by Jim Hougan
Nah.
For a moment, Dunphy had entertained the possibility that he had somehow scared them off. But how likely was that? Blondie hadn’t seemed frightened, really—more inconvenienced than anything else. So . . .
They must have called ahead from Madrid. Had someone waiting at the airport. Which meant . . .
With a grimace, Dunphy pulled the curtains shut and checked the locks on the French doors leading out to the garden. The locks weren’t much. A good kick would send them flying open.
Returning to the living room, he retrieved the nine-millimeter that Boylan had given him, and slipped it in his pocket. Clem was still moving to the music.
“Jack?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?”
Tommy came by in the morning, a little after ten. Since there wasn’t anything to eat in Slade’s apartment, they went out for crescent rolls at the local market, then drove into las Americas.
“We might as well go to the Tiller,” Tommy suggested. “Boylan’s coffee is as good as any—and it’s twice as strong.”
They left Tommy’s red Deux Chevaux at a car park near the Cinema Dumas and walked down the hill to the Broken Tiller. The same kid who’d been there the night before was standing behind the bar, drying glasses.
Otherwise, the place was deserted. Dark and cool.
“Espressos, Miguel!”
“None for me, thanks,” Clem said. “I’m going for a swim.”
Dunphy looked skeptical. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
She gave him a puzzled look. “What?”
“A swimsuit,” Dunphy replied, sitting down at a table in a corner of the bar.
Clem kissed him on the top of the head. “You’re so cute,” she said, and turning on her heel, walked out into the sunlight with a bath towel under her arm.
“This I’ve gotta see!” Tommy exclaimed.
“No, you don’t,” Dunphy told him, and taking him by the elbow, pulled him into the seat beside himself. “You bring the Pearlcorder?” he asked.
“I did,” Tommy replied, retrieving it from the pocket of his shirt and handing it to Dunphy. “Is it the professor you’ve got on tape?”
Dunphy nodded, pressing the microcassette onto the tape recorder’s reels. “It’s the last tape we made before he was chopped.”
“Well, if you don’t mind,” Tommy said, “seein’ as how only one of us can listen to it at a time, I’ll take my coffee down to the beach.”
Dunphy plugged the earphones into the Pearlcorder, and slipped them on over his head. “You aren’t going to ogle my girlfriend, are you?”
“Come on!” Tommy protested. “What do you take me for?”
“A pervert.”
Whatever Tommy said in response was lost to Dunphy as he pressed the Play button, and the little reels began to turn.
—Meadow gold.
Meadow gold a?
Yes.
Well, if you say so, but . . . don’t you think it’s a little . . .
What a?
Yellow a?
I knew you’d say that! But, no, I don’t think it is. It will look great with the Kirman.
Oh, that’s right! You have the Kirman!
It took Dunphy a little while to sort out the voices, and another minute to guess what they were talking about—in this case, a chair that Schidlof was having covered.
The second conversation was relatively transparent—Schidlof making a doctor’s appointment for what he suspected was bursitis. Then Dunphy’s coffee appeared, suddenly and out of nowhere. Hunched over the Pearlcorder, listening intently through the earphones, he hadn’t heard Miguel’s approach.
“Thanks,” he said, a bit too loud. And took a sip. Yowzah!
The third and fourth calls were from students, asking Schidlof if they could rearrange their meetings with him. The fifth call was placed by Schidlof, and it was international—Dunphy counted fifteen distinct tones before the phone began to ring at the other end. And then an American voice came on the line.
Gibeglisociates.
Hallo! Schidlof here!
Yeah—
Dunphy stopped the tape and rewound it.
Gibegli Associates.
And again.
Gil Beckley Associates.
Schidlof here!
Yeah, Dr. Schidlof. Good to hear from you.
I was calling about the check that I sent.
Right—well, I want to thank you for that.
It was meant to be a retainer.
So I understand.
And I was wondering if you’d had a chance to look at the letter.
I have.
And? Were you able to form an opinion a?
Oh, it’s authentic. No question.
