"Indeed," I said. "It sounds like the kind of program the CIA could learn to love."
"I won't deny it interested us, or that some people wished that we'd come up with the whole program ourselves. But there was no way the agency would have bought one of those zombie assassins from Blake; he already had a lot of bad stuff on us in his files, and we weren't about to put ourselves in a position to be further compromised by him. His real problem with us began when his clients started using those assassins to eliminate some of our favored clients. He allowed that to happen once too often, and Langley decided to put him out of business."
"The bodyguard who killed him was a CIA operative?"
Insolers raised his pale brown eyebrows slightly. "My, my, you are well informed."
"I only know what my brother reads in the newspapers. Was the bodyguard your operative?"
"No. You could describe him as an acquired asset. He was a man by the name of Tommy Wing, psychotic, long-term ex-convict originally referred to the research project by his parole officer. Tommy turned out to be so off-the-wall that Blake couldn't resist putting him to work full-time as a combination chief bodyguard, executive of sorts, and exotic house pet. In prison he'd acquired the nickname 'Hammerhead,' because he was a biter; in a fight, he'd use his teeth the way other men would use a shiv. Blake put him in nominal charge of keeping an eye on all his potential assassins. When it was decided that it was time for Blake to retire, it was arranged for Mr. Wing to be snatched for a few hours while he was in this country on one of his supervisory trips. He was shot up with gluteathin, programmed to kill Blake, and then sent on his way to Geneva. First chance he got, he tore out Blake's jugular with his teeth."
"That little tidbit wasn't in the obituaries," Garth said drily.
"We got to Blake's personal and corporate records before anyone else, including his lawyers. We did some fancy legal—illegal, actually—footwork, called in some specialists from other intelligence organizations who were in a position to be helpful and who had reasons of their own to cooperate, used the information in Blake's files to apply pressure on those who didn't wish to cooperate, and took over the whole kit and caboodle. The CIA now effectively controls all of the wealth and other assets that once belonged to one of the world's richest men. This is a CIA operation that not even the President of the United States, much less any congressional oversight committee, knows a damn thing about. It put us in a position to finance off-the-shelf operations until doomsday, but we needed a cover. Jan Rawlings was it. The papers reported that she was a social worker, but that's not true. She was a secretary for a company in New York that was in reality a CIA asset, and she was extremely loyal. We cooked up a lot of stuff showing that she had been Blake's mistress for years, and our team of specialists cooked up a will that left her everything. I was one of a number of operatives involved in the operation, so I'll have a lot of company in prison if any of this ever gets out."
"Yeah, yeah," I said impatiently. "It sounds really neat, Insolers, but before the Swiss Highway Patrol shows up, would you mind telling us what any of this has to do with John Sinclair?"
"Absolutely nothing," Insolers said forcefully. "There's no connection between what I just told you and John Sinclair. Nada. But what I have just described to you is the most effective and valuable ongoing CIA operation ever mounted, and you are going to make some very powerful and extremely dangerous people very dyspeptic if you go knocking on the door of that castle and start asking questions of any sort. Now, I'm not saying they'll kill you, but I'm also not saying they won't. As for me, my ass will be mulch, and I'll be extremely fortunate if all I lose is my pension. I happen to like my job, and my health is reasonably good; I'd like to keep both—which is why I do not want you going to that castle."
"Look, Insolers, why—?"
"Why did I mention Blake and the countess in the first place? It was a mistake. I was very much focused on John Sinclair, and I thought you might be plugged into something; there are lots of rumors in the agency that you and your brother here are wired into all sorts of things, know some top secrets. We know you're personal friends with Mr. Lippitt, the head of the Defense Intelligence Agency, and we suspect you're on more than good speaking terms with the President; some of our people actually think the two of you know things that could get Kevin Shannon impeached and put the whole administration out of business. I really did think you might already know about R. Edgar Blake and our countess, because we have reason to believe Mr. Lippitt knows. More important, I thought you might know about Cooked Goose and how it might be connected to Sinclair. I desperately wanted that information. I thought that by mentioning Blake and the countess to you, it would indicate I could be trusted. That's all, Frederickson. Obviously, I seriously miscalculated, and I suppose you could accuse me of underestimating you. I never dreamed you'd go to the lengths you have to dig into these things, and now you're going way off the tracks. It's the truth, Frederickson. I swear it."
I turned to Garth, who had been studying Insolers intently. "The man swears he's telling the truth, brother. What do you say?"
"He's very good, Mongo," Garth replied evenly. "Also very hidden."
"It's his job to be hidden. What are you reading?"
"Mixed signals. He's giving us a combination of lies and truth, but I can't tell which is which. I think he's hiding something very important."
I turned my attention back to the CIA operative with the medicinal smell. "So there you have it. What very important thing are you hiding, Duane?"
Insolers, looking thoroughly nonplussed, jerked his thumb in Garth's direction. His face darkened. "Who the fuck is he, Frederickson? Mr. Polygraph?"
