by Helin, Don
He shifted to get a better look at her face. “Have you lived in Canada long?”
“Long enough.”
Footsteps pounded on the stairs. A couple stumbled around the corner giggling at one another. The boy had his arms wrapped around the girl. From their appearance, Sam guessed they were college students.
The girl stopped when she saw them sitting on the couch, causing the boy to bump into her. “Pardon.”
Carla answered in French and motioned for them to come in and be seated. She pointed at the sign for the entertainment, then looked back at Sam. “How do you like Montreal?”
“Why?”
That seemed to take her aback. She watched him.
“Today I saw a couple of art museums, two department stores, and ate lunch at a restaurant on Rue Catherine. Do you like art?” He kept his eyes focused on her face.
She stood. “Please wait here fifteen minutes. Then you may leave.”
Carla walked to the bar, reached over and placed her cup in the sink, then slipped on her coat. Her footsteps trailed up the stairs.
The two young people had sat down on one of the couches. Sam wandered out into the hallway and looked up the stairs. Empty.
He had to risk it. Sam pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and pushed in the speed dial. He turned away from the stairs. “Short, redhead, dark glasses, black trench coat. Name of Carla.”
He waited fifteen minutes, the silence awkward because the young couple cuddled with one another, probably wishing he were out of there.
Placing his cup on the bar, he walked up the stairs. He would have one day to find out everything he could about the guy.
When he got outside and turned down the street, he pulled out his cell phone in case the first call didn’t go through. “Repeat. Short, red hair, dark glasses, black trench coat. Name of Carla. Told me to wait fifteen minutes, then leave. Get her picture.”
He pushed the button that cut off his cell.
Elizabeth Henley ducked into the restroom on the first floor and pulled the door shut behind her. She chuckled to think he’d be looking for a slender redhead with dark glasses. He’d never find her.
She pulled the red wig off and fluffed up her short blond hair.
Elizabeth hated makeup and wiped it off her face as fast as she could. She put the glasses in her purse, then washed her face. Reaching into her purse, she took out a white bra and light-blue blouse. She pulled the offensive blouse over her head and threw it in the trash. Then she put on the bra and blouse.
She hated to exhibit herself to men, but she did whatever was necessary to accomplish her assigned mission.
Most men ogled her and didn’t notice her face. Thorpe was different. He didn’t stare at her chest like all the others, didn’t comment or smirk, but she thought he hadn’t focused on her face as he might have. What man would?
She turned her coat inside out to change the black to a red plaid and slipped it on. Pulling the door ajar, she waited.
Footsteps echoed on the squeaky stairs. Heavy steps. Exactly fifteen minutes. It must be Thorpe. She peeked through a crack in the door. He paused in the hallway, looked upstairs, then opened the front door and slipped into the dark night.
Elizabeth waited five minutes. She stepped out into the hallway and listened. When she reached the front window, she flipped the switch, shutting off the light, and pulled the curtain aside. He was gone.
She had accomplished her mission. Now it was time to go back to the apartment and call her leader.
It had started.
Bob O’Brien leaned back in the shadows of a doorway across the street, one door down from the Yellow Dog Coffee Shop. Agent Monar waited at one end of the street and Agent Stoner at the other. He spoke into the satellite mic attached to his collar. “Commo check.”
“Monar here.”
“Stoner here.”
O’Brien watched the front door. “Sam’s been inside about thirty minutes. Be alert; he should be out at any moment.”
His cell buzzed. Sam’s voice echoed in his ear. When Sam finished, O’Brien spoke into the mic. “Did you both monitor that?”
“Roger.”
O’Brien slipped farther back into the doorway and waited.
About fifteen minutes later, Sam emerged and turned down the street to O’Brien’s right. What had happened to the redhead?
O’Brien whispered, “Sam’s out, headed toward Stoner.”
In a moment, Sam’s voice echoed in O’Brien’s ear again.
When Sam finished, O’Brien spoke into his mic. “Did you both monitor that?”
