Clive Cussler dp-6

by Night Probe!

  "The phantom train," answered Pitt. "They say it still makes its spectral run over the old track bed."

  "The Hudson valley is a breeding ground for myths," Magee scoffed. "There are those who even claim to have seen the headless horseman, for God's sake. What starts as a tall tale becomes a rumor. Embellished with age and exaggerated by local folklore, the rumor turns into a full-blown legend bending the outer fringe of reality. The phantom train hauntings began a few years after the bridge failure. Like a ghost of a guillotined man who wanders about searching for his head, the Manhattan Limited, so its disciples believe, will never enter that great depot in the sky until it finally crosses over the river."

  Pitt laughed. "Mr. Magee, you are a card-carrying skeptic."

  "I won't deny it."

  Pitt looked at his watch. "I really must be on my way."

  Magee showed him outside and they shook hands on the old station platform.

  "I've had a fascinating evening," said Pitt. "I'm grateful to you and your wife for your hospitality."

  "Our pleasure. Please come back and visit us. I love to talk trains."

  Pitt hesitated. "There is one thing you might keep in mind."

  "What's that?"

  "A funny thing about legends," Pitt said, searching Magee's eyes. "They're usually born from a truth."

  In the light from the house, the kindly face was somber and thoughtful, no more. Then Magee shrugged noncommittally and closed the door.

  Danielle Sarveux warmly greeted Premier Jules Guerrier of Quebec Province in the corridor of the hospital. He was accompanied by his secretary and Henri Villon.

  Guerrier kissed Danielle lightly on both cheeks. He was in his late seventies, tall and slender with unkept silver hair and thick tangled beard. He could have easily accommodated an artist's conception of Moses. As Premier of Quebec he was also the leader of the French-speaking Parti Quebecois. "How marvelous to see you, Jules," said Danielle.

  "Better for old eyes to behold a beautiful woman," he answered gallantly. "Charles is looking forward to seeing you."

  "How is he getting along?"

  "The doctors say he is doing fine. But the healing process will take a long time."

  Sarveux was propped up by pillows, his bed parked beside a large window with a view of the Parliament building. A nurse took their hats and coats, and then they grouped around the bed on a chair and sofa. Danielle poured a round of cognac.

  "I'm allowed to serve a drink to my visitors," said Sarveux. "But unfortunately alcohol won't mix with my medication so I can't join you."

  "To your speedy recovery," toasted Guerrier.

  "A speedy recovery," the others responded.

  Guerrier set his glass on an end table. "I'm honored that you asked to see me, Charles."

  Sarveux looked at him seriously. "I've just been informed you're calling a referendum for total independence."

  Guerrier gave a Gallic shrug. "The time is long overdue for a final break from the confederation."

  "I agree, and I intend to give it my full endorsement."

  Sarveux's statement fell like a guillotine blade.

  Guerrier visibly tensed. "You'll not fight it this time?"

  "No, I want to see it done and over with."

  "I've known you too long, Charles, not to suspect an ulterior motive behind your sudden benevolence."

  "You misread me, Jules. I'm not rolling over like a trained dog. If Quebec wants to go it alone, then let it be. Your referendums, your mandates, your incessant negotiations. That's in the past. Canada has suffered enough. The confederation no longer needs Quebec. We will survive without you."

  "And we without you."

  Sarveux smiled sardonically. "We'll see how you do starting from scratch."

  "We expect to do just that," said Guerrier. "Quebec Parliament will be closed and a new government installed. One patterned after the French republic. We will write our own laws, collect our own taxes, and establish formal relations with foreign powers. Naturally, we'll maintain a common currency and other economic ties with the English-speaking provinces."

  "You'll not get your cake and eat it too," said Sarveux, his voice hard. "Quebec must print its own money, and any trade agreements must be renegotiated. Also, customs inspection stations will be erected along our common borders. All Canadian institutions and government offices will be withdrawn from Quebec sod."

  A look of anger crossed Guerrier's face. "Those are harsh actions."

