Fellowship of Fear (2 page)

"Yeah, with that beard yet!" Eric and Janet both spluttered this time, spraying Gideon with Reisling.

"Ooh," Janet said, "what about Pete Somebody, remember? That funny visiting fellow in Economics, I think it was, the one who didn’t show up for class half the time, and then finally disappeared altogether and—"

"Uh, Janet." Eric put his hand on her arm. He made, Gideon thought, a faint motion in his direction. Janet looked confused for a moment, then closed her mouth.

"Look," Gideon said, "what is it with this visiting fellow? What happened to him?"

After an uncomfortable silence, Danzig spoke carefully. "Really, perhaps we shouldn’t be frightening off our new fellow with horror stories from the remote past."

"Horror stories?" said Gideon.

"Figuratively speaking," said Danzig, composing a prim smile. "Just your typical war stories. You’ll be telling them yourself a few months from now."

Janet and Eric studied their glasses. Bruce added, "Nothing you need concern yourself with, Gideon." He made the statement word by separate word, slowly, as if it were loaded with significance. But then, thought Gideon, that’s the way he tells you the time.

He began to ask another question, but changed his mind. If they wanted to play at being coy or whatever they were doing, the hell with them. He was going home. To the hotel, that is. Gideon shoved his chair back from the table and stood up, ready to leave. His high spirits were suddenly gone, the good-old-boy stories did not entertain him, and his half-hatched plans for Janet were somehow no longer of interest. Jet lag had finally hit him; if he didn’t get to his bed at the Hotel Ballman very shortly, he’d curl up and go to sleep on the floor of the Weinstube.

He turned from the table without saying good night, catching what he thought was a brief, silent glance between the three of them, and made his way towards the door. Others were milling about, getting ready to leave, and he caught sight of Dr. Rufus self-consciously circulating about, bearlike and jolly, thumping shoulders and shaking hands. When he saw Gideon, he smiled briefly—a twitch of the lips was more like it—and rather suddenly engaged himself in deep conversation with an older man and woman, both senior faculty members.

Gideon waited quietly. There were things that were bothering him, and he was going to buttonhole Dr. Rufus whether the chancellor liked it or not. When the older couple had made their good-byes, Dr. Rufus turned innocently in the direction opposite to Gideon and moved quickly toward another clump of people. Gideon called to him.

The chancellor turned, registering surprise. "Ah, the estimable Professor Oliver! I hope you had a pleasant evening."

"Yes, I did, thanks, but there are a few things I’d like to ask you."

"You bet; certainly. Ask away." He beamed at Gideon, blue eyes twinkling, rosy cheeks shining.

"Well, that schedule of mine. Is that right? I was expecting to go to Munich, Kaiserslautern—"

"Oh my, didn’t you get my letter? No? It was a sudden change indeed. Had to change quite a few schedules. When did you leave the U.S.?"

"Tuesday."

"Ah, yes. I believe it was mailed—they were mailed— letters to people whose schedules we changed…uh…." He mopped his glistening pink face with a handkerchief. "Mmm, uh, last Friday. Probably passed you going the other way. No inconvenience, I hope?"

"No, not at all. It’s rather exciting. It’s just a surprise."

"Well, I’m sorry if this has caught you off guard. Happens all the time in this business. Military exercise or an alert, and we just have to change our schedules. Fortunes of war. Here to serve. Well, my boy, good night—"

"Dr. Rufus, what happened to the last visiting fellow?"

The dank handkerchief dabbed once more. "Ah, yes. Dr. Dee. Well. Hmm. That was unfortunate. Yes. Didn’t I tell you about it? No?"

Gideon restrained himself. "No," he said.

"Mm. Well, he, uh, died in an automobile accident. Quite sad. Just drove off the side of a mountain. On the Autostrada del Sole in Italy. Near Cosenza, I think. Right off the side of the mountain. Apparently just a case of driving too fast. He’d almost been killed in another car accident a few weeks before. Somewhat odd behavior for a psychologist, really."

There was something wrong with the story, but Gideon was too tired to work it out. Dr. Rufus patted him on the shoulder. "Well, no need for you to worry yourself about it. Get yourself a good night’s sleep; you’re looking a little worn out, and no wonder…" He began to move off.

