The Favor (19 page)

And he was—at least, he knew Guinness was
there. It was becoming Flycatcher’s cross, apparently, the
knowledge that there was always someone behind him.

“He knows it was you in Mexico, Ray. He’s
spooky as hell.”

Ernie was in Europe—just to tell him that? He
said no, that there was something going in Vienna and he had just
stopped off for a moment between planes, but the truth was a vague
thing in their world, even between friends.

“Last month in Marseille you almost had
him—at least, so we hear. He pulled out and left his people holding
the bag, left the whole operation, whatever it was, to go to
pieces. He does that a few more times, and he’ll be out of
business; the gentlemen who pay the freight won’t trust him
anymore, and that’ll be that. It seems you make him nervous.”

Big deal.

Guinness sat in a tiny coffee shop in
Amsterdam, making breakfast out of a cup of tea and a buttered roll
that tasted for all the world like an onion bagel. Ernie Tuttle was
across the water in his wood paneled Washington office, typing up
memos and planning the ultimate coup that would land him in the
Directorship, and Janine, presumably, was out seeing about the
telephone numbers that young girls kept hidden under their night
table drawers.

And Flycatcher—where was he? Had he done a
flit again, or had he finally decided that the inevitable had
arrived and it was time to stand his ground? It would be
interesting to know.But it was seven o’clock in the morning, an
hour at which the tangled threads of fear and revenge all seem a
trifle insubstantial, like the trailings of a cobweb.

Guinness had managed about five hours of
dreamless sleep, which, under the circumstances, could be counted
as an unlooked for blessing. He had a not unpleasant ache in his
groin, another blessing, and Janine would be meeting him sometime
before noon to tell him all about her discoveries. Maybe somewhere
before this thing was settled they would find the chance for a few
more fast falls; it wouldn’t be as good as the first time—when was
it ever that?—but what the hell. After the first flush of youth,
pleasure becomes a serious matter, not to be disdained. And he
liked Janine.

The coffee shop was in the basement of one of
the downtown office buildings and was uncomfortably cold. Guinness
had a seat at the counter, from which he could watch the door, and
he perched discontentedly in his chair, stirring his tea in a vain
effort to disperse the milky film that kept forming on the
surface.

He had done everything it was possible to do
up to that moment. He had dispatched Janine on her errands and he
had phoned Ernie to have a background check done on one Jean Renal.
In another two hours he would take up his seat at the outdoor cafe
to watch Amalia Brouwer show up for work, but until then all he
could do was keep out of trouble and wait.

Ernie, who had sounded as if the telephone
had called him out of a deep and restful sleep, had said he would
have everything in hand by lunchtime—lunchtime on the Potomac,
presumably, which meant there wouldn’t be much point in calling
back before around six that evening. So there was nothing to look
forward to just immediately. Guinness would spend the time walking,
trying to convince himself all over again that no one, absolutely
no one, was on his tail. It was becoming a ritual.

When finally he could get the waitress to
notice him, he paid his check and went back upstairs into the
sunshine, which was dazzling after the neon twilight of breakfast.
The only places open were other restaurants; the shops wouldn’t
start business until eight. He found a bakery, however—one assumed
that the housewives of Holland had to have their morning sweet
rolls—so he went inside and bought a half dozen sticky, cinnamon
covered pastries that would have been called bear claws in the
States. Twenty minutes after breakfast and he was hungry all over
again. One assumed it was just nerves.

He struck out in the direction of the
Rembrandt House, which had the advantage of being away from
anywhere anyone could conceivably imagine he would want to go—what
the hell, he wouldn’t have time to have much of a look at the
place, but if there were somebody behind him he didn’t want to
appear to be wandering aimlessly—tearing off pieces of pastry and
stuffing them mechanically into his mouth as he walked.

. . . . .

