“So, we are eating horny oysters? It doesn’t seem fair to them, does it.”
***
During the main course, they got back to business.
“How long will it take you to put together the particulars for me?”
“So, you will do it.”
“You were serious about the extra zero?”
“Yes, 250,000 Euros. This will be a very risky proposition, Vendela.”
“Have you read any of Quimper’s books?”
“No.”
“Well, I have. I keep some in the library for my illiterate American guests. And, of course, I read the Arhaut book before I went over. Terrible. This job will be like doing a public service. Besides, the money comes at an opportune time. My new hobby is turning out to be quite expensive.”
“Ah, yes. The scuba diving. How is it going?”
Mendelsohn knew that Noss craved excitement. She was already an accomplished skydiver, and had climbed some of the highest peaks in the Alps.
“I am just beginning. Just ordered the equipment, spear guns and the like. But the real expense is the pool. I am putting one in as part of some renovation work I am doing on my villa.”
Her dining companion feigned horror.
“Italian contractors? Are you insane? Talk about risk!”
“The local chief of police and I fuck occasionally. His wife looks like a carriage horse. He will make sure things are done properly.”
“The chief of police?”
Noss laughed at his consternation.
“Yes. And the mayor. And the editor of the weekly paper. The pillow talk is part of my security system. I know everything that happens in my town, almost before it happens. I’m seriously considering adding the local priest to my stable. He hears things, too.”
That brought Mendelsohn up short.
“What about the seal of the confessional?”
“Oh, please,” Noss said dismissively. “We have a saying in Germany. ‘When the cock stands up, the brain sits down.’ Seal of the confessional, indeed.”
Mendelsohn laughed. She was unique.
“You won’t be able to farm this contract out to some Slavic imbecile, my dear. Quimper’s security will have been enhanced. I will get you as much information as I can, but there is a lot of uncertainty.”
“I will be careful,” she said. “And I plan on the personal touch. I understand Quimper fancies himself a ladies’ man.”
“Three wives, and counting. Unattached now. There is one other thing. Quite distasteful.”
“Yes.”
“You must still convince everyone that the incident is related to the insult to Islam. Whatever you do, it must be spectacular. Even more so than a skewer in the throat.”
“I suppose a spear gun won’t do.”
“You are teasing, I think. But no. I don’t think too many Muslim fanatics have access to spear guns. It’s not exactly the weapon of choice in the desert. Skewers, maybe, but not spear guns.”
“Pity. I could use the practice.”
“My love, it must be something gruesome. Something that can’t be buried in the media.”
“I will come up with something,” Vendela Noss said.
CHAPTER 7 – HARVEY CEDARS
The Killerfest conference, which would be held over four days in Manhattan’s newest hotel, the Bascombe, was set for the last week of the month. Scarne had ample time to prepare, but he wanted to set the parameters for working with the company Sebastian Quimper hired to protect him. Its name was Safeguard Security Inc., located in Falls Church, Virginia. Its proximity to Washington, D.C., all but ensured Government ties.
Scarne asked Evelyn Warr to do some research on the company.
“Well, you will be greatly relieved that it doesn’t use “SS” initials anywhere in its marketing materials,” she said, handing him a folder with the information she had gathered in just under an hour. “Let me know if you want me to dig deeper.”
After Evelyn went back to her desk, Scarne started reading and quickly knew he didn’t need anything else. The Internet was a wonderful resource, but his office manager’s ability to gather relevant information quickly was still stunning. The fact that she was also stunning made for an even better working relationship. He often wondered if that would change if they were ever between lovers at the same time. He even mentioned that thought to Evelyn once when they shared a drink at a nearby pub.
“I’m occasionally between relationships,” she had said. “You on the other hand are frequently among relationships. There is a difference, and not only grammatically.”
Scarne began reading the material in the folder. Safeguard’s employees appeared to be a professional bunch, many, as he had guessed, ex-military. The company’s senior management included a couple of retired Army and Marine Corps generals, which didn’t impress Scarne. They could be window dressing. More impressive were some of the middle management executives, including men and women who had extensive F.B.I. and Secret Service experience. That bode well for the caliber of the more junior ground troops, since their immediate superiors probably hired people cut from similar cloth. The corporate materials listed no “satisfied customers,” but Scarne made no judgment. A good security outfit would be secretive. But the descriptions of the intelligence and protective services that Safeguard offered was comprehensive.
Still, Scarne called Richard Condon.
“What now?”
“Sorry, I must have hit the wrong speed dial. I was trying to reach the Police Commissioner of the City of New York. We’re old friends. I occasionally help him out when he gets overwhelmed.”
The Police Commissioner laughed.
“Sorry. How are you Jake? In fact, I am a bit overwhelmed today.”
“I can be there in 10 minutes to straighten everything out for you. Five minutes if you pay for a cab.”
“I said overwhelmed, not desperate. So, what’s up?”
“You ever hear of an outfit called Safeguard Security?”
“The one in Falls Church?”
There wasn’t much related to police work that got by Dick Condon.
“That’s the one. Any opinion?”
“They recruiting you?”
“No.”
“More’s the pity. I like the thought of you in another state. So, why the inquiry?”
