His shoes crunched angrily on the footpath through the snow. He stepped crabwise, leading his body with his right shoulder as though he were being pulled along by the cigar in his mouth.
He walked in silence for a few moments in feigned patience, with Brewer at his side. At last he threw down his cigar and asked again, “What are we doing walking around in this freezing cold park?”
“We’re here to talk,” Brewer replied.
“Well, then, talk. You called this meeting.” Limoges pulled up his coat collar.
“Your limousine is bugged.”
Limoges stopped. He placed his hands over his kidneys, showing his frog’s belly, and stared with disbelief at Brewer’s face. Then he turned and looked back at his limousine. “Are you saying that there’s a tape recorder in my car?”
“Yes.”
“Recording all my conversations?”
“And all your phone calls.”
Limoges slowly rubbed his nose. Through the frozen snowbank beside him the leafless branch of a shrub stuck up like the skeletal hand of a drowned man in a farewell salute.
“Then you are saying that Moscow has a pipeline into my car. That I’m a security risk.” He pointed a finger at Brewer’s face. “You’d better be able to make that stick or I’m going to come after you full bore.” He took Brewer’s elbow. “Show me. Right now.” He tried to walk Brewer back to the limousine.
Brewer withdrew his elbow. “After you,” he said. Crows flew overhead, journeying to their roosts in the twilight.
Limoges stomped angrily toward his car, between the snowbanks, under the bare branches, under the gray winter sky, past the summer benches. In the still air he paused to look back at Brewer and to beckon him with a flapping hand. “Come on. Come on.” Then he walked on again. “God help you if you’re wrong.”
As Limoges approached his limousine, Nevans got out and got into the escort car. Limoges followed him to the escort car and spoke into the driver’s window. Then he watched the escort car drive away with Nevans in the backseat.
“Come here,” he said to Brewer, hauling out a ring of keys on a long key chain. He unlocked the trunk of the limousine and pointed at the boxes of electronic gear. “This stuff could pick up a mouse fart a half mile away. Every anti-eavesdropping device known to man. There is no way in the world that my chauffeur or anyone else could slip a tape recorder into this car. But help yourself, Brewer. You’ve got fifteen minutes before they come back.”
He watched Brewer walk to the driver’s door and slip into the seat behind the steering wheel. Limoges clambered into the rear compartment of the limousine and fell back in the seat, his overcoat flung open, his chest panting, happy to be in the warmth. As he pulled another cigar from his leather pouch, his thick lenses magnified the anger in his eyes.
“God help us all if this security system has been penetrated,” he said.
Brewer pushed the play button of the tape deck.
A moment later Limoges’s recorded voice said, “God help us all if this security system has been penetrated.”
“Oh Christ!” Limoges said.
Brewer pushed the eject button. When the tape cassette came out, he reached his fingers into the lip of the deck. With two fingers like tweezers he plucked the flat metal piece from the deck.
Limoges watched with a face becoming empurpled with choking rage. He leaned forward to study Brewer’s upheld hand. His agonized eyes studied the thin metal piece. Brewer held his finger to his lips for silence. He returned the metal strip to the tape deck then pushed the cassette back in. He signaled Limoges to step outside again.
Limoges stared at Brewer. “How did you know that was in there?” he demanded. He buttoned his overcoat and pulled up the collar, pacing the length of the limousine, making a mental inventory of the many conversations that had taken place inside. “Oh, my God.” He walked completely around the vehicle, bent, his head down, hands plunged into his coat pockets. “Oh, my God.”
He stopped at Brewer’s side. “Okay, Brewer. Maybe you’d better start at the beginning.”
Overhead, so silently, crows flew and settled on the sycamore branches. History’s witnesses come to witness.
Brewer held out the earphones to Limoges. “Listen,” he said. Then he pushed the play button on the portable tape deck in his hand. He hung the shoulder strap over Limoges’s head and let the unit dangle on Limoges’s ample belly.
“Who is this?” Limoges asked.
“Just listen,” Brewer said.
