1 - Artscape: Ike Schwartz Mystery 1 (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

Charlie Garland had said it would be the last great crab feast of the season. Ike allowed himself to be talked into going, not because he wanted to crack crabs, which he did, or because he felt any particular need to be in the company of other people, which he did not. But, because he was bored and restless, and anything sounded better than spending an evening alone in his apartment, he drove to Montgomery County, found Charlie’s townhouse, put on his company smile, and determined to be pleasant
.

Charlie offered and he accepted the obligatory gin and tonic and a deck chair on the tiny backyard. When Conrad Anton arrived with her on his arm, Ike’s world changed forever. She was tall, slim, and very blonde. She had inherited a set of wonderful green eyes and Ike thought her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

The evening blurred—a kaleidoscope of bright, disconnected images of Eloise McNamara and Ike surrounded by faceless people. Ike showed her how to use the little wooden mallet to crack the claws to get at the meat. They both laughed at her first attempt when, with more enthusiasm than skill, she’d smashed the claw, meat, shell, and all to a pulp. He explained the fine points of getting out the back fin, eliminating the dead man’s hands and all the intricacies of eating steamed crabs. She told him she did not mind crabmeat but eating one seemed a bit like eating a big bug. They laughed and drank beer and piled the shells in the center of the table, oblivious to everyone else.

Sometime after midnight, Ike took her home. He did not remember leaving or how he managed to disengage her from Conrad, or even how they got to her place. He did remember climbing two flights of stairs, pausing at her door, and then kissing her, at first tentatively and then, when she responded, kissing her again and again.

***

Three days later, they got married in North Carolina. Four days later, with some string-pulling to get passports, they were on a hastily arranged honeymoon in Europe. The first leg was London, then Paris, Zurich, and Rome. Ike had accrued leave and Peter Hotchkiss approved the two weeks.

“You’ve earned it, Ike, and besides, after twelve years, you should be riding a desk like me. Marrying Eloise means we can get you to come out of the field. You are too valuable to the Agency to be in the field. Have a ball. We’ll talk when you get back.”

And so it had been arranged.

By the time they got to Zurich, they both wore the satisfied expressions of those who have loved much and are convinced against all common sense that they are the only ones who ever have. They discovered Europe together like any other pair of tourists. They wrote lists of restaurants and bars and shops they liked. They took pictures, bought postcards, and saved menus.

It was Eloise’s first trip to Europe. In a way, it was Ike’s as well. Before, perhaps two dozen times, he had been on the continent, but always on business, meeting strangers at night, in airports, train stations, cafés, staying in one- and two-star hotels, false identities, and never knowing what was going on. Was he the pawn or the queen in this particular game of chess?

Now, Ike saw Europe for the first time. He had his own passport, his own money, his own time, and Eloise. No two people had ever been in love like that—never, or so he thought, with the forgivable arrogance of a newlywed.

Hotchkiss called him in Zurich.

“Ike, I hate to do this to you, but we need a favor from you, a little job to do, nothing complicated.”

“Peter, it’s my honeymoon. Get someone else. I am not on duty. I’m not here.”

“Ike, I know, believe me I know. I would not do this to you except we’re a little pressed for time and you’re right on the spot. It would take me a couple of days to set this up without you, and our man is getting scared. He needs to make contact today or he says it’s off.”

“What kind of contact? What do you want?”

“Piece of cake—a single drop. You meet, he passes you an envelope, and you process it in the usual fashion…take about a half an hour.”

“What’s the drop? What’s he giving me?”

“Ike, I can’t tell you, you know that.”

“You will this time, or it’s no deal. I’m a married man now, remember? And besides, I’m off duty. If you want me to work, you will tell me, at least enough to let me decide whether it’s dangerous or not. Peter, I don’t have any cover, no backup—nothing.”

“Okay, Ike, it’s easy. The man is passing bank data, financial stuff. The bad guys are laundering money through Swiss banks and this will tell us how and give us some numbers. We need the information so when we want to we can cross-wire the process. It’s not big stuff, just some documents we can get from our man the easy way. It would take us months to dig it out the hard way, and you know how the Swiss are about bank account confidentiality. But this guy is spooked. He doesn’t do this stuff as a rule, a first timer, and it is now or never with him.”

