Authors: David Hagberg
Without Honor (4 page)
“Boredom.” He spoke the word aloud as he turned the corner in the rain and trudged down the stairs below his apartment block. Perhaps Marta was right. Or perhaps he missed the States. It had been five years since he'd been back. Not the McDonald's, or the
Three's Company,
or the jostling machinations of an upwardly mobile populationâthose weren't things to be missedârather it was the feel of the country, of her cities. Telephone operators who honestly understood English, little things like that. A decent martini. Supermarkets. Sears. Penney's.
Three's Company,
or the jostling machinations of an upwardly mobile populationâthose weren't things to be missedârather it was the feel of the country, of her cities. Telephone operators who honestly understood English, little things like that. A decent martini. Supermarkets. Sears. Penney's.
Two young girls sharing an umbrella came up the stairs. McGarvey had to step aside to let them pass. He turned up his coat collar and at the bottom hesitated a moment to look down at the lake before he continued. Before too long it would be summer.
He and Marta had a small sailboat. Perhaps they'd take a trip across the lake to Evian on the French side. Last summer had gotten away from them, as had the summer before and the winters in between.
He stopped short. That was it. Time was passing like a wide, slow-moving river, deceiving in its flow. You never realized the volume of time that was going
by until moments such as these when you suddenly awoke, face to face with your own mortality.
by until moments such as these when you suddenly awoke, face to face with your own mortality.
A trip back to the States was certainly possible. Füelm was capable of running the shop. It would get him away from Liese's games (which he actually found flattering when he would admit it to himself). It would be a book-buying trip. It was time he saw his sister and his nephews in Salt Lake City. On the way out he would stop by and see the ranch. Visit his parents' graves. And then there was this business with Kathleen and her attorney friend. He smiled inwardly. It would give him a certain perverse pleasure to show up on their doorstep, tell her in no uncertain terms what he thought, and then kick the attorney's ass up around his shoulders. His daughter was a teenager now; young, delicate. How much like her mother had she become? It was something he needed to know. It was time, he decided, that Elizabeth found out her father wasn't some ogre, some hippie living in a commune in Europe. It made him angry to think of the things Kathleen would be teaching her.
Marta would understand. It would give her a much-needed vacation.
Turning these thoughts over in his mind, McGarvey continued downtown, the city coming alive with the morning. Lausanne was a wonderful town, filled with contrasts of which the Swiss were inordinately proud but which tourists often found disconcerting. Rising from Lac Léman (here never Lake Geneva), the city hastened up into the hills in tiers on which the old and the new were situated in sharp defiance of any sort of convention. An eighteen-story modern skyscraper on a low tier might compete with a lovely Georgian cathedral perched on a hilltop. Old shops and homes, within
rabbit warrens of narrow twisting streets and alleys, were being gutted in one section of the city to make way for the new, while all around the Notre Dame, the selfsame architectural style was being faithfully restored. It was a city of footpaths, of quaint bridges and overpasses, yet the din of heavy (at times even crazy) traffic was nearly constant.
rabbit warrens of narrow twisting streets and alleys, were being gutted in one section of the city to make way for the new, while all around the Notre Dame, the selfsame architectural style was being faithfully restored. It was a city of footpaths, of quaint bridges and overpasses, yet the din of heavy (at times even crazy) traffic was nearly constant.
He arrived at the busy Place Saint-Francois across from which his bookstore was located. As he did every morning, he stopped at the news kiosk and picked up a copy of the Paris edition of the
Herald-Tribune.
When he arrived here five years ago he had been a basket case. His nerves were shot to hell. Around every corner, in every doorway, under every overhang, in every shadow lurked some dark figure from his past. Perhaps friends of the Chilean general he had assassinated. They believed in vendettas. Perhaps the KGB, perhaps the Bulgarians who had been so active just recently, according to the newspapers. Perhaps any of dozens of people he had crossed could have come here to watch for him, to wait for the one moment of weakness, the moment when he would be vulnerable. As he had been doing since he had come here, McGarvey stood a few moments beneath the kiosk's awning, pretending to look at the headlines of the other papers on display while he scanned the large square and his approaches to the bookshop.
Herald-Tribune.
