Upon A Pale Horse (28 page)

Jeffrey powered the phone off and cursed silently under his breath.

She’d taken him for a fool. They all had. The bumbling idiot, a peacock, puffed up with self-importance that had been contrived to lure him into a trap, where a black widow with breathtaking eyes and a body crafted by demons lay in wait.

For no reason apparent to Jeffrey, a vision of Kaycee flitted across his mind. She might have threatened him with a shotgun, but at least no one else had put her up to it.

Sleep was a long time coming, his simmering anger fueling his restlessness, and it was several hours before he finally began snoring, his dozing fitful and unsatisfying, the night a poor refuge for him now that he knew the harsh truth.

THIRTY-TWO

Shaking the Tail

Saturday, Jeffrey’s first stop was at one of Zurich’s many jewelry stores, where he traded his Rolex in a terrible deal for a Hublot on a black rubber strap that cost him his brother’s watch plus seven thousand dollars on his American Express card. Which was exactly as he wanted it – a foolish purchase for a bauble; where his surveillance committee would readily believe he’d gotten screwed by the store.

Jeffrey had decided there was a better than good chance that a tracking device had been inserted into the Rolex while it had been ostensibly sitting securely in the condo safe, and he wanted to take no chances. But he couldn’t just ‘forget’ the watch along with his phone, so he needed a bit of theater to explain its disappearance. He’d already set the stage for going to Paris, so now the only thing left was to dump his phone – which he would do once in France, so it didn’t look like he was shedding his belongings all at once. For now, he’d left it at the hotel, continuing the pattern of absentmindedness he’d been cultivating.

He found a quiet internet café near the university, logged onto a travel site, and plotted the best way to get to Frankfurt from Paris. There were numerous options, but several mentioned cursory border security in the comments, and those were the ones that drew his interest. His plan was for the trail to end in France, and for any watchers to believe that he was still the clueless young attorney seeking out additional medical attention there.

Which brought him to neurologists. There were any number of prominent ones serving the city, and he selected two, memorizing their numbers and addresses so he could make calls later from his cell. Even with a damaged brain, he was beginning to get the hang of leading a double life – a life that Monica had to have been living for some time.

He brushed aside the rising anger and concentrated on his errands, the last of which was to research the Italian. Within three minutes he’d read the latest article bemoaning the great man’s untimely demise – only a day after Keith’s plane had gone down. Another thread, another coincidence, another corpse. He sat back, thoughts whirling chaotically, outwardly calm but near panicked inside.

Jeffrey finished his surfing, wiped his browsing history, and restarted the machine before rising and paying the stern woman behind the counter, who took the money and didn’t tender any change. When he walked out he was struck by a small bout of nausea and dizziness, and had to lean against the building to steady himself. He took the opportunity to scan the street, but didn’t see anything suspicious – which didn’t surprise him. Jeffrey wasn’t confident that his unskilled eye would detect experienced operatives, but he figured it was never too early to try – that had been one of Jakes’ bits of wisdom. Apparently spying was like anything else, and he would only improve with practice. Jakes had also pointed out that if he was a pathological liar it would help, and had joked that being attorney might be close enough to give him a leg up.

Pity he was the wrong kind of lawyer. Another item to store away in the regret locker.

At his hotel he had lunch in the lobby restaurant, his conflicted thoughts revisiting that newspaper account of the professor’s suicide, and after chewing a surprisingly tasty sandwich, he retired to his room for a long nap. He wanted to depart soon, but his bouts with concussion-related instability were too severe, and he reluctantly opted for another evening in Switzerland, with a train trip the following morning.

“You don’t smell a rat?”

“No – if you look at his behavior, it’s consistent. The only question mark is what he was doing at the bank, and we’ve unfortunately made no inroads there. The damned Swiss take their bank secrecy seriously, and our overtures to the bank officers were rejected out of hand.”

“Offer them more.”

“That’s not the issue. It’s an ethical thing with them.”

“Offer them a lot more.”

The head of the surveillance team shook his head even though he was on the telephone and the other speaker couldn’t see him. “I did. It’s a non-starter. But there are plenty of reasons he could have been there. Handling something for his old firm being one of the most likely. Or for himself. We have no real idea what he’s been doing with his money for the last ten years. Remember that he’s an asset specialist. It could certainly follow that he’s structured something for himself, too. Do you have any results on the analysis of his bank records?”

“Inconclusive. As you know, if he was smart, nothing would show up. That’s kind of the whole point to what he does for a living.”

“So far, all he’s done is buy an expensive new watch. We tracked that down about an hour ago. Traded in his brother’s. Which is completely consistent with a young man on the way up with more money in his pocket than sense.”

“The girl said he sounded…distant.”

“A concussion can do that. Look, we’ll keep an eye on him, but so far everything points to a waste of time. He was clean when he came out of the bank. He hasn’t done anything suspicious in weeks of watching him. My money says he doesn’t know squat.”

