Murder in Focus

by Medora Sale

  Bleibtreu raised a hand in greeting, although at the moment his mind seemed to be on other things. Standing beside him was an awesomely beautiful woman, small and slightly built, with long blonde hair and enormous blue eyes. Her face was high-cheeked and broad at the temple, coming down to a foxy point at the chin. The cultural attaché was leaning yearningly over her, one hand poised as if to capture her and bear her away. “Karl!” he cried. “Delighted to see you. And even more to introduce you to our guest of honor.” He dropped the arm slightly and insinuated it around her waist in order to draw her slightly forward. “This is Fräulein Anna Maria Strelitsch. She is performing tomorrow night at the Arts Centre. Fräulein Strelitsch, may I present Karl Lang, a representative from Vienna for a confederation of sports equipment manufacturers. It is he who is generously giving the little supper party after your performance on Tuesday,” he added in a lower voice.

  “Madame,” murmured Lang with a slight bow. “I have already had the great good fortune to meet Fräulein Strelitsch—and to hear her play many times. It is always a joy to find incomparable artistry matched to such unsurpassed beauty.”

  She laughed. “Save your flattery for your business associates, Herr Lang. It’s wasted on me.”

  “Ah, Fräulein Strelitsch, I deal not in flattery but in truth.” He looked narrowly at the simple white dress she was wearing, reached out a tentative hand, and gently touched the material of one sleeve. “And if I am not mistaken, that is one of our dresses. You inspire me.”

  Toni Bleibtreu neatly cut the dialogue short. “But we must let you speak to more of your admirers, Fräulein Strelitsch. Herr Andersson, of the Swedish embassy, has been waiting far too long.” When the business of introductions was over, he turned back to his friend. “Glad to see you, Karl. Isn’t she extraordinary? Isn’t she amazing? And she can play the violin.”

  “Stunning. She makes that dress look superb. Do you think we could get her to a photographer’s in it before she leaves? No, I suppose not.” He shook his head and scrutinized her again. She had plunged into animated conversation with Herr Andersson, apparently indicating with her hands the size of some giant structure. Her hair fell across her face as she spoke, and the Swede moved it back with the tips of his fingers. Lang frowned. “When is she leaving?” he asked, turning back to Bleibtreu.

  “She’s staying until after the conference this week. Seems she has a friend in the Austrian delegation. They’re planning to travel around after it’s over, see Niagara Falls, I suppose, and all that sort of thing.” He shook his head ruefully.

  “Ah, well, Toni, my boy,” said Herr Lang cheerfully, “anyone that lovely is bound to have a friend. It can’t be helped.”

  “And I have until Thursday afternoon when the delegates arrive to make an impression. Think of what can happen in seventy-two hours. Except that I shall be frantically busy every second of that time, of course.” Gloom settled over Bleibtreu’s features. The prospect of hard work never failed to depress him.

  “You’ll have more time than that,” the man from External Affairs said as he drifted between them. “Because we’re keeping them all locked up until it’s over and they won’t be our responsibility anymore. Did it just for you, Toni.”

  “Hal, very kind of you to come,” said the attaché, switching smoothly into English. “Karl Lang, Hal Metcalfe. Mr. Metcalfe is with External Affairs. Herr Lang is a trade representative from Vienna. Have you met our musical beauty yet? And by the way, I didn’t realize your grasp of the language was sufficient for eavesdropping. I must remember to be more careful when you’re around.”

  “You forget that my first posting was in Vienna. And the prettiest girls always seemed to speak the most impenetrable dialect. I was intensely motivated to pick it up.” Metcalfe winked and captured a drink from a passing tray. “Have I met the blonde bombshell of the classical circuit? Indeed I have. And speaking of motivation, I am about to become intensely interested in the violin myself, I think. She’s breathtaking, isn’t she?”

  “Are you tied up in this conference as well?” asked Lang. Hal Metcalfe nodded. “How are the preparations going for it?”

  “Well, you know how these things are. Total chaos, nothing ready as planned, and yet it all manages to happen somehow. I hope.” He traded in his empty glass for a full one with the dexterity of long practice.

