A Death in Geneva (15 page)

“Constance Burdette.”

“Your ambassador, eh?”

“Buried yesterday.”

The enormous dome of L'Hotel des Invalides appeared before them, then blurred in the mist. “What would Napoleon have thought of such deeds?” Lynch bit at a thumbnail and spat as he spoke. “I don't think he would have approved.”

“Paris is a buzzing hive, Stuart. What's in the wind; which group, Stuart?”

“During the '39-to-'45 war, I had an uncle and an aunt over here, my father's brother and wife—volunteers in the Communist end of the French resistance. He spun some fine yarns—excellent training for my career, eh, Pierce—about the political clashes within the movement, the jockeying for the power in the peace that would come. The difference then, the luxury, eh, was their overriding unity against the bright spit-and-polish of Nazi barbarism.

“A single enemy, Pierce, is a marvelous convenience, one we do not enjoy today. The status quo, eh, authority, order, success, profit—all among today's enemies—not very tidy. Then, there's religion . . . Popular liberation armies are in style today, but you
know that. Like the old British Empire, eh, the sun never sets on the red armies—the Brigate Rosse, the Japanese Red Army, the Red Army Faction . . . ‘The minstrel boy to the war has gone; in the ranks of death you'll find him.' It's not a pretty song, a sour note for your diplomats.”

They turned together and retraced their steps in the near-empty garden, their minds silently ranging beyond the measured chess match of the conversation.

“The empire has pulled all the way back to home waters, hasn't it? But, those waters do include the inner Hebrides, the North Channel, and the Irish Sea, don't they, Stuart?” The brim raised again, revealing a round, pink face, yellow teeth, sandy bushy cocked eyebrows. “I read three or four months ago that the soldiers of the empire, on patrol between County Armagh and County Monaghan, nearly felled a plump bird with their fowling pieces, a carrier pigeon northward-bound from the Continent.”

“Umph . . . a wise bird knows the terrain, eh, Pierce, alert to the decoys below as well as the guiding stars above. The British gendarmerie is a shocking drain on Whitehall's treasury, not to mention on the resources and forces of your precious North Atlantic sword and shield. And, what do they accomplish, but to galvanize the people and focus the eyes of the world on their crimes and injustices.”

“The mayhem seems to have fallen off in London, for the moment, at least; not your trade so much as the activities of the Arabs.”

“Agreed; two points. The Yard is good in any match on the home pitch, damned good, eh, the best. Secondly, the characters you are referring to, the Iraqis, the Libyans, the rest are capable enough when it comes to squeezing the trigger on one of their own at point-blank range, but they're not very clever. You're right, nonetheless, quieter there.”

“The Palestinians?”

“Umph!”

“Stuart, the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine runs an all-continent operation out of Paris. What were they up to last weekend? We've seen traces—in the flight manifests—Frankfurt, Zurich, Vienna. What about Geneva, Stuart?”

“Your late, lamented ambassador, again. Are you certain her driver didn't do the number, then take his own life. Not every sod can stand orders from a woman, eh—the Swiss would be the worst at that.”

“Fair enough; you know the nationality of her driver—probably have the car plate numbers. I have no time on this one, Stuart; who's behind it?”

Lynch pointed to a far corner of the gardens, checked his wristwatch and, with two sharp, barking coughs, cleared his throat. “We are both pressed for time, eh. Paris is a beehive . . . the European brothers in arms . . . increasingly farther afield . . . weekly blasts from our Corsican separatist friends . . . even some recent business with the Revolutionary Peoples Army.

“There is good information, Pierce, exceeded only by better rumor. You know I wish to be of help. I am always flattered to see you, Pierce. Still, there's no reason to believe, based on what I hear, the newspapers, the accounts from Geneva, eh, that there was anything unusual about the assassination. It was your ambassador, not the woman, who was murdered, a new presence, a fresh symbol of Yankee imperialism demanding to be struck down, nothing untoward or out of the ordinary.

“But, ear to the track, Pierce; there have been no Geneva rumblings—plenty of to'ing and fro'ing, the Middle East, Italy, the Federal Republic, but Switzerland has not been in the limelight this month, this year. Your Palestinian Popular Front are busy boys, eh, but not Switzerland—and, Pierce, nothing points to Paris, no fresh scents here.”

They left the gardens, moving casually toward the museum exit. “Where are you off to now, Pierce, the Elysee?”

Bromberger thought ahead to the afternoon drive to the suburbs, the probe of the GIGN Gendarmerie Intervention Group, the night drive to Bonn, the day ahead with the GSG-9—the methodical quest, so ingrained . . . “You haven't invited me to dinner, Stuart.”

“You're welcome, of course. Sheep's head broth and a pint of plain, ever the best for so important a personage from far o'er the sea.”

“On to Geneva. You'll know how to reach me?”

“Indeed.”

“By the way, I met some acquaintances of yours at INTERPOL earlier today.”

“So I was informed.”

“They agree with you. No scent here, or so they say. A worthless session; mouths down, palms up. But, there was the saving grace, Stuart. I could sense they wanted me to give you their very best.”

Lynch flashed his yellow smile and touched the brim of his hat in salute. They parted at the street. “I'm going to see the heirs of le Grand Charles exercising their mouths at L'Ecole Militaire. Hope the weather's not too bad for the rest of your stay. My best to your dear mother.” Lynch hadn't changed; loud, nonsensical small talk for any prying ears.

