Beloved Enemy (36 page)

They continued down the increasingly narrow track. The air was clear and fresh, the pine straw beneath their feet providing fragrance as their shoe soles crushed the needles underfoot.

“You think he’s tracking us,” Radomil said.

“I’m staking my life on it,” Jack replied.

As Radomil took them around a bend in the path, Jack said, “Quick, exchange coats with me.”

He slid on Radomil’s bloody dun-colored raincoat, while Radomil donned his dark-blue trench.

“You think this will fool him?”

“He’s never going to get a good look at either of us until it’s too late,” Jack said. “But still…” Reaching out, he transferred some of Radomil’s fresh blood onto his own face, smearing it like war paint.

“Collar up,” he said, as he pulled his up around his ears.

They continued on until Jack saw the low concrete structure half-covered over in vines and foliage, its long side covered with graffiti.

“What the hell is that?”

“
Der Bunker auf dem Baregg
,” Radomil said with a thin smile. “Named after the Baregg, that mountain you see in the distance. I have no idea what it was once used for, but to me it looks like a reminder of the war that never came to Switzerland.”

“When we get beyond that stand of pines, you go on ahead.”

“What will you be doing?” Radomil asked.

“Circling around behind our pursuer. In the meantime, try to match your gait to mine.”

Radomil produced a vulpine smile. “I will present to him your perfect doppelgänger.”

*   *   *

After Sir Edward had tucked her into the high wooden four-poster like a father with his beloved child, Jonatha fell fast asleep for an hour or so. Just after dawn, she rose from a dream that seemed disturbingly real. As she had done in her dream, she took up her mobile from the night table at her right elbow, made a couple of calls, then punched in a number on speed dial.

When Ripley answered, she said, “I need you.”

“Anything,” Ripley replied.

“The mole issue just got wet.”

“Pity.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Jonatha said, briefing her on the little she knew of Alix Ross’s murder.

“Okay, it was a professional hit,” Ripley said. “What makes you think Krofft ordered it?”

“Two things. First, Alix was desperate to keep the infidelity going. She offered to get intel on Atlas for me. Second, if you were her who would you take the Atlas intel to?”

“You.”

“She didn’t. Instead, she showed up at CIA headquarters this afternoon. She told the receptionist she had something to show Krofft.”

“Well, that’s a smoking gun.”

“I need you to dig deeper.”

“No kidding.”

“Also, I need local help.”

“You
are
local, Jonatha.”

“For obvious reasons, I can’t use my normal sources.”

“Got it. Not to worry,” Ripley said. “As it happens, I have just the answer.”

*   *   *

Once, Redbird had tracked a quarry through frigid Siberian wasteland; another time, through marshy equatorial jungle so overhung with thorny South American vines and deadly serpents masquerading as vines that every step was an adventure. As such, the Swiss Oberforst proved minimally invasive to his task, a benign labyrinth within which he was certain to find his quarry. His conviction was absolute. He would find his way in and out, but Jack McClure would not leave the Oberforst alive.

He had seen McClure pull the driver through the smashed windshield. The driver was in a light-colored raincoat, smeared now with his own blood, the easier for Redbird to track him. McClure, in his dark-blue coat, would still be easy enough to spot among the forest’s greens and browns.

However, such was not the case. It took him far longer than he had expected before he caught a flash of dark blue, moving from right to left. Cutting through on the diagonal, he was able to slowly collapse the space between them. Even so, the woods were so thick, he never got more than a partial glimpse of his quarry, apart from one or two flashes of what looked like blood. That was all he needed, however, to continue stalking his prey.

At length, he could see up ahead a whitish, brutalist structure covered in equal measure by foliage, vines, and graffiti. As he drew closer, the structure resolved itself into what looked like some kind of bunker, though what it was doing in the middle of the forest was anyone’s guess. In any event, McClure was heading right for it, as if he was late for a rendezvous.

Redbird kept on, doggedly following McClure. And then, all at once, he spied the flash of McClure ducking and disappearing around the far side of the bunker. Not wanting to lose him, he pushed on through the underbrush, hurrying faster and faster, his urge for vengeance expanding inside him like a black sun, blotting out all other thought or emotion, even his well-honed sense of control and command.

