Dark Chant In A Crimson Key

by George C. Chesbro

  Garth, who had been studying Veil carefully, abruptly announced: "He's telling the truth."

  I looked at my brother, nodded. Over time, I had become a reluctant believer in his uncanny "nose for evil." His poisoning with a mysterious substance called nitrophenyldienal, combined with some particularly horrific experiences we'd shared while tracking a madman who had, in effect, declared genetic warfare on humanity, had subtly altered not only his personality but also his perceptions and sensibilities. He had become a highly receptive empath, virtually a human lie detector. If I'd followed his lead in refusing to have anything to do with Emmet P. Neuberger, I wouldn't be sitting in a restaurant in Zurich trying to figure out how to avoid being killed. If Garth said Veil was telling the truth, that was good enough for me. But then, I would have believed Veil in any case; he might withhold information, or refuse to speak about something, but I didn't think he would lie to me.

  I said, "Let's get back to the role of the village idiot in these proceedings. We know I was set up, but we don't know why. So let's look at what we know now, or are pretty certain of. First, I think we can safely assume that Emmet P. Neuberger is a big-time crook, if only by association, because his family foundation was set up, from day one, as a very large money-laundering operation. We know it was begun by Neuberger's grandfather, but not whether he did it for himself, out of his own greed, or on behalf of secret backers who may have been pulling his strings. My hunch is that John Sinclair found out that Cornucopia was crooked during the course of some other con job he was pulling; he not only found out that large amounts of money were being laundered and skimmed from Cornucopia, but he discovered the basic mechanism for doing it. He then proceeded to do a little skimming himself, ten million dollars' worth. Does that seem like a plausible theory?"

  Garth, Veil, and Harper exchanged glances with one another, and all three nodded their heads.

  "It'll do until something better comes along," Garth said. "But now it gets tricky. With all the publicity surrounding Sinclair's theft of the ten million and the killing of the Interpol inspector, Neuberger had to have been aware that there was an extreme risk that Cornucopia's money-laundering function was going to be exposed; even if Interpol and the Zurich police didn't stumble on the truth, Sinclair might leak the information. Now, you would think that absolutely the last thing in the world Neuberger would want would be to have a crack private investigator joining Interpol and the police in poking around over here. There's no better investigator in the world than baby brother here, and yet Neuberger moans and groans and goes through all sorts of emotional contortions in order to manipulate baby brother into coming over here to join the parade. Why increase his risk of exposure? What's the point of the exercise?"

  I said, "He never expected me to have time to learn anything. I was sent over here by Neuberger as an expendable stalking horse, a Judas goat to flush out his enemies, and then be disposed of later. The man who approached me outside the hotel had a chance to say something just before he got blown away; he was very upset, and he wanted to know why I hadn't shown up for some meeting. Also, there had been a message, supposedly from Sinclair, left for me at the desk, but that was all part of the setup, to make sure I was neutralized in the unlikely event that I had already learned things I wasn't supposed to know and was thinking of sharing the information with the authorities."

  "Why were you supposed to be at this meeting?" Garth asked. "What were you supposed to contribute?"

  "I don't know. The man never had a chance to say. However, since I'd come here at Neuberger's behest, I think it's safe to assume I was supposed to be bringing something from him. Maybe a message."

  "Or money," Harper said easily. She was resting her elbows on the table, cupping her chin in her hands, and staring at me. I very much liked the look in her eyes, and found myself very much looking forward to the end of this particular meeting, when Harper and I could repair to more private quarters.

  "Okay, I like that. The man thought I was a courier carrying money. At the meeting I was supposed to hand over the money to him and his partners in exchange for . . . uh . . ."

  "Try to pay attention, brother," Garth said drily. "Your attention seems to be wandering, despite your dire circumstances, and I can't imagine why. Give him the answer, Harper."

  "Incriminating documents proving Cornucopia was a crooked operation. Neuberger was being blackmailed with documents Sinclair stole."

