Lord of the Swallows

by Gérard de Villiers

  It was about three in the afternoon when a small man came through the Imperial’s revolving door. A skinny figure with a sunken chest, he looked like a sick ferret.

  Automatically sizing him up, Jones and Brabeck decided he wasn’t a threat. Besides, the hotel lobby was so open it would be ludicrous to try anything there.

  “I’m from the Russian embassy,” he told the front desk. “I have a document for Herr Alexei Khrenkov.”

  “I’ll make sure he gets it,” said the clerk.

  “No, I have to deliver it personally,” said the unknown man, without raising his voice.

  The clerk phoned Khrenkov’s suite and relayed the message.

  “He’ll be right down,” he said.

  —

  Malko was in the hotel shopping gallery when his cell phone vibrated.

  “They brought my passport,” Khrenkov announced triumphantly. “They kept their word.”

  Malko immediately went down to the lobby and marched over to Jones and Brabeck. They were sprawled in big armchairs and looked bored.

  “Did somebody come in just now?”

  “Yeah,” said Jones. “The skinny dude over by the front desk.”

  “He’s Russian, and he’s bringing Mr. Khrenkov his passport. Search him.”

  “No sweat,” said Brabeck.

  The two men jumped up and went to stand on either side of the man, whose head barely reached their chests.

  “We’re with the hotel security, sir,” said Jones in English. “We’d like to pat you down.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Brabeck ran his hands carefully all over the man and didn’t find anything heavy or sharp in his pockets or anywhere else.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Jones.

  The two men went back to their armchairs. As Jones walked by Malko, he said:

  “He’s clean.”

  Just then Khrenkov emerged from the elevator and headed for the front desk. Malko watched as he exchanged a few words with the messenger from the Russian embassy. The man took out a clear plastic envelope from an inside pocket and handed it to Khrenkov, then walked toward the revolving door.

  Alarmed, Malko noticed that he was wearing gloves, even though the weather was warm.

  Looking delighted, Khrenkov slit the plastic envelope, pulled out a passport with a bright red cover, and opened it.

  About fifteen seconds, and then he suddenly turned pale, opened his mouth as if unable to breathe, and began to stagger. Malko was already rushing over but had no time to reach him. Dropping the red passport, Khrenkov collapsed on the flowered lobby carpet.

  Chapter 26

  Seeing Alexei Khrenkov slump to the floor, Jones and Brabeck leaped from their chairs. The messenger from the Russian embassy had gone out the hotel’s revolving door.

  “Get that man!” Malko yelled as he hurried over to Khrenkov.

  The two CIA guards ran out to the Kaerntner Ring to see the thin man striding quickly toward Wiedner Hauptstrasse.

  They pelted after him, shoving passersby aside, and were within a few yards when he turned and looked around. Seeing the two men, he ran to a black Mercedes stopped by the curb with a driver at the wheel.

  “Freeze!” yelled Jones.

  The man either didn’t understand English or didn’t feel like stopping. He jerked the Mercedes door open and was about to jump in when they opened fire, Jones with a .357 Magnum Colt and Brabeck a twelve-round Glock. As he clung to the car door handle, the bullets’ impacts tossed him around like a rag doll.

  Terrified by the fusillade, pedestrians dove for cover under the arcades.

  The Mercedes driver hit the gas with the car door still open, ran a red light at the intersection, and turned hard into the Opernring, narrowly missing a tram.

  The two Americans examined the skinny man now sprawled on the sidewalk. He’d been hit a dozen times and was quite dead. As the passersby slowly began to emerge from shelter, the Americans holstered their guns.

  “I think we’re gonna have some problems,” said Jones with a sigh. “I’ll call the station.”

  —

  Alexei Khrenkov looked ashen and wasn’t breathing. His pupils had shrunk to pinpoints.

  “It looks like he had a stroke,” said the hotel doctor, getting to his feet. “It immediately paralyzes the nervous system and shuts off vital functions.”