“That’s it, Peter, you’re sure?”

“That’s all of it, the whole package.”

“Okay, where’s the drop and how do I make contact?”

“He’ll find you. There’s a café just off the Bahnhof Strasse, not far from your hotel, Der Sturm. Get there about four-thirty in the afternoon when it’s crowded. He will approach you and ask if you mind sharing your table. You say no. He drinks his chocolate or whatever he is drinking, pays, and leaves. The envelope will be on the table with your map and guidebook or whatever.”

“Do we talk or just stare at each other?”

“Whatever feels right. You are an American tourist; that should be obvious. You want to ask about the country or whatever, feel free.”

“Okay, how does he identify me?”

“He doesn’t exactly. He will be looking for an ugly Jewish face, that’s you, by the way, and a beautiful blonde. Just to be sure, he’ll ask you if it’s all right to sit down and will expect an answer in German from Eloise. Got it?”

“Eloise? Eloise is not part of the deal, Peter, for God’s sake. Why bring Eloise into this?”

“Ike, it’s easy. Besides, it is the best make I could put together on short notice. No kidding, you wait and see, it’s a walk in the park. Your bride is going to be excited, and there is no danger. The stuff we are getting isn’t important enough to stir up the Swiss or anyone else. Trust me.”

And he had.

Hotchkiss had been right. Eloise acted as excited as a kid at Disney World.

“What should I wear, Ike? I have a black dress, but no hat. Should I buy a hat? A big one with a brim maybe, and a veil. Do I wear sunglasses? I could wear a wig—”

“El, honey, stop. The last thing you want to do is look conspicuous. This business is conducted by the banal for the benefit of the mediocre. I want you to dress like, talk like, and behave just like you. Unless you watch very closely, which you should not, I repeat, should not, you will find you have spent an uninteresting half hour in a café with me, and for a time, a stranger. Got it? No cloaks, no daggers, no wrist radios, and no sunglasses, unless,” he added absently, “the sun’s out.”

They went off on their mission, Eloise bubbling over with excitement, Ike with the same gut-tenseness he had whenever he worked. His mind turned over details, as he watched faces, scouting for exits, lines of fire, hiding places. Lord, he thought, it’s just a drop, stuff we give new green kids from Fort Belvoir, even recruit private citizens from time to time—just a two-bit drop. Eloise prattled on, raving over items in shop windows, architecture, native costumes and then, under her breath, “How am I doing, Chief?”

“Lord, El, back off, I am not Maxwell Smart and you are not Ninety-nine.”

“Sorry, Chief.”

Holy cow, Ike thought, if I had to work with Eloise full time, I’d be dead in a New York minute—that or fired for not making contact, not even getting out of bed on time.

“Ike.” Eloise tugged at his sleeve. “Isn’t this where we’re supposed to…whatever?”

He had nearly walked past the café. Oh, he was in great shape—top form. Off on the spying business with his new bride, who acted like someone out of a Sandra Bullock movie. Terrific.

They found a table and ordered drinks.

The request was made in French; Eloise responded in halting German and then there were three.

He was short and rumpled. He could have been anybody and nobody. Five minutes after he left, Ike would be hard put to remember anything about him.

His nervousness disturbed Ike. A very frightened man, Ike thought, too frightened—and the accent, not Swiss, not German. My God, the guy’s Russian. Alarm bells went off in Ike’s head. Something’s wrong. On a cool afternoon this man sweated like a Georgia patrolman, sweat that reeked with fear.

The man said something. Ike turned his attention elsewhere, not listening. To hell with him. Need to get out, get Eloise out. All wrong. Ike pushed his chair back. It careened into the people behind him. Everything seemed to slow down. His arms weighed hundreds of pounds. People moved like participants in a water ballet. The pot of chocolate in front of him exploded, sending a geyser of brown liquid arcing upward. He heard the sharp slat-crack of the rifle. His eyes found Eloise’s face. She looked puzzled, puzzled and disappointed, the look a mother has when her one-year-old smacks its chubby fist in a bowl of pureed carrots.