  "Thank you, my dear," I said, stroking the back of her hand. "I'm not sure that's as self-evident as you make it sound, but it will certainly suffice until a better answer comes along. Now the big question: Why me? Neuberger could have used anyone as a phony courier, but he did everything but beg on his knees in order to get me to go. What's so special about poor, hapless Robert Frederickson?"

  There was silence around the table for almost a minute, and then Garth spoke. "You're easy to spot. Neuberger told his blackmailers he was sending a dwarf with their money. How many dwarfs would be landing at the airport that day?"

  "No," Harper said with an air of certainty. "Robby wasn't approached at the airport by anyone but his chauffeur. Robby's being a dwarf had nothing to do with it; clothes, a hat, a pink carnation in the lapel, virtually anything could have served to identify a courier. Neuberger was planning to have them all killed after Robby flushed them out and then steal the documents back. But he had to be as certain as possible that the blackmailers wouldn't hold anything back as insurance against a double cross; he had to try to make certain they would have all the documents with them when they went to this meeting, where they could be double-crossed and killed. For them to be so trusting as to show up with all the documents, they would have had to have absolute trust in a courier who would keep his word, and wouldn't be a part of any double cross. Robby fit the bill."

  Again there was a prolonged silence, and then Veil grunted his approval. "Not too trashy, Ms. Rhys-Whitney. It could very well be that it was Mongo's vaunted reputation as a straight arrow that got him into this mess. Do I take it we're all assuming it wasn't Sinclair doing the blackmailing?"

  Garth nodded. "Hell, he didn't need to. He'd already picked up ten million with his original scam; if he'd wanted more, he could have taken it when he transferred Cornucopia's money in the first place. But if not Sinclair, then who?"

  "Somebody else who got hold of the documents," Harper said, but her tone had grown more tentative. "But how could that happen? If Sinclair did steal documents along with the money, it was for a reason, even if we don't know what that reason was— since we agree it probably wasn't to blackmail Neuberger. It doesn't seem likely that he'd lose them, or that somebody could steal them from him."

  "Damn," I said softly as an answer came to me with sudden, perfect clarity. "Sinclair did take documents along with the money, but he didn't lose them, and they weren't stolen from him. He gave them away, and the person he gave them to was Bo Wahlstrom."

  "Yes!" Veil exclaimed, sitting up straight in his chair. He glanced at me sharply, and his blue eyes glinted with excitement. "Oh, yes! That's it!"

  Garth, obviously puzzled, glanced back and forth between Veil and me. "Bo Wahlstrom is the Interpol inspector Sinclair murdered right after he ripped off Cornucopia. He burned his eyes out. What are you two talking about?"

  "No," Veil said.

  "No what?"

  "Sinclair didn't kill Wahlstrom."

  "Explain."

  I said, "The connection between Bo Wahlstrom and Chant Sinclair goes back a long time. It was Wahlstrom who arrested Sinclair and, presumably, turned him over to the CIA. But remember that was exactly the scenario Sinclair wanted. We already know of one highly respected official who worked with Sinclair, and that's Gerard Patreaux. Bo Wahlstrom may have been another friend and ally. If it's true, then other pieces of the puzzle begin to fit together."

  Garth glanced at Harper, then looked back at me. "Sorry, Mongo. I'm still not tracking."

  "Be patient. Here's another point to consider: The I
nterpol inspector who originally briefed me never mentioned Torture Island, but I was told that Bo Wahlstrom's full-time assignment was tracking John Sinclair. I'll bet he got that assignment soon after Sinclair's capture and subsequent escape from Torture Island, because it was Wahlstrom who had been given credit for nabbing him in the first place. Well, he never quite managed to catch up with him again, did he?"

  "I thought the accepted wisdom was that he had finally caught up with him, and Sinclair killed him for his efforts."

  "The accepted wisdom is wrong. Wahlstrom never caught up with Sinclair again, because he didn't want to catch up with Sinclair again. But he caught a hell of a lot of other bad guys along the way. That's another thing I learned from my Interpol briefing. While Wahlstrom was supposedly devoting all his efforts to catching Sinclair, all sorts of information suddenly seemed to start coming his way. Sinclair may have continued to elude him, but in the meantime he managed to shut down a lot of other criminal operations. You think that's a coincidence?"

