Labyrinth (10 page)

Locke's heart started pounding again. Panic rose in him. The steady drizzle soaked his jacket and his hair. The mist had developed into a fog and St. James's Park seemed totally deserted.

Then he heard the footsteps coming from the northern side. He turned swiftly, letting go of the wooden railing.

Brian Charney approached routinely, a man out for an afternoon stroll, no spark of recognition in his eyes. Locke was about to say something, then thought better of it. Contact was up to Charney. He would take no chances.

Charney leaned over to tie his shoe when he reached Locke.

“Start walking,” the man from State instructed. “Keep your pace steady. I'll stay about six feet behind you.”

“What?”

“Just do as I say. Walk leisurely and don't look back. You hear me, don't look back! I've been made.”

Locke started walking, hand gliding across the wooden railing to convince anyone watching of the leisureliness of his pace. His fingers trembled.

“I lied to you, Chris,” Charney said softly, almost too soft, pulling to within six feet of him. “I lied to you from the beginning. You were meant to be a decoy, a sacrifice. We—I—never expected you to make it back.”

Fury flared in Locke's cheeks. “How could—”

“Turn around, goddammit! Don't look at me. I'm trying to save your ass … and mine. It's bad, real bad, a thousand times worse than I ever imagined.”

“What is?”

“The massacre was the key. I should have seen that before.”

“What massacre?”

“San Sebastian.”

“You didn't tell me anything about—”

“Turn your goddamn head around and keep it that way or I'll save our friends the trouble and blow it off your shoulders.”

“Where are they?”

“I don't know. Close, though. I couldn't lose them.”

“What about the cavalry?”

“There is none. Not for us. At least not here. I don't know whom to trust, how deep it goes.”

Locke made out the panic in his friend's voice. He felt his own trembling increase. “Brian—”

“I can't talk anymore. Go back to your hotel and wait for me there.”

“But you said it wasn't safe.”

“Nothing's safe. It's the best we can do. They're after you and they're after me and there's no one in the middle.”

“
Who‘s
after us?”

“Not now. Get back to your room. Wait for me inside. Don't turn the lights on. If the phone rings, don't answer it. I'll try to lose them and meet you there. Be ready to leave in a hurry.”

“Just say the word.”

They had reached the end of the bridge.

“I'll veer to the right here. You stay straight. Find a crowd, lose yourself in it, then get back to the hotel.”

Locke started to twist his shoulders.

“Keep your fucking eyes forward. I'm trying to save your life! Just do as I say and don't ask questions!”

Charney veered away. Locke didn't stop to think, just kept moving at the same unaffected pace onto the mall heading straight into Piccadilly. It was all a nightmare and it was getting worse. Charney had spoken in shadowy, desperate phrases that told him nothing. His life was clearly still in danger.

The drizzle had given way to a steady rain. Locke might have been the only person walking without an umbrella. That made him stand out. He swung onto a smaller, less crowded street and aimed for the Dorchester. He reached it in fifteen minutes, being as sure as he could that no one had followed him.

He stood under the marquee to the right of the hotel's entrance for a few minutes, getting a fix on the lobby.

Two men stood just inside the revolving doors, surveying every man who came through. Just the men. Locke couldn't make out their features but their intentions were clear enough: They were looking for someone and it was probably he.

Wasting no time, Locke followed the arrows to the hotel's parking garage and walked down the ramp, ignoring the old sign prohibiting entry on foot. A car screeched up at him, headlights shimmering and tires screaming. Chris spun out of the way and pressed hard against the wall. The attendant behind the wheel shouted something at him. Locke started down the ramp again.

A minute later he had found the elevator and was inside. Forty seconds after that he was stepping out watchfully on the eighth floor.

The hallways were vacant. Locke started for his room, flinching each time he reached a break in the wall or a partition sufficient to hide the frame of a man. Finally he was at his room, pushing a now-steady hand into his pocket in search of his key. He jammed it into the lock and turned the knob without hesitating.