When he arrived here five years ago he had been a basket case. His nerves were shot to hell. Around every corner, in every doorway, under every overhang, in every shadow lurked some dark figure from his past. Perhaps friends of the Chilean general he had assassinated. They believed in vendettas. Perhaps the KGB, perhaps the Bulgarians who had been so active just recently, according to the newspapers. Perhaps any of dozens of people he had crossed could have come here to watch for him, to wait for the one moment of weakness, the moment when he would be vulnerable. As he had been doing since he had come here, McGarvey stood a few moments beneath the kiosk's awning, pretending to look at the headlines of the other papers on display while he scanned the large square and his approaches to the bookshop.
An exercise in futility, nothing more, he thought, although to adequately cover the square would require several teams, some of them stationary, at least one mobile. They'd stand out, especially here given the Swiss penchant for routine. He shook his head and started to turn. All a moot point. He himself had fallen into the bad practice of routine; up at the same time each morning, the walk along
the same route, the newspaper, the quick scan, and then off to the store. Even an amateur could nail him after a few days' observation.
the same route, the newspaper, the quick scan, and then off to the store. Even an amateur could nail him after a few days' observation.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a dark blue van pulling up across the square. A tall man in a dark overcoat materialized out of the crowd, hopped into the passenger side of the van, and a moment later another figure, this one dressed in a tan mackintosh and wearing a wide-brimmed hat, stepped away and walked off in the opposite direction. The van took off, merged with traffic, and disappeared around the corner toward the Regina. McGarvey held himself in check against the instinct to look directly across. Instead, he stuffed the newspaper in his sodden jacket pocket and headed around the square along his usual route.
There was no way of knowing for sure, of course, but he decided that he would bet his next six months' income that the two from the van were not Swiss. They did not have the look.
McGarvey had to hold up for a break in traffic before he was able to cross, and then he hurried, head bent low, apparently in deep concentration. The man in the tan mack was fifty yards beyond the bookstore pretending to take refuge from the rain in a shop doorway.
Across the square he spotted the van coming up from the lake. Two legmen, one van. They were amateurs. Lookers. No hit men here.
The tan mack looked directly his way, then stepped out of the doorway and hurried off in the opposite direction. The Ford van came around the square, and it headed again toward the Regina Hotel. As it passed, McGarvey saw the driver and the man in the dark overcoat riding shotgun, both studiously watching traffic. The plates were Swiss, but it was a rental.
Americans? He got the impression they might be. They had the look. But what did they want? Why the hell had they come after all these years? He was no threat. He wasn't writing a tell-all book like so many expatriate Company men had done ⦠were doing. He had no ax to grind. Not now. He was merely trying to live his life here, out of the fray.
His store, International Booksellers, was a two-story yellow brick affair, rare books and the office on the top floor, the main body of the store on the first. It was nestled between a tobacconist and a perfume shop. McGarvey stepped across the sidewalk, dodging the heavy pedestrian traffic, and went into the shop. Several customers were browsing. Füelm, a short, scholarly-looking man with white hair and steel-rimmed glasses, was on his hands and knees, holding his glasses up with one hand as he myopically searched the spines of a row of books on the bottom shelf.
He looked up. “Good morning, Kirk, is it still raining?”
“Cats and dogs,” McGarvey said, hurrying up the iron spiral stairs off to one side.
At the front window he looked down on the busy street for a minute or two, but the blue van did not make another swing, although he thought he saw the tan mack round the corner across the way.
Why had they come now? Marta would say he was imagining things. He knew better.
He turned away from the window and hurried back to his office where he closed and locked the door, then unlocked the big bottom drawer of his old oak desk. Reaching underneath he slipped the wooden stop and pulled the drawer all the way out, setting it aside. From beneath the main pedestal he withdrew a small bundle wrapped in oilcloth, which he quickly opened. Inside was a well-used, well-oiled
Walther PPK automatic, loaded, two extra clips with it. The compact weapon had been his companion in the old days. On more than one occasion it had saved his life, and at times he thought of it as an old friend. He handled it with great respect now, wiping off the excess oil with his handkerchief, then working the slide back and forth, pumping out several shells. He released the clip from the automatic's butt, reinserted the rounds, and reloaded the gun.
Walther PPK automatic, loaded, two extra clips with it. The compact weapon had been his companion in the old days. On more than one occasion it had saved his life, and at times he thought of it as an old friend. He handled it with great respect now, wiping off the excess oil with his handkerchief, then working the slide back and forth, pumping out several shells. He released the clip from the automatic's butt, reinserted the rounds, and reloaded the gun.