  Malko said nothing. This was no stroke, he knew. Khrenkov had been poisoned under his very eyes, killed by a powerful drug in the passport he’d been given. Malko now understood why it had been sealed in a plastic pouch. Contact with air probably turned the poison into a deadly gas.

  A hotel staffer discreetly covered the body with a blanket to shield it from guests’ eyes. A public killing wasn’t really the Imperial’s style.

  Malko noticed Khrenkov’s red passport on the floor and used a tablecloth to wrap and retrieve it. Feeling bitter and angry, he phoned the American embassy.

  The Russians had succeeded despite all of his precautions. They had managed to kill Khrenkov before he could deliver the list of swallows.

  Police officers in green uniforms were entering the hotel lobby.

  “Did you know the dead man, sir?” one asked Malko.

  “Yes. He was a Russian defector, and they killed him.”

  Seeing the officer’s bafflement, he went on:

  “You will get the details from the Stadtpolizei. And someone from the Central Intelligence Agency is on his way over.”

  “And do you know the two Americans who shot a man near here?”

  “Yes, I do. They are CIA agents, and they were on duty. I’m sorry, but I have to leave you now.”

  Lynn Marsh was probably worried that Khrenkov hadn’t returned. Malko felt he ought to be the person to tell her what happened.

  —

  When she opened the door to the suite, Malko felt a pang. Wearing an orange dressing gown, she looked beautiful, even without makeup.

  “Where’s Alexei?” she asked. “Did he get his passport?”

  When Malko remained silent, the young woman turned pale.

  “My God, did something happen?”

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  He waited until Lynn was seated on the yellow sofa before describing Khrenkov’s death.

  “They killed him,” he said. “Right before my eyes. I feel terribly guilty.”

  She heard him out. Then she looked straight at him, her eyes empty, her face haggard.

  “I hate you,” she said dully. “All this happened because of you. Without you, Alexei would still be alive.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” he said. “Zhanna Khrenkov wanted to kill you. None of this is anyone’s fault. It’s a Greek tragedy, and it was written the moment Alexei fell in love with you.”

  Lynn didn’t answer, absorbing what Malko had just said. Then she turned to ask, her eyes full of tears:

  “What’s to become of me?”

  A good question.

  “I suppose you can go back to London,” he said. “We’ll ask MI5 to protect you.”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t want to go back to England. Not right away, at least. I’m too scared.”

  “Give it some thought,” he suggested. “Gwyneth will guard you here in the meantime.”

  —

  Matt Hopkins, the Vienna CIA station chief, was chairing the meeting with Richard Spicer and Malko. Three hours had passed since Khrenkov was taken to the morgue. Assisted by the American consul general, Chris Jones and Milton Brabeck were being questioned by the Austrian police.

  “Did the police tell you anything about the killer?” Malko asked Hopkins.

  “Not much, unfortunately. He wasn’t carrying any ID. But he was wearing two pairs of latex gloves under his leather ones.”

  “Why?”

  “The forensic officers think Khrenkov was killed with a sarin-like organophosphorus compound. They block neurotransmission, which leads to shrinking of the pupils and paralysis of the
nervous system. At first blush, the victim appears to have died of a cerebral embolism.”

  Richard Spicer spoke up.

  “The Russians have always liked using poison. Ever since the end of the war, their scientists have been working on compounds that kill by inhalation. They’re incredibly toxic. All you need is a few milligrams of poison in solid form. That’s what must’ve been in the passport. When Khrenkov opened it, this started a reaction with the ambient air, and he breathed in the suspended particles. The guy who brought the passport was wearing the extra gloves for protection.”

  “I told Langley what happened,” said Spicer gloomily. “It looks like Khrenkov took his secret to the grave. We don’t even know what bank has his network list.”

  “Not that they’d give it to you,” said Hopkins. “I know the Swiss.”

  He turned to Malko.

  “You’ve done everything you could, Malko. It’s time to wind this operation down. As far as our two guys are concerned, we should be able to work things out with the Austrians.”

  “I hope so,” said Malko. “They were just doing their job.”

  The Russians must be rubbing their hands in glee, he thought bitterly. They would soon reactivate their network.