His suite was a shambles. Clothes were scattered everywhere, the mattress from the bedroom was upturned and torn, drawers had been ripped out and emptied of whatever contents he had managed to unpack. His suitcase was torn to shreds, all the lining ripped out in search of hidden compartments.

What had they been looking for?

Locke swung the door closed, pulled his hand away from the light switch just before he hit it. Terror gripped him as he stepped about the room, kicking aside remnants of his clothes and possessions. They had spared nothing. Even the bathroom had been ripped apart. In the corner of the living room, the desk had been pushed on its side. Chris rushed toward it.

His passport and extra money were gone!

Outside the drenching rain battered the windows. Night descended on London. Locke pressed his shoulders against the wall, afraid someone might be watching him through the glass, someone with a rifle perhaps.

The phone rang, maddeningly loud, insistently repeating its double ring.

Locke lowered himself and crept toward it, again pulling his fingers back at the last instant. Charney had told him not to answer it. But what if something had gone wrong and Brian was trying to call to alert him? No way to be sure. The original instructions had to be observed, the limits adhered to.

The phone stopped ringing.

Locke stayed huddled on the floor, lost in panic. His muscles cramped up and he stretched them out slowly, as if any sudden motion might betray him to whoever had ransacked his suite. The men in the lobby watching the entrance perhaps, or their fellows.

Who were they?

Animals! … ¡Carniceros!

Accusing words screamed at him by Alvaradejo fluttered through Chris's mind. What did the Colombian think he had done?

The souls of San Sebastian will be avenged!

What was the connection?

Locke stayed frozen. Minutes passed. Time ceased to have meaning.

Brian, where are you?

Outside the window, night was firmly settled in the London sky. The darkness of the room was broken only by lights from the city's skyline dancing madly across the walls.

There was a barely audible knock on the door. Locke crept across the carpet, his movements painfully slow. He raised his eye to the peephole.

Brian Charney stood outside, body pressed against the door frame. His knock came again. Locke opened the door.

Charney collapsed against him, breathing in heaves. Locke eased his friend down and managed to get the door closed.

Then he saw the blood. It was all over him, all over Charney. His friend had been shot, several times by the look of it. His lips were parched, trembling. Blood dribbled from the sides of his mouth. His face was ghastly pale, his eyes were darting. Charney was dying.

Locke took his friend's head in his lap.

“I'm sorry, Chris” came the raspy mutter. “Oh, God, I'm sorry.”

“Don't talk.” Locke could think of nothing else to say.

“I know how … bad I'm hurt. There are more important things now. Lubeck knew. It's why they killed him.” Suddenly Charney grabbed Locke's lapel. His eyes blazed. “They must be stopped!”

“Who?”

“They're everywhere, everything. Lubeck saw. Lubeck knew. The world will be theirs if they're not stopped.”

“Who?”

Charney's eyes drifted. His grasp slipped from Locke's coat, his fingers dangled in the air. “I set you up, old buddy, and then someone else did. Alvaradejo had to die, the other … links too.” Charney coughed up a stream of blood. “Oh, God, my kids! What about my kids?”

“I'll go the American Embassy and tell them everything. I'll tell them everything!” Locke promised.

But Charney's eyes flashed alive and his grasp tugged tight again. “No. Mustn't. Trust no one. Don't … know … how deep this goes. They murdered a whole town so no one would know.”

“Know what?”

It was obvious Charney was incoherent and rambling. What was giving him the strength to go on, Locke couldn't imagine.

“Liechtenstein,” he muttered, breath failing. “Felderberg was Lubeck's next stop, Felderberg the broker. Find him, find him!” Charney shifted slightly. “My pocket …”

Locke pulled a bloodstained sheet of paper from his dying friend's jacket. He could make out writing.

“Go to Cornwall. Find Burgess. He'll … get … you—”

That was it. Charney died. The last of his breath poured out in a wisp, as if a vacuum had sucked him dry. His eyes locked open and sightless. Locke eased his head onto the carpet. He wanted to collapse and cry for himself as well as his friend, give up and just sit for a while. But he couldn't. Whoever had killed Charney was close, in the hotel by now almost surely, coming to the room perhaps. Locke had to act fast but his mind wouldn't cooperate.

