The Doomsday Conspiracy (25 page)

"Thank you. I have a car picking me up." Robert moved to her side.

"SusanShe turned, startled.

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"Robert! What-what a coincidence!

But what a lovely surprise."

"I thought you were in Gibraltar," Robert said. She smiled uneasily.

"Yes. We're on our way there. Monte had some business here to take care of first. We're leaving tonight. What are you doing in Rome?" Running for my life.

"I'm finishing up on a job." It's my last. I've quit, darling. We can be together from now on, and nothing will ever separate us again. Leave Monte and come back to me. But he could not bring himself to say the words. He had done enough to her. She was happy in her new life. Leave it alone, Robert thought. She was watching him.

"You look tired." He smiled.

"I've been running around a little." They looked into each other's eyes, and the magic was still there. The burning desire, and the memories, and the laughter, and the yearning.

Susan took his hand in hers and said softly, "Robert. Oh, Robert. I wish we-"

"Susan-" And at that moment, a burly man in a chauffeur's uniform walked up to Susan.

"The car is ready, Mrs. Banks." And the spell was broken.

"Thank you." She turned to Robert.

"I'm sorry. I have to go now.

Please take care of yourself."

"Sure." He watched her leave. There were so many things he wanted to say to her. Life has a lousy sense of timing. It had been wonderful seeing Susan again, but what was it that was troubling him? Of course!

Coincidence. Another coincidence.

He took a taxi to the Hassler Hotel.

"Welcome back, Commander."

"Thank you."

"I'll have a bellman take up your bags."

"Wait." Robert looked at his watch. Ten P.M. He was tempted to go upstairs and get some sleep, but he had to arrange his passport first.

"I won't be going to my room right away," Robert said.

"I would appreciate it if you would have my bags sent up."

"of course, Commander."

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As Robert turned to leave, the elevator door opened, and a group of Shriners came pouring out, laughing and chattering. They had obviously had a few drinks. One of them, a stout, red-faced man, waved to Robert.

"Hi there, buddy ... having a good time?"

"Wonderful," Robert said.

"Just wonderful." Robert walked through the lobby to the taxi stand outside. As he started to get into the taxi, he noticed an inconspicuous gray Opel parked across the street. It was too inconspicuous. It stood out among the large, luxurious automobiles around it.

"Via Monte Grappa," Robert told the taxi driver. During the drive, Robert looked out the rear window. No gray Opel. I'm getting jumpy, Robert thought. When they arrived at Via Monte Grappa, Robert got out at the corner. As he started to pay the driver, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the gray Opel half a block down the street, yet he could have sworn it had not followed him. He pad his fare and started walking, moving away from the car, strolling slowly, stopping to look in shop windows. In the reflection of a store window, he saw the Opel, moving slowly behind him. When Robert reached the next corner, he noticed that it was a one-way street. He turned into it, going against the heavy traffic. The Opel hesitated at the corner, then sped away to beat Robert to the other end. Robert reversed direction and walked back to the Via Monte Grappa. The Opel was nowhere in sight. Robert hailed a taxi.

"Via Monticelli."

The building was old and unprepossessing, a relic of better days. Robert had visited it many times before on various missions. He walked down three basement steps and knocked on the door. An eye appeared at the peephole, and a moment later the door was flung open.

"Roberto!" a man exclaimed. He threw his arms around Robert.

"How are you, mi amico?"

The speaker was a fat man in his sixties with white, unshaven stubble, thick eyebrows, yellowed teeth, and several chins. He closed the door behind him and locked it.

"I'm fine, Ricco."

Ricco had no second name.

"For a man like me," he liked to boast, "one name is enough. Like Garbo."

"What can I do for you today, my friend?"

"I'm working on a case," Robert said, "and I'm in a hurry. Can you fix me up with a passport?"

Ricco smiled.

"Is the pope Catholic?"

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He waddled over to a cabinet in the corner and unlocked it.