"Wait!" called Gideon. "I thought—wasn’t he an economist? And I thought he
disappeared.
Isn’t that right?"

"Oh my, no." Dr. Rufus wiped his face again. "You’re thinking of the fellow
before
last, Dr. Pitkin. Oh yes, that’s another story entirely."

"You’re telling me that, of the last two visiting fellows, one was killed and one just …just disappeared?" Gideon’s voice, husky with fatigue, rose to an embarrassing squeak on the last word. "And what happened to the ones before that? Does this sort of thing happen all the time around here? Or just to visiting fellows?"

The chancellor smiled softly and shrugged. Before he could answer, Gideon went on. "Is that why the visiting fellow program was cancelled for a semester?"

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact. To have two such unfortunate occurrences, one after the other …well, the program was getting a bad name." He chuckled weakly, frowned, converted the chuckle to a discreet cough, and went over the back of his neck with his handkerchief. "Gideon, you know you haven’t slept for almost three nights, and you’re obviously exhausted. Get yourself a good night’s sleep. Things won’t seem so, er, frightening in the morning."

"I’m not frightened, Dr. Rufus, but I am a little… troubled. I wish you’d told me about this before."

"Well, I wanted you to take the position, you know. Didn’t want to scare you off. Besides, would you have turned down the chance to teach over here if I
had
told you?"

Gideon smiled. "Not a chance. Well, I think I will get off to bed now."

"I think that’s a good idea." He patted Gideon’s shoulder again. "I’m going too. Can I give you a ride?"

"No thanks. A walk will do me good. Thanks for talking with me, sir." He was trying to make amends for putting the chancellor through an undeservedly uncomfortable time.

"Not at all, Gideon, not at all. Glad to have you on board. Get a good night’s sleep now."

   THE night air of Heidelberg was indeed just what he needed. To step from the noise and stale smoke of the

Weinstube into the dark, open courtyard of the castle was like walking into another century—a clear, cool, tranquil century. Gideon knew well enough that the 1300s, when the existing castle had been built, had been no less traumatic than the 1900s. But now, with the courtyard empty and the air, damp with river mist, on his face, Gideon found the scene wonderfully peaceful. His breath came more easily; his nerves almost perceptibly stopped jangling. He stood in the deserted courtyard, thinking of nothing, letting his mind resettle itself into its usual, placid mode.

Slowly, he walked down the curving road that descended to the Old Town, stopping now and then to look out over the rooftops and the glistening river, or to run his hand over the jumbled piles of smooth stone blocks that gleamed like pewter in the moonlight: all that remained of the once-formidable castle outposts. The jittery, near-paranoid state he had fallen into now seemed absurd and a little embarrassing; he had been unreasonably rude to people trying to be friendly.

   WHEN he had been offered the visiting fellowship six months before, he had jumped at the chance and had begun to talk about it as his Great Adventure. And then, at the first hint of danger—if you could call it that—he had developed the raving heebie-jeebies. It had to be the lack of sleep. And all that wine.

The job was perfect; his course material was stimulating, the places he was going were exciting—much more exciting than his original assignment—and his working hours were unbelievable. Each seminar would run for four evenings, Monday through Thursday, leaving the daytime hours free for exploring, and giving him four whole days to travel to the next location and see some more of Europe on the way.

At the bottom of the hill, along the quiet Zwingerstrasse, he looked with pleasure at the scattered buildings of grand old Heidelberg University. Some of the walls were spray-painted with political slogans, a sight that caused him mild pain. It was one thing to scrawl graffiti on the buildings of Northern Cal; but Heidelberg University…! It just didn’t seem right. A sign of the times, he thought to himself, then chuckled at the pun. He was more than a little tight, he realized.

Twice during his walk, cars full of mildly boisterous USOC’rs went by on their way from the castle to the hotel. Both times he stepped into the shadows. Not that he was trying to avoid them, exactly, but it was nice to be by himself.

Reaching Rohrbacherstrasse he was plumped abruptly back into the twentieth century. Even at midnight, the traffic whizzed by steadily at the alarming speed that appeared to be customary for city driving. Forty miles an hour? Fifty? With more prudence than he would have shown on a San Francisco street, he waited at the corner for the traffic light to change, looking at the dark, second-floor windows of the Hotel Ballman across the street. He thought he had identified the one belonging to his room, but realized he was wrong when he saw someone move behind it.

