LACKING VIRTUES (9 page)

“Well, Walter, I lived in that smelly barn for many days. I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else. There’s always a lot lying around to eat in France. The peasants who work there are ancient, which helped my requisitioning. Nothing happened until the last night of my stay. I was about to pack up and leave for Germany.”

  “Yes.”

She took a sip of her drink. “Delors arrived shortly after dark. The third man came after midnight. They stayed in the house until dawn, and that allowed me to photograph them clearly, without the infrared, when they came out.”

“The photographs are very good, Maria,” he repeated.

“Thank you.”

“Do you know who these people are?”

She giggled and put a hand on his arm. “Yes, Walter. I was curious. Do you blame me?” “How did you learn their identities, Maria?”

“I asked. In a bar. At a newsstand. Very discretely, mind you. People recognized them. What about you? Do you know who they are?”

He warmed up, even managed a thin smile. “Of course I do. Now, Maria, why don’t you come home with me? We’ll have a bite to eat. I was in Berlin today and had the opportunity to convert your compensation into Swiss francs, as you requested. If you wish, you may stay the night.”

“I wish, Walter. You know that.”

***

At dusk, they crossed the lake in their two separate boats and  paddled vigorously upriver. Claussen, a few meters ahead, waved her over to the flat grassy bank with the ancient stone bench where he always began his swim. She was out of breath. He caught her backpack and helped her to shore with a steady hand, then tied both boats to the bench for the night. Maria thanked him and put her arm through his. This time he did not pull away.

The woods were still as they began the half hour walk to the farmhouse. Low clouds had rolled in, dark and fragrant with the promise of rain.

Maria found the night enchanting. She wondered out loud if Claussen would ever break down and make love to her. He implied with his silence that he would, and she hugged him tightly.

A cool persistent rain off the Baltic began to fall. When they arrived at the farmhouse, they were both soaked. The geese, stirred up by the presence of a female, attacked Maria so aggressively she had to beat them back with a stick.

“They’re nice and plump, Walter,” she said, laughing. “They sense that I grew up on a farm and am their enemy. You should let me fix you one for Christmas dinner.”

“Perhaps, if I’m here,” he said, leading her inside. “Would you like a hot shower, Maria?”

She nodded happily, her teeth chattering and goose bumps on her bare arms. “More than anything. Almost anything. Where is it?”

“In the second-floor bedroom to your left.”

“Will you join me, Walter? Two get warm faster than one.”

“Yes,” he said. “And I’ll bring the Armagnac.”

“Wonderful.” She ran up the stairs, her hard shapely calves glistening with rainwater. “I was beginning to think you could resist me forever,” she called over her shoulder, her voice like a schoolgirl’s. “I’m glad I was wrong.”

When he heard the bedroom door close, he reached quietly into the second drawer for his stiletto. It weighed only three ounces, but was deadliest close-range weapon he had ever used. He taped it to the back of his right thigh, undressed in the kitchen and climbed the stairs naked. Her clothes were in a pile on the bed. He could hear water running. When he opened the shower door, she was standing with her back to him, washing her hair, her face turned upward toward the nozzle.

He plunged the stiletto between her shoulder blades, a precise thrust.

When she turned toward him, soap and water streamed down her beautiful face. He could see the stiletto’s tip where it had run her through. It was protruding from the left center of her chest.  A moment of silence ensued as she gaped at him, her large, dark eyes filled with incomprehension. She finally said, “Why, Walter? Why?”

He stepped back from the shower. She sat hard and shuddered. The blood, sparse in front, spurted from her back and formed a pool beneath her. “Why, Walter?” she repeated, her voice already weak.

“You knew too much,” he said curtly. “You knew of my past, you knew of my mission, you were foolish enough to inquire about the identity of my employers. When I offered you the assignment, you should have refused.”

She stretched out her arms toward him, fingers splayed and trembling. “Walter, please help me.”

He kicked her further back in the shower and turned up the water. “Good bye, Maria. You should have been a paparazza.” He closed the shower door and scooted a heavy armoire in front of it.

In the kitchen, Claussen put water on to boil, laid out two potatoes and a thick cutlet of veal. He put a glob of goose fat in the skillet and opened a bottle of Stierenblut wine.

While he surveyed the beginnings of his meal, he couldn’t help laughing. Old Bauernsachs, the peasant down the road, was coming at five a.m. with a wagon of swine guts and two wagons of grain.

Bauernsachs used the machinery in Claussen’s barn, which had once been part of a small state-owned dog food plant. Claussen charged him a share of the finished product adequate to feed his geese. This time there would be something other than pig guts in those pellets. His geese would have their go at Maria after all.

