Sustenance (58 page)

“Ah, but you know yourself, they don’t; they believe that females do not plan ahead, and that they are easily intimidated, which you and I know is untrue,” he said, reaching into his pocket to pull out a folded key-wallet. “The Jaguar is over on the other side of the park behind this building, in an access-alley. It’s near the Boulevard Deux Mintoux; the second access-alley.” The old potholed roadway had been very grand two centuries ago, with a history going back nine hundred years; now it was a handy parking place for those in the neighborhood who did not mind poor paving and few lights.

“That’s the one with the seventeenth-century house with new bay windows on the first house?” she asked, being cautious.

“Yes. I need about ten minutes to finish up here, and then I’ll join you.” He offered her a look that was both supportive and encouraging.

“Does this mean you’ll let me drive?” She took the key from him, and slipped it into the small pocket on the sleeve of her dress.

“If you want to. But don’t start the engine until I arrive: I don’t want to waste fuel.” It was less than the truth, but he did not want to upset her by implying that there might be people listening for the Jaguar’s engine. If he was being followed, he wanted to get away from his watchers with as little notification as possible.

“Okay,” she said, setting the one-third-full small glass on the end of his desk. “But don’t be too long. That car of yours is really tempting. I might end up tooling it around the block.”

“I like the XK,” he concurred. “Go on. I’ll be out shortly. No more than ten minutes.” He took her hand and kissed it. “We’ll find a way to end this, Charis. It won’t hang over your head much longer.”

Her expression drooped for a fraction of a second, and then she smiled—perhaps a little too broadly and brightly, but it was better than a scowl. “I’m counting on you, Grof. If anyone can do it, you can.”

“With the help from several others.” He reached for his telephone. “Now go. Ten minutes. Remember.”

“I’ll check my watch,” she said. “Four-twenty-three. You have until four-thirty-three,” she informed him as she picked up her purse and reached for the door. She waved as she left him alone; he remained still for nearly three minutes, then took a deep breath and began to dial, one eye on the clock on his desk.

Szent-Germain’s first call was to Rogers, and it lasted no longer than three minutes: “Charis and I will be going to Orleans tonight. While we’re away, have Steve diMaggio come and do a very thorough search of her flat, this office, and our flat. There’s something amiss going on.”

“You’ll pardon me if I say there has been something amiss since we got here,” Rogers answered abruptly; as a precaution he spoke in Byzantine Greek.

Szent-Germain went on in the same tongue. “I want a complete report by the time we return, which should be Saturday afternoon; I’ll let you know if we decide to stay the whole weekend. Leeland and Rothcoe have been pestering Charis again, and it’s wearing on her. Please pass on the report to Bethune. Use a messenger and not the post office. It’s important that we keep our effort under the rose.”

“I’ll attend to it. Are you coming back here this evening?”

“Yes, I think so. Charis left her auto at her flat in the hope that she wouldn’t be followed, and so it may be better to have her stay the night. We’ll pick up her things in the morning, on our way to La Belle Romaine. If you would, call Valerot and tell him we’re coming.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll want an appointment next Monday, as early as you can get, with Edward Merryman at the Embassy. Impress upon him that it is serious and urgent. He only looks harmless, so don’t hesitate to tell him everything he wants to know.” His demeanor softened. “Thank you, old friend. I’ll gladly answer your questions later.”

“When should I expect you?” Rogers asked.

“A little after five, or maybe a bit later. It depends upon whether or not we’re being followed.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Rogers, and hung up.

Szent-Germain’s second call was to the overseas operator. He booked several telephone calls for the next week, asked that the bookings be confirmed by Saturday, and made notes to himself in his pocket memorandum. The most clamant of the new array of problems would be addressed as soon as he got back, and at least he had done the initial work for counter-measures. He took his coat from the peg on the back of the door, then turned off the light in his office, and the heater. As he left, he called out over the clank of the presses, “Mister Young! I’m leaving now. I’ll return on Monday.” He thought as he closed the outer door that it was time to get a secretary. He would ask Young if he would like to have one when he came in on Tuesday. As he checked his watch, he saw he was on time. He entered the park, holding his coat closed against the wind, and caught sight of the grounds-keeper attempting to water a bed of emerging hyacinths; he slowed briefly, wondering if the man might be watching them, considering how poor the weather was for gardening. Satisfied that neither he nor the Jaguar was being surveilled, he moved on. He could just make out the bumper of his Jaguar in the anemic afternoon light. He lifted his hand to signal he was coming.