   IN the darkened room, the tall man dozed in the chair, both hands dangling over the sides, knuckles touching the floor. The other one stood at the window, a little to one side. "Here he is," he said.

The first man stood up at once. "God damn it, it’s about time," he said. He moved to the window. "What the hell is he staring up here for, dumb bastard?"

"He’s just looking," said the sleek-headed man. "He’s plastered; he can’t see anything. Don’t worry."

"Who’s worried?" the tall man said.

They watched him cross the street on unsteady legs. Then, silently, they walked across the room. The tall one stood against the wall to the side of the door, a thin silken cord with a leather ratchet in his hand. The other one stood in the closet alcove a few feet away. They didn’t look at each other.

   WHEN he stepped into the little lobby of the hotel, Gideon expected to find it full of USOC’rs, but they had evidently gone on to do some bar-hopping, or weinstubehopping, more likely. Only the landlady was there, dour and indifferent to his nodded greeting. He climbed the stairs wearily, fatigued to his bones. At the door to his room, he searched unsuccessfully through his pockets for the key. He rattled the handle of the heavy door, also without success. For a few moments he remained befuddled, checking his pockets again and again, grumpily lecturing himself on the counterproductivity of fixated behavior. At last he remembered that he didn’t have the key. In a scene that had amused some of the old-timers, it had been wrestled from him by the proprietress when he had left that afternoon. Odd, with all the reading he’d done on European customs, he had overlooked the fact that you didn’t take your key with you when you left your hotel.

With a grumble and a sigh he went back downstairs and approached the landlady, who watched him with a malevolent eye. He took a breath and drew for the first time on his recent months of self-study.

"Guten Abend, gnadige Frau,"
he said.
"Ich habe… Ich habe nicht mein, mein…"
Here
German Made Simple
failed him. He made key-turning movements. She sat stolidly.

"Das Ding fur…fur die Tur?"
he said, continuing to turn his imaginary key in the imaginary lock.

"Schlussel,"
she said with a disgusted shake of her head.

She turned, plucked the key and its large attached brass plate from the rack behind her, and plunked them on the desk.

"Ach, ja, Schlussel, Schlussel,"
he cried, grinning with his best try at hearty Teutonic joviality, wondering at the same time why in the world he was trying to placate her. She was, as ever, unresponsive.

Then back upstairs, under her suspicious glower, with heavy feet and a stomach beginning to go queasy. The second piece of Black Forest cake had been a mistake. Or maybe it was the twelfth glass of wine. With a hand less steady than it had been even an hour before, he inserted the big key in the lock and opened the door.

When he flicked on the lights, things happened so fast they barely registered. He found himself looking into a taut-skinned face set on a peculiarly long neck. Before he could react, there was a movement behind him and a stunning blow at the base of his skull. A second blow smashed him heavily between the shoulder blades, driving the breath out of him, and something snapped fiercely around his throat. He fell to his knees, clawing at his neck, dazed and breathless, with dimming vision.

As the darkening room began to swirl about him, the band around his throat suddenly loosened, and he dropped, gasping, to his elbows, letting his forehead sink to the floor.

The long-necked man in front of him grasped his hair and pulled his head up. "All right, Oliver," he said, his voice a deep baritone that didn’t belong with the ferret-like face, "give us trouble and you’re dead, you understand?"

Gideon tried to speak but couldn’t. He nodded his head, his mind a jumble.

"All right, you know what we’re here for. Let’s have it."

Gideon managed to croak a response. "Look, I don’t know what this—" The band which had remained loosely about his neck was tugged viciously from behind. The darkness closed in again. Gideon gasped, swayed backwards, and lost consciousness.

He seemed to be out for only a second, but when he came painfully to his senses, he was lying on his stomach. His jacket had been removed. He groaned and began to turn over.

"Lay there," the baritone said. "Try to move and I kill you now."

While they searched his clothing and probed roughly at surprising parts of his body, he lay on his face trying to gather his thoughts and his strength. What could be going on? Who did they think he was? No, they had called him by name; they knew who he was. It wasn’t money; that was clear. They were looking for something specific. They knew what they were about, and they had the brutal competence of professional killers, at least from what he’d seen at the movies. It had to be a bizarre mistake.