Labyrinth (15 page)

“Felderberg,” Dogan said, “the financier. A broker in dollars, not information. Seems strange this Locke would be heading for him.”

The Commander nervously cleared his throat. “No questions, Grendel. Do you want the assignment or not?”

Dogan tore a croissant in half and stood up over his untouched coffee, picking up the envelope. “I'll send you a postcard from Liechtenstein.”

Part Four:
Liechtenstein and Austria, Saturday Afternoon

Chapter 12

LOCKE FOUND GETTING
to Liechtenstein a more difficult chore than he had expected. Burgess's itinerary got him to Geneva right on schedule but the train he boarded there, the Arlberg Express, made no stops in the small country. So Chris took it as far as the border station at St. Gallen, where he found a taxi for the fifteen minute trip to Vaduz, Liechtenstein's capital. He was surprised to find there were no checks at the border and also relieved. The less he had to expose himself, the better.

Still, Locke could not help but be taken in by the country's beauty. The thin road taken by the driver curved comfortably through the fertile flatlands of the Rhine Valley, which was just beginning to show its spring blossoms. He could see mountains in the north layered with snow and the temperature barely broke fifty. Locke longed for a warmer coat but the sights kept his mind off the cold.

The taxi deposited him in the storybook town of Vaduz in front of the Sonnenhof Hotel at two thirty. Locke paid the driver with some of the Swiss francs he had obtained in Geneva and included a generous tip. A doorman came over and grabbed his suitcase, beckoning him toward the hotel entrance. Locke hesitated a moment to look up beyond the hotel at the sprawling, majestic structure of Castle Vaduz. Directly below it he made out a dark shape nestled amidst the lush greenery—the Hauser restaurant, where his meeting with Felderberg would take place in just over an hour. The tram leading up to the restaurant from ground level would be hidden by the trees from this angle. There would be plenty of time to locate it later.

Finally he moved toward the entrance of the Sonnenhof. The same doorman who had taken his suitcase held the door for him, and Locke tipped him handsomely as well. He had to play his role to the fullest by passing sums of money and being noticed for it. Felderberg would be asking about him, perhaps even had people watching. Any reservations the financier entertained about Sam Babbit had to be laid to rest.

Locke stopped at the front desk, flinching just for an instant when he registered under his assumed name. There had been no time for Burgess to obtain a credit card for him, so he left a deposit in cash. The clerk was friendly but methodical, finally handing Chris his key and signaling for a bellboy. Five minutes later, after another exorbitant tip, he was inspecting his room to find it tastefully and elegantly appointed in light colors corresponding to the lavish grounds beyond. There was a terrace off his bedroom, and Locke collapsed there on a chair facing the sun. The wind chilled him but after the long, confined journey he needed the open air and space. It was almost three o'clock now; an hour to go until his meeting with Felderberg.

Chris suddenly found himself uncomfortable. First he passed it off to the long, sleepless trip, but there was more. He was in a foreign country registered under an assumed name about to meet with a man who was somehow part of a monstrous conspiracy. It might have been comic if someone else had put it to him that way, and he found himself more distressed than ever. Lubeck had seen Felderberg … and Lubeck had died.

Chris moved back inside his room, closed and bolted the sliding door behind him. He picked up the phone and had the hotel operator connect him with the number Burgess had provided. He had last checked in hours earlier in Geneva.

Uncle Colin has gone fishing… .

Please don't let it be those words, Locke prayed.

“Hello,” came the friendly female voice with the sharp British accent.

“I want to speak with Uncle Colin.”

“Your number, please.”

Chris gave it to her.

“Stay put, sir. Be right back with you.”

Locke hung up. The phone rang three minutes later.

“Yes?” the girl said.

“I have another message for your uncle.”

“Go on.”

“Tell him I've arrived at Vaduz and all seems to be well. I'll be meeting with Fel—”

“Please mention no names,” the girl interrupted.