  “The ambassador’s wife dreamt last night that the entire German-speaking contingent descended unexpectedly on us for dinner,” said Toni glumly, “and there was nothing in the kitchen but stale bread, Canadian hot dogs, and frozen pizza. We all spent the day shopping, just in case.”

  “You can tell her that she needn’t worry, absolutely nothing unexpected is going to be done by anyone.” Metcalfe spoke with a little too much emphasis. “It won’t be allowed. I have scheduled everyone and everything for every minute of the day. They won’t even be able to buy a bottle of perfume for their mistresses without it going on the sheet ahead of time.”

  “You mean you’re in charge of security for this operation?” said Lang with a low whistle. “I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes right now.”

  “Not security, no, not at all,” said Metcalfe in confusion. “Just, shall we say, logistics. Moving them around and making sure they get to the right place at the right time. Security’s being done by the usual specialist types, you know. I’m not qualified for that.” He grabbed another glass from the next tray going by.

  “Well, I intend to stay as far away as possible from the Chateau Laurier and the Conference Centre when that thing is on.” Lang smiled comfortably. “I don’t want to get blown up when the crazies decide to get rid of some prime minister or other.”

  “The prime ministers and assorted bigwigs aren’t going to be downtown, are they, Hal?” said Toni. “We heard that they will all be in the Gatineau.”

  “Old rumor, my boy. Very old. You’re losing your touch. They’re all being whisked off to a meeting room in the airport.” This voice came from the group next to them, which, by the strange chemistry of parties, had suddenly opened up to include the three men.

  “Don’t be silly,” said a tall, pretty girl. “They’re not going to be at the airport.”

  “Aha,” said the man next to her. “Here speaks one with the voice of authority. Come on, what do you know? No fair keeping secrets. Anyone in this group from the press?” They looked around at each other. “See? I thought not. Out with it.”

  She blushed furiously. “I don’t know anything—anything at all. I just think it’s a stupid place to hold a meeting, don’t you? Besides, if I knew anything, do you think I’d tell you?”

  Karl Lang executed a sideways shuffle and planted himself beside the blushing girl. “Here,” he said, “let me get you a fresh drink.” Within seconds one was in his hand.

  “Hey, how did you do that?” she asked.

  “The waiter’s Viennese,” Lang replied. “You just have to know how to signal them. Are you fond of music?”

  “Oh, yes, especially violin music,” she said. “I play a bit myself. I was thrilled to be invited this evening.”

  “Has anyone introduced you to Fräulein Strelitsch yet?” The girl shook her head. “Then come with me,” he said, “and I will. She speaks excellent English and is always delighted to meet fellow musicians.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she breathed. “I’ve never met anyone that famous. I wouldn’t even be here, except that my boss wangled this invitation for me.”

  “Where do you work?” he asked as he gently steered her in the direction of the violinist.

  “External Affairs,” she said. “But I’m just a typist.”

  “Never mind about that,” he said. “Anna Maria, I have a great fan of yours here,” and he drew the girl into the little circle that had clustered around the violinist, almost hiding her from sight.

  A significant hush descended over the crowd; something wa
s happening. Even the drunken undersecretaries had stopped whatever they were doing and had turned toward the door. Hal Metcalfe sighed in relief. That meant that the prime minister had arrived, and with a certain amount of luck, it would be possible to get out of the place in an hour or so. That arrogant son of a bitch from the RCMP, Higgs, had suddenly materialized in the crowd close to the Austrian P.M., no doubt keeping tabs on everyone. Probably counting drinks, too. In fact, most of the revelers seemed to be bozos from Security awkwardly pretending to be partygoers. Was anyone here just to meet the man? Probably not. He looked over at the gorgeous violinist, wondering if he might carve out some time with her, but she was surrounded by the apes who were surrounding the P.M. He grabbed another glass from a passing tray and decided to get very, very drunk.