  "Once Quebeckers have turned their backs on the political freedoms, wealth and future of a united Canada, the severance must be unconditional and complete."

  Guerrier got to his feet slowly. "I would have hoped for more compassion from a fellow Frenchman."

  "My fellow Frenchmen murdered fifty innocent people in an attempt to assassinate me. Consider yourself lucky, Jules, that I don't lay the blame on the doorstep of the Parti quebecois. The outrage and whiplash would cause irreparable damage to your cause."

  "You have my solemn word, the Parti quebecois played no part in the plane crash."

  "What about the terrorists of the FQS?"

  "I have never condoned the actions of the FQS," Guerrier said defensively. There lip service. You've done nothing to stop them."

  "They're like ghosts," Guerrier protested. "No one even knows who their leader is."

  "What happens after independence and he comes out in the open?"

  "When Quebec becomes free the FQS no longer has a reason to exist. He and his organization can only wither away and die."

  "You forget, Jules, terrorist movements have a nasty habit of turning legitimate and forming opposition parties."

  "The FQS will not be tolerated by Quebec's new government."

  "With you at its head," Sarveux added.

  "I should expect so," Guerrier said without a trace of ego. "Who else has the mandate of the people for a glorious new nation?"

  "I wish you luck," Sarveux said skeptically. There was no arguing with Guerrier's fervor, he thought. The French were dreamers. They thought only of a return to romantic times when the fleur-delis waved majestically throughout the world. The noble experiment would be a failure before it began. "As Prime Minister I will not stand in your way. But I warn you, Jules, no radical upheavals or political unrest that will affect the rest of Canada."

  "I assure you, Charles," Guerrier said confidently, "the birth will be peaceful."

  It was to prove an empty promise.

  Villon was furious; Danielle knew all the signs. He came and sat beside her on a bench outside the hospital. She shivered silently in the cool spring air, waiting for the eruption she knew would come.

  "The bastard!" he finally growled. "The underhanded bastard gave Quebec to Guerrier without a fight."

  "I still can't believe it," she said.

  "You knew, you must have known what Charles had in the back of his mind."

  "He said nothing, gave me no indication-"

  "Why?" he interrupted her, his face flushed with rage. "Why did he make an abrupt about-face on his stand for a united font."

  Danielle turned silent. She had an instinctive fear of his anger.

  "He's pulled the rug from under us before we could build a strong base. When my partners in the Kremlin learn of it, they'll withdraw their commitments."

  "What can Charles possibly gain? Politically, he's committing suicide."

  "He's playing the canny fox," said Villon, coming back on keel. "With a senile old fool like Guerrier at the helm, Quebec will be little more than a puppet regime to Ottawa, begging for handouts, long-term loans and trade credits. Quebec will be worse off as a nation than as a province."

  She looked at him, her expression turning hard. "It doesn't have to be that way."

  "What are you saying?"

  She clutched his arm. "Bury the FQS. Come out in the open and campaign against Guerrier."

  "I'm not strong enough to take on Jules."

  "The French desperately need a younger, aggressi
ve leader," she persisted. "The Henri Villon I know would never bow to English Canada or the United States."

  "Your husband cut me off in midstep. Without the time to build a proper organization it would be impossible."

  "Not if Jules Guerrier dropped dead."

  For the first time Villon laughed. "Not likely. Jules may have every malady in the medical books, but he has the fortitude to outlive us all."

  A curious intensity showed in Danielle's face. "Jules must die to save Quebec."

  The inference was crystal. VilloA turned inward to his thoughts and did not speak for nearly a minute.

  "Killing the others was different, they were strangers. Their deaths were political necessity. Jules is a loyal Frenchman. He has fought the fight longer than any of us."

  "For what we stand to gain, the price is small."

  "The price is never small," he said, like a man immersed in a dream. "Lately, I find myself wondering who will be the last man to die before it's all over."

  Gly leaned over the stained washbasin toward the mirror and rearranged his face.

  He placed a prosthesis made from white foam rubber latex over his battered nose, lengthening the tip and raising the bridge. The false addition was kept in place by spirit gum and tinted with a special makeup for coating rubber. His reshaped beak was dusted with a bit of translucent powder to remove the shine.