The tape turned silently for five or ten seconds.
Professor a?
Yes.
I thought I’d lost you for a second.
No, it’s just that—
If you’d like, I can put you in touch with someone who, uh, works for Sotheby’s. Top-notch.
No—
He could probably get you a thousand for it—maybe more. So you wouldn’t be out of pocket.
Beckley’s voice reminded Dunphy of where he’d seen him—on one of Diane Sawyer’s shows, talking about the Hitler diaries that weren’t.
Well, I appreciate that, but . . . at the moment, I just want to authenticate the letters.
It was Beckley’s turn to be quiet. Then, Oh! I didn’t realize there was—
Yes. It’s a correspondence. I thought I’d made that clear.
No.
Well . . .
And these are . . . you say they’re all from Allen Dulles a?
Yes. They begin in the early thirties. Jung died in 1961. So that was the end of it.
I see. Beckley went quiet again. Y’know, this could be a little sensitive.
Oh? And how is that a?
Well . . . Allen Dulles was a very big guy. Had his fingers in a lot of pies.
I realize that, of course, but . . .
If you’d like, I could take a look at the rest of the correspondence.
That’s kind of you, but—
No charge.
There’s no point, really.
The conversation went on for perhaps another minute, with Beckley wheedling to see the other letters, and Schidlof politely declining. Finally, the professor rang off, saying he had a tutorial.
Dunphy recalled the flash cable that he’d seen in the Special Registry—the one from Matta to Curry. “Unilaterally controlled source . . . Andromeda-sensitive materials . . . Who’s Schidlof?”
Well, Dunphy thought, at least now we know who the source was—not that there was ever much doubt. Poor Schidlof had gone to absolutely the wrong man. Beckley was one of those Washington types who never quite get over losing their security clearances. Retiring, perforce, at fifty, they would do anything to demonstrate their continued usefulness to the intelligence community, anything to “keep their hand in,” anything to remain “a player.”
And so Beckley had shopped his client to the Agency’s Office of Security in exchange for a pat on the back. I wonder if he got one, Dunphy thought. Or if, like Schidlof, he’s sleeping with the fishes. Dunphy hoped it was the latter.
Looking up from the tape recorder, he signaled Miguel for another espresso, and glanced around. To his surprise, he saw that he was no longer the bar’s only customer. A young couple were sitting at a table on the veranda, talking animatedly about something or other. And there was a man at the bar with his back turned, quietly drinking a beer. Nice work shirt, Dunphy thought, admiring its color, which was a sort of cobalt blue.
Then he looked out over the beach, searching for Clem, but he couldn’t find her. There were dozens of swimmers, wading in and out of the water, and at least a hundred sun-bathers, about half of them nude—sleeping, reading, baking in the heat.
Unlike himself. The bar was cool.
Damp, even.
Dunphy readjusted the headphones over his ears, pressed the Play button, and began to listen.
Schidlof reserving tickets to a Spurs match. Schidlof canceling a dental appointment. Schidlof commiserating with another teacher about their intolerable course loads. Schidlof listening compliantly to a telemarketing pitch. And then—Schidlof dialing out—and a chirpy voice:
Hallo ’allo a?!
Dr. Van Warden a?
Just Al, thank you very much!
Oh! Well, this is Leo Schidlof—King’s College a?
Yes a?
I was hoping I might see you.
Oh a?
Mmmm. In fact, I was hoping that, if you’re free, we might have lunch. A pause, which Schidlof rushes to fill. I’ve become quite interested in the Magdalene Society.
A chuckle from Van Worden. Really a?!
Yes. And, uhhh, from what I understand, you’re one of the few people who can tell me about it.
Welll, yes . . . I suppose I am, but—you’re a historian a?
Miguel arrived with Dunphy’s espresso, silently setting it on the table.
A psychologist, actually.
Oh . . . I see. Long pause. Though, I don’t, really. Why would a psychologist be interested in something like that? I mean, they died out two hundred years ago! a Silence from Schidlof. Professor a?
Yes a?