  Chapter 4

  Tuesday, May 16

  John Sanders tried to keep his eyes open and fixed on the front of the room while allowing the words of the lecture to flow gently by him. Inspector Charles Higgs was standing beside a large easel with a chalkboard perched precariously on it, drawing lines and circles and indicating traffic flow with large, angry arrows. Sanders reckoned he could have written up a three-page report on what was being said without leaving his motel room, but this bastard was obviously taking attendance. So here he was. When Sanders had asked, incredulously, why they were sending him instead of someone from the Special Security Task Force, he had been told not to be a bloody fool, they needed every man on the task force this week. A flip through the roster produced the most senior person—to prove they took the RCMP’s invitation seriously—with leave coming who wasn’t needed. And that turned out to be John Sanders. Consigned to a week of utter boredom by a bloody computer.

  Higgs snapped out a question, which was promptly answered by a kid from Halifax, sitting in the front row with that dewy-fresh air of a rookie constable. Those Maritimers didn’t feel any obligation to keep the Mounties happy. Sanders mentally took off his hat to them, and then sketched an inspiring picture of a bomb-throwing anarchist with bushy hair and a huge black beard in his new notebook. What was wrong with Higgs? he wondered, carefully adding in thick eyebrows. The man appeared to be shaking with resentment as he went painstakingly through the routine operations necessary to organize the visit of a high-risk foreign delegation. Today it was advance preparations: choosing routes, sweeping an area clean and keeping it clean. Minute, dreary detail, all of it. Sanders yawned. The chalk clicked angrily across the board. But then, why shouldn’t the guy be pissed off? It was probably a demotion for him to be shunted into the classroom during the week of the biggest security operation of the decade. It certainly indicated that someone thought he wasn’t necessary—or maybe . . . Sanders considered the bristling mustache over tight lips, the dark eyes snapping in anger, and the penetrating, disgruntled voice. A weak, angry man? Maybe someone was trying to get him out from under foot before he screwed things up on them. For chrissake, stop trying to turn this into a cheap thriller. Higgs probably looks and sounds like that when he’s making love. He’s just got that kind of gloomy, weasel-like face.

  Suddenly Higgs was pulling down on the edge of a screen fastened to the wall in the front of the room, and the lights went out. A slide show. Under cover of the dark, Sanders’s thoughts drifted even further from the lecture. Gradually they began to cluster around the image of the slender, thin-faced woman he had eaten dinner with the night before. She had been right, the food at the Turkish restaurant was excellent, good enough to tempt him to go back another evening. If she’d consider it. He hadn’t been able to figure out if she enjoyed his company or had simply let herself be picked up on impulse. She had paid her half of the check, firmly, and accepted an offer of being walked back to her car, which was parked at the Conference Centre. Even though he was reeling with exhaustion, he had made a half-hearted attempt to prolong the evening. She had laughed and sent him home to bed, but not before writing down her telephone number on a slip of paper from a notebook in her jacket.

  Up on the screen ahead of him they flashed the last of a series of slides on the new and sophisticated component parts of homemade bombs. Finally, in a babble of conversation, the meeting broke up for lunch. Sanders reached into his pocket and found the piece of paper still sitting exactly where he had put it last night. He headed out of the room to look for a phone.

  Peter Rennsler let his eyes slip off the page of the book he was reading and over to the window. Far off on the ground, the patchwork pattern of the fields had emerged from the cloud cover: the bright green meadows, the pale new growth, the brown plowed earth. Civilization. He looked at his watch. They would be landing soon. He closed the book and considered it for a moment. It would give him an illusion of safety, perhaps, to have it with him, but the risk involved was too great. To have his cover destroyed because he was carrying a schoolboy’s historical outline on the Charlemagne period would be ridiculous. He sighed and slipped it down beside him, between the seat and the wall of the plane. He wouldn’t need it anyway. No one was going to expect a graduate student to do anything but listen in modest awe should he be unlucky enough to stumble into a serious discussion.

  He looked around at his fellow passengers for the first time since he had boarded the plane in Vienna. Every seat on the aircraft had been taken. He wondered if anyone else was heading for the conference he was registered at. One or two at most, he guessed. All the others crowded into the tourist section with him would be either genuine tourists or pounding toward the trade conference. There was a smell of the press about this lot.

