The Death Instinct (33 page)

    Gruber, in the front seat, had been desperately scraping glass from his bloody face and eyes. At the sound of the gunshots, he thrashed wildly at his door, unable to find the latch. At last he began climbing over the door instead.

    Younger got hold of Gruber's ankles and stood up on the front seat of the car, holding Gruber upside down. Gruber's hands scraped at the flagstone like the paws of a rodent trying to burrow into the earth. Younger lifted him several feet off the ground and dropped him, face- first, onto the stone.

    The blow stunned Gruber, but didn't knock him out. Younger saw on the dashboard the steel shaft that had separated the two panes of the windshield. He grabbed it, jumped over the door, and hoisted Gruber off the ground, holding him up against the car. Gruber's face was bloody, his eyes frightened. Colette, prying herself loose from between the two dead men, climbed out of the car as well.

    'I guess the engagement's off,' Younger said to Colette, without looking at her.

    'He wasn't my fiancé,' she answered. 'He-'

    'I know what he is,' said Younger.

    'No,' said Colette, 'he-'

    'I know,' repeated Younger.

    'Luc,' cried Colette. The boy was standing only a few feet away, lit up by the car's headlamps.

    Younger looked at the cowering Hans Gruber. 'I'm trying to think,' Younger said to him in a low voice consisting mostly of breath, 'of a reason to let you live.' 'It wasn't me,' said Gruber. 'It was all of us. Everyone did it.'

    'That's not a reason,' said Younger in the same unvoiced voice.

    'They ordered us to do it,' said Gruber imploringly.

    'I don't believe you,' said Younger.

    'Stratham-' said Colette.

    'The only thing I can think of is your cravenness,' Younger observed, studying Gruber's pleading face. Younger thought it over. Then he said, 'But that's not a reason either.'

    Younger ran the steel windshield shaft through the underside of Hans Gruber's chin straight up into his skull. The blue eyes froze. Younger looked at those eyes for a long moment - then let the corpse slump to the ground.

    'We'll take his car,' said Younger.

    Dragging the other two bodies out of the backseat, Younger left all three corpses in a heap. Luc gazed down at the dead men. Then he took his sister's hand, and the two of them got into the vehicle. As they crossed a bridge over the Vltava in their windshield-less vehicle, sirens and alarms began to wail.

    Several hours later, Younger opened a sleeping compartment aboard a rumbling train. A single candle cast an unsteady light. On the lower bunk, both Luc and Colette were stretched out. The boy was sleeping.

    'Is that you?' Colette whispered in the darkness.

    'Yes.' Younger loosened his tie, went to the washbasin, rinsed his face. They had just crossed into Austria. He had waited in the corridor to see if any police boarded. None had.

    'You're a good killer,' she said unexpectedly.

    He picked up Luc and laid him in the upper bunk. The boy stirred but didn't open his eyes. Colette, startled, sat up, and pulled the sheet protectively up to her neck. She was afraid, evidently, that he was going to lie down next to her.

    He was about to reassure her that he had moved the boy only because he had found another compartment for himself, so that she and Luc didn't have to share a bunk. But the words didn't come out. Instead he was seized with fury. He tore the sheet from her. Dressed only in a slip, she drew her knees close to her and encircled them with both arms, green eyes sparkling faint and anxious in the candlelight.

    He shook his head. 'What does a man have to do before you trust him?' he asked. 'Die?'

    'I trust you.'

    'That's why you're acting like I'm about to rape you.'

    She drew farther back into the shadowy corner of the bunk, clutching the silver chain she always wore around her neck.

    He could not have explained his own violence. If it was rage, he had felt its kind only a few times, during the war. He reached down, took her by the wrists, pulled her up standing before him, and yanked the chain from her neck. She said nothing. He spoke quietly, his words just audible over the noise of the locomotive: 'I admire it - I do. You lied to me for years. You did it so well, pretending to be aggrieved at how much I kept from you. And now you play the little God-fearing virgin again, with your cross in your hands and your faith that He'll protect you. Didn't anyone tell you that good Christian girls don't hunt a man down for six years to kill him?'

    'It's not a cross,' she said.

    He opened his palm: at the end of the silver chain was a locket.

    'It's how I knew his name,' said Colette. She took the locket from him, prized its two halves apart along a tiny hinge, and removed from within a small thin metal oval. 'When we found Mother, her fist was clenched. I opened it, one finger at a time. This was inside. She had torn it off the man who - who killed her.'