Limoges listened. “My God,” he said at one point. “It’s Nevans!” He strode up and down, puffing great clouds of cigar smoke that hung unmoving in the still air. “Like hell!” he said at another point. At last he yanked the phones off his ears. “Who is that other voice?” he demanded.
“Mr. X,” Brewer replied.
Limoges stared at him. “And what is his name?”
“Gogol,” Brewer said. “Emil Gogol.”
“And where will I find Emil Gogol?” Limoges said with icy anger.
“In Switzerland, under the name of Eric Marten.”
Limoges pressed the portable tape deck into Brewer’s hands and walked back toward his limousine, puffing cigar smoke.
“Would you like his picture?” Brewer called.
Limoges circled back and held out his hand.
“Hurry up,” he said, turning his back to the wind. “My hands and feet are freezing.”
Brewer handed him an envelope with the photographs of Eric Marten. Limoges turned and walked away once more. As he watched Limoges’s retreating figure, hunched against the cold, Brewer knew exactly what the man was going to do.
“Judge, jury, executioner,” he said. “God.”
Part Seven
Chapter 39
The man parked his car and, with a pair of binoculars, walked out on a small promontory to gaze up at the Swiss mountain range that confronted him. As he studied the mantle of deep snow, he felt the immensity of terrain and the relentless cold that pressed against him. He zipped up his parka.
Only one road was kept open in the winter through the mountains. The others—the higher ones—were all closed until spring. And the open road—a steep switchback—was the one Gogol used on his frequent trips between his estate and Zurich.
From the promontory the man looked through his binoculars to his left at the series of eight hairpin turns where the road switched back and forth steeply down the mountainside. Firing distance less than a hundred yards.
On either the third or fifth turn—the two steepest—a rifle shot could catch Gogol’s left front tire at the moment of maximum stress and deformation. A single shot then would cause the tire to explode, the left side of the car to drop, the car to roll over and tumble down the steep-sided mountain: an accidental death caused by a blowout at high speed on a curve. But the shot would be successful only if he made the correct allowance for the constant mountain wind; only if sun glare on the snow didn’t affect his visibility; and only if he hit the tire at the right moment in the curve. It was not a simple assignment. In fact, it would be the most difficult shot he had ever made. But with the right weapon he could do it.
He got his camera from his car and took a number of photographs with a telephoto lens. Then he returned to his car and drove toward Germany.
“It’s a fine piece,” the colonel said, pointing at the rifle on the gun bench between them. “A modified Russian Dragunov. It’s equipped with the Kalashnikov action and a new Ultra-Simplex telescopic sight. It has a barrel length of sixty-one centimeters. Out in the open, with a likely strong wind, I particularly like that, and I like the weight of the bullet. It has an effective range of nine hundred meters, and that gives it good throw and good carry in unpredictable air. The old Enfield sniper’s rifle, for example—the L42A1—has a range of only five hundred meters. If you need it, this Dragunov can be fitted with the Starlight scope.” He patted the barrel with his fingertips. “Very reliable,” he said. “You can trust it.”
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The colonel stood over the piece in his custom-made uniform, trim-waisted, with shooter’s sunglasses, smiling with perfect white teeth as his large, well-made hands picked up the piece. “The Dragunov was born for sniping,” he said. He held it out.
On the firing range the man pushed the ten-round magazine into the chamber and adjusted the strap on his upper right arm. He assumed the prone position, pulled the stock against his shoulder, and aimed through the telescopic sight at the target down range.
“Squeeze,” the colonel said. The man fired, and they both looked at the target.
“Good,” the colonel said. “A little down and to the left.”
The man adjusted the sight to correct it.
“Squeeze,” the colonel said. The weapon barely kicked.
“Yes,” the colonel said, looking at the target. “I can see you’ve done this before. Quite nice.”
The man fired round after round for more than a half hour.
When the colonel was leaving, he crouched down and touched the man’s shoulder. “This meeting never took place,” he said softly. “Luck.”