"Something like that, Insolers," I replied mildly, "and you just flunked the test. I've got no more time to hang around here, but it was nice chatting with you."
"Get out, pal," Garth said in the kind of low, flat voice I recognized all too well as a danger signal to whoever it was he might be speaking to. "The powwow's finished."
Insolers' next move was snake-quick, fluid, obviously much-practiced. Veil had searched the man thoroughly, but he would have needed a microscope and a few hours to find the weapon the man was carrying. Insolers plucked at the sleeve of his overcoat, and instantly two of the horn buttons popped off to become finger grips for a piano-wire garotte which was placed around my neck, pressed against my jugular. One good tug on the wire, and my head was going to land in my lap.
"Everybody just stay still!" Insolers snapped as Harper cried out and Garth started to raise his hands. "And you outside! Just stay there, and back off! If I even catch a glimpse of you out of the corner of my eye, Frederickson dies. Don't think I'm bluffing."
"If he dies, you die a second later," Garth said, his voice a deadly whisper.
"Big deal. Will that help comfort you at his funeral, big brother? I'm tired of fucking around with you people. We're going to the airport, and you're all going home."
I swallowed hard, trying to work up some moisture in my mouth, and I felt the piano wire press even harder against my flesh as my Adam's apple bounced up and down. "I'm not even supposed to leave Zurich, Insolers, much less the country. The police have my passport."
"Don't worry about it, Frederickson. Your passport and everybody's luggage will be brought to the airport, which is where big brother is going to take us right now. Turn on the engine and head us back, big brother."
"You've got it, Insolers," Garth said. "I'll do what you say. Let's get our friend in here first."
"Leave him. I'll send someone to pick him up, and he'll be on the next flight to New York after yours. Turn the engine on, big brother, or your brother's neck is going to spring a leak."
As Garth reached for the ignition key, I kicked out with my left foot. The toe of my shoe hit the key, breaking it off in the lock. I winced, wondering what it would feel like to have my jugular sliced like a slab of cheese. Nothing happened; the pressure of the wire on my skin increased slightly, but the steel didn't break
the skin.
"You must be insane, Frederickson," Insolers said, an almost comic note of incredulity in his voice.
"Yeah, well, I'm also very impulsive," I replied in a croaking whisper, "and my impulses tell me that the people who are trying to kill me won't stop just because you've put me on a flight to New York. I'll be just as dead with a bullet in my brain as—" I stopped speaking when I caught Harper's reflection in the rearview mirror as, ashen and grim-faced, she moved across the seat toward Insolers. "Don't kill him, Harper!" I added quickly.
No sooner were the words out of my mouth than Insolers grunted in surprise and started. The sudden move caused the wire to bite into my flesh, and I could feel a ring of blood begin to ooze down my neck. The pressure was released almost immediately, but the damage had already been done.
Harper's low-pitched, husky voice didn't quaver as she spoke to Insolers. "Before you put any more pressure on that wire, mister, let me tell you what you feel in your crotch. It's a little wooden box, and inside is a tiny little snake called a krait. It's what I use instead of Mace for solving personal problems of this nature. In Africa they call it the hundred-foot snake, because that's about as far as a man can stagger after he's been bitten by one. One flick of my finger and the lid comes off. The snake will strike immediately, and it's not a pleasant way to die. Take the wire away from Robby's neck. Do it right now."
Garth said, "You don't have to worry about suffering too long, Insolers, because I'll snap your fucking neck about one second after you tug on that wire."
The combination of a poisonous snake pressed to my groin and Garth glowering in my face certainly would have given me pause, and I liked to think that Insolers at least looked a bit pale at the moment, but I had to give the man credit for nerve; I would certainly have been the first to know if his hands started to shake, but they didn't, and his voice was steady when he spoke.
"If you kill me, so be it, but this man is also dead. I am going to kill him if you don't do what I say. If you think about it, you'll realize that it makes no sense for you to gamble with his life when all I'm asking you to do is drive to the airport. Now get the car started, big brother. Cross the wires."
I heard the sound of glass exploding behind me, to my right, and Garth's hands instantly came up, grabbing both of Insolers' wrists and pulling them forward. The wire came away from my neck. I gasped, put my hands to my throat, and twisted around in my seat. Veil's arm was protruding through the right rear window, and his hand was gripping Insolers' throat just under the chin, forcing the man's head back. In another moment Insolers' windpipe would be crushed, his neck broken, or both.
I gagged, held up my hands. "Don't . . . don't kill him," I managed to say in a hoarse whisper.
Without loosening his grip on Insolers' throat, Veil ducked down so that he could look at me through the broken window. "Why the hell not?" he asked in a casual tone.
Garth said, "An excellent question, Mongo. Why the hell not?"
