He opened a door for her. “We still have an appointment with Herr Caske. Ron Durso can wait until that’s over.” He got behind the wheel.
They followed the lakefront past stately nineteenth-century buildings fronting the harbor. The umbrella-shaped trees were bare of leaves. The mist was changing to snow.
He kept an eye on the rearview mirror; the line of headlights behind held nothing out of the ordinary.
“Are you nervous?” Muncie asked. “I am.”
He ignored her question, glancing at the luminous dial on his watch. “We should get there in about five minutes,” he said.
“I shouldn’t have let you talk me into this,” she said. She straightened her hem over a pretty knee. “I don’t think Mr. Caske is going to be overjoyed. Especially since you asked him for help before and he told you no.”
They rode in silence. Durell was considering what, to do if Caske refused to help him this time. He felt he couldn’t let it go at that. He had the Q Clearance, which meant he could take any measures he deemed necessary. Of course, if he got caught breaking the law, he’d have to pay for it—K Section would disown him.
On the other hand, if he failed to stop Plettner, or whoever had killed the people on the Sun Rover . . .
He tried not to think of the consequences.
City lights had fallen behind.
The snow was a white dust slanting across the headlight beams.
Durso or Caske—or both—could be allied with the mysterious Plettner, he decided. Durso’s willingness to cooperate could merely have been a cover for his scheming. Indeed, it must have been: Who else could have taken the picture and hired the assassin?
The only other possibility didn’t necessarily involve Dr. Plettner, if Caske were that scared of losing industrial secrets that might cost him a great deal to replace.
Would Caske murder to keep his star scientist’s work a company secret?
Muncie’s voice brought Durell back. She sat primly, looking straight ahead, and she spoke with obvious difficulty. “I’m . . . I’m embarrassed about last night,” she said.
He made no reply.
“Maybe we got too close too fast. I feel ... I know I should love Peter. . . .”
“It isn’t for me to judge,” he said. “Do you?”
“I’m going to try.” She turned to him. “People do things they shouldn’t when their ship is sinking, or, you know, it’s the end of the world.”
“Do they?” His world seemed to be ending so often he’d forgotten it was out of the ordinary.
“Be serious,” she said. Her eyes pleaded for his understanding.
“I admire your honesty,” he told her.
Caske’s headquarters were housed in a seventeenth-century stone chalet nestled amid formal gardens against a mountain backdrop. It loomed over the shore of the lake.
A pair of Caske minions met them at the door. They were strapping mountaineer types in business suits. One wore his hair in a crewcut and was named Zinger; his companion, a man with a soldier’s stolid, empty face, was Dumid. Durell never heard their first names. They escorted him and Muncie through the antique-furnished halls of the mansion. Despite the hour employees came and went amid Bruges tapestries and paintings by Tintoretto, Titian, and Rubens.
Bald-headed Caske sat at an enormous desk beside a fireplace of baronial proportions. Its mantel was carved with coats of arms.
The sense of power here was tangible, much more so than in Caske’s relatively modest Washington office. Durell could only dimly imagine the extent of the shock waves should Caske’s financial empire collapse.
But the fear of such a catastrophe was on the man’s bearded face, as Caske’s hard eyes lit in recognition of Durell. He looked fevered, fretful . . . there was something of the wounded bull in him . . . something of the cornered beast.
Muncie started to speak, but he brushed her aside, addressing Durell. “I didn't expect you here, sir. Muncie, my dear, what’s the meaning of this?”
“I brought him as a friend, Mr. Caske. He wants to help me find Peter,” she told him.
“You little fool! Get out! Get out, both of you!” He was trembling with rage.
“Disappointed that I’m still alive?” Durell said. “I’m not going anywhere—not until we’ve talked.”
“How dare you?” Caske took a menacing step toward him. “I have spoken with Mr. Ronald Durso today—”
“I’ll bet you have—”
“And he informed me of your lawless insistence on appropriating our property—and exactly what was involved in the wanton destruction of Dr. Plettner’s laboratory. You’ll pay for that!”