Back in Switzerland the man stayed in a small inn in a skiing village near the switchback road. From his window he could see the black to-and-fro line of the road descending the white mountainside. Seated in his chair in his room, he studied the terrain with his binoculars then studied the enlarged close-up photographs of the road curves that he had arranged in a row along the counterpane of his bed. Most of the photos were of the third and fifth curves.
Just before dawn a fresh snowfall began, and by afternoon another eight inches of snow were down. The innkeeper warned his skiing guests to stay on the marked ski trails to avoid avalanches.
At lunch the man observed a woman with two teenage girls. Mother and daughters, he decided. Definite facial resemblances: the two girls had the woman’s eyes and sensual mouth. The younger had her profile. Both had inherited her excellent figure. Before hearing them speak, he tried to guess their nationality. They didn’t hold their forks in the American style like a spoon, but inverted, European style. Definitely European. Not English, though. And not Mediterranean. German. Perhaps Austrian. He observed their skiing outfits and jewelry—the earrings, bracelets, and watches. Wealthy.
He listened attentively. They spoke German—Austrian, was it?—with a heavy sprinkling of Italian words. Then he had it: they were Austrian Italians. From the Dolomite Alps in Italy perhaps. From Bolzano possibly.
The woman took one long look at him and didn’t look again.
The man went skiing cross-country in the snowfall, alone. In the profound silence of the mountains he heard only the sound of the snow grains and his own heavy breathing. One wrong turn, a slip and a slide into a chasm, and he would be quickly covered with snow and frozen. He might not be found until spring, if ever. The sense of danger made his skin prickle—it added to the sense of excitement.
He paused periodically to gaze at the mountain, always the mountain, the implacable challenger looming before him, a gray shadow in the snowfall. The switchback road that marked its face was not quite visible.
Late in the day, with twilight pressing around him and darkness not far, he turned back toward the village. He saw the mother and two daughters skiing. The two girls were good skiers; the mother was excellent. She attacked her curves with grace and surprising strength, leaving long, sweeping ski trails behind her. She had great style. She skied—he searched for the words—with an animal joy.
Just before sunset the skies cleared and the sun came out, a brilliant sunset, and he watched the long shadows that stretched across the valleys and declivities. He timed the sunset and the darkness that climbed up the mountainside to slowly smother the switchback road, calculating with his watch the last possible moment he could get his single shot off. There would be no chance for a second.
In the evening, after his meal, he sat in the game room with brandy, aloof from the skiers who clustered, talking and laughing, around the snapping fire. The woman sat with her two daughters and discussed the ski trails with a group of two German families.
News of the new powdery snowfall had spread, and all evening more and more guests arrived with skis on the racks of their cars. By ten o’clock the innkeeper’s wife was turning people away. The inn was full.
At nine the moon rose—sailed—in the frosty sky. From his seat, over his brandy, he gazed periodically at the mountain and the faint line of the road lit by the clear moonlight. His confidence was at full flood. All he needed to do now was wait for the phone call.
The woman adroitly changed seats with one of her daughters so that the two girls were sitting next to two teenage boys in the German party. The woman had one last brandy then bade everyone good night. She gave the man another searching look as she left.
He went to bed without speaking to anyone, and slept well.
Brewer stood with Gustav on the old pier and looked out at the rafts of broken ice that floated down the Hudson River.
“Mostly,” Gustav said to Brewer, “I stay here on the Jersey side of the river and the bay.” He pointed along the waterfront at the busy piers. Across the Hudson River was the skyline of Manhattan. “Counting Newark Bay and Staten Island, that’s about twenty-five miles. For a waterfront security business like mine, that’s enough. There’s enough excitement for a lifetime. Ten lifetimes. This is one of the most active stretches of waterfront in the world. The amount of crime—theft, smuggling, bribery, blackmailing—is astronomical.” He looked at Brewer. “The local talent has developed some smuggling tricks here that maybe even you haven’t seen. And when it comes to knock offs, some of this stuff you have to see to believe. The other day they found a shipload of counterfeit encyclopedias that are so close to the original that even the publisher of the real encyclopedias had trouble telling them apart. I’ve seen knock offs of televisions and computers that cannot be detected by the ordinary waterfront type of customs man or security officer.” Gustav looked up and down the piers. “I built my business from scratch five years ago. It was scary as hell at times, but it was a lot of fun too. And I think the next five years are going to be even better. It’s a shame. I wish I could stay. I hate to give it up.” He pointed at his car. “Come on. I’ll take you down to Port Newark.”