Possibly they were Americans, he thought, stuffing the gun and spare clips in his coat pocket. Possibly they were the opposition here with an ax to grind. He put the drawer back in his desk, locked it, then left his office and went downstairs.
Fuelm was at the bottom of the stairs. “I was just coming up.”
McGarvey hesitated on the bottom tread. Outside, the blue van passed on the street.
“Kirk?” Füelm said softly. “Are you feeling well this morning?”
“Just fine, Dortmund. What was it you needed?”
Füelm eyed his wet jacket. “Are you going back out?”
“An errand to run. Was there something you wanted to ask?”
“I can't quite seem to put my hands on the Oxford
Aquinas.”
Aquinas.”
“Upstairs on my desk. There's a hold on it for Herr Bergmann. He said he'd be in later this week for it.”
“That explains the mystery,” Füelm said, stepping aside to let McGarvey pass. “Everything is fine with you?”
McGarvey looked at him. “Marta telephoned?”
Füelm nodded. “She was worried.”
McGarvey patted him on the arm. “It's all right,
believe me, Dortmund, it's all right. But just now I have to run.”
believe me, Dortmund, it's all right. But just now I have to run.”
“When will you be back â¦?” Füelm called, but McGarvey had spun on his heel and hurried to the back of the shop, into a tiny storeroom and book-repair area. He opened the alley door and looked outside. A delivery truck was parked near the east end, but in the opposite direction he was in time to see two young girls with the umbrella whom he had passed on the stairs below his apartment, coming up from the corner. They spotted him and immediately turned and disappeared back the way they had come.
There was more than one team! It meant they had been at his house. They had been watching him, without him detecting it. For how long? Long enough to have a handle on his routine.
He stepped out of the doorway and raced down the alley, the cobblestones slippery in the rain. He reached the narrow side street that led to the broad Avenue d'Ouchy. The girls were just crossing the street and he had to hurry not to lose them in the heavy traffic, nearly getting run over by a bus as he crossed.
He caught up with them as they waited for the light to change on the Avenue de la Gare across from the Victoria Hotel. He put his hand in his coat pocket, his fingers curling around the Walther's grip.
At a distance the girls had seemed very young. Close up he could see that they were at least in their late twenties. For a moment or two they just looked at him without saying a word. He felt silly. He was on a fool's errand. He was tired, hung over, and was still feeling a lot of guilt about what he had done last night to Marta. He was chasing after hobgoblins now.
He turned and looked the way he had come as the man in the tan mack came around the corner.
The van came up behind him and slowed down.
The van came up behind him and slowed down.
McGarvey turned back, suddenly angry. It had not been his imagination. The girls were staring at him. Across the avenue the man with the dark coat was watching them. His right hand was in his pocket.
“We mean you no harm, Mr. McGarvey,” one of the girls said. Her face was round, her nose tiny, her eyes a pretty blue.
There were a lot of pedestrians around them, waiting for the light to change, indifferent to everything except the nasty weather and getting to where they were going.
“Please. We wanted contact with you, without alerting the Swiss authorities.”
“For what purpose?” McGarvey asked. His adrenaline was pumping, he could feel his heightened awareness, the tensing of his muscles. The tan mack was holding back. The van passed through the intersection, then pulled into a parking space in front of the hotel.
“There is someone who wishes to speak with you. We have gone through great effort,” the other girl said. The hair sticking out from beneath her scarf was red. Her eyes were wide, and there were freckles on her nose and cheeks. For some reason McGarvey thought of the German word for freckles â¦
sommersprossen.
sommersprossen.
“I don't understand,” he said. If they meant to harm him, he was cornered on three sides. But they had left him an escape route: east along the Avenue de la Gare. If they were driving him, the assassin would be waiting somewhere out ahead. The erratic behavior of a field man apparently on the run will tumble the best laid plans. Wasn't that the drill? But it had been a lot of years.
He glanced again at the tan mack. That'd be the direction. Through the back door.
“Please, sir,” the blue-eyed girl said. “Just listen, that's all. It's Mr. Trotter. John Trotter. You were old friends.”
A bus rattled by, exhaust fumes rising up into the cold drizzle. The freckled girl was getting nervous. Trotter, here? Why?
“We can't stand here like this,” Freckles said.
“Mr. Trotter is waiting in the van in front of the hotel,” the other girl said.
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