Bromberger turned and lengthened his stride along the Boulevard des Invalides. As he neared the Seine and the Quai d'Orsay, a worn gray Renault pulled over, door ajar. The car continued to roll. He hopped in. They crossed the Pont de la Concorde.

“Embassy?” the driver asked, not expecting an answer, keeping a close watch on the Place de la Concorde's grinding traffic. He slowed at the American Embassy's gates.

“Keep moving, normal pace—any of our little black-buggied amis?”

The driver glanced at his mirrors. “Yes, black Citroën, three occupants, six or seven cars back.”

“Reassuring, isn't it? Do you share the same garage, or just give them a ring every time I am scheduled for a visit?” Bromberger reached under the front seat, pulled out an ancient, wrinkled black raincoat. “Lose them for half a minute.”

The Renault spurted ahead through tight traffic. Bromberger draped the coat over the high headrest on the back of his seat, spreading the cloth to its fullest around both sides. “What the hell happened to the head-and-shoulders outline I recommended the last time through? Can't afford cardboard these days? Don't answer. You and the coat keep our friends occupied. If they stick with you, give it about an hour. There—at that grocery half a block ahead. So long!”

The gray sedan turned a corner, shielding the passenger's side from the rear. Bromberger exited, mingled with some shoppers, selected an elegant cauliflower, watched from the corners of his eyes as the solemn faces of the Surete Nationale rolled by. He ran an admiring hand over the white, cerebral lobes, flipped the vegetable back in its bin, retuned to the sidewalk and flagged a cab. He slouched half-sideways checking through the rear window—no tail. There was enough blood being spilled in the city streets of France; the Surete, DST, and GIGN had better change their ways, he thought, no longer any profit in such black-on-black chess moves, when all play should be directed against the red. Stuart hadn't lost his edge. The red side of the board was changing, crowded with some strange new pieces, complicating, even neutralizing orthodox strategies.

The cabdriver stabbed at his brakes, swung out around a slow-moving tourist bus. Bromberger's thoughts skipped back to Sweetman and the ceremony twenty-four hours before.

The three rifle volleys had cracked the heavy stillness of the Arlington air. “The field's clear; we have our dead. Resume fighting.” Hanspeter Sweetman's words hissed from the side of his mouth at Bromberger. They stood above the hillside gravesite, watched as the six matched grays—lead pair, swing pair, and wheel pair—had drawn the empty caisson away, watched the intense conversations among the president and those clustered around him, then the clean, silent procedures of the Secret Service, the sweeping departure of the president's motorcade.

“Impressive. Lancaster was right, the first team.”

“No riderless charger with inverted boots; I thought that was part of the drill.”

“Your career evidently has not included a hitch with the color guard, Hanspeter. No jet missing-man formation either.” As the funeral crowd thinned, the two officers returned on foot through the cemetery to the Ft. Myer Chapel parking. “The caparisoned horse, older than Genghis Khan, is reserved for the warrior, not the diplomat, a steed for the long marches and the charges in the hereafter. Then again, it's not everyone who draws the president as a graveside mourner.”

“That's the first time I've seen him in the flesh.” Sweetman laughed, his eyes on the walk, “First time I've seen a secretary of state for Christ's sake—couldn't get him to take the leap onto the
Omsk
with me. The president seemed hard hit, more than you'd expect, even though a woman had been blown away—relatives?”

“You'll be the reigning expert a day from now. As I understand it, they were shacked up at some point, not front-burner stuff, but a close connection. That's why the president's thumb is on Lancaster's button.”

As Sweetman checked his watch, Bromberger instinctively did the same. “Sunday, I'll hook up with you in Geneva. Fisker has it laid on. I won't know whether I'm coming straight through until I have a better feel for the file. What the hell”—he slapped Bromberger on the
shoulder—“you should have it busted by then. But, save any violence for me, Pierce. You're the national asset.”

Bromberger's unmarked sedan left first, headed west for Dulles to connect with the night flight to Paris. Sweetman's followed, turning east across Memorial Bridge, past the Lincoln Memorial toward downtown 11th Street, moving easily against the mounting flow of the afternoon rush.

As the second of the steel doors locked behind him, he spotted Fisker negotiating the step down from the communications center. “Harold, what the hell have you been up to? Ready to prime my pump? Let's get on with it.” Sweetman flung his jacket and tie on the reception room table, sending a stack of magazines sliding to the floor. Fisker thrust a sheet of teletype at him and shuffled past to restore the display and retrieve the clothes.

The director's message was brief:

Shattered Flag

President called from motorcade during return from ceremony. Requested status report, which I will provide him, opening of business tomorrow. Asked my best estimate on time. I told him weeks, not months. This, as you will understand, has been accepted as fact. No reply required.

“Clods of earth still clumping on the coffin lid, for Christ's sake! Makes it all easy, doesn't it, Harold?” Sweetman started to crumple the message. Fisker retrieved it, guided him into the communications center. The walls of the room had been transformed into bays of an art museum, a montage created by Harold Fisker from the newly acquired albums and scrapbooks borrowed from the Burdette and Starring families.

“I would recommend, Mr. Sweetman, that we approach this in two phases: a quick run-through”—a cough drop clicked against his teeth—“to give you a feel for her life. Then we can go back through it again, addressing your questions, your requirements of me.”

“What the hell was this all about?” Sweetman was studying a full-color magazine tear sheet. A tweed-suited Constance Burdette, beaming at the reader from her executive suite, was posed with one hand on a floor-to-ceiling map, a patchwork quilt of numbered oil exploration blocks superimposed in the North Sea—T
OPIC
—
THE
T
OP
P
ICK
!