“All due respect, analysis isn’t your job. It’s mine. Just stay on him and report back anything that seems odd. He mentioned he was considering a second opinion.”

“We intercepted a call to a French specialist, so again, entirely consistent. He made an appointment for Monday. In Paris. So we know where he’s going next.”

“Why can’t he just stay put? We didn’t anticipate that.”

“Free will. It’s a big pain in the ass. But don’t worry. I’m all over it. If he so much as farts, we’ll know about it.”

THIRTY-THREE

Frankfurt

The early morning direct train from Zurich to Paris took four hours, depositing Jeffrey at the Gare de Lyon at just before noon. The trip was fast and comfortable, the train only half full, and he used the time to doze, saving his energy for the marathon that was to come.

At his hotel, the Novotel Paris Les Halles, he checked in using his credit card and was shown to his room by a grumpy middle-aged man who seemed to disapprove of everything he encountered, starting with Jeffrey. After a cursory tour of the amenities in halting English and a disgusted look at his tip, the bellman left, closing the door behind him a little harder than necessary, his displeasure obvious. Jeffrey quickly unpacked and then ordered lunch in the room, preferring to remain sequestered until his doctor’s appointment the following afternoon. The meal was passable, and after finishing it he carried the tray outside his door and placed it in the hallway, using the opportunity to confirm that there were no surveillance cameras. Satisfied, he moved back inside and collected his laptop bag, in which he had packed an extra shirt and a toothbrush, and then ducked back out, taking care to flip the “Do Not Disturb” sign over on the doorknob as he eased the door shut, his phone off and in the room safe.

Jeffrey slipped into the emergency stairwell and descended the four floors at a careful pace, and then left through the service entrance next to the restaurant, paying no attention to the puzzled glances from the hurrying wait staff. Two blocks away he got a taxi to the Gare du Nord, where a train to Frankfurt was departing within the hour. He’d been relieved when he’d bought his train ticket in Zurich – the attendant had barely looked at his passport, as had the immigration officials. Apparently imminent invasion by young Americans wasn’t high on the European threat scale, because nobody seemed at all interested in him.

His purchase experience at the Gare du Nord was even more informal, which mirrored what his prior day’s research had led him to expect, and when the train pulled into Karlsruhe, the German officials merely glanced at his identification before waving him on, and he easily made his connection to Frankfurt.

Night was falling when he arrived, and he located a small hotel near the nursing home. The clerk on duty seemed happy to have his money and expressed no interest in his papers, which suited Jeffrey perfectly. Dinner was bratwurst at a small family-operated restaurant down the block from the hotel, served by a smiling waitress who looked about sixteen. Jeffrey resisted ordering some of the cold draft beer with a nearly superhuman exercise of willpower, remembering the doctor’s final words against drinking any alcohol for a week, and was in bed and asleep by nine p.m., his plan to be at the nursing home at eight.

The following morning he walked past his destination several times to get a feel for it. The retirement home was about what he expected, if a little more upscale, like a smallish three-star hotel filled with geriatrics. After steeling himself for the coming ordeal, he pushed through the entry doors and approached the front desk with a smile, offering his most winning look of sincerity to the middle-aged brunette behind the counter, who returned his greeting with puzzled curiosity.

“
Bitte
. Do you speak English?” Jeffrey asked in German, having looked up the phrase that morning.

“
Ja
. A small,” she replied, then repeated it in German while holding her index finger and thumb together, unsure if she’d gotten it right.

“I’m here to see Herr Schmidt. Alfred Schmidt?” he said, taking care to speak slowly.

“
Ach. Ja
. Alfie.
Und
your name?”

“Richard Muller. I spoke with him on the phone a little while ago.”

She didn’t seem to get the last part, but no matter, she gave him a polite smile and lifted the telephone handset. Her murmured German was incomprehensible to him, but he made out his putative name and Alfie, which was positive. She set the phone down and resumed staring at him, and he continued beaming at her like a dullard.

Several minutes later a man about Jeffrey’s age wearing white pants and a long-sleeved white shirt approached and motioned for him to follow into the depths of the building. Jeffrey did so, relieved that nobody had asked him for identification – that was the only part of his plan that he had no solution for, and the best he had was a lost wallet explanation, if pressed.

They arrived at a large common area, where a number of the residents were sitting in easy chairs or at tables, chatting in German or staring at the television, a few of them gazing off into space. His guide walked up to an ancient man in a reclining chair and leaned toward him, speaking loudly so he could hear. The man nodded and gestured for Jeffrey to come nearer and have a seat across from him, and the white-clad orderly then moved to a group of women who were playing cards at the other end of the room. Jeffrey took in the frayed tweed jacket and button-up dress shirt, the clothes obviously expensive at one time. The old German’s form now barely filled them out, like a scarecrow that had been outfitted at a haberdashery.