Durell kept his voice calm. “My government stands ready to make good your loss—dishes get broken in an emergency. That’s what this is, but I don’t seem able to make you understand.”
“An emergency? You talk as if I have the key to save the world.” His whiskered jaw jutted belligerently.
“Maybe you do.”
Caske paused, as if to assimilate this. “Then buy it from me—if the emergency is so great.”
Durell regarded the cunning eyes with a concealed distaste. “It doesn’t hurt to talk,” he said. “Send your men out.”
“They’re mindless robots. I assure you, they’ll repeat nothing.”
“Maybe that comforts you, Mr. Caske, but I don’t believe such a creature walks on two legs. If we’re going to talk seriously, it’ll have to be in confidence.”
Caske hesitated a moment longer. “What about Mrs. Plettner?”
“She goes out, too.” Durell said.
“Very well. Zinger, Dumid!” Caske snapped his fingers and pointed toward the door. They exited silently. Muncie went after them, giving Durell an uncertain look Durell hadn’t anticipated playing on Caske’s greed. Things had a way of unfolding to one’s advantage, provided one was quick enough to see it.
“How much?” Caske asked. He remained standing, his tone combative. “You must realize that I’ve invested a great deal of money in Dr. Plettner, and I have a right to expect a profit from his efforts.”
“You have a right to a profit,” Durell said. He glanced about the room. French doors led into a garden. “How much are you asking? Not that we’ll necessarily bail you out of bankruptcy."
“Bankruptcy! I forbid the use of that word regarding my affairs, sir! No enterprise of mine will ever go bankrupt. Do you understand?” His big frame bent angrily toward Durell. There was a pause. “Seven hundred million dollars!”
Even though Durell was merely playing a game, the amount jolted him. The government may as well pay the ransom.
“I know the United States wants the material,” Caske ranted. “Mr. Durso told me what the variant coli did to your thieving colleague and the crew of the submarine.” His voice turned cunning and his eyes as cold as the north waif of an alpine peak. “Your government knows it has in the variant coli the potential for a superior biological weapon. It also should know that modem weapons are extremely expensive, especially in their development.”
Something in Caske’s tone made Durell aware of a horrible new threat. “And if we don’t buy. . . ?” he questioned.
“Isn’t it conceivable that others will?” Caske replied coyly.
That made up Durell’s mind: Caske couldn’t be reasoned with. What’s more, he’d gone from simply refusing to help to, in a sense, doubling the threat the U.S. already faced.
He had to be dealt with immediately.
Plettner’s files had to be taken from him—-and Durell had already decided on a way to accomplish that.
“Get your coat,” he ordered. “You’re coming with me.”
Caske looked puzzled. “To meet your superiors? Bring them here.”
Durell drew his revolver, nerves taut with the knowledge that a lot of help for Caske was just beyond the door. Getting him away might not be easy. “You’re a clear danger to humanity,” he snarled. “I’d consider killing you for pleasure. So just do as I say and don�
�t ask questions.”
Caske’s mouth worked with soundless anger as he withdrew his coat from a closet.
Everything seemed to be under control—until Caske threw himself on the floor and yelled, “Help! Help me!”
Chapter 11
Durell wasn’t worried about Bernhard Caske. Zinger and Dumid were the problem—-they'd come storming through the door any second. Ignoring the sprawled industrialist, he lunged to head them off.
The crewcut Zinger was first, slamming the door back into the wall as he burst in, pawing for his gun.
Beating him by a second, Durell crashed the butt of his revolver into the angle at the man’s thick neck and shoulder. Zinger fell headlong, smashing down like a shot buffalo, and Dumid charged in behind him. flailing for Durell with both hands. In a move that was cool and quick Durell caught an arm and cartwheeled him into a wall of books.
Dumid hit the floor, leather-bound volumes cascading around him. He scrambled up, but Durell kicked him in the side of the head, and he sank back and lay still.
“What are you doing!”