I was wondering why a psychologist—
Because I’m not sure they did.
Did what a?
Died out.
This time, it was Van Worden’s turn to be quiet. Finally, he said, Well! By all means, then. Let’s have lunch.
Dunphy wondered who Van Worden was. A professor of some sort—probably history. Someone, in any case, who knew enough about the Magdalene Society that Schidlof would seek him out.
He rewound the tape to a point just before the beginning of the conversation. There were seven dialing tones, and then Van Worden’s cheerful voice. Hallo ’allo?! Which meant that it was a local call from Schidlof’s house. Which put Van Worden somewhere in central London.
Dunphy was thinking that Van Worden was probably in the London telephone book when he heard a muffled shout. As he looked up, something loomed in the corner of his left eye, but even as he turned toward it, he froze with shock as the man at the bar hit Miguel with a bottle. Then a bat or a brick or something hit him behind the ear, and the world flashed, a blaze of white that faded fast as Dunphy went over and down, hitting the tiled floor, hard. The earphones were gone now, and the scream was louder, a ululating shriek as Dunphy clawed at his waist for the handgun that Boylan had given him. He had it halfway out of his waistband when the toe of a boot slammed into his kidney, and into his shoulder, and into his kidney again. Now there were two people shouting or screaming, and dimly, he realized the second person was himself. Someone’s instep smashed into his ribs, rolling him over, and then the gun was going off, wild and fast. He didn’t know who or what or how many he was shooting at, but somehow he’d started firing, flailing and firing, crabbing across the floor on his back, trying to keep away from the boot. People were shouting—he was shouting—
Then something happened in the back of his head, and the world snapped off with a soft click and a shower of little bright lights.
Chapter 25
He was sick to his stomach. Sick to his head. Sick to everything. His lower back felt as if it was broken, and his rib cage was in splinters.
He was sitting somewhere, eyes on his knees, afraid to look up. Afraid, almost, to breathe. And then a wave of dizziness and nausea came over him, and made him retch, a dry heave. The world swam into view.
He was in a workshop of some kind. Fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed, and a sharp, unpleasant smell filled the air. Wood stain. His head was pounding as if it were being squeezed and released, squeezed and released. Almost against his will, he looked up and saw—
Furniture. Lots of it. And bolts of fabric. Wires and springs. An upholstery shop. And then—slowly, and from what at first seemed far away—a clapping sound filled the room. Dunphy turned toward it.
Roger Blémont was sitting in an overstuffed green wing chair, applauding so slowly that each clap began to fade before its successor split the air. He was smiling and, as always, impeccably dressed. The Breitling watch and Cole-Haans, the razor-creased trousers and . . . work shirt.
He’d been sitting at the bar while Dunphy listened to the Schidlof tape. Dunphy had seen him, but only from the back, and now . . .
“You look like shit,” Blémont remarked.
A soft groan fell from Dunphy’s lips.
“Un vrai merdiers.”
Dunphy heard a little laugh and turned his head to see who it was: the Jock, with his boots and leather jacket, lounging against the back of a couch, watching Dunphy with undisguised curiosity. And in a chair nearby, the Alsatian, looking blank.
Why here? Dunphy wondered, looking around. Then he saw it—the white flag, like the pin Blémont sometimes wore, hanging above a cluttered workbench. And on it, a blue-and-gold banner with the words: Contre la boue. Blémont, it seemed, had friends even in the Canaries.
Get out, Dunphy told himself. Instinctively, he struggled to stand, gritting his teeth against the pain—but, no. His wrists were tied behind his back.
“You know, Kerry—” Blémont began in a soft voice.
“My name’s not Kerry,” Dunphy muttered.
Blémont chuckled. “I don’t give a shit what your name is.”
“You ought to,” Dunphy shot back. “You’re going to need it to get your money back.”
“Ahhhh,” the Corsican said, as if he’d just remembered something. “The money. I told Marcel, I said, ‘We’ll talk about the money, Kerry and I.’ ” He glanced at the Jock. “Didn’t I?”
The big man nodded, lighting a small cigar.