At the appointed hour he was sitting with his
prop glass of beer at one of the outdoor tables across the street
from the bookshop. The little old lady was already there—they
weren’t open for business yet, but she had let herself in with a
key and was running a busy feather duster over the magazine racks.
Amalia was not yet in evidence, but it was still early.

Of course, that morning’s significant fact
was the gentleman who was in evidence, seated over a cup of coffee
and a sweet roll two or three tables away from Guinness. He was
pretending to read a newspaper, much as Guinness himself had only
the afternoon before; he had it folded down to a strip about nine
inches wide and was holding it up in front of his face like a
screen, but his fingers were dug so deeply into the newsprint that
the knuckles had turned white. He had been frozen in that posture
for about the last ten minutes—ever since the waiter had brought
him his order and, while he counted out the tip, he had seen
Guinness in the act of returning from the little boy’s room. There
had been just a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but it had been
enough.

Guinness remembered him too. Stuck in the
waistband of his trousers was the tiny nickel plated automatic that
Janine had given him the night of his arrival. It wasn’t much of a
weapon, but at close range it would probably serve its turn.
Fortunately it was small enough to palm, and he slipped it into his
jacket pocket under cover of shifting uncomfortably in his
chair.

“Keep a grip on your newspaper,” he said, his
voice low and even, almost friendly, as he sat down at the other
man’s table. He was holding his beer glass in his right hand, and
the other was in his jacket pocket. “A wrong move buys you a hole
in the face, so be nice. We wouldn’t want to disturb anybody.”

He smiled and took a sip of his beer, which
for some reason seemed unnaturally bitter, and his companion peered
cautiously over the top of his paper at him, obviously less than
easy in his mind.

“Try to look a little happier, would you?
That’s it—give us a big grin to please the paying customers. Now
let’s take a walk.”

Guinness made an almost imperceptible gesture
with the point of his chin, and they both started to rise out of
their seats. Very carefully, the other man folded his newspaper
once more and set it down on the table next to his half finished
cup of coffee, and Guinness nodded approvingly. As they walked out
between the other tables to the street, Guinness was behind, and he
was glad to see he wasn’t dealing with the reckless type—the object
of the morning’s exercise let his hands fall limply to his sides,
as if they were simply so much nerveless weight.

Of course, he would be a pro. He was one of
Flycatcher’s people, and they grew up fast. Guinness recalled this
one, sprinting toward the black Mercedes with his head pulled
down.

They went on for about half a block together,
until they came to the sheltered stairway to a group of second
floor apartments—you could see the shiny brass mailboxes inside on
the narrow porch. It would offer a few seconds of privacy; they
wouldn’t need more than that.

Guinness gave him an amicable little
shove—between professionals, the hint was enough; there wasn’t any
call to get hostile about these things—and when they were off the
street he leaned the man against the brick wall and patted him
down, finding nothing more sinister than a small snub nose .32
caliber revolver in a holster clipped to his belt on the right
side. Under the circumstances, almost nothing.

There was also a wallet, with a Canadian
passport in the pocket behind the folding money, made out in the
name of James K. Lind. In this business, one supposed, one name was
as good as another. The color photograph was of a withered,
dark-haired, worried looking man in his middle forties, a man who
had come to the conclusion that he was past this sort of thing,
who, on the whole, would have preferred packing it in to start life
over as a shoe salesman but who knew that from now on there was
only a one way corridor. The eyes told you all that, and the way he
had turned his face just slightly away, as if the camera were
something else it might not do to meet too directly.

Guinness put the passport back and returned
the wallet to its place in the inside jacket pocket. When they
found him, it would save everyone just infinite amounts of trouble
if he still had his papers on him. So long as there was no
suggestion of robbery, the police were generally willing enough not
to push their investigations too hard. The odd death by
misadventure wouldn’t be allowed to muddy up their tranquil little
routines, especially when they discovered, as doubtless they would,
that the passport was a forgery.

“Come on, Mr. Lind,” he said, pulling him
around by the shoulder. “Let’s you and I take a little walk.”