“Roger,” Stoner answered. “I’ll pick him up and tail him. See if anyone else is interested in his activities.”
“Stand fast, Monar,” O’Brien ordered. “The redhead hasn’t come out yet. If she turns your way, you follow her; if she turns the other way, I’ll pick her up and you can shadow me.”
A short, blond woman in a red coat opened the door and walked down the steps of the building. She turned to the right and hurried down the street.
O’Brien made a snap decision. “Monar, take my place and watch for the redhead. If no young females come out in twenty minutes, head over to the bookstore where Sam’s to meet Jackie. I’m going to follow a woman who just exited the building. Too much of a coincidence.”
“Roger.”
O’Brien fell in step a half block behind the woman, moving quickly to keep up with her. He couldn’t get too close. It surprised him that she didn’t make any effort to disguise her movements. Had he chosen wrong?
Agent Monar’s voice echoed in his ear. “No one else has come out. I’m moving over to the bookstore. I’ll stay outside.”
“Roger,” O’Brien replied.
After a six-block walk, the woman turned in to an apartment complex. He closed the distance between them. She entered a two-story, four-apartment building. A light came on in the apartment on the right side of the second floor. O’Brien stood outside in the shadows for another twenty minutes. When no one else arrived, he walked up to the front door and checked the mailbox.
“Hum-m,” he murmured, “Sidney Kramer, 220 St. Catherine Place, Apartment Number Four.” He moved off down the street, reaching for his cell phone to call Captain Jeffrey.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sam cut back across the McGill campus and hurried down Rue Stanley toward the bookstore where he and Jackie had agreed to meet. A light dusting of snow covered the ground. The wind caused him to turn up the collar on his coat. Car horns honked. Students laughed and pushed one another while they walked. Sam got a kick out of watching them.
When he reached the bookstore, he pushed open the door and hurried up the one flight of stairs to the coffee shop area. There were about twenty tables, and most of them were full. A low buzz of conversation swept the room. Circling the coffee shop, he didn’t see Jackie.
That’s funny, he thought. She should be here. He jogged up the stairs to the top level. No luck. He hurried down the stairs, brushing past a couple.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going! Damn Americans.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Looking for my friend.” He walked around the ground level of the bookstore, but still no Jackie. Where the hell could she be?
He called her cell phone. The phone rang, but all he got was voice mail. He left a message, then hurried back up to the coffee shop. The man he’d seen at the restaurant the night before sat at a corner table reading a newspaper. Is he looking at me?
Sam walked over. “I’m sorry to bother you. Haven’t we met?”
The man glanced up, but said nothing.
“I’m looking for my friend, a tall black-haired woman. Have you seen her?”
“Why ask me?”
“You look familiar; that’s all.”
“Leave me alone before I call the management.”
Jesus, Sam thought, the guy overreacted. Why? He thought about that as he walked to an open table and sat. Time to analyze possible courses of act
ion. Sam debated going back to the hotel. Maybe Jackie had gone there for some reason. No, that didn’t make any sense. He’d already walked around the bookstore and would have seen her if she were here. What else?
The man he had talked to watched him. Sam reached into his pocket for the cell phone again to call Bob O’Brien.
Suddenly Jackie came running up the stairs, out of breath. Relief flooded through him.
She waved and hurried over. “I’m sorry. I got shopping at that department store across the street and lost track of time.”
Sam jumped up and wrapped his arms around her.
She pulled back and glared up at him. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
He had to report to O’Brien about the meeting, but not this minute.
The red neon light advertising the Jangling Spur Bar flashed against the dark night sky. Popeye pushed the door open and walked inside, followed by Specialist Rose.
Popeye had gotten the okay from General Oliver to attend tonight’s rock concert sponsored by the Pennsylvania Skinheads and to bring Rose along. This was part of the general’s plan to improve working relationships between the two groups. Popeye could hardly keep from telling his fellow skinheads about the upcoming operation.