It was too much. Memories of the horrible accident twenty-two years before filled his head, of watching helplessly as the doctors lifted an unconscious Lubeck onto a stretcher and tore away the field dressing to reveal the mangled remains of his hand. It was a nightmare he couldn't wake from and now the nightmare had returned. He had seen one friend crippled and another killed. Both were dead, and he was so goddamn alone… .

But he had to act! Survival called out to him, Brian Charney called out to him, the training from long before called out to him.

They‘re everywhere, everything… .

Who had Charney been talking about?

Locke's mind craved release. He focused on escape, on survival. He had no passport, little money. All he had was an address.

He looked at the tattered, bloodied sheet of paper Charney had given him and read it quickly: Colin Burgess, Bruggar House, Cadgwith Cove, Cornwall.

Chris struggled to recall his knowledge of English geography. Cadgwith Cove was located on a stretch of land called the Lizard at England's southwesternmost tip. Accessible easily by train. First he would need a cab to get him to the station.

He was getting ahead of himself, though. His clothes were bloodied and demanded changing before he set out. He stripped off the ruined ones he had on, grabbed a fresh set from the floor and changed quickly, tucking all his remaining money in a pocket along with Charney's paper. He started for the door, glancing at his friend's corpse one last time. There should have been something else he could do for him. Letting him lie there didn't seem right, but he had no choice.

Locke stepped into the corridor and advanced slowly. He reached an intersection and stopped, wary of proceeding. He could turn right or keep straight. Which way? He hesitated, but not for long because up ahead two men had just turned onto the hallway. The men from the lobby! Locke ducked to the right and starting running down the adjacent hallway. He had no idea if the men had seen him. Either way, there would be others around.

A diversion, he needed a diversion. Confusion had to be created into which he could disappear. But how?

The answer lay before him at eye level on the wall. Locke hit the lever hard and yanked.

The fire alarm began to blare instantly. At this relatively early hour of the evening, most guests were in their rooms preparing for dinner. In seconds the corridor was lined with milling bodies moving unsurely but rapidly, searching for someone to follow as they tested the air for smoke.

The elevators had shut off automatically. Eight flights of stairs had to be descended, and the unnerved guests clustered toward the nearest exit. Locke let himself be swept up in their momentum, slowed at each descending level as they caught up with more figures and more clutter. By the fifth floor he realized there was no one shoving toward him from the rear. He was breathing easier when he reached the lobby to find people gathered everywhere, the overflow spilling into the street.

Locke joined the spillover, staying among the crowd as he searched for a cab, breaking away only when he was certain the chaos had him totally shielded.

Trust no one… .

Locke wanted to go straight to the American Embassy and dump his story on the ambassador's desk, but Charney's command prevented him. Who knew how deep this mess went? In Washington, Charney had said there was an army supporting him, reinforcements only a phone call away. Then where were they when he had needed them? Why hadn't then responded? No, his friend had encountered forces he had not expected and was ill equipped to deal with. And if that were so, what chance would Locke stand against them?

Trembling, he walked further into the night.

Chapter 9

DOGAN HAD BEEN EXPECTING
a call from the Commander all day, so when it came he was more relieved than surprised. Best to get things over with. Operatives of Division Six seldom fucked up, and when they did there was hell to pay. And Dogan had fucked up big time.

The Commander requested a nine
P.M.
meeting at his favorite outdoor café on the Champs-Élysées. Dogan was ready for a typical chewing-out session. He would grit his teeth and nod his way through it.

The Commander was waiting for him at an isolated table for two in the sidewalk café's rear corner. He looked more French than American with thinning hair, rimless glasses, and a thick mustache sliced off well before it reached the edges of his mouth. As always he was reading a newspaper. His tone would be indifferent; his eyes would seldom leave the print. Funny thing about the Commander, he could chastise you without ever meeting your stare, as if you didn't even merit the recognition. How he had risen to the position of chief of Division Six's affairs in Europe was beyond Dogan. Then again, much had been beyond him lately.