The Key to Midnight (33 page)

“He’d like to do to everyone what he did to me.”

“Or worse.”

The waitress brought more tea and small cakes for dessert.

The lunch crowd was thinning out.

Beyond the windows, the rain was coming down with such force that London had been blurred back into the eighteenth century.

Alex and Joanna continued to read about Rotenhausen:

In Bonn, back in that time before reunification, the West German government was exceedingly sensitive to world opinion. Rotenhausen was widely viewed as Hitler’s spiritual descendant. The brilliant doctor ceased to be a national treasure (not so much because of his work but because he’d been unable to keep his mouth shut about it), ceased to be even a national asset, and became a distinct liability to the German state. Pressure was brought to bear on the university that gave him a research home, and eventually he was dismissed on a morals charge involving a student. He denied all wrongdoing and accused the university and the girl of conspiring against him. Nevertheless, he was weary of wasting time on politics when so much research awaited. He departed gracelessly but without challenging the powers that had gone after him with such success, and eventually the morals charge was dropped.

“He might not have been guilty of molesting that girl, but he was probably guilty of molesting others. I know him well. Too well.”

Unable to endure the haunted expression in her eyes, Alex stared for a moment at the half-eaten cake on the plate in front of him, and then he took another yellowed clipping from the stack.

Six months after Dr. Zombie was forced out of the uni versity, he liquidated his holdings in West Germany and moved to Saint Moritz, Switzerland. The Swiss granted him permanent residency for two reasons. First, Switzerland was a country with a long and admirable tradition of providing asylum for prominent—though seldom ordinary—outcasts from other countries. Second, Rotenhausen was a millionaire many times over, having inherited a fortune and later having earned substantially more from his dozens of medical and chemical patents. He reached an agreement with the Swiss tax authorities, and each year he paid a tithe that was meager to him but that covered a substantial percentage of the government’s expenses in the canton where he lived. It was believed that he continued to do research in his private laboratory in Saint Moritz, but because he never wrote another word for publication and never spoke to newsmen, that suspicion couldn’t be verified.

“With time he’s been forgotten,” Joanna said.

“Too many new monsters to excite the media every day. No time to keep track of the old ones.”

Finished with the clippings, they turned to the unfinished, unsigned, handwritten letter from Chelgrin to his daughter. It was two pages of half-baked apologia: an ineffective, self-justifying whine. It provided no new information, not even a single fresh clue.

“How does Rotenhausen connect with the senator and with whatever happened in Jamaica?” Joanna wondered.

“I don’t know, but we’ll find out.”

“You said the senator mentioned Russians when you spoke to him on the phone.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what he meant. It seems ridiculous. The Cold War was still on in those days, but it’s over now.”

“What would Rotenhausen have been doing in a deal with the Soviets, anyway? He sounds more like a Nazi than a communist.”

“Nazis and communists have a lot in common,” Alex said. “They want the same thing—absolute control, unqualified power. A man like Franz Rotenhausen can find sympathy in both camps.”

“Now what?” she asked.

“Now we go to Switzerland.”

As a hard wind blew shatters of rain against the café windows and as London seemed to dissolve toward prehistoric rock formations, Joanna leaned across the table. “No, Alex. Please, let’s not do that. Not Switzerland. Not into... into his lair. We can turn this whole thing over to the police now.”

“We still don’t have enough proof.”

She shook her head adamantly. “I disagree. We’ve got all these clippings, this letter, a dead body at the Churchill Hotel, and the fact that my fingerprints match Lisa’s.”

Alex reached across the table and put his hand over hers. “I understand your fear. But what police should we go to? The Jamaican police? The Americans? Chicago police? The FBI, the CIA? Japanese police? The British? Scotland Yard? Or maybe the Swiss police?”

She frowned. “It’s not so simple, is it?”