  “What do you plan to do with Lynn Marsh?” Spicer abruptly asked.

  That was a question Malko wasn’t expecting.

  “I have no idea,” he admitted. “Why?”

  “Langley says we can’t be responsible for her. Best thing to do is to send her back to London. After all, she’s a British citizen.”

  Malko remained silent. He knew how cold-blooded the CIA could be. When you’d served your purpose, you were discarded. Aloud he said:

  “But she’s still in danger. The Russians tried to kill her in London. She’s a target too, you know.”

  “I understand, and that’s too bad,” said Spicer. “I’ll ask the Austrian police to keep an eye out for her.”

  “Like a sleepy chaperone!” cried Malko. “You know they won’t put much effort into it.”

  Spicer looked away. He clearly wasn’t going to lie awake nights worrying about Lynn Marsh’s fate. He ostentatiously glanced at his watch and said:

  “Well, I have to go talk to the cops. Let’s meet again in the morning.”

  Malko found he had trouble shaking his old friend’s hand. With the Americans it was always the same thing, he reflected. When an operation was over, they wound things down, the way they wound things down in Afghanistan after the victory over the Soviets.

  And everyone knows how that turned out.

  —

  Malko had just passed through the Hotel Imperial’s revolving door when he bumped into Alexandra. She was carrying a couple of shopping bags and was heading for the elevator.

  “Ah, none too soon!” she said playfully, kissing him lightly on the mouth. “Are you all done with your spooks? I asked Elko to come get us in half an hour. We’re invited to a party at the Wittgensteins, and I’ll need time to change. You’ll see, I bought a dress you’re going to like.”

  In the face of Malko’s silence, she asked:

  “What’s going on? Is there a problem?”

  “For Alexei Khrenkov, a pretty serious one.”

  Unmoved, she listened to his account, then said:

  “So what’s the problem? We drive back to Liezen, and your little dentist hops a plane for London. Or she stays here. It’s her problem. Okay, I’m going to get ready.”

  Striding imperiously, Alexandra marched to the elevators as a bellman scurried over to carry her bags. Malko waited a moment before taking the elevator in his turn.

  —

  Lynn Marsh’s face looked ravaged by sorrow. She was wearing a terry-cloth robe and sobbing loudly. Gwyneth Robertson, who opened the door for Malko, whispered before she left:

  “She’s been drinking a lot of cognac.”

  A half-full bottle of Delamain stood on a side table.

  When they were alone, Malko asked:

  “Have you decided what to do?”

  “I don’t want to go back to London,” she managed to say between sobs.

  “Staying here is dangerous. The local CIA people can’t offer you further protection, and the Austrians don’t care. So—”

  “What about you?” she asked, interrupting him. “Can’t you protect me?”

  Malko was silent, seeing his problems multiplying.

  “Of course I could,” he admitted, “but I’m due to go home later today, to Liezen Castle.”

  The young woman leaped to her feet, blazing with anger.

  “You bastard!” she screeched. “You’re ditching me, aren’t you? And they’re going to kill me.”

  Malko felt ashamed of himself.

  “I’ll certainly ask the Austrians to protect you,” he promised.

  He found Lynn Marsh’s eyes locked laser-like on his.

  “I don’t want to die,” she said. “It’s up to you to protect me. You certainly did in London. Even slept over at my apartment.”

  Malko wanted to tell her that there was no Alexandra in London.

  Feminine intuition suddenly told her what was happening.

  “You’re afraid, aren’t you? What are you afraid of?”

  Awareness growing in her eyes, she crie`d:

  “I got it! It’s your girlfriend! You’re a coward, like all men. You’d rather see me killed than make a scene!”

  By now, she was out of control. As Malko remained silent, she took a step closer.

  “In that case, I’ll give you one good reason to protect me!”

  With that, she calmly undid her terry-cloth robe and let it fall. Underneath, she was completely naked.

  Malko couldn’t help but admire her perfect body, high breasts, flat stomach. A saucy woolly triangle topped her long legs. In heels, she was as tall as he was.