And they went on together down the street,
Guinness just a half step behind, not even bothering about either
of the guns he carried—they both knew he could have either of them
out and ready before “Mr. Lind” had managed five yards, so why make
a production?

“It was you in Mexico, wasn’t it.” The words
came floating back over the other man’s shoulder, and Guinness
nodded, perfectly aware that the gesture would have been
unseen.

“Sure. You were the first one to go for the
car—your boss doesn’t pay you enough.”

“Can we make a deal? It was one thing down
there; he was the one standing behind me with a gun then. Just name
your terms—I don’t owe him a fucking thing.”

It was hopeless, of course. You couldn’t
believe a man under threat of death, and this one had seen him
sitting across the street from the bookstore. No doubt he had made
the connection; it was the sort of news that would buy his way back
into Flycatcher’s good graces, no matter what he might have had to
do or say to keep alive. And then Amalia Brouwer’s life wouldn’t be
worth an hour’s purchase—Flycatcher was a very cautious man.

And, of course, Mr. Lind knew all that. He
knew Guinness couldn’t afford to let him go—he was just deluding
himself, giving himself a little license to hope. Why take it away
from him?

“We’ll see.”

Even in Amsterdam there are alleyways, narrow
spaces upon which the surrounding buildings have turned their
backs. Most of the time they end in a cement stairway down to some
basement door.

“After you.”Mr. Lind started down, holding on
to the iron railings as if he were afraid his legs might give out
beneath him. When he stood on the last step, he reached out and
took hold of the door handle, pulling it toward him.

“It’s locked,” he said, turning around to
look back at Guinness, who was already clutching the revolver, the
butt turned around, and raising his arm—he didn’t care what all the
karate champions said; if he was going to hit a man, he wanted to
hit him with something a little harder than the side of his horny
hand.

“It’s locked.”

Guinness gave it everything he had, and the
blow caught Mr. Lind just on the temple and he fell down as if he
had been swept off his feet. Lying on the stairs, he tried to turn
himself a little, as if he wanted to see up to where Guinness was
standing; the expression on his face was almost reproachful and his
mouth opened, perhaps to say something. And then, very suddenly, he
went limp. That was the way it happened—Guinness had been hit on
the head often enough himself to know that you didn’t go out all at
once.

He reached down and felt the carotid artery.
The poor clown was still alive, so apparently this one wasn’t going
to be easy on either of them. Sometimes, if you hit hard enough,
you could kill them with a single blow, but apparently this wasn’t
one of those times.

He took the head between his hands, pressing
his palms into the temples, and brought it down with a sharp crack
against the edge of one of the cement steps, and this time it did
the job. Mr. Lind stiffened slightly—that was just the nervous
system protesting its extinction—and then he was very decidedly
dead. His eyes were already beginning to dilate when Guinness
clipped the revolver and its holster back into his belt.

And then he left, careful not to hurry,
leaving the late Mr. Lind in undisputed possession.

Janine found him standing around with the
tour bus crowds across the square from the Royal Palace. They had
settled on that as their fallback, and he couldn’t have gone again
to the cafe—he didn’t want to be remembered as the gentleman who
had left with another gentleman and who had then come back alone to
finish his beer. So he had spent the last hour milling around,
leafing through a pamphlet that described the various excursions
and trying to avoid getting captured by any of the guides.

Janine stood by herself, near the tour
company office, and waited for him to notice her.

“The telephone number is assigned to a
warehouse near the harbor. I took a taxi down to see and there is a
sign up advertising the building for lease. . . Soldier, are you
not well?”

“Let’s get out of here—I haven’t had my lunch
yet.”

Guinness took her arm just above the wrist,
and they walked quickly away. The casual observer, had he felt
compelled to account to himself for the abruptness of their
withdrawal, might have guessed they were on the lookout for some
private place in which to have a subdued little lovers’ spat. Or he
might not have thought anything about it at all, since Guinness had
hardly dragged her off by the hair.