“If we go to
any
cops now, we’ll be dead by morning. These people, whoever they are, have been hiding something big for a long time. Now the cover-up isn’t working any more. The whole thing’s falling apart. And they know it. That’s why they killed the senator—they’ve finally decided to clean up the mess before anyone notices it. Right now they’re probably looking for us. Whatever immunity you might have had is gone—gone with your father. If we go public with the case now, we’ll just be targets. Until we’ve got the entire story, until we understand the why of it, until we can blow them out of the water, we’ll stay alive only as long as we stay out of sight.”

Joanna seized on that. “But we’ll be extremely visible if we go hunting Rotenhausen in Switzerland.”

“We won’t blunder straight over there. We’ll be discreet.”

She wasn’t impressed. “The senator tried to sneak into London. It didn’t work for him.”

“It’ll work for us. It has to.”

“But even if it does—what’ll we do after we get to Saint Moritz?”

He sipped his tea and thought about her question. Finally he said, “I’ll find Rotenhausen’s place, look it over. If it isn’t too heavily guarded, I’ll get in, find his file room. If he’s the careful, methodical man of science he seems to be, maybe he’ll have a record of what he did to you, how he did it, and why.”

“What about British-Continental Insurance?”

“What about it?”

“If we follow up on that lead, maybe we won’t have to go to Saint Moritz.”

“Now that we know where they put you through this ’treatment,’ we don’t have to pry into British-Continental. Besides, that would be just as dangerous as going to Switzerland, but we wouldn’t be likely to find as much there as at Rotenhausen’s place.”

She slumped back in her chair, resigned to the trip. “When do we leave London?”

“As soon as possible. Within the hour, if we can manage it.”

When Alex and Joanna returned to the hotel for their passports and luggage, they didn’t go to their suite alone. They stopped at the front desk, ordered a rental car, told the clerk that they were checking out sooner than originally anticipated, and took two bellmen upstairs with them.

Although the bellmen served as unwitting guards, and though the senator’s killers were not likely to strike in front of witnesses, Alex paced nervously in the drawing room and watched the door, alert for the silent turning of the knob, while Joanna got their bags ready to go. Fortunately, when they had arrived the previous night from Tokyo, they had been too tired to unpack more than essentials; and this morning, awakened by Tom Chelgrin’s noisy messenger, they’d had no time to hang up their clothes and transfer their things from the suitcases to the dresser drawers, so repacking only required a couple of minutes.

On the way downstairs, the elevator stopped to take aboard more people at the tenth floor. As the doors slid open, Alex unhooked one button on his overcoat, reached inside, and put his hand on the butt of the pistol tucked under the waistband of his trousers. He was half convinced that the people waiting in the corridor were not merely other hotel guests, that they would have submachine guns and would spray the elevator with bullets. The doors rolled open. An elderly couple entered the cab, conducting an animated discussion in rapid-fire Spanish, hardly aware of their fellow passengers.

Joanna smiled grimly at Alex. She knew what he’d been thinking.

He took his hand off the 9mm automatic and buttoned his coat.

They had to wait in the lobby fifteen minutes for the rental car to arrive, but by a quarter past three, they drove away into rain so silver that it appeared to be sleet. Gray mist as thick as smoke settled lower with the waning of the day, engulfing the tops of the tallest buildings, and in the strange pewter light, London seemed medieval even where the buildings were all of glass and steel and modern angles.

For a while they weaved through a Byzantine complexity of rain-lashed streets that branched off from one another with no discernible logic. They were lost but didn’t care, because until they identified their tail and lost it, they had no specific destination.

Turned in her seat, staring out the back window, Joanna said at last, “Another Jaguar. A yellow one this time.”

“All these bastards seem to travel in style.”

“Well, they knew the senator,” Joanna said sarcastically, facing forward and engaging her seat belt, “and the senator always moved in the very best circles, didn’t he?”

Alex swerved right, in front of a bus and into thinner traffic. The tires squealed, the car shot forward, and he whipped from lane to lane, as if trying to make a car do what an Olympic skier could accomplish in a giant slalom. Motorists braked in surprise