He was screaming at her, trying to push the table over, push her to the ground. Eloise’s face slowly changed expression. Her mouth formed an O, her eyes widened—shocked. Ike saw the fabric of her dress twitch. Then, the hole formed—brown, black, and ragged, and a red stain bloomed across her breast. His body crashed against hers. Too late. He sprawled on the flagstone terrace cradling her, and watched, helpless, as the life drained out of her. Too late. Another shot. The little man, the little frightened man, rocked back and then crumpled down next to them. The back of his head was a mass of jelly.

Ike heard screaming, voices, people running away, the hee-haw of police, ambulances.

“Help me,” he heard a voice plead. His voice. It was wrong, all wrong.

***

Captain Durant sat opposite Ike, polite and very correct—legs crossed, creases in his pinstriped trousers crisp, precise. A lean, ascetic man, his thinning hair brilliantined to his skull, horn-rimmed spectacles in his left hand and a handkerchief, with which he polished them, in his right. Only the large yellow- dotted bowtie seemed out of character.

“M. Schwartz, that is your name, I suppose—ah, ah.” He held up a hand and handkerchief to cut off Ike’s response. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we, the Swiss government, you see, wish for you to leave the country at once. We are aware of the special place our country plays in the world of politics and finance. Years of neutrality, our banking laws,
et cetera, et cetera
, make this country suitable for, invite even, activities of the sort you and your colleagues pursue.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ike’s voice sounded calm, cold. He heard his own words, but as if they were spoken by someone else, in another room. A dozen years of this and it became automatic. You turned off your mind and let your heart go to ice.

“My name is Schwartz, Isaac Schwartz. I work for the International Development Bank and I came here on my honeymoon as a tourist, nothing more.” Eloise was dead and the sun no longer occupied the sky.

“As you say, M. Schwartz; nevertheless, I have been sent to escort you to the airport and make sure you are on the first flight out. As I was saying, we understand the reasons for our country being, shall we say, the arena for your activities. And as long as you, the British, the Russians, Poles, Chinese…behave and remain discreet, we look the other way, but we cannot allow violence. We do not have a police force large enough to take care of that sort of activity. You will tell your superiors that this will never happen again, you understand?”

Ike said nothing. Why answer? When he saw his superiors. Oh yes, he would tell them. Indeed he would.

“Your
baggages
are packed and await at the airport. I have made all the arrangements.”

“My wife.” The word sounded strange. He had not been married long enough to have a wife. A wife is someone who makes a whole out of the parts of your life. In time, we would have been a unit, but ten days—not enough time to be anything, to fall in love, to know happiness bordering on ecstasy, and lose it, but not time enough to have a wife. “I want to see her.”

The light provided by the single, bare bulb in the overhanging lamp cast a long shadow over the plain wooden table. Only an ashtray filled with the leavings of previous interviewees broke its scarred surface. The smoke from those interviews and years of others like them permeated the air, the walls, the thin curtains, filing cabinet, papers—all the detritus found in rooms like it in every police station from Seattle to Singapore.

Durant polished his glasses again, concentrated on them, and, still scrutinizing them, addressed Ike.

“You will forgive me, M. Schwartz, but that will not be possible.”

“Why, not possible?”

“Your wife…the arrangements are all made by your embassy, her effects, passport,
toute—
all removed and taken by your people. M. Schwartz, your wife did not survive the, ah, excitement.”

“I know that, Durant. I want to see her.”

“My instructions are to return your belongings and put you on a plane. I am not authorized to do anything else.”

“Well, you listen to me and listen carefully, because I’m not going to repeat myself. And when I am done, you will do as I say or I will get on that phone and raise such an almighty stink, you will wish you’d stayed in the cheese and yodeling business instead of becoming a Swiss bureaucrat cop.

“My story is true, every bit of it. I am a tourist. My passport is authentic. We were on our honeymoon, and someone killed my wife in your country. And you, instead of getting out and finding the bastard who did it, are harassing me.” Ike held his hand up. “Wait, I’m not through.”

Durant had opened his mouth to protest. His glasses, at last polished to his satisfaction, perched on his nose, caught the light, and flickered like an Aldis lamp sending a message to a ship at sea.