  His original eyebrows had been plucked out. He peeled away their replacements and began attaching crepe hair with the spirit gum, dabbing the tiny tufts in place with tweezers. The new brows were arched higher and thickened to a bushier look.

  He paused and stood back a few moments, comparing his handiwork with the photographs taped to the lower edge of the mirror. Satisfied with his progress, he took a highlight makeup a few shades darker than white and drew it from a point on the chin along the jawline to a point under each ear. Next, a low light earth tone was blended under the chin. The finished artistry gave his oval jaw more of a squared, chiseled appearance.

  He realigned his mouth by covering it with a base makeup and then brushing a line under the lower lip with a matching colored lipstick so that it seemed fatter and more protruding.

  The contact lenses followed. This was the only part he detested. Changing the color of his eyes from brown to gray was like changing his soul. He could no longer distinguish Foss Gly under the disguise after the lenses went in.

  The final touch was the brown wig. He lowered it over his nude head with both hands as though it was a crown.

  At last, he stood back and scrutinized full face and profiles while holding a small lamp at different lighting angles. It was near perfect, he judged, as near perfect as possible, considering the primitive conditions in the dingy bathroom of the fleabag hotel where he was registered.

  The night clerk was not at the desk when he passed through the lobby. Two side streets and an alley later, he sat behind the wheel of a Mercedes-Benz sedan. He had stolen it from the parking lot of a bank earlier that afternoon and switched the license plates.

  He drove through the old section of Quebec City called Lower Town, hugging the curbing of the quaint narrow streets and honking at the occasional pedestrian, who gave way only after fixing Gly with a belligerent stare.

  It was a few minutes past nine and the lights of Quebec sparkled on the ice lingering over the St. Lawrence. Gly passed below the famed Chateau Frontenac hotel and swung onto the expressway bordering the river. The traffic moved along rapidly and soon he was abreast of the Battlefields Park on the Plains of Abraham where the British army triumphed over the French in 1759 and gained Canada for the empire.

  He turned off into the fashionable suburban community of Sillery. Great stone houses sat ageless and fortlike, protecting the wealthy and social celebrities of the province. Gly could not identify with such security. To him the houses looked like monstrous crypts inhabited by people who did not know they were dead.

  He stopped at a heavy iron gate and identified himself to a speaker. There was no reply. The gate swung open and he drove up a circular drive to an imposing granite mansion surrounded by several acres of lawn. He parked the car under the front portal and rang the door chime. Premier Jules Guerrier's chauffeur-bodyguard bowed Gly into the foyer.

  "Good evening, Monsieur Villon, this is an unexpected pleasure."

  Gly was pleased. His facial alteration had passed its first test. "I was visiting friends in Quebec and thought I would drop by and pay my respects to Monsieur Guerrier. I'm told he isn't feeling well."

  "A bout with the flu," said the chauffeur, taking Gly's coat. The worst is over. His temperature has dropped, but it will be a while before he can get back in harness again."

  "If he's not up to a late visit perhaps I should run along and call tomorrow."

  "No please. The premier is watching television. I knovo he'll be glad to see you. I'll take you up to his room."

  Gly waved him off. "Don't bother. I know the way."

  He went up the vast circular staircase to the second floor. At the top he paused to orient himself. He had memorized the plans for the entire house, fixed every exit in his mind as a precaution for hurried escape. Guerrier's bedroom, he knew, was the third door on the right. He entered quietly without knocking.

  Jules Guerrier was slouched in a large overstuffed chair, slippered feet propped on an ottoman, peering at a television set. He was wearing a silk paisley robe thrown carelessly over his pajamas. He didn't notice Gly's intrusion; his back was to the door.

  Gly moved silently across the carpet to the bed. He picked up a large pillow and approached Guerrier from behind. He started to lower the pillow over Guerrier's face, but he hesitated.