"What country would you like to be from?" He pulled out a handful of passports with different colored covers and sorted through them.

"We have a Greek passport, Turkish, Yugoslavian, English-"

"American," Robert said.

Ricco pulled out a passport with a blue cover.

"Here we are. Does the name Arthur Butterfield appeal to you?"

"Perfect," Robert said.

"If you'll stand over by the wall, I will take your picture." Robert moved over to the wall. Ricco opened a drawer and took out a Polaroid camera. A minute later, Robert was looking at a picture of himself.

"I wasn't smiling," Robert said. Ricco looked at him, puzzled.

"What?"

"I wasn't smiling. Take another one." Ricco shrugged.

"Sure.

Whatever you say." Robert smiled while the second passport picture was taken. He looked at it and said, "That's better." He casually slipped the first picture into his pocket.

"Now comes the high-tech part," Ricco announced. Robert watched as Ricco walked over to a workbench where there was a laminating machine. He placed the picture on the inside of the passport. Robert moved to a table covered with pens, ink, and other paraphernalia and slipped a razor blade and a small bottle of glue into his jacket pocket. Ricco was studying his handiwork.

"Not bad," he said.

He handed the passport to Robert.

"That will be five thousand dollars."

"And well worth it," Robert assured him, as he peeled off 10

five-hundred-dollar bills.

"It's always a pleasure doing business with you people. You know how I feel about you." Robert knew exactly how he felt. Ricco was an expert cobbler who worked for half a dozen different governments-and was loyal to none. He put the passport in his coat pocket.

"Good luck, Mr.

Butterfield." Ricco smiled.

"Thanks."

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The moment the door closed behind Robert, Ricco reached for the telephone. Information was always worth money to someone. Outside, twenty yards down the street, Robert took the new passport out of his pocket and buried it in a trash can.

Chalf. The technique he had used as a pilot to lay false trails for enemy missiles. Let them look for Arthur Butterfield. The gray Opel was parked half a block away. Waiting. Impossible. Robert was sure that the car was the only tail they had. He was certain the Opel had not followed him, and yet it kept finding him. They had to have some way of keeping track of his location. There was only one answer: They were using some kind of homing device. And he had to be carrying it. Attached to his clothes? No. They had had no opportunity. Captain Dougherty had stayed with him while he packed, but he would not have known what clothes Robert would take. Robert made a mental inventory of what he was carryingcash, keys, a wallet, handkerchief, credit card. The credit card! "I doubt if I'll need that, General."

"Take it. And keep it with you at all times." The sneaky sonofabitch. No wonder they had been able to find him so easily. The gray Opel was no longer in sight.

Robert took out the card and examined it. It was slightly thicker than an ordinary credit card. By squeezing it, he could feel an inner layer. They would have a remote control to activate the card. Good, Robert thought.

Let's keep the bastards busy.

There were several trucks parked along the street loading and unloading goods. Robert examined the license plates. When he came to a red truck with French plates, he looked around to make sure he was not observed and tossed the card in the back of the truck.

He flagged down a taxi.

"Hassler, per favore." In the lobby, Robert approached the concierge.

"See if there's a flight out of here tonight to Paris, please."

"Certainly, Commander. Do you prefer any particular airline?"

"It doesn't matter. The first flight out."

"I will be happy to arrange it."

"Thank you." Robert walked over to the hotel clerk.

"My key, please. Room 314. And I'll be checking out in a few minutes."

"Very good, Commander Bellamy." The clerk reached in a pigeonhole and pulled out a key and an envelope.

"There's a letter here for you."

Robert stiffened. The envelope was sealed and addressed simply:

"Commander Robert Bellamy." He fingered it, feeling for plastique or any metal inside. He opened it carefully. Inside was a printed card Page 155

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advertising an Italian restaurant. It was innocent enough. Except, of course, for his name on the envelope.

"Do you happen to remember who gave you this?"

"I'm sorry," the clerk said apologetically, "but we have been so busy this evening...."