It was at that precise moment that he was struck from behind, an immense blow that took him off his feet, laid him low, pressing his face into the dense mat of pine straw.

*   *   *

Nona was on her way to work when she caught the call. She had never been to the St. Giles’s Club, let alone been a member. In fact, barring a murder of one of its distinguished constituents, she had been quite certain she would never set foot inside the club. Now, out of the blue, Deckard called her, urging her to get over to St. Giles’s ASAP. She was to be the guest of Jonatha Midwood. Nona had never heard of Jonatha Midwood, but her relationship with Deckard was such that she would not disregard a request from him.

Jonatha Midwood herself let Nona into the club’s imposing vestibule. Looking around, Nona wondered whether the club had any black members. It sure didn’t look like it to her. Still, she was ready with a smile as Midwood offered her hand. Nona took it, somewhat surprised at the offering as well as the woman’s stunning beauty.

“Thank you so much for coming on such short notice,” Midwood said in her creamy contralto. “I know this detour in your busy day must be as inconvenient as it is mysterious.”

“Not at all,” Nona said truthfully. She had no strong desire to return to the office or to see the boss whom she no longer respected. In fact, following his press conference, she had gone out of her way to avoid seeing or talking to him. “How can I help?”

“Why don’t we talk over breakfast.” Midwood led the way into what appeared to Nona to be a baronial hall that would not have been out of place in the seventeenth century. Since no one was in evidence, they had their choice of tables. Nevertheless, Midwood chose one on the far edge of the room.

The moment they sat down a waiter shaped like a question mark appeared out of nowhere to pour them coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice. He set down a basket of warm rolls and pastries, then left them alone.

“I must say, you don’t look like you’d need help,” Nona said, dropping three cubes of sugar into her coffee and stirring slowly.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Midwood said. “Nevertheless, I do.”

Nona sipped at a spoonful of coffee, found it more than agreeable, and said, “Maybe I’m not the right person to help you. I just got fucked over by my boss. Was I surprised? Hell, no. He’s a politician, not police. Still, it hurt. He disappointed me.”

“What happened?” Midwood asked, digging into the breadbasket.

Nona told her.

“You were the one who solved the triple murder?”

Nona nodded. “Me, myself, and I.”

“Then I think you’re definitely the right person to help me.”

*   *   *

Redbird counted to ten, slowly, with the kind of deliberation colored by neither surprise nor fear. The attack from behind had, in fact, caught him by surprise, but it had served as a splash of icy water, bringing him back to himself.

The wounded driver was on top of him, he surmised. He was struck on the back of the head by a hard object, possibly the butt of a handgun. He groaned, not too theatrically, and, at the same time, drew the Ka-Bar knife from its sheath. He took three deep breaths, then jackknifed his body, torquing his torso as he did so. His left arm whipped around as he dislodged his attacker.

As he turned onto his back, he saw that his attacker wasn’t the driver, after all, but Jack McClure. The two men had switched coats; he had been so intent on vengeance, he had missed the small, telltale signs that should have tipped him off.

Even as he fell backward, McClure was aiming a Luger at him. Without another thought, he flicked the Ka-Bar. McClure hurled himself to one side, but the edge of the knife struck his wrist, sending the Luger flying.

*   *   *

Jack saw the assassin coming at him. He raised his elbows in an attempt to protect himself. The assassin came on, and Jack feinted to the right, kicking out with his left leg. The man went down on one knee. At once, Jack was on him, but he misjudged the damage his kick had done. The assassin buried his fist in Jack’s solar plexus and, when his guard came down reflexively, struck him on one cheek.

Jack’s head snapped back as he crashed down onto the pine needles. As the assassin climbed onto him, he scrabbled beneath the needles with a hand, grasped a rough-edged stone, and swung it in a shallow arc. It connected with the assassin’s forehead, gouging a horizontal slash from one side to the other. Blood sprayed in a crescent, splattering Jack’s face and chest.

The assassin’s muscle-knotted forearm slammed down onto Jack’s neck. Jack drove the bloody stone along the assassin’s arm, opening skin and muscle, causing blood to pour. He used the stone again, but the assassin’s fist was coming straight at his face. He tried to turn away, but the forearm had his head pinioned, and when the knuckles slammed into him, he made his body go limp.