Condon came up as a street cop. Asking questions was in his DNA. Scarne told him about Quimper.
“Yeah. We know about the threats. And the guy who got killed. We’re going to keep an eye on the hotel. Some extra cars in the neighborhood, some plainclothes roaming around. But nothing too obvious. The conference coordinators don’t want to scare away the crowds. As for Safeguard, they’re pretty solid. Beltway heavy with ex-Feds. But they did recruit a couple of good cops away from us. And some of our retired guys wound up there. Quimper probably couldn’t have done better.”
“Until me, of course.”
“They must be averaging down. Keep me in the loop.”
Scarne next asked Evelyn to set up a meeting in Washington with the Safeguard team handling Quimper’s security detail for the conference.
***
Scarne drove down to New Jersey’s Long Beach Island to see how Dudley Mack was faring with the rebuilding of his vacation home. It was the first really warm day in June and he put the top down on his lovingly restored 1974 MGB roadster.
Like many of the structures along the beach front in Harvey Cedars the Mack dwelling had been devastated by Superstorm Sandy the previous October. Scarne had an emotional attachment to the house, where he had spent many a summer, and where, more recently, he recuperated, both mentally and physically, from trauma suffered during previous cases. L.B.I., as it is universally known, is a barrier island, and although it avoided a direct hit from Sandy the storm surge was strong enough to cut the island in two in several places. Scarne had already made several trips to help with the cleanup of the Mack home and others.
Much of the wreckage from t
he devastation Scarne saw in the immediate aftermath of the storm had been removed, and it appeared that many businesses were up and running for the approaching summer season. But there were still swaths of vacant lots where homes and stores had been washed into the bay. A couple of his favorite restaurants appeared to be gone. Despite its heroic comeback, L.B.I. was still wounded.
He found Dudley Mack deep in conversation with one of the contractors working on the new house, which was now on massive stilts. Judging by the sweat stains on his shirt and the dirt on his hands, Mack had been working as hard as anyone. Huge trucks were dumping sand on a beach that had been drastically narrowed by the storm surge. A barge just offshore was dredging more sand from the ocean floor for later relocation all along the island.
“Didn’t expect to see you for a while, Jake,” Mack said. “Thought you had a hot client.”
“I’m on my way to D.C. Wanted to stop by to see how it’s going. The beach looks like it’s coming back.”
“Yeah, slow but sure. We were in better shape than most because of the jetties.”
The stretch of beach front on which the Mack house sat was bordered by two long rock jetties that helped the area retain at least some sand. They also provided ideal habitat for striped bass, many of which eventually ended up on Mack’s dinner table.
“Come on, let’s get some lunch,” Mack said. He turned to the contractor and peeled off some bills from a roll in his pocket. “Tell everyone to take a break. There’s a deli down the street. Buy them anything they want.”
He grabbed Scarne’s arm.
“You drive. Bobo has the car.”
“Where is he?”
The hulking Bobo Sambucca was Mack’s, friend, driver and frequent bodyguard.
“I sent him down to A.C. to talk to some guys.”
Scarne knew that if Bobo was in Atlantic City, the guys he was talking to probably owed Mack money. But not for long.
“Oh, Jesus, I forgot you still drive this green teacup,” Mack said when they got to Scarne’s car.
“British Racing Green teacup, if you don’t mind,” Scarne said. “Paint job cost a bloody fortune.”
The truth was, Scarne had been thinking about getting a new car. He loved the nimble two-seater but finding parts for it was becoming more difficult. He also suspected he was nearing that point in his life where practicality and dignity trumped nostalgia. That didn’t make him particularly happy. But since the drive to D.C. might be the MGB’s last hurrah, he was determined to enjoy it.
“You’re even talking like a Limey. Get a grip.”
Mack groaned as he gingerly squirmed into the passenger seat.
“We’re getting too old for this, Cochise. Damn, it’s been a while since I hefted lumber. I wish my dick was as stiff as my back is right now.”
***
“You have to protect Sebastian Quimper from Islamic terrorists?”
Scarne and Mack were sitting in a booth in Kubel’s, the venerable tavern near Barnegat Light on the north end of Long Beach Island. Kubel’s, reportedly the inspiration for the seafarer’s tavern in the movie, The Perfect Storm, had survived Sandy basically intact. They were sharing a pitcher of beer and a bucket of steamers.
“Just for the conference.”
Mack shook his head.
“How do you get these cases? Put an ad in the paper saying you want to get blown up?”
“I doubt if it will come to that. There will be plenty of security. In fact, that’s why I’m going to D.C.”
Scarne told him about Safeguard Security.
“Cowboys,” Mack said. “Make sure a couple of them are standing between you and the suicide bomber. I can’t believe you’re working for Randolph Shields. He wanted your head on a platter not too long ago.”
“Strictly business. Besides, he listens to Emma.”
“And you saved her life.”
“That helped.”
“Tell me about Quimper. What kind of guy is he?”
Scarne told him about the meeting at the author’s house.
“From Here to Tehranity? You must be joking.”
“Wish I was.”
“And he porked his assistant in the middle of the meeting?”
“Apparently.”