His eyes found Muncie rushing in, shocked and angry.
Caske still lay on the floor, hands clasped over his bald head. “He’s a madman!” he roared.
“On your feet.” Durell toed him. “Hurry.”
The man did as he was told, glancing unhappily at his fallen bodyguards. Muncie closed the door abruptly, suddenly aware of how this would look to anyone passing by.
“You haven’t a chance of getting away with this,” Caske declared.
“So far, so good,” Durell replied.
Muncie’s face was grim. “You’ve done it now,” she said.
“Get your coat.”
“Don’t help him, I’m warning you,” Caske threatened.
“Out the french doors,” Durell told him. To Muncie: “You know the way to the car?”
“I think I can find it.” She seemed in a daze.
He pushed Caske ahead. “Move!”
Caske went out. “You’ll spend the rest of your days in jail,” he snarled.
On the patio the air was cold; snow fell through light that shone from the windows of the building. Beyond floated a liquid darkness. Muncie led, then Caske; Durell brought up the rear, his gun aimed at the man’s back. A wet glow shone from the skin of Caske’s bald head.
The air smelled clean. Cars made a rushing sound along the invisible highway.
Durell glanced back, and saw nothing to indicate that an alarm had been sounded. He hoped to depart peacefully; his quarrel was with Caske, not his employees.
He didn’t care to think what might happen to him if he failed now. Life in jail—even a Swiss jail—wasn’t pleasant to contemplate.
“Muncie?” he called, seeing the snow-streaked lighting of the parking lot. “Go bring the car here. The less we promenade Mr. Caske, the better.”
“My people will find you,” Caske said, glowering.
“Why not the police? Or can’t your operations stand the scrutiny?” Durell watched Muncie go, his gun held casually.
“I have no fear of the police. Nor do I need them, Herr Durell. You’ll see.”
Durell glanced over his shoulder: still no pursuit. He couldn’t expect Zinger and Dumid to stay out cold all night. Where was Muncie? He peered past Caske, whose black overcoat was becoming encrusted with snow. What if she’d turned on him? What if she had been the one who took those photos on the island? If so, the question was why. He had no answer— but there wasn’t always time for neat answers.
Durell’s face was impassive, but his nerves vibrated like shrouds in a rising gale. His concern went beyond his own safety. Caske had as much as said he’d sell Plettner’s work to the highest bidder, which made him no better than the monster responsible for the Sun Rover.
Waiting, he rubbed the stubble that had sprouted on his chin since he had arrived in Switzerland.
He read the luminous markings on the dial of his watch.
He’d give her another sixty seconds. He’d steal a car if he had to. He dared not wait any longer.
She could’ve gone to the police, maybe alerted the security guard.
The alarm might be spreading at this very moment. . . .
“Sam?”
She was nearby. He made no reply. Caske watched him quizzically, then rolled his eyes in the direction from which she had spoken. Durell kept his gun on Caske and peered carefully around the corner of the building.
“Sam? Where are you?”
She was closer now. He recognized the movement of a dim figure, snow slanting across his vision. She seemed to be alone.
“Over here,” he called in a low voice.
“I thought I’d lost you in this snow.” She came up puffing, her cheeks wet and frosty. “I got the car.”
“You go first.” He trusted no one completely.
She hesitated a fraction, reading his thoughts, he guessed. “Sure,” she said.
They went down a slope of lawn. White puffs swirled from their mouths. The car was running, lights off, windshield wipers slapping and sliding. There was no other sound in the large parking lot. A strong breeze came across, stinging Durell’s ears. ‘‘Get in." he told Caske, indicating the front passenger door.
“I—”
“Shut up, unless you want to chew a handkerchief,” Durell snapped. Sullenly, Caske slid into the car. Durell turned to Muncie. He didn’t want to leave her; she might still be helpful. But she’d said she wanted out, and now was as good a time as any. “You can stay,” he told her.
“I’m in a bit deep to quit now, aren’t I?”
“You could say I forced you.”
“You think the police would swallow that?”