    Younger held the little oval: it was a soldier's dog tag. Angling it, he made out the etched letters spelling
Hans Gruber
.

    'I wore it every day,' she said, 'since 1914. If I had told you the truth, would you have let me come to Vienna to find him?'

    He didn't answer.

    'Wouldn't you have tried to stop me?' she asked.

    'Yes.'

    She turned to the compartment's window and twisted at its catch. It wouldn't turn. She pulled at it with both hands. Finally the upper pane dropped open, and a ferocious wind blew in with the roar of the rushing night. She fell back into his arms, her long black hair blowing about, getting in her eyes and his. He saw the delicate line of her cheek and the anxious radiance of her eyes looking up at him, flickering in the candlelight. He held her close, so close her chest was pressing against his, and put his lips to hers. For a moment her whole body surrendered to him; then she pushed herself away, took the dog tag from him, and flung it out the open window. It disappeared into the night without a trace, without a sound.

    She turned to face him, shivering in the cold air that swirled through the compartment, hair billowing, bare shoulders catching the light of the candle. He could see that she wouldn't resist him. If he put his hands on her, she would let him: Was it a debt she felt she owed him? He glanced at the slumbering form of the boy and shut the window.

    For his part, Luc - not asleep - waited for the unpleasant sound of kissing or other things that grown-ups do. It never came. Instead he heard the door open and close as Younger left the compartment.

Chapter Fifteen

    It is often wondered by Americans, not to mention residents of the nation's capital, whether the city of Washington is in the District of Columbia or is the District of Columbia. The answer in 1920 was neither. There was no city of Washington.

    When the United States first placed its capital on the banks of the Potomac River between Maryland and Virginia at the end of the eighteenth century, the land devoted to the enterprise was a perfectly shaped square, or diamond, each side of which was exactly ten miles in length. The whole of this diamond was called the territory of Columbia. In that territory were three municipalities: the early settlement of Georgetown, the formerly Virginian city of Alexandria, and the new capital city of Washington.

    More than a half century later, as the United States struck numerous futile compromises between North and South, one such bargain was negotiated in the territory of Columbia. Alexandria, poor and intensely pro-slavery, was retroceded back to the slave state of Virginia, while the trade in human property was abolished everywhere else in the territory. As a result, the capital lost its geometric perfection as well as about a third of its hundred square miles. Meanwhile, the cities of Georgetown and Washington grew to a point where they began to encroach. Accordingly, in the 1870s, Congress repealed the charters of those two municipalities, combining them instead, together with the rest of the territory, into a single District of Columbia.

    From that point on, there was, formally speaking, no city of

    Washington at all. But no one has ever scrupled over that nicety, and Washington continues to be spoken of and believed in by all, just as if it were a real city.

    'Progress report, Littlemore,' said Treasury Secretary Houston in his mild Carolinian voice on a late October morning, having summoned the detective to his sumptuous office, which was larger than many New York apartments Littlemore knew. 'I should very much like to claim some progress just now.'

    'In time for the election?' asked Littlemore.

    'Correct.'

    'I wish I had more for you, Mr Houston.' Littlemore was frustrated; none of his leads was panning out. 'My boys still haven't found anybody who saw the getaway truck leaving the alley after the bombing. But they will. Somebody had to have seen it. Meantime, I've been investigating everybody who had anything to do with the gold transfer. The only one that sticks out is Riggs, and he's gone.'

    'Riggs?' asked Houston. Who's that?'

    'Your officer who died on September sixteenth.'

    'Oh, yes. What about him?'

    'Riggs applied for a passport last July,' said Littlemore. 'Planning a little foreign travel.'

    'So he was one of the criminals!' declared Houston.

    'Looks like it,' said Littlemore. 'Unfortunately I can't find anybody who knew him. No wife. No family. He was hired by Treasury here in Washington in 1917. Transferred to New York last year. Who would have transferred him, sir?'

    'I have no idea. I became Secretary only this year.'

    'Could you find out?'

    'I don't see why not.'

    Littlemore rubbed his chin. 'I wonder if they could have taken the gold out by sea. The harbor's right near Wall Street. Have we been checking the ships sailing out of New York?'