He ate heartily, putting ample butter on his black bread and potatoes and not bothering to trim the fat from his cutlet. He had learned long ago your system needed a little something extra when you demanded superhuman things of it. A few more trivial items of  business and he would be ready to leave for the States. Upstairs, he turned off the shower, pleased to see no sign of Maria’s blood in the stall. He left her and his stiletto to spend the night together in peace.

Chapter Ten

Soon after his arrival in the south of France, Steven reported to the Roches Fleuries Tennis Club for his scheduled meeting with the outgoing pro and the director. He already had the job, some sort of international exchange Sophie had worked out with friends in Beverly Hills and Paris. But the director of this exclusive club wanted to have a formal chat with him before he started.

Steven assumed there would be a lot of emphasis on dress codes, tennis etiquette and other things he didn’t give a damn about. It was his image of Nicole in a short skirt responding to his hands-on demonstration of a proper serve that convinced him he could keep his mouth shut.

He was a few minutes early so he throttled back his bike and took a coasting tour of the facility. It was impressive. Twelve finely groomed red clay courts were set among Roman ruins high above the Mediterranean. The courts on the steepest incline were built on platforms that jutted out over the mountainside. Palm trees and pines ringed the courts, providing a windbreak and a measure of privacy, and gnarled old olive trees grew among the ruins. Flower beds with all sorts of brightly colored southern plants bordered the asphalt paths connecting the courts. Best of all, if you looked down at the coastline, you could see medieval fishing villages nestled into craggy coves, and sailboats plying the aquamarine water.

The clubhouse was a sprawling white stucco and glass villa. There was a stone patio with wrought-iron tables facing Court Number One, a first-class tournament court with a grandstand on the far side. A waiter in a white jacket held vigil over a dozen or so middle-aged women who were wearing too much jewelry and getting too much sun. He hoped they didn’t like Americans.

He parked his bike among the fancy cars, introduced himself to the waiter and went inside. The girl at the reservation desk looked coldly at his T-shirt and cut-off jeans.

“May I help you?”

“I have an appointment with Philippe. My name’s LeConte. I’m going to be your pro while he’s in Beverly Hills.”

She looked him over again as if to say, You’re dressed like that and think you’re going to be the pro here?

“This way, please, Monsieur LeConte.”

He followed silently up two broad flights of stairs. She ushered him into a waiting room that reminded him of the waiting room of the shrink he had once gone to see as a condition of his father’s continued financial support.

“I’ll tell them you have arrived,” the girl said.

“Hey, before you lock me in here, why don’t you have that waiter down below bring me up a beer? It’s hot out there.”

“Are you sure you want to drink alcohol, Monsieur LeConte?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

She consulted her watch. “But your match begins in three hours.”

“Match? What match?”

“With Philippe. It’s a big event. We are expecting most of the club members to attend.”

“I don’t know anything about a match. I didn’t even bring my racket.”

The director’s door opened and a stern middle-age man motioned with a condescending flick of his wrist for the girl to leave. He looked Steven over with cool gray eyes. “Monsieur LeConte?”

Steven extended his hand. “That’s me. And you must be Monsieur Denis du Péage?”

“Yes. I trust you had a pleasant trip?”

“It’s a long way from Paris.”

“For an American? I thought you were accustomed to distances.”

“I’ve been in France for quite a while.”

“I see. Well, Philippe will be here shortly.” The director went back into his office, leaving a chill in the room.

Soon, a man in his mid-twenties came in. He was lean and tall, 6ʹ3ʺ Steven guessed, with razor cut black hair and a gold chain around his neck. Dressed in the latest silver and mauve Sergio Tacchini warm-up suit, he looked like an ad in a tennis magazine.

“Philippe Denis du Péage,” he said coolly. He extended his hand but did not squeeze when Steven shook it.

“Denis du Péage?” Steven said. “You’re the director’s son?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s this I hear about a match between the two of us tonight? No one mentioned it to me.”

“It’s tradition at the Roches Fleuries. The outgoing pro always plays the new man. The outgoing pro chooses the time of the match and the number of sets.”

“Outgoing pro? You’re only going to be ‘out’ for six weeks. I’m not after your job here, if that’s what you’re worried about. Let’s skip the match. You don’t have to piss on the corners of your territory because of me.”

“My job is not at issue. I said it was tradition.”

“Am I supposed to lose? Is that tradition, too?”

“Don’t insult me or you will not be working at this club.”

“Sorry, I was just asking. What time’s the match?”

“Eight o’clock. Best of three. I hope you’re not nervous playing in front of crowds.”

“Look, Philippe, I’m very nervous. I didn’t know we were playing so I didn’t even bring my tennis things with me. It’s an hour to my place in this summer traffic, and an hour to get back here. I haven’t played a serious match in quite a while. I’d like to hit a few serves, maybe find someone to rally with. So how about being a good sport and rounding me up some shoes, clothes and a racquet?”

“There’s a pro shop downstairs. If you don’t have enough money, you can charge against your salary.”