  “Fuck me,” she said. “I know you’ve wanted to since our evening at Christie’s. That way, you’ll have a reason to look after me.”

  Under the young woman’s icy stare, Malko didn’t know what to do with himself. He had rarely experienced a situation so embarrassing.

  And humiliating.

  “Get dressed,” he finally said, finding his voice. “I have a duty to protect you, and I’ll take you to Liezen. Be ready to go in half an hour.”

  At the door, he turned around. Lynn had picked up her robe and was walking toward the bedroom, displaying a magnificent back and ass.

  Alexei Khrenkov had died too soon.

  —

  Dressed in a heavy green blouse and leather pants stuffed into high-heel boots, she looked every inch the gentlewoman farmer.

  “So, did you bid your tooth fairy good-bye?”

  “Actually, I didn’t,” said Malko. “She’s in mortal danger, and I have to take her to Liezen.”

  He thought Alexandra would rip his throat out.

  “You’re joking!” she roared.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “And she’s coming in our car?”

  Her voice had now become dangerously soft.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Then she can ride in the trunk! That’s where we put whores!”

  Unintentionally stoking the flames, Lynn Marsh emerged from the elevator just then, looking quite fetching in her white wool suit and black stockings.

  “That does it!” snapped Alexandra. “That bitch isn’t getting into my car.”

  She barked an order to the two bellmen, who snatched up her Louis Vuitton suitcases and marched to the revolving door. Malko watched as she climbed into the Jaguar while the bellmen packed the trunk. The car roared off minutes later.

  —

  Malko had been driving on the A4 highway toward Liezen for the last twenty minutes. Lynn Marsh was dozing on the passenger seat next to him, done in by cognac and nervous tension. Traffic was heavy, and it looked as if it would take them an hour to get home, though Liezen was only about thirty miles from Vienna.

  The castle was
in Burgenland, the eastern strip of Austria bordering Hungary, a sunny lowland that produced well-balanced white wines. The first windmills soon appeared. They were getting closer.

  After vainly trying to raise Alexandra on her cell, he had lost half an hour renting the Mercedes. Lynn had said nothing.

  Malko was furious at himself. He hated when his two lives overlapped, that of the country gentleman—Seine Hoheit, der Prinz—and that of the high-level CIA contract operative. But without the Agency’s generous paychecks, his castle would be nothing but a ruin.

  Liezen Castle was a bottomless pit, and despite the money he had sunk in it, Malko still hadn’t managed to completely restore it. Two wings were empty, without working bathrooms and furnished with mismatched castoffs. Yet if you could somehow grind up the castle’s old stones and press them, blood would flow out. Because it was by risking his life for the CIA that Malko was able to maintain his modest but decent lifestyle.

  He left the A4 for Route 10, and pulled into the Liezen Castle courtyard a few minutes later. The Jaguar wasn’t there. Elko Krisantem, resplendent in a white jacket and bow tie, came down the front steps to meet them.

  The Turkish killer-for-hire turned butler was as bent and knotty as an old oak branch and devoted to Malko.

  With a smile on his hawk-like face, he opened Lynn Marsh’s door.

  She stepped out of the Mercedes and gazed at the castle’s majestic façade.

  “And this belongs to you?”

  “Yes, it does,” said Malko. To Krisantem, he said:

  “Please put Dr. Marsh in the Blue Room. By the way, where is the countess?”

  “She went to Kittsee Castle, sir. To the Wittengensteins.”

  To the party he and Alexandra were supposed to attend together. Seeing Malko’s obvious annoyance, the old Turk murmured:

  “Your Highness should have given me instructions. The countess wouldn’t have left.”

  Krisantem’s view of women’s rights was close to the Taliban’s. In his eyes, an honest woman should leave her house only twice in her life: the first time to get married, and the second to be buried in the cemetery.

  Malko watched as the butler led Lynn Marsh up the stone staircase, then went to the library and poured himself a glass of vodka. He now had a new dilemma. He could still join Alexandra in Kittsee, but he would be coming hat in hand.