Charis rolled down the window and waved, then held up the key. “I’m ready!” she called to him.

He reached the edge of the park and stepped over the low brick fence and onto the aged paving of the Boulevard Deux Mintoux; he increased his pace as he heard the key turn in the ignition.

There was an unfamiliar second sound, unrecognizable, and then fire erupted with volcanic ferocity; Szent-Germain stopped moving. In an instant the flames caught up with him; they lapped his clothes and much of his skin off him before being quenched by the first blast of water from the nearby emergency cistern being manned by the horrified grounds-keeper, who sprayed water in all directions, from the ruined vehicle to the burning trees, to the collapsing figure framed in fire. Smoke came suddenly in blinding clouds, and when that had cleared, what was left behind was a mass of bone and raw tissue heaped in the road and an ugly black burn-scar topped by lumps of blasted metal sunk into the new pothole in the pavement along with shattered glass and bits of bone, which, until not quite three seconds ago, had been a 1949 maroon Jaguar XK120 with a woman in her late thirties who had been preparing to drive it away.

TEXT OF A LETTER FROM ROGERS IN ORLEANS, FRANCE, TO MADELAINE DE MONTALIA IN CARACAS, VENEZUELA, CARRIED BY ECLIPSE TRADING COMPANY COURIER AND DELIVERED ONE DAY AFTER IT WAS WRITTEN.

18 February, 1951

Hotel Felicidad

Plaza de los Evangelistas

Caracas, Venezuela

My dear friend,

To enlarge upon what we discussed on the telephone the other night, let me say that I have been able to get Saint-Germain’s body away from the authorities here, thanks to the document the Comte constructed before he left for America, almost twenty years ago. At present, I have brought him to his estate at Lecco. I have him safe in the guest-house on the knoll behind the main house. Only you, Mister Tree, and Miss Saxon will know of this until the Comte begins to recover. The French have him listed as dead, which is acceptable to all of us. When the Comte is stronger, I will take him into Romania, to his native earth, so that his recovery may be complete and as rapid as possible. From there, he can proclaim his new identity and pursue a course of retribution on behalf of the man he will present as his cousin. For now, the Comte is in a stupor, of course, almost as profound as he was after hanging on that cross in Mexico. Here, at least, he can be kept in isolation until he has regrown some muscle and skin.

The grounds-keeper who witnessed the explosion was very much overset by it, and, it turns out, somewhat mentally handicapped. He has only been able to say that he saw a man with reddish hair near the automobile, but paid no attention to him—so many people stopped to stare at the handsome auto. Luckily he was not immobilized by panic, but turned his water on high as soon as he realized something dreadful had happened. It is unlikely that he will ever be called to give testimony.

I have spoken with Inspector Mielle in Genova, asking for what the French police—all their police; Gendarmes, Surete, and local authorities—have learned, and what has been told to me indicates that they agree this was a targeted killing
;
it took place away from most public attention, and was set off in all likelihood by the turning of the key in the ignition. Whoever set the bomb was clearly experienced in such tasks, and none of the radical groups have claimed credit for the act. Mister Bethune is talking to the US Embassy about Professor Treat and so far has learned very little. No doubt he will persevere.

The Comte will need a month or two before he can travel any distance, and at present, entering Romania would be too much of a risk, so it is likely that we will go along the southern shore of the Black Sea into Turkey. The Comte has a small estate there, and it is known that many of his relatives have lived there over the last hundred years. You may have been one of them. In any case, he will have time to himself and will not be found easily without his encouragement.