The loud music resounded in Popeye’s ears. A cloud of smoke covered the room. He tapped his foot to the beat of a heavy metal tune.
Popeye loved the music and had managed to buy the album “Lockjaw,” a collector’s item, recorded in 1985 by the band Shock Value. The cover showed a picture of serial killer Ted Bundy with the words “Fuck off Left-wing Scum.” Sadly, two of the band members had ended up in jail, so they’d quit recording in 1986. He kept watching for more of their albums.
Tattoo sat at the bar, his heavy rump flowing over the back of the stool. The light reflected off his bald head. He wore a sleeveless gray sweatshirt so the multitude of tattoos on his arms could be admired—serpents coiled and ready to strike, motorcycle helmets, and Popeye’s favorite, the iron cross.
Popeye sat down on the right side of Tattoo and motioned for Rose to sit next to him. He had to keep an eye on the kid. Popeye ordered beers for both of them. Even though Popeye and Tattoo knew each other well, the two still had to go through the same routine to make sure neither of them had been followed or was under duress.
Popeye took a swig of his beer and nudged Tattoo. “Have you heard from the leader yet?”
Tattoo stroked his goatee. “No, but I expect to soon.”
Popeye relaxed. “Where’s the concert tonight?”
Tattoo pulled out a strip map and handed it to Popeye. “Only about twenty minutes from here. I see you got the wild man with you.” He looked over at Rose and started to laugh. “What the hell happened to your face?”
Rose put his sunglasses back on to cover the black eyes. “None of your fucking business.”
Popeye chuckled. “He ran into a slight problem. The boss let him out tonight with the promise that he’d be good.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.” Tattoo looked at his watch. “Better get your ass in gear. Thing’s about to start.”
“Oh, shit, thought I had more time.” Popeye chugged his beer and pounded the bottle down on the bar, causing the bartender to jump. “Are you going?”
“Later,” Tattoo replied. “I’ve gotta stay here for another half hour in case any others show up.”
Popeye rose and nudged Rose. “Let’s move.”
“Jesus Christ, we just got here. I’m ready for another beer.”
“There’s plenty of beer where we’re going.” He slapped Tattoo on the shoulder. “See you there, brother.”
“Later.”
Popeye hurried outside and jumped into his pickup.
Rose slammed the door. “Where the hell are we going?”
Popeye turned on the inside light and looked at the map. “No sweat. I’ve been there before. It’s only a couple of minutes from here, and there’ll be broads galore.”
When they pulled up the lane to the barn, there was an array of pickups, SUVs, and even a couple of Hummers parked around the yard. It might have been a farmyard like any other, except loud music seemed to blow out from every pore of the ancient wooden building.
Popeye and Rose jumped out of the truck and picked their way around the cow patties, but Popeye stepped in one. “Shit.”
Rose laughed. “That’s right.”
Popeye opened the door. The blast from the amplified guitars almost knocked him over. The band Tear-down was playing tonight, and they were really into it. He listened to the song “Bloodbath,” trying to remember the words to sing along.
Pushing his way through the crowd to the bar, he ordered a couple of draft beers. He handed one back to Rose and took a swig.
When the band started playing “I Need a Gun,” a young woman jumped onto the top of a table and began dancing. Her hips moved wildly to the heavy beat, and her long, black hair swung out in all directions. She ripped off her top and threw it out to the clapping men. Hands reached up, trying to grab her bare breasts. She laughed and rubbed her crotch.
Popeye loved it. Music, booze, drugs, and loads of women. None of these clowns ever worked. They just committed petty crimes and robberies for cash, drank beer, and did drugs. One of his friends, Pogo, told Popeye he’d been smoking marijuana and drinking beer and wine since he’d been in eighth grade. Started doing LSD and heroin in ninth grade. What a guy.
He thought back to his trip to Minneapolis. He had watched a platoon of Nazi skinheads, twenty young men with black jackets, black boots, shiny heads and faces. They’d carried baseball bats with swastikas on them, knives, brass knuckles, and pipes. The power oozing from the group had been awesome.