  He must see me, Gly thought. His ego needed to be pacified. He had to prove to himself again that he could indeed become Henri Villon. Guerrier seemed to sense a presence. He turned slowly and his eyes came level with Gly's belt line They trailed up his chest to his face and then they widened, not from fear but from astonishment. "Henri?" I "Yes, Jules."

  "You can't be here," Guerrier said dumbly. Gly moved around behind the television set and faced the premier. "But I am here, Jules. I'm right here inside the TV."

  And so he was.

  An image of Henri Villon filled the center of the screen. He was making an address at the opening of Ottawa's new performing arts center. Danielle Sarveux was seated behind him, and next to her was Villon's wife.

  Guerrier was unable to comprehend, to fully conceive what his eyes reflected to the cells of his brain. The broadcast was live. He had no doubt of it. As a formality he had received an invitation and recalled the scheduled events of the ceremony. Villon's speech was set for now. He stared into Gly's face, his jaw slack in shock.

  "How?"

  Gly did not answer. In the same motion he straddled the chair and pressed the pillow into Guerrier's face. The beginning of a terrified cry became scarcely more than a muffled animal sound. The premier had little strength for the uneven struggle. His hands found Gly's thick wrists and feebly tried to pull them away. His lungs felt as if they ignited into a ball of flame. Just before the final darkness, a great blaze of light burst in his head.

  After thirty seconds the hands loosened their grip and fell away, dangling awkwardly over the armrests of the chair. The aging body went limp, but Gly maintained the pressure for another three full minutes.

  Finally he turned off the TV set, bent down and listened for a heartbeat. All life functions had ceased. The premier of Quebec was dead.

  Swiftly Gly crossed the room and checked the hall outside. It was empty. He returned to Guerrier, removed the pillow and threw it back on the bed. Gently, to keep from causing a tear in the fabric, he removed the robe and laid it over the back of the chair. He was relieved to see that the premier had not wet himself. Next came the slippers. They were casually dropped beside the bed.

  Gly felt no disgust, nor even the smallest measure of distaste as he picked up the corpse and placed it on the bed. Then with clinical
composure he forced open the mouth and began probing.

  The first thing a police pathologist examined if he suspected induced asphyxiation was the victim's tongue. Guerrier had cooperated; his tongue bore no teeth marks.

  There were, however, slight indications of bruises inside the mouth. Gly took a small makeup kit from his pocket and selected a soft pinkish grease pencil. He could not make the discolorations disappear completely, but he could blend them in with the surrounding tissue. He also darkened the paleness around the interior of the lips, removing another hint of suffocation.

  The eyes stared unseeing, and Gly closed them. He massaged the contorted face until it took on a relaxed, almost peaceful expression. Then he fixed the body in a restful position of sleep and pulled up the bed covers.

  A tiny, nagging doubt ticked in the back of his mind as he walked from the bedroom. It was the doubt of a perfectionist who always sensed a detail undone, an indefinable overlooked detail that refused to focus. He was descending the upper flight of stairs when he saw the bodyguard emerge from the pantry carrying a tray with a porcelain teapot.

  Gly stopped in midstep. He abruptly realized an oversight that he should have realized before. Guerrier's teeth were too perfect. It dawned on him that they must have been false.

  He crouched out of vision of the approaching bodyguard and ran back to the bedroom. Five seconds and he held them in his hand. Where did the old man keep them until morning? He must soak them in a cleaning solution. The bedside table was bare except for a clock. He found a plastic bowl filled with blue liquid on the bathroom counter. There was no time for him to analyze the contents. He dropped in the dentures.

  Gly opened the bedroom door just as the bodyguard was reaching for the knob from his side in the hall.

  "Oh, Monsieur Villon, I thought you and the premier might like some tea."

  Gly nodded over his shoulder toward the lump on the bed. "Jules said he felt tired. I think he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow."

  The bodyguard took his word for it. "Would you like a cup before you leave, sir?"

  Gly closed the door. "Thank you, no. I must be getting along."

  They returned to the foyer together. The bodyguard set down the tray and helped him into his coat. Gly lingered on the threshold, making certain Guerrier's man saw the Mercedes.