  Harper reached across the table and squeezed my wrist. "You think that John Sinclair has been feeding information to Interpol for all these years?"

  "Not to Interpol—to Bo Wahlstrom, because Wahlstrom was another friend and ally. Just like Harry Gray and Gerard Patreaux, to whom Sinclair fed information and documents on human rights violations."

  "You're beginning to sound like Veil," Garth said in a neutral tone.

  I shrugged. "What can I say? It's just a guess."

  "I believe it's a good one," Veil said. "But I see a problem with where this is all leading us. Bo Wahlstrom was, from all accounts and in Mongo's scenario, a good man who would have used the documents to shut down Cornucopia and nail Neuberger, not blackmail him."

  "It could have been the partner, Nicholas Furie; I was told Furie had only recently been assigned to assist Wahlstrom. Furie may have been corrupt. He would have been in a position to steal the documents from Wahlstrom, and, with partners fronting for him, try to blackmail Neuberger."

  Harper frowned. "But it wasn't Nicholas Furie who killed Bo Wahlstrom. Wahlstrom was killed in the same manner as the servants in New York, and then Furie himself died the same way."

  "Indeed."

  "Then who's doing all the killing?"

  Yet again there was a period of silence as each of us sat with our own thoughts, sorting through the information we had, attempting to separate fact from speculation, examining different scenarios, trying to see a pattern. And then what I was certain was at least a leading candidate for the answer to Harper's question slowly rose to the surface of my consciousness. "It could be the biggest and meanest baddies of all," I said quietly. "The people Cornucopia was set up to service in the first place, the grandfather's backers."

  Harper nervously ran a hand back through her long, brown, gray-streaked hair. "If that is the case, then why would they kidnap Neuberger and butcher all his servants?"

  I thought I had a pretty good idea why, but so did Veil, and it was Veil who answered. "They killed the servants for no other reason than that they were there, and they kidnapped Neuberger because they may have prepared some kind of special punishment for him. They probably hold him responsible for the fact that Sinclair stole ten million dollars from them. Or Neuberger himself may have been in on—or thought he was in on—Sinclair's scam."

  "All right," I said, "let's take it from the top and see how it sounds so far. At some point in time during the course of his own mundane, workaday criminal activities, John Sinclair learns that a certain famous philanthropic foundation is in reality nothing more than a huge money-laundering operation for some big-time criminal organization. He also learns how the money is siphoned off, and he sets up his own scam posing as a Montreal entrepreneur."

  Garth, obviously getting into the spirit of things, cleared his throat, his way of asking for the floor. "As Veil suggests," he said, "maybe Neuberger thought he was in on the whole thing. Sinclair could have used incriminating information he'd already uncovered to blackmail Neuberger into giving him the technical information he needed to bypass the security codes, and then offered Neuberger a deal to keep him quiet and in place. Sinclair, posing as French-Canadian, could have made Neuberger believe he was going to be a partner in a foolproof embezzlement scheme."

  "Whatever," I said, tapping the table. "Sinclair may or may not have implicated Neuberger in the scam, but it plays either way, because Neuberger is in deep shit either way. He'll be held responsible. Sinclair pulls off the scam, and, assuming Neuberger is a part of it, double-crosses his would-be partner in crime. After taking his ten million, Sinclair forwards any information and documents he may have to his friend, Inspector Bo Wahlstrom of Interpol, for appropriate action by the legal authorities.

  "But Wahlstrom's new partner gets a look at the stuff before Wahlstrom can get the ball rolling. Maybe Nicholas Furie can't believe Sinclair only took ten million dollars. He knows there's a whole hell of a lot more than that to be had from Cornucopia, and he doesn't see any reason why a hardworking civil servant like himself shouldn't also get a piece of the pie before the bakery is shut down. He takes on a partner or two to front for him. They contact Neuberger and make their pitch: all incriminating documents will be stolen from Wahlstrom and returned to Neuberger, in exchange for a very hefty fee."

  "My turn, Mongo," Garth said.