“Even I’ve never done that.”
“I’m so proud.”
Their main course arrived. It was the start of the bluefish season in the northeast and they had both ordered the “catch of the day,” broiled. Mack and Scarne had been friends a long time and at various times had saved each other’s lives, but one of the reasons Mack said he kept Scarne around was because he also liked bluefish, an acquired taste that can be oily in larger specimens. It was early in the bluefish runs, so the juvenile one-pounders they were served hadn’t yet gorged on the schools of menhaden that sometimes colored their flesh. They were delicious and the men clinked their beer mugs in appreciation.
“I read a couple of Quimper’s books,” Mack said. “Want to know what I think? If they really want to fuck up this country, the towel heads should make sure nothing ever happens to him.”
That was the last of the literary discussion. They spent the rest of the meal comparing the women they had been involved with during their college days in Providence. It was a conversation dominated by Mack, who claimed to have majored in “intercourse, with a minor in blow jobs.”
After lunch, Scarne drove his friend back to Harvey Cedars, listening happily to more complaints about the MGB’s cramped interior and unyielding suspension, designed, Mack said, “by somebody with an investment in chiropractic clinics.”
They found Bobo having lunch with some of the workers.
“How’d it go,” Mack asked.
“They weren’t thrilled,” Bobo replied, giving Scarne a bear hug, “but nobody died. And it won’t happen again.”
After bidding his friends goodbye, Scarne headed to Washington. He made good time and was in his hotel, an Embassy Suites in Crystal City, by 7 P.M. After a couple of bourbons and a decent steak in the hotel’s grill room, he watched a Nationals game in his room, falling asleep in the sixth inning during a pitching change.
CHAPTER 8 – SAFEGUARD SECURITY
From Crystal City, it was a 15-minute drive out Arlington Boulevard to the Safeguard Security headquarters on Lee Highway. The building itself was a nondescript three-story brick and glass structure that resembled a middle school. Upon entering, Scarne was greeted by a single receptionist at a small desk in the lobby. He was expected, and the schoolmarmish woman at the desk efficiently checked his identification, entered his arrival in a computer log and gave him a clip-on “Visitor” tag. With minimal directions, he was allowed to find the department where his meeting was scheduled on his own. There was no palm or retina scanning, cavity search or blindfolding involved. That bode well for his visit. In Scarne’s previous visits to Beltway or near-Beltway security firms, he often found them trying to impress clients and visitors by out-spooking the C.I.A.
Scarne’s 10 A.M. meeting was with a man named William Albracht, who occupied a small corner office on the third floor. They had spoken on the phone. Albracht rose to shake hands when Scarne entered. He was a big man, broad across the chest, with a wide, flat face, jutting jaw and white hair being encroached by his forehead. Nose slightly bent. Probably college football. Scarne, who played rugby at Providence College and also had his nose get in the way of various forearms and knees, felt a kinship. This was a tough, capable man.
“Pull up a chair, Mr. Scarne. Coffee?”
“Sure. Black.”
“Be right back.”
The man got his own coffee. Another good sign, in Scarne’s book. He looked around the office. Solid, but not over-the-top, furniture. Family photos of a pretty dark-haired woman and a couple of high-school-aged kids on the desk. Another photo on the window ledge of four soldiers with their arms around each other, Albracht, much taller than the others, on one end. On the wall behind the desk, flanked by two Holiday Inn-quali
ty paintings, was a team photo of the Holy Cross football team. Scarne couldn’t make out Albracht.
“Here you go,” Albracht said when he came back, putting a steaming mug in front of his guest. The mug said “United States Secret Service.” He took a sip of his own coffee from a similar mug and looked surprised.
“Not bad,” he said. “Usually our coffee can peel paint.” He smiled. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“As I said on the phone, Randolph Shields hired me to protect Sebastian Quimper during the Killerfest writers’ conference in New York. Quimper isn’t happy about that, so it’s shaping up to be a hair ball of an assignment. I’m not interested in it becoming more complicated than it is so I thought I’d come down and figure out how we can work together. I’m also not interested in stepping on anyone’s toes, or usurping anyone’s prerogatives. It’s Safeguard’s show. But I’d like to know who the players are on your side, so we don’t shoot each other.”
Albracht held up his hand.
“You’re preaching to the choir, my friend. I personally will take all the help I can get on this one. Sebastian can be a royal pain in the ass. He wants to be safe, but he also wants freedom of action where the ladies are concerned. There will apparently be good hunting at the conference in that regard, with all the literary agents and wannabee writers who want to, how shall I put it, suck up to him. We’ve done this before with him, although not with such a threat hanging over his head.”
“Do you think it’s credible.”
“Somebody killed Arhaut.”
“How many people on your side?”
“In addition to a team leader, five.”
“That’s you?”
“No. Desk duty on this one. We decided to go with a woman. Thought she might blend in better, since the majority of attendees are women. You’ll meet her in a minute. She’s former Secret Service, like me. Recruited her myself. I have to warn you she may have a bit of a chip on her shoulder about you, since you are someone who doesn’t have to report to her. But she’s a pro. I don’t envision any major problems.”
Scarne reserved judgment on that.
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