    'Have we?' said Houston. 'Customs inspects every single container of cargo loaded onto outgoing ships. Gold is very heavy, Littlemore. It would be impossible to get twelve thousand pounds of gold onto a vessel without our knowledge.'

    'Okay, let's say they didn't sail it out. They took it away in their truck. What then? You're the expert, Mr Houston. If you're sitting on all that metal, what do you do with it?'

    'Melt it down. Re-bar it.'

    'Why?'

    'Every Treasury bar is engraved with our marks. To sell that gold, the thieves need to erase those marks, and the only way to do that is to melt it down. Once melted and re-barred, gold is untraceable. That's what they do with Soviet metal.'

    'The Russians have gold?'

    'Vast amounts - from the Tsars' treasure houses. It's contraband. Can't be sold anywhere in the civilized world. Even I'm not allowed to buy it. What the Russians do is smuggle it here by ship, melt it, bar it, and then sell it to us.'

    'Us? You mean the Treasury?'

    'Certainly. The United States Treasury will buy any and all gold presented to it, no matter in what quantity, and we pay the best price of any country in the world. Except for Russian gold, which we won't touch - provided we can identify it as Russian. We just intercepted a shipment the other day. Didn't you read about it? Over two million dollars in Russian metal hidden on a Swedish ocean liner. Customs found it. I sent the Swedes packing. The ship's back at sea now, taking the Russian gold home with it.'

    'Mr Houston, you better bring that ship back in.'

    'What for?'

    'Classic bait and switch,' said Littlemore. 'That Swedish ship sailed out of New York carrying a cargo of gold with your authorization. But maybe beneath a few bars of Russian metal, the rest of it wasn't Russian. Maybe it was your gold - the stolen gold.'

    'I don't believe it.'

    'Bring that ship back in, Mr Houston. Then we'll know for sure.'

    'I can't intercept a ship on the high seas and haul it back to New York.'

    'Why not? Send out a few cruisers. We used to do it all the time during the war.'

    'We're not at war now, Littlemore. It's very delicate these days. Tensions are high. We don't want an international incident, for heaven's sake.'

    'Then just board her, Mr Houston. Open the crates of gold. Check the bars and make sure they're Russian. That's all.'

    'Don't tell me how to do my job,' said Houston. 'We're talking about a passenger ship. A thousand people aboard. It would be in every newspaper all over world if I were wrong. And what would I say I was looking for? Stolen Treasury gold - and let everyone know about the theft?'

    'You don't have to say. People will think you're looking for arms or something.'

    'It's pure speculation. I'm not going to send the United States Navy on a wild-goose chase.' He drummed his fingers on his desk. 'What did Fall want from you?'

    'To let him know if I found evidence linking the robbery to Russia.'

    'He'd like that, wouldn't he?' Houston grunted contemptuously. 'Warmonger.'

    It was a privilege of federal officials that they received priority over civilians when placing long-distance telephone calls. For example, an agent making a call to New York from the Treasury in Washington could usually reach his party in less than a quarter-hour. More important, ever since the federal government seized control of the nation's telephone companies in 1918 and began dictating rates, such calls were essentially free of charge.

    Littlemore took advantage of these perquisites to call the American

    Society for Psychical Research. A short time later, an operator rang him back with Dr Walter Prince on the line.

    'Question for you, Doctor,' said Littlemore. 'Did you by any chance talk to Ed Fischer after I met you in your office?'

    'Certainly,' said Dr Prince, his voice distant and broken up by the accumulated static of two hundred miles of telephone wire. 'I visited him at the sanitarium later that very day.'

    'Did you tip him off that I was going to ask him when he first got wind of the bombing?'

    'I mentioned there was a policeman interested in that information, yes.'

    'I should have known,' declared Littlemore. 'He had me thinking he pulled off one of his magic tricks. Thanks, Dr Prince. That's all I needed.'

    'I feel you are expressing skepticism about Mr Fischer's gifts, Captain.'

    'Why would I be skeptical about a guy who thinks he's a Secret Service agent and the Popes are out to get him?'

    'The gifted often feel persecuted, Captain. They are often unstable. It doesn't make their premonitions less valid.'

    'Sorry, Dr Prince, I'm not buying.'

    'Then how do you explain his foreknowledge of the bombing?'

    Littlemore answered with a vituperation that surprised himself: 'I can't explain it,' he barked. 'But you know what? I don't care if he's the ghost of Christmas future. He's no use to me.'