“The meeting will go on as scheduled.” Locke hesitated. “Is there any way I can reach Colin directly?”

“I could have him call you at this number but it'll take a while.”

Locke knew he'd have to leave for his meeting with Felderberg in a half hour at most. “No, it's all right. I'll call again after the meeting?” Then: “He's okay, isn't he?”

“Fine, sir, and taking all necessary precautions.”

“Good.”

Chris replaced the receiver as soon as the conversation ended. Something was nagging at him. What precautions had the girl been talking about? Did Burgess know someone was on to him? Locke couldn't bear the thought of being totally alone again. Burgess was his only hope now. If something happened to the big Brit …

Locke stretched out on the bed and forced his mind to other considerations. London had taught him that hotels could not always be regarded as safe refuges. Unexpected happenings on the mountain could conceivably make a return to the Sonnenhof impossible. So he needed a safe locale for some fresh clothes and other basic necessities, including his passport. He wasn't comfortable carrying it on his person, nor did he want to leave it in the hotel room. He reached deep down into his memory for an effective strategy. It had been covered in the training, repeated over and over again.

Use a public place, somewhere crowded, as a stash. A train or bus station, perhaps an airport, would be best. Use a locker
.

There was a good-sized rail station on the outskirts of Vaduz. Certainly there would be lockers inside.

It took him ten minutes to change into a new suit and another five to pack a tote bag with two changes of clothes, a razor, and other toilet articles, along with his passport. In addition there were several implements Burgess had obtained in the event a disguise might be needed. Locke had the doorman get him a cab forty minutes before his appointment with Felderberg and headed for Vaduz Station. Then he told the driver to wait outside for him.

As it turned out, there were indeed lockers inside the station, a whole bank of them. But keys had to be obtained and deposits left at a central desk, which meant exposing himself to more attention. Locke weighed the situation only briefly before determining that obtaining the locker was worth the risk. The clerk was courteous, had thick glasses, and spoke very poor English. The cost of a locker was fifteen francs per day. Locke received one key. A master that was also required to open the lockers was always present at the desk, available once the customer had paid up his account as noted on the card Locke was issued. It all seemed far more complicated than a simple coin system, but he went along with it because he had to.

The driver dropped him at the tram at the base of Vaduz Mountain fifteen minutes before his meeting was scheduled to begin. The ski season had ended, so there was little activity about. A lift operator sold tickets to the few tourists who wished to take in Vaduz from an aerial angle. Another helped seat them in the small enclosed cars that looked like miniature diving bells. Chris straightened his tie, purchased a ticket, and was ushered into one of the green compartments. The door closed tight. The lift began to pull him up the mountain, taking him farther and farther from the ground. The cable squeaked and trembled every time a connecting tower station was passed. Halfway up the tram, Locke could clearly make out the Hauser restaurant, a small but stately building that seemed to be a small imitation of the castle standing above. It might once have been a carriage house by the look of it, or a guest lodging for visitors of Liechtenstein's royalty in days of old. It was simply a restaurant, though, constructed in the sixties to capitalize on the tourist trade.

The restaurant was located up a path from the tram's unloading platform, and Locke had started to walk toward it when a man appeared in front of him flanked by two others.

“Mr. Babbit?”

“Er, yes.”

The man's eyes were ice blue. He had wavy blond hair and a neck as wide as his head. “We have been sent to escort you up to your visit with Mr. Felderberg. You have come alone?” the man asked, eyes darting back toward the tram.

“That was the arrangement.”

“We are merely confirming. Precautions, you understand.”

“I understand.”

There was a suppressed tension about the man, Locke noted, something coiled in him ready to spring at an instant's notice. He didn't smile; there was no expression whatsoever on his face. He seemed somehow familiar to Locke and it wasn't until they reached the entrance to the restaurant that he realized why. He had known a hundred others like him twenty years ago at the Academy. The man had the capacity to kill without hesitation. Felderberg was taking no chances.