Still smiling, Blémont crossed the room, then sank to his haunches in front of Dunphy, and looked him in the eyes. “Why did you take my money?” he asked.
“I needed it,” Dunphy said. “I was in a lot of trouble.”
“Was?”
Dunphy looked away. He hurt all over, and he knew it was just the beginning. Blémont was going to fuck him up. He could see it in his eyes.
“You know, it really is quite a lot of money,” the Corsican remarked. “And not just the money from the stock. There is the interest, as well. N’est-ce-pas a?”
Dunphy sighed.
“And, after the interest, there is also the . . .” Blémont frowned. “How do you say—le dessous de table a?”
“The bribe,” the Jock said.
“Exactly.”
“What bribe?” Dunphy asked.
“For the secretary,” Blémont replied. “In St. Helier. How do you think we found you?”
So he’d been right. Great.
“And there are expenses, too. Marcel and Luc. They have their fees, as you can imagine. Their costs. Quite a lot of costs. Ships. Planes. Hotels. Restaurants. Well, they have to eat.”
Dunphy’s eyes went from Blémont to the Jock, and then to the Alsatian.
“Hey,” Blémont said in a softly chiding voice. “I’m over here.”
But Dunphy couldn’t turn away. His eyes were locked with the Alsatian’s, who sat slumped in an overstuffed armchair, glaring at him. For a moment, it seemed to Dunphy that this was meant to be a hard stare, the kind of stare that enemies exchange when they see each other across a crowded room. But then he saw the red sash around the man’s waist and knew it wasn’t a cumberbund. The Alsatian was bleeding to death—right there, right in the chair. And the look on his face was that of a guy who was doing everything he could not to lose it. To stay in control. Hold it in. Hold it all in.
Fuck all, Dunphy thought. I’ve had it.
Blémont followed his gaze, and once again, the realization siren went off. “Aaaaaaah, I see your point,” the Corsican exclaimed. “You’re thinking, if Luc is passé, there is no need to pay him
.” He pushed his lips together in a little moue. “Good point. But Luc will be okay, won’t you, Luc?”
A doubtful murmur from the Alsatian.
“What happened?” Dunphy asked.
Blémont made a comical expression. “You shot him.”
Dunphy’s surprise was obvious.
“You were falling,” the Jock explained. “You got off a couple of shots. It was luck.”
“He’s dying,” Dunphy told them.
Blémont dismissed the idea. “He’ll be all right.”
“He’s bleeding to death.”
“No, no. He’s fine. a” Blémont put his mouth next to Dunphy’s right ear and whispered, “You’re going to frighten him.”
It was the funniest thing Dunphy had heard all day, but he didn’t laugh. “Look,” he said, “I can get you your money back.”
Blémont nodded indifferently. “I know.”
The Jock muttered to himself, then tossed the cheroot that he’d been smoking to the floor. Grinding it out with the toe of his boot, he turned to Blémont. “Pourquoi juste ne le detruisons? . . .”
Dunphy didn’t get it all. His own French was mediocre, at best. “Why don’t we . . .” something . . . something.
“Soyez patient,” Blémont said. Then he turned to Dunphy, and explained, “He wants to kill you.”
Dunphy glanced in the Jock’s direction. “Why? I don’t even know him.”
Once again, Blémont leaned in close and whispered. “Because he thinks you’ve killed his boyfriend—and, you know? Just between us? I think he may be right.” Then he laughed.
It took Dunphy a moment to understand. Blondie and the Jock weren’t just a team. They were an item. “Look,” he said, trying to keep the conversation businesslike, “I can get you the money. Not just what’s in the bank. The rest, too.”
“The rest? How much have you spent?” Blémont asked.
Dunphy hesitated for a moment and lied. “Twenty thousand,” he said. “Maybe twenty-two.”
“Pounds?”
“Dollars.”
Blémont rolled his head from side to side, thinking about it. Then he said, “Tell me something.”
“What?”
“What took you so long?”
Dunphy didn’t know what he meant. “To do what?” he asked.