“It’s for you to decide.”
“Some decision.” She sounded frustrated, but strangely cheerful. “You’re stuck with me. I didn’t know you were going to kidnap the man. Frankly, it was great to see Caske lying on the floor scared out of his gourd—I’d go to the scaffold for that.”
“Don’t blame me later,” he said. “You sit in the back.”
He got behind the wheel, one eye on Caske, and drove north on Route One, which followed the shore of Lake Leman toward Versoix. Caske sat in tight-lipped indignation. The headlamp beams swarmed with zipping snowflakes; the passage of oncoming cars sent snowdust swirling in clouds.
When he had driven some miles, Durell parked at a roadside phone booth and dialed the number of Nuri Borodin at his little fifteenth-century antique shop near the Grand Rue in old Geneva.
“My God, what have you done!” Nuri lamented when Durell told him he’d kidnaped Caske.
“He had to be neutralized. I need someplace to stash him for awhile,” Durell said.
“Are you sure about this, Cajun?”
“My responsibility,” Durell replied.
Nuri said, “We do have access to a monastery, and it’s not far from where you are.”
“Where is it?”
“Just beyond Versoix, on the river.” Nuri gave him directions.
Durell said: “Can you meet me? I need you to arrange a watch on Caske.”
“As you wish.” Nuri was as cool as the Alpine night.
“I’m on my way then.”
“It’s on your head, Cajun.”
Durell hung up thinking that Nuri’s record was outstanding, but he was no longer bold. Retirement was on his mind. Durell made a mental note to have him rotated to the States; he could spend the last three years of his career in well-deserved safety and comfort—and not get in the way of those who had to take risks to do their jobs.
After all, Nuri was a rare specimen—most K Section agents quit before their thirty-fifth birthday, or were killed. . . .
Durell returned to the car, ignoring Caske’s menacing looks, and drove into the snow-muffled village of Versoix. Finding the river road, he followed it through a tilted valley, heading away from the lake. The heater whirred. There was no traffic. They were a moving island in an ins
ubstantial world of darkness. The scent of Muncie’s perfume was more real than the nothingness beyond the headlights. She wore a light, fresh scent that reminded him of meadow flowers.
He wondered about the wisdom of bringing her. It was no longer easy to justify on the basis that she might lead him to her husband—they’d already been to every one of Plettner’s haunts. Still, there was the long-shot hope that something would jar a memory.
Her bittersweet beauty, the taste of her lips might have been reason enough for most men to keep her with them.
Durell considered women—when he thought of them at all—as dangerous distractions.
A rough wooden sign between stone columns told him he’d arrived at the monastery of the Order of St. Michael. There was a winding drive, potholed and crowded with untrimmed shrubbery, that led through a park studded with trees. It ended at a forbidding stone wall. A wooden gate bound with iron marked the entrance to the monastery. Durell pulled a bell cord, and a door opened in the gate.
“You are M’sieur Durell?” a hooded monk asked.
“Ouí.”
“I’ll show you where to take your guest.” The shadow under the hood was darker than the night; the voice dry and rasping. There was a rattling of keys and the big gate opened. Durell heard the monk call to bring the car through.
They parked on cobblestones. Caske got out stiffly, eyes darting. Muncie, seeming fearful, took Durell’s arm, pulling closer as they followed behind Caske and the monk.
Over his shoulder, the monk told them, “I’m Brother Maurice. There are only ten of our order left. Trust none of the others. If asked, you are American tourists—volunteer nothing.”
The structure looked simple of line, but enormous. Only three of perhaps fifty windows showed lights. Fallen slates and rotten splinters of wood from the eaves mingled underfoot. Time and weather had had their way with the place for years. A can rattled and something scurried across the courtyard, just out of sight. Muncie’s grip tightened on Durell.
Indoors, the air was chill and smelled of mildew.
Brother Maurice lit a kerosene lantern and led them up stairs that had been hollowed by countless pious feet.
They saw no one.
Assignment- Death Ship Page 9