*   *   *

Redbird had just finished stringing McClure up by his tied wrists, using an old length of rope he’d found in a dank corner of the bunker, tossed over a concrete beam, when he heard a furtive sound from outside. Quickly donning the coat McClure had been wearing, he placed himself between the open, sunlit doorway and McClure, a mere shadow among others in the dim interior.

Radomil, pistol in hand, poked his head into the bunker. “Jack?”

“Right here,” Redbird muttered.

Reassured, Radomil stepped inside, and Redbird slammed a board into his side. Radomil staggered back, Redbird came after him, but Radomil turned and ran in a strange, loping gait, vanishing between the trees.

T
WENTY-ONE

A
S
N
ONA
came down the front steps of the St. Giles’s Club her mobile phone buzzed. It was close to one o’clock. She had stayed a long time with Jonatha Midwood. Interesting, she thought, that a woman in the CIA needed her help.

“Hello?”

“Nona, it’s Deckard.”

“Hey.”

“Are you with Jonatha?”

“Just left. Why?”

“I have something but I don’t want to contact her directly.”

“Too dangerous?”

“Right. A colleague I’m working with informed me…” There was a brief pause. “You okay to talk?”

Nona checked the immediate vicinity as she climbed into her car. “Hold on.” She turned on her radio. “Secure.”

“Okay. Jonatha asked my colleague to do some digging and, together, we found something. Leroy Connaston, who you asked me to get info on earlier, was involved with someone named Pyotr Legere. Legere was with Connaston in Bangkok when Connaston was killed. And, Legere turns out to have been Dennis Paull’s not-so-confidential informer. Seems he was working both sides of the street.”

“Fuck. There’s a breach a mile wide.”

“It gets worse. Every piece of intel Connaston passed on to Paull, the Syrian knew first.”

“So Jack—”

“McClure isn’t the mole,” Deckard said.

“That’s the best bit of news I’ve heard all month.”

“He was set up. It was the Syrian’s plan, a misdirection.”

“While the real mole—Krofft—could continue his work.” Nona continued to use her side mirrors to monitor her environment. “But this is all pie in the sky. The man’s the head of the CIA. What we need is proof—hard, irrefutable evidence that can be brought to the president.”

“I’ve got something—maybe. I found a backdoor money trail from Connaston to someone in the D.C. area.”

“Who?”

“Not who—what,” Deckard said. “A company called Longformz, Ltd.”

“What does this company do?”

“No idea,” Deckard said, “but I have an address.”

*   *   *

Thirty-five minutes later, Nona drove up to the pale stone building on S. Wayne Street in the Penrose Park area of Virginia. It looked like nothing more than a private house in a residential area.

Nona got out of her car, crossed the sidewalk, and trotted up the steps. On the left side of the front door was an intercom with a single button. Beneath the button was a plastic strip that said: Longformz, Ltd. Beneath that was a yellow UPS notice. Peering at it, Nona discovered it was an announcement that a third delivery attempt had failed. The package had been returned to the sender.

Noting the invoice number, Nona called UPS on her mobile, read off the invoice number, was subsequently told the name of the sender: SouthEast Fashion. The address was somewhere in Bangkok.

Neither of these meant anything to Nona, but she quickly phoned Deckard and asked him to run them down.

Finally, she turned to the door, rang the intercom. She did not expect an answer, and she wasn’t disappointed. She tried the door, but it was locked. Returning back down the stairs, she went around the block to the rear of the building. Trash cans littered the alley. There was a rear door but it was also locked. To the right was a window, the glass too filthy to see inside. The wooden sash was rotting, and it was of no moment for Nona to get through it, lift the window wide, and climb inside.

No lights were on. Neither did they work when she flipped the wall switches. The interior was so dim she brought out her flashlight with her pistol, following its focused beam down a hall, narrow, completely unadorned. The odors of neglect and mold caught in her throat, making her choke back a coughing fit.

The rooms on the ground floor were empty, completely bare. Cautiously, she went up the rickety staircase to the second floor, and immediately saw the body. It was lying facedown on the threadbare carpet of a room facing the staircase. She could see no stain of blood, but it might be contained beneath him. Only one way to tell.