I took my hands away from my throat, saw that they were covered with blood. "Two reasons. First, we know he's been lying to us, but we're not sure what the lies are. We don't know what's up ahead of us in that castle, and Insolers could prove to be a useful bargaining chip—but only if he's alive. Second, we still don't know why he tried to run me, or what his game really is. He may yet get around to telling us the whole truth, and it could prove to be information we'll need."
"Whatever you say, Mongo," Veil said in the same casual tone, and cocked his wrist slightly before removing his hand from Insolers' throat.
The CIA operative went limp. A tremor shook his body, and then he was still, slumped in the back seat, his head in Harper's lap. For a moment I thought Veil had gone ahead and killed him anyway, but then I noticed that he was still breathing.
"He'll be napping for a while," Veil continued. "Shall we tie him up?"
Garth, who was examining my neck as he gently wiped away blood with a clean handkerchief, nodded. "We'll use his car, put him in the trunk. Mongo, it's with mixed emotions that I announce my suspicion that you're going to live. The slice is messy, but not deep, if it leaves a scar, it could be a hot topic of conversation at cocktail parties."
Harper got out of the car, opened the door on the driver's side, and none too gently pulled Garth away from me. "You tend to Insolers," she said, her tone leaving no doubt that she was unamused, "and I'll take care of Robby. I suppose you'd have thought it was really funny if that wire had slit his throat. Give me Insolers' shirt, and I'll see if I can't make a bandage and scarf out of it."
Garth raised his eyebrows in mock alarm, then winked at me before getting out and going around to the other side of the car to help Veil with Insolers. Harper slid onto the seat next to me, kissed me very hard and passionately, then resumed the job of gently wiping away blood until the bleeding finally stopped. I sighed, rested my head against Harper's ample bosom as I was fitted for a bandage and ascot.
Chapter Ten
The castle overlooking the western shore of Lake Geneva came complete with all manner of turrets and spires, and looked big enough to house your average army. It was six stories high, constructed of massive blocks of black stone, and was sitting on what looked to be ten or more acres of land in a country where real estate was so precious that it was sold by the square meter. The structure and its magnificently landscaped grounds were most impressive.
The security—if, indeed, this was the CIA's most precious asset—was considerably less impressive. There was a high stone wall around the whole complex, and a massive iron gate at the entrance, complete with television camera and a speakerphone mounted on one of the gateposts; but the television camera was pointed up at the sky, and the gate was wide open. There were no guards at the entrance, at least none that were in evidence. We entered the obvious way, simply by driving in the main entrance; no sirens sounded, and no guards jumped out from behind the bushes to challenge us.
Garth drove slowly up the wide gravel driveway toward the castle, past carefully tended gardens and lush, thick lawns. There were a number of gardeners at work, but none appeared to be security guard types; indeed, only one of them even casually glanced in our direction. We reached the circle at the head of the driveway. Garth drove halfway around, stopped at the foot of a flight of granite stairs leading up to a set of twelve-foot-high carved wooden doors.
"The CIA runs this place?" Harper asked, a note of incredulity in her voice.
"Sometimes the best way to hide something is to pretend there's nothing to hide," Veil said, and when I turned in my seat, I could see that he was looking all around us. I couldn't tell from my angle, but I suspected he had again palmed his throwing knife.
Garth turned off" the car's engine, looked at me. "Now what?"
"I guess I go up and knock on the door."
"Great. You got an opening line?"
"It'll come to me."
"Veil and I will come with you."
"No. Harper, you with me?"
"I'm with you, Robby," she replied, putting her hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently.
"Then I suggest that Harper and I go up to the door. We certainly appear harmless enough. You and Veil make a pretty threatening duo, especially at times like now when you're not wearing your party faces."
Veil said, "Not a good idea, Mongo. The two of you will be exposed and vulnerable when you get out of the car, and Garth and I won't be able to protect you."
"We're exposed right now. This isn't exactly a tank we're driving around in. So far, nobody's come around to say boo."
Garth shook his head. "We don't know what's going to happen when you start asking questions."
"I'll play it by ear. Look, no matter how many people go up there, the folks who run this place will get us all if that's what they want. It's best to start off as low-key as possible."
"Robby's right," Harper declared as she perfunctorily opened the door on her side and stepped out into the driveway.
I got out, took Harper'
s arm, and together we started up the flight of granite stairs. I looked down to check to make certain there were no bloodstains on my clothes. I had not been wearing my jacket during my joust with Insolers, and that covered my bloody shirt. A bandage and ascot fashioned from Insolers' shirt covered the wound on my neck. I decided I looked quite presentable for a man who'd come close to having his head lopped off a short time before.
"Can I help you?"
We halted on the third step, turned to our right, the direction the voice had come from. There was a large rose garden fifteen yards from the driveway, and now a woman stepped from it through a trellis. She was quite tall and slender, stunningly beautiful, with long brown hair and large, soulful brown eyes. She wore a heavy denim gardener's apron and held a large pair of pruning shears.
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