Violence had been a test for membership in the group. Popeye remembered the lineup—official one-on-one fights to make sure the applicant wouldn’t back down on the street.
Federal agents had raided the meeting. They’d almost captured Popeye. That would have been the end for his job. Popeye loved the idea that Hitler had been a nobody who had risen to rule the world. Some of those jerks at work might laugh at him now, but they’d be sorry later. He smiled to think that later was almost here.
He glanced behind him. Where the hell had Rose gone?
The woman on the table wiggled out of her pants and threw them to the crowd. She continued to dance, naked.
Rose jumped up on the table and started dancing, reaching out for the woman’s breasts. Igor, the bouncer, pushed his way through the crowd, his head above the rest of the people. The guy looked like a gorilla.
Popeye elbowed his way through the crowd toward the table, finding it almost impossible to move. Disaster was imminent.
The bouncer had grabbed Rose by the leg to pull him down from the table.
Rose kicked Igor in the face, then spun the woman around to kiss her.
Blood streamed from Igor’s nose. He reached up and grabbed both of Rose’s legs in a tackle, and pulled him off the table.
Frantic, Popeye kept pushing through the young men who screamed for the naked woman to take them on. He’d been caught in absolute gridlock, a real traffic jam.
By the time Popeye got to the table, Rose had the bouncer down on the floor and was kicking him in the head. Blood poured from Igor’s nose and mouth. Rose kept kicking and kicking, laughing all the time.
Popeye grabbed Rose from behind. “We gotta get out of here.”
Rose kicked at the downed man again and screamed, “I’m gonna kill him.”
Popeye yelled in his ear. “You promised the general.”
As if a machine had been shut off, Rose stopped and turned. “All right. Let’s go.”
The look of excitement in Rose’s eyes froze Popeye’s blood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sam pushed open the heavy gold-framed door of the Manoir Valentin and stepped outside, enjoying the early morning mist on his face. Jackie had apparently decide
d to call a truce after the incident last night. While Sam stayed on the couch, at least they were talking to one another.
The Explorer had barely fit in the slot assigned to their room behind the hotel. He’d had a tough time backing it out to drive it around to the front earlier this morning. Looking at his watch, he saw it was almost eight o’clock. The professor should be arriving soon, though Sam had no idea what he looked like.
Surveying the street, he saw no one who could be the professor. Clouds hid the sun. A hint of rain hung in the air. Fortunately, the temperature had risen to about two degrees so the roads shouldn’t be slick for the drive back to Pennsylvania. The wind whipped down the narrow cobblestone street, making him glad he was headed south. Horns honked and tires squealed as commuters hurried down the hill to work.
He stepped inside to retrieve their bags and carried them outside. Packing carefully, he made sure there’d be room for another set of bags.
Promptly at eight, Sam stood at the curb in front of the hotel, waiting. He licked his lips. He hated to wait.
A portly, gray-haired man walked up the hill. Sam didn’t pay any attention to him until the man spoke. “Good morning, Colonel Thorpe. I understand you’re to give me a ride to Pennsylvania.”
“Sean?”
“Professor Sean Kaminsky, at your service.”
Kaminsky came up to Sam’s shoulders, but his belly pushed against the front of the khaki trench coat. Gray hair poked from underneath the black stocking hat in tufts, and his short white beard and moustache gave him a look of a Santa Claus. He carried a black briefcase, and a camouflage-colored backpack hung from his shoulders.
“Let me take that backpack. I’ll put it in the cargo area. We have plenty of room.”
“Thank you.” Kaminsky contorted himself to wiggle the backpack off his shoulders. He handed it to Sam.
Sam reached for the briefcase. “Here, I’ll set that in the back, too.”
Kaminsky pulled it back. “No.”
Sam shrugged and placed the backpack in the cargo space. “How about a cup of coffee before we leave?”