  "It's my scenario, so I should get to tell it. But I may let you speak if you raise your hand."

  Harper was not amused. "There's one thing wrong with your scenario, Robby," she said softly, horror in her voice and maroon, gold-flecked eyes. "I don't see how you can assume Neuberger might have originally agreed to cooperate in the scheme. If you were this man, would you consider for even one second crossing an organization that exacts revenge by torturing people to death, burning out eyes and brains?"

  "Neuberger—this Neuberger—may not have known who he was dealing with, Harper," Veil said gently. "Cornucopia was founded by the grandfather decades ago and subsequently run by the father for years before control passed to Emmet P. Things probably ran very smoothly for all those years, so no nasty business ever occurred. Now, we have no way of knowing what instructions Emmet P. got from his father. He was certainly told what to do, given instructions as to how to do it, and probably given a stern warning to keep conducting business as usual, or suffer the consequences. But we don't know if Emmet P. had a full appreciation of just what those consequences might be. He may never have had any direct contact with anyone from the organization he was laundering money for. Mongo's scenario doesn't require that Neuberger be in on the deal, but if he was, it was because he'd become complacent. By the time he came to realize the severity of just what could happen to him, it was too late. Sinclair had already double-crossed him, and news of the theft had been made public."

  Harper thought about it, shuddered as she nodded her head. "Okay. I guess it could have been that way. You're probably right when you say he would have been held responsible in any case."

  "Right," I said. "Now, Neuberger had already been ripped off once, and he wasn't going to let it happen again, especially by a crew he probably sensed were amateurs. So he set up a double cross of his own, using me as a stalking horse to flush them out so they could be killed, and the documents recovered. But it was too late to cover his tracks, if it had ever been possible. By this time the really bad guys had gotten wind of what was happening, and they began taking care of business themselves, not only exterminating the would-be blackmailers but also going after anyone at all who might know anything about the details of the scam, along with anybody who might be in the line of fire, like those people at the hotel."

  "Enter the dragon," Veil said in a curiously distant tone of voice.

  "The dragon at the hotel had been marked with a combination brand-tattoo on his back. Garth, did you find out anything about that mark?"

  My brother shook his head. "Not a thing. I began by assuming it was a yakuza, or maybe a tong, marking, but I couldn't find any
thing in the literature, and the FBI and NYPD couldn't help. Tong marks are usually much smaller, and yakuza tattoos usually much more elaborate than what you described to Veil. Nobody knows anything about a mark combining a brand and a tattoo."

  Now it was Veil's turn to clear his throat.

  "Not you again," Garth said with mock sarcasm—a rare show of humor from my brother toward a man with whom he was usually extremely guarded. "I see I could have saved myself a lot of time and trouble by taking you out for a few beers instead of spending all night in the library."

  Garth's tone had been light, but the implication of his words was clear: left unanswered was the pointed and pertinent question of why Veil hadn't volunteered the information about Cooked Goose, or anything else he knew bearing on my situation, when I'd called him after the massacre at the hotel.

  "That's my fault, brother," I said quickly, anxious to head off any renewed tension between Garth and Veil. "I was feeling pissy when I called Veil, and I made it clear that all I wanted, or would accept, from him was for him to deliver my message to you. I didn't want to listen to anything he had to say, and after the things I said to him, I consider it a small miracle that he's here at all, much less that he's willing to help. It was my stupidity and stubbornness that wasted your time, Garth, not Veil's, and I apologize to both of you."

  Garth nodded to me, then to Veil. Veil nodded back. It looked like things were all right.

  "What I have to tell you could be nothing more than just another ninja bullshit story," Veil said carefully, looking at my brother.

  Garth didn't smile. "This is one I'll listen to very carefully."

  "Okay. I mention, and underline, that possibility, because that's what I always considered it to be. Now I'm not so sure. What makes me begin to consider the possibility that it's true, Garth, is, first, Mongo's description of the mark on the back of the gunman at the hotel, and second, what you had to say about Sinclair's family background, his upbringing in Japan, his dissertation on medieval Japanese secret societies, and so on.