tantalus will be activated eight days from today.” Audra St. Clair turned to the Russian. “Mr. Kresovlosky, your report please.”

The Russian cleared his throat and opened a manila folder on the table before him. “Production of canisters will be completed on schedule by the middle of this week. Arrangements have already been made for shipping to Target Alpha for dispersal. The canisters have been fitted to the exact specifications Mr. Mandala requested.”

“I am in the process of retaining all necessary equipment and personnel.” Mandala picked up on cue. “To guard against the possibility of early discovery and potential countermeasures, I have also retained a rather large and well-equipped security force. Everything will be in place plenty of time before final activation.”

“And the timetable for appreciable results?” St. Clair asked Kresovlosky.

“Based on data collected from our experiments in San Sebastian, I would say four days for Area Mary, a week for Areas Peter and Paul, ten days for Mark and Matthew, and up to two weeks for Luke.”

Audra St. Clair simply nodded. “Let us turn now to Mr. Werenmauser.”

The German rubbed his huge cheeks. “We are ready to go at my end. Final experiments are taking place in Schaan this week to determine optimum packaging. I estimate shipping can begin to Targets Delta, Gamma, Sigma, and Zeta within ten days. I expect no difficulties or complications.”

“What about our crews?” the chairwoman asked.

“We would be best off not to move them in until after the effects of Tantalus have begun to surface in America. We can use the resulting chaos as camouflage for the sudden influx of personnel into South America that might otherwise cause a stir and lead to many questions. By the time the true answers are made known, we must be sure Tantalus has reached its full effect and the world is powerless to do anything about the follow-up portion of our plan.”

St. Clair settled back in her chair. “It appears, gentlemen, that from a technical standpoint, matters are proceeding very smoothly indeed. My concern now is for security.” Her eyes dug into Mandala’s. “What conclusions have you reached regarding our unseen enemy?”

“They are organized, but not powerful or overly strong in number” came Mandala’s precision response. If his own plan was to work, he couldn’t risk becoming the target of the old bitch’s wrath … and suspicions. “They must not represent any government or accepted body of another sort. Otherwise they would have exposed us instead of engaging in this foolish cat-and-mouse game.”

“The game may be foolish,” the chairwoman told him, “but it has brought them closer to us than any other group has come in a generation.”

“A problem soon to be rectified. I could accomplish this just as easily without Locke. I suggest we take him out while we are still in control of his movements.”

“No,” Audra St. Clair ordered staunchly. “Locke is to be kept alive until I direct otherwise.”

“That seems to me to be a clear violation of your own security precautions,” Mandala said, “as well as the Committee’s.”

The chairwoman leaned forward over the table, eyes narrowed into slits of anger. “Do not lecture me on Committee policy, Mr. Mandala. You are a killer and little more. We have existed for more than twenty-five years by steering clear of your kind and choosing more subtle measures.”

“And look where those subtle measures got you, while mine have put you on the brink of achieving your greatest goal.”

“You are a soldier to us, a mercenary, nothing more.”

“It took a soldier’s insight to make operational a great plan you could only conceive in raw form.” Mandala glanced around at the elegantly appointed conference room and smirked. “You call me here and expect me to be overwhelmed by your furniture and paintings? Hah! While you were holding meetings in air-conditioned rooms all those years ago, I was sweating in fields that stank of death, fighting to destabilize the world you wanted to control. Then when you needed someone to carry out your plans in the field, you came to me. And you have turned to me repeatedly whenever you didn’t want to get your hands dirty. Fine, but don’t criticize me because mine are not clean.”

“We tolerate your methods, Mr. Mandala,” St. Clair said in a softer voice. “We do not accept them.”

“Let’s not be naive, madam. We have thus far discussed Tantalus only up to its activation and immediate effects. What about after? The world will be at its most vulnerable. That is the time to increase destabilization and disruption strategies. We can bring the entire world to its knees, not just the United States.”

“People cannot reach bank tellers’ windows on their knees, Mr. Mandala. We are an economic body, not a political one. Politics is useful to us only when it functions as a vehicle for our economic plans. Tantalus will bring the U.S. — and the world — to their knees. But we will leave them able to regain their feet, with our assistance.”

“Power lies in controlling people, madam, not their bank accounts.”

“People are their bank accounts, Mr. Mandala.”

“We have the capacity to create total chaos and turn ourselves into the sole voice of order.”

“Precisely what we are doing. Economically.”

“Politically we would be far more effective and far reaching.”

“You’re missing the point,” St. Clair told Mandala. “Economics and politics are inseparable. People respond based solely on how full their wallets are. Tantalus will give us the ability to control that factor as we see fit.”

Mandala just nodded. It was not the time to say anything that might make the old bitch suspect the plan he was about to undertake.

The people in the room were used to silence. Meetings were often dominated by it.

“Let us return to the issue of this Locke,” Van Dam said finally. “If we are not going to kill him, we must have a backup means for controlling him ready should anything else go wrong.”

“I am in the process of arranging just that now,” Mandala said.

“And what if it isn’t good enough?” Van Dam demanded. “If Locke reaches someone powerful without our knowledge, what then? I believe Charney discovered my identity. He may have told Locke or left him some clue. Every minute he’s allowed to live increases the chances of my exposure. You must understand my position,” he pleaded, mostly to the woman at the table’s head. “I–I didn’t realize how important he was to our plans. I thought he had completed his usefulness. I couldn’t take the chance. I couldn’t!”

“What have you done?” St. Clair asked him.

“I ordered a man sent to erase Locke.”

The chairwoman’s features sank. “Recall him, you fool.”

“It’s too late,” Van Dam said.