He has said that he looks forward to seeing you next year in Roma, when you give your paper. As burned as he is, he can still speak enough to make his wishes known. He will appear as his cousin, of course, and will be glad of your company whenever it can be arranged. I admit that this is a relief to me, for I have worried that the murder of Charis so soon after the loss of his ward Laisha might impel him into a melancholy that would complicate his recovery from his burns.

I will call you on the telephone in a week and tell you what progress we have made—if any—so that you may decide how you wish to proceed. I should warn you that the Comte does not want any visitors for at least two months, when his features and his eyes should be nearly healed, and I know he would rather delay meeting with you until your conference brings you to Roma; he wishes to quiet all speculation about his identity. He has told me you would understand.

With deep respect,

Rogers

(Roger)

5

L
YDELL
B
ROADSTREET
put the receiver into its cradle with more force than he intended, and then muttered a curse under his breath. “So the report was right. He killed two people. In Paris. I never asked him to do that. The French don’t like having bombs go off in their cities.” He got to his feet and began to pace, and expostulated to the room as he moved, “He’s made a mess of it. A whole cock-up. A man with his reputation. Just goes to show.” He stopped at the window and stared out into the waning February light; Baltimore seemed melancholy in the pale winter sunshine, like an old hand-tinted photograph that had faded to nacreous shades. “Riggs, Riggs, Riggs, I made it plain that you were to implicate the Ex-Pats’ Coven,” he added, reassuring himself, for thinking back on his instructions, he had to admit they were deliberately vague, and because of that might be subject to misinterpretation, a realization that he resisted. “Forty thousand is more than enough.” He had hired a professional, a man known throughout the covert world as reliable, who knew how the game was played, no matter how Broadstreet had expressed it in his first telegram. Still, Riggs knew what he wanted, and now the man was asking for more money since two people were killed in the blast he had set under Szent-Germain’s Jaguar. The foreign Szent-Germain was an unfortunate accident, but the American woman meant that the CIA would be doubly vigilant in their participation in the investigation, and that caused him consternation. He had applied for money to pay Baxter two weeks ago: half of it had gone to Riggs; Broadstreet could not ask for more without some results from the first payment, which could lead to questions being asked. And it all came down to this: Riggs wanted more money. “I won’t stand for it. It’s damned blackmail. Another ten thousand dollars, because of the killings. Ridiculous. He’s had two payments of twenty, and that’s going to be the end of it. He won’t sue me.”

A gentle tap on the door made him jump in his chair. “Mister Broadstreet?” Opal Pierce called out softly. “Are you busy?”

Broadstreet collected his thoughts, and reminded himself not to speak aloud when he was alone. “Come in, Opal. Please,” he said, standing straighter in the window, and staring at the far wall. He turned to smile at Pierce as she came through the door. “What is it? Anything from Baxter?” He had taken to asking frequently about Baxter as if he had some genuine cause for worry; it gave him satisfaction to continue the deception, making him feel clever and capable. “I wish we knew what had silenced him so suddenly.” He knew he sounded odd; he was amazed at the immediate effect she had on him: he dared not look down in case his growing erection was visible in the front of his trousers. She smelled of expensive perfume, and the way she moved was hypnotic. He realized he was staring and looked away.

“Are you afraid something may have happened to him?” she asked, coming to his side and putting her hand into his.

He strove for the proper tone. “I’d be irresponsible if I weren’t concerned. A man in Baxter’s position can be exposed by hundreds of little things, and then … well, who knows?” He rubbed his chin. “I wish I knew who he really is. I could do more to protect him.”

Pierce knew Broadstreet was working himself into a state, and decided that she had to calm him down. “Baxter will turn up. You said so yourself.” She slipped her arm around him. “Don’t worry; you’ll get through this. So will Baxter.”

He stared at her gratefully. “It’s not easy, handling a case with such far-reaching elements.” With a short, abrupt sigh, he turned to her, kissing her bluntly.

As soon as she could, she ended the kiss. “It’s still working hours and there are people about,” she said quietly. “You don’t want to draw attention to yourself.”