    The Willard Hotel, on Pennsylvania Avenue just down the street from the White House, used to be President Ulysses S. Grant's favorite watering hole when he needed a brandy after a long day at the office. Businessmen or their hirelings would lie in wait for the President in the flush hotel lobby, pouncing on Grant to make their case, ply him with liquor, and in general explain how much they could do for his Administration if only some vital permit were issued or lucrative contract signed. Grant called them 'lobbyists.'

    Littlemore was making his way across this high-ceilinged lobby when a familiar, tall female figure approached him, clad in a well-fitted feminine version of a man's suit.

    'Enjoying Washington, Agent Littlemore?' she asked below a sparkling chandelier.

    'Evening, Mrs Cross,' said Littlemore.

    'New necktie?'

    Littlemore looked down. He was ordinarily a bow tie man, but in his first weeks on the job, Littlemore hadn't seen a single other Treasury agent who wore one. He'd mentioned this to Betty, who gave him a full-length tie as a present. 'You're going to tell me it's not tied right?' he asked.

    'It's tied just fine. A little too tight.' She loosened it; he was able to breathe easier. 'That's better. Senator Fall wants to see you. I'm here to take you to him.'

    Without waiting for an answer, Mrs Cross turned and walked toward the hotel's front door. Littlemore followed her sashaying form, first with his eyes, then with his legs. Outside, she climbed behind the wheel of a waiting car.

    'You're the driver?' asked Littlemore, seating himself beside her.

    'I'm the driver.' She started the car. 'Does that make you nervous?'

    'I'm not nervous.'

    Mrs Cross drove Littlemore along the Mall. Just before the Capitol, she turned and entered a poor neighborhood similar to the one into which he had mistakenly wandered his first day in Washington. She came to a halt behind another car in a small, unlit street sandwiched claustrophobically between opposing walls of brick row houses. Lights were on in several windows, but curtains made it impossible to see within. 'Maine Avenue,' said Mrs Cross. 'Used to be called Armory Place. Also known as Louse Alley. Good luck.'

    From the car in front of them, the driver emerged and opened a passenger door, allowing Senator Fall to stretch himself out onto the street, a white ten-gallon hat over his drooping white mustache.

    Littlemore stepped into the alley and joined him. Mrs Cross remained in her car, engine humming softly.

    'Like 'em colored, Littlemore?' asked Fall. 'Best colored girls in the city are in this street. That's how come I love this town. Just three blocks from the Capitol.'

    'Why are we meeting here, Mr Senator?'

    'Seems your boss, Secretary Milksop, complained to President Wilson today that I was interfering with his investigation. I figured we should find a more out-of-the-way place to powwow.' Fall began walking up the street, with Littlemore at his side and the Senator's car following slowly behind them. 'What do you know about these two boys that Flynn's after?'

    'What two boys?' asked Littlemore.

    'Couple of Italians up in Boston. What the hell are their names? All I can think of is a sack of spaghetti.'

    'Sacco and Vanzetti?'

    'That's it,' said Fall.

    'They were arrested for murdering a payroll clerk,' said Littlemore. 'What's Flynn got to do with them?'

    'He thinks they're the political prisoners from the anarchist circulars.'

    'That's crazy,' said Littlemore. 'When Reds say political prisoners, they mean Debs and the other anti-war guys Palmer and Big Bill put behind bars. Everybody knows that. You'd have to be some kind of boneheaded anarchist to say "Free the political prisoners" if you wanted to free two guys arrested for killing a payroll clerk in Boston. Nobody would know what you meant.'

    'Well, Flynn's got something on them,' said Fall. 'He's planted an informant in their cell.'

    'Where's he getting these ideas? He's not smart enough to be that stupid all by himself.'

    'I was hoping you'd know. Now this house here -' Fall pointed to a large but run-down corner house - 'this one used to belong to a gal named Hall. Served Piper champagne in crystal glasses. Rich as us senators. They still tell stories about her girls. Well, it all played out like I said, didn't it? You found out the Russians were involved in the bombing, and Secretary Milksop buried it.'

    'I didn't find Russian involvement, Mr Senator.'

    'If the bombers used even a few bars of Russian metal to trick Customs, that's Russian involvement. How do you think the bombers got their hands on Soviet gold? I'll bet the whole crew of that Swedish ship turns out to be Russian.'