The blond man led Locke into the Hauser, which was dimly lit and almost deserted but impressive in its furnishings all the same. The designers had done their best to create the feel of a seventeenth-century inn with thick wood tables and several functional fireplaces. A large bar dominated the central floor, huge beer mugs with Liechtenstein's coat of arms displayed proudly on shelves suspended over old-fashioned wine bottles. Few of the tables were occupied and only three seats at the bar were taken, one by a thick-haired American-looking man whose eyes held Locke's briefly as he passed. When Locke glanced back, the man's attention had returned to his stein of beer.

“This way,” the blond man said, and Locke followed him with the other two men bringing up the rear.

They moved down a corridor where two additional bodyguards waited in front of a wooden door with a brass knocker.

“We will search you here,” the blond man told him.

Chris felt himself being eased gently against the wall. Then a pair of powerful hands slid over him checking for concealed weapons. Satisfied, the hands slipped off and Locke turned around to find the blond man lifting the knocker. He opened the door without waiting for a reply and signaled Locke to enter.

“Thank you, Peale,” came a voice from the room's rear, and Chris found himself looking at Claus Felderberg. “Leave us.”

Peale headed back out the door. Felderberg stood up and started out from behind a table. Locke met him halfway across the floor.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Babbit.”

Locke took Felderberg's extended hand. The grip was cold and clammy. Felderberg was overweight, with bulging jowls and a triple chin. His blue suit was perfectly tailored and what remained of his thinning brown hair was pulled from one side to the other to make it seem he had more. His mustache was his most outstanding facial feature, mostly because it was embroidered with strands of red. Felderberg breathed hard and noisily through his nose.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Locke said.

“My pleasure. Come, please sit down.”

“I mean, I know how busy you are. I appreciate your time.”

Almost on cue, Felderberg pulled a gold watch from a chain in his vest pocket and checked it as he returned to his seat.

“And little time I have, Mr. Babbit. Economies are booming everywhere. Many people have money they wish resettled.”

Interesting choice of words, Locke thought as he waited for Felderberg to take his seat before he followed. The financier eased his bulk down and then pulled his chair under the table, which had been set for two. Locke sat down opposite him.

Felderberg settled his legs under the table. “As I said, Mr. Babbit, my time is short, so please excuse me for dispensing with formalities. My right foot is presently resting on a button which the slightest pressure would activate, sending a signal to my men in the corridor telling them I need them immediately. They will respond fast and rashly, Mr. Babbit. That is what they are paid for.”

“I understand.”

“No, I don't think you do. In my business precautions are everything, Mr. Babbit. Personal safety is maintained above all else. I am going to ask you a question and if the response doesn't satisfy me, I will press my foot down and have my bodyguards deal with you.” Locke made out the fear in Felderberg's voice. The financier's eyes bore into him. “Who are you?”

“Sam—”

“Not satisfactory. You are not Sam Babbit and your presence here has nothing to do with desiring excessive financial resettlements as I was asked to believe.”

Locke felt numb. The ruse was up. No sense trying to continue it. “I congratulate you on your intuition,” he managed.

“Investigation was more like it,” Felderberg told him. “I had you watched at the hotel. Your tipping was impressive but no man in your alleged position would pay for a hotel room in cash. You also have no credit cards in your wallet—Peale signaled me to that fact when he entered the room. The men I deal with invariably carry a flock of them. I also understand that you made a stop at the train station on the way here.”

Locke leaned back. “I'm impressed with your thoroughness.”

“I have many enemies. Hired killers have shown up here before.”

“But you don't consider me one,” Locke said.

Felderberg hedged. “My foot is on the button,” he said as a reminder. “But you're right, I don't believe you came here with violent intentions. Your cover was too thin, too shabby. Killers always come with impeccable credentials and qualifications. Peale always picks them out in an instant, and he's quite good at dealing with them.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“Every move you made was contrary to what a man who had come in quest of my life would make, starting with a rather bizarre arrangement for this meeting.”