  Certainly it had been an enormous stroke of luck that the International Society of Charlemagne Scholars had decided three years ago to hold one of its infrequent meetings in Ottawa during the third week in May. Looking like an ambitious, hungry, young academic was going to be considerably easier than trying to pass himself off as a workman or a reporter. And his credentials would be less carefully scrutinized, he suspected. He found himself automatically scanning the people around him. A head snapped around, attracted by his scrutiny, and a large bullheaded man was regarding him with sharp and suspicious eyes. The man stank of Security. Damn! He had to stop looking at people. It was better to pretend not to notice anyone. He closed his eyes and forced himself to relax, starting with his scalp, which was prickling with intimations of danger as they got closer and closer to Montreal. His passport was a work of art. He shouldn’t have any trouble with it, except that there had been too much publicity about forged Canadian travel documents recently, and the people at Passport Control were bound to be more suspicious than usual. He couldn’t afford to emit waves of nervous energy and put them on their guard. He allowed weariness to spread out from his slowly rising chest to his arms, his neck, his legs, and he dozed lightly.

  The woman seated next to him looked over and smiled. He looked so touchingly vulnerable as he slept, poor thing. Handsome, but tired and thin, his eyes sunken with fatigue. A poor student, studying too hard, in need of a mother or a pretty girl to look after him. She shook her head at her romantic notions and returned to the last chapter of her mystery novel.

  The plane was fifty minutes late. Peter Rennsler picked up his one small suitcase and forced himself to amble along after his temporary neighbor over to the control point.

  “How long ya been outta the country?” The voice was bored, the question mechanical.

  Rennsler’s soul danced with impatience, but his response was soft-spoken and long-winded. “Actually, I’m not coming back from a trip—I mean, I’m studying in Europe right now—I live there, temporarily, anyway. In Vienna,” he added. “Just here for a conference. It’s at Carleton University. And to see the family, of course.” He smiled and opened his suitcase. “Nothing to declare. Clothes for the five days, that’s all.” The suitcase was neatly packed, with a minimum of spare clothing. He closed it up and glanced at his watch. He had three minutes to catch the bus that would take him to downtown Ottawa in time for the rendezvous. He
grabbed his suitcase and headed off, fast.

  “Mr. Rennsler,” called one of the uniformed RCMP officers who was standing by the control point. “Just a minute.”

  For a second he tensed, ready to make a run for it past Security and over to the bus. Poor idea. Be stopped dead and turned around. “Yes?” he said, unable to control the sweat beading on his forehead and gathering between his shoulder blades.

  “You left your passport.” The officer shook his head. “That’s how people lose them, you know. You should be more careful.”

  Peter nodded, his throat too dry for an answer, and slipped the document into his inside breast pocket.

  At 4:55, Sanders was standing on the wide expanse of lawn in front of the Supreme Court with his legs planted on either side of an aluminum camera case, using his six feet three inches to shield the tripod and Harriet from the streams of pedestrian traffic. “Dammit,” she said, as someone jostled her while she attached the camera to the tripod. “If this keeps up I’ll have to wait until Sunday to get this shot. I’m going to be stuck in the bloody city until August if I can’t work during the week.” Sanders tried to look sympathetic. “I need a shot of the court and then the Justice Building,” she had said when they arrived. “Shouldn’t take too long. Just keep people from stepping on me, and don’t let anyone walk off with my equipment.” He hadn’t realized how difficult it was going to be to fend off the curious and steer away those who walk without looking ahead of them.

  “Yes, what kind of camera is it?” he asked, after the third inquisitive camera buff had asked her the same question and had received a vague stare in response.

  “Mmm, what did you say?” she muttered, reaching down and picking out a lens from the collection in the aluminum case. “Oh, it’s an Olympus OM-3 with a twenty-four-millimeter shift lens, wide angle. That means I can adjust the position of the lens in relation to the camera. So it remains parallel to the thing you’re doing,” she said, with a vague wave in the direction of the building ahead of them, “and you don’t get line distortion.”