On the Jersey Turnpike south, Gustav asked Brewer to drive. “I’m not supposed to drive anymore. The excitement. I can’t handle it. Traffic on this pike gets more like the German autobahn every year. Average speed is over seventy. I got the car for it but not the ticker.”
At Port Newark Brewer stood on the piers and watched the huge overhead cranes offload containers the size of freight cars from the decks of freighters. Behind him jet planes roared into the sky from Newark Airport.
Gustav’s uniformed security guards were everywhere evident as he led Brewer from station to station.
“I could sell out for big bucks,” Gustav said. “But it would mean selling to frontmen for some of the hoods I’ve helped chase off these docks. They’d love to get their hands on my company, if for no other reason than to put it out of business. Fortunately for me, there’s one deal I’m very interested in. It’s a consortium of reputable businessmen—men I know personally—who are interested in keeping the company going, and they’re willing to buy me out for a good price—if I can find a successor who can handle everything. And that’s where you come in.”
After Port Newark they went to Port Elizabeth. Gustav introduced Brewer to several of his people, standing beside a partially burned pier shed.
“My Director of Investigations,” he said to Brewer. “And the other one is my Marketing Manager. We’re making a proposal here for a new client. He had a fire of suspicious origins—read arson—and some other major problems that we can clear up for him.”
Brewer looked at them and at the fire scars. The client had enemies—serious enemies. “He’d better be ready to do more than just add security guards.”
Gustav smiled at him. “You have
a nose for this business, I see. We’re going to do a lot more for him than just security guards. My God, it’s cold on these piers.” He led Brewer back to the warmth of his car.
“They’re all good people,” Gustav told him in the car. “I hired them myself. But none of them can take over. And even if I was dumb enough to recommend them, the consortium would never accept any of them in the top slot.”
He took Brewer back up the Turnpike to a restaurant on the waterfront not far from the Lincoln Tunnel. They sat at a table beside large windows facing the Manhattan skyline.
“I’ve showed you most of the operation,” Gustav said. “Industrial security. Armed payroll. Even executive protection and dockside crowd control. We have our own communications network—guards and patrol vehicles, our own alarm systems, closed-circuit TV, guard dogs, metal detectors, and even our own industrial intelligence force. Four hundred people work for me.
“Let me tell you, Brewer, I’ve been on both sides of the fence. I’ve been in the FBI and I’ve been in private industry. There’s nothing I’ve found that gives me the satisfaction I get from owning my own company. You come on board and take over, and you’ll see what I mean. You’ll never go back working for the Uncle again. You got a twenty-five-mile playground here, and you’ll never once look back.”
He watched Brewer drink his beer. “What have you got? I know. I’ve been there. It’s always three A.M. You’ve got airline tickets by the night table. You’re in bed wide awake, listening to the clock ticking and the wind at the window. And down the street there’s someone waiting in a doorway. Stuff it, Brewer.”
Brewer looked out at the ships and barges and tugboats that were slamming through the choppy, ice-ladened gray water, and beyond, at the misty outlines of the Manhattan skyline. To the south he could see lower Manhattan and New York Harbor. Playground.
Gustav drove him back to Newark Airport to catch the shuttle flight to Washington. “I used to love to drive.” He looked at Brewer then tapped his chest. “You think I got this building my own business? No no. I got this from too many years in the FBI. I should have gotten out ten, fifteen years earlier. I’d be a healthy man today.”
Triple Trap Page 24