It was not important. The man would have been face less. He would have picked up the card somewhere, slipped it into the envelope, and stood by the desk, watching to see the room number of the slot that the envelope was placed in. He would be waiting upstairs now in Robert's room. It was time to see the face of the enemy.

Robert became aware of raised voices and turned to watch the Shriners he had seen earlier, entering the lobby, laughing and singing. They had obviously had a few more drinks. The portly man said, "Hi there, pal. You missed a great party."

Robert's mind was racing.

"You like patties?"

"Hoo hoo!"

"There's a real live one going on u~," Robert said.

"Booze, girls-anything you want. Just follow me, fellows."

"That's the American spirit, pal." The man clapped Robert on the back.

"You hear that, boys? our friend here is throwing a party!" They crowded into the elevator together and rode up to the third floor. The Shriner said, "These Italians sure know how to live it up. I guess they invented orgies, huh?"

"I'm going to show you a real orgy," Robert promised. They followed him down the hall to his room. Robert put the key in the lock and turned to the group.

"Are you all ready to have some fun?"

There was a chorus of yeses...

Robert turned the key, pushed the door open, and stepped to one side. The room was dark. He snapped on the light. A tall, thin stranger was standing in the middle of the room with a Mauser equipped with a silencer, half drawn. The man looked at the group with a startled expression and quickly shoved the gun back in his jacket.

"Hey! Where's the booze?"

one of the Shriners demanded.

Robert pointed to the stranger.

"He has it. Go get it." The group surged toward the man.

"Where's the liquor, buddy?"...

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"Where are the girls?"...

"Let's get this party on the road...." The thin man was trying to get through to Robert, but the crowd was blocking his way. He watched helplessly as Robert bolted out the door. He took the stairs two at a time.

Downstairs in the lobby, Robert was moving toward the exit when the concierge called out, "Oh, Commander Bellamy, I made your reservation for you. You are on Air France flight 312 to Paris. It leaves at one A.M."

"Thanks," Robert said hurriedly.

He was out the door, into the small square overlooking the Spanish Stems. A taxi was discharging a passenger. Robert stepped into it.

"Via Monte Grappa." He had his answer now. They intended to kill him. They',-not going to find it easy. He was the hunted now instead of the hunter, but he had one big advantage. They had trained him well. He knew all their techniques, their strengths, and their weaknesses, and he intended to use that knowledge to stop them. First, he had to find a way to throw them off his trail. The men after him would have been given a story of some kind. They would have been told he was wanted for smuggling drugs, or for murder, or espionage. They would have been warned: He's dangerous. Take no chances. Shoot to kill. Robert said to the taxi driver, "Roma Termini." They were hunting for him, but they would not have had enough time to disseminate his photograph. So far, he was faceless.

The taxi pulled up at Via Giovanni Giolitti 36, and the driver announced, "Stazione Termini, signore."

"Let's just wait here a minute." Robert sat in the taxi, studying the front of the railway station. There seemed to be only the usual activity. Everything appeared to be normal. Taxis and limousines were arriving and de~ing, discharging and picking up passengers. Porters were loading and unloading luggage. A policeman was busily ordering cars to move out of the restricted parking one. But something was disturbing Robert. He suddenly realized what was wrong with the picture. Parked fly in front of the station, in a no-parking zone, were three unmarked sedans, with no one inside. The policeman ignored them.

"I've changed my mind," Robert said to the driver.

"Via Veneto 110/A." It was the last place anyone would look for him. The American Embassy and Consulate are located in a pink stucco building facing the Via Veneto, with a black wrought-iron fence in front of it. The embassy was closed at this hour, but the passport division of the consulate was open on a twenty.four-hour basis to handle emergencies. In the foyer on the first floor, a marine sat behind a desk. The marine looked up as Robert approached.

"May I help you, sir?"

"Yes," Robert said.

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"Are you an American citizen?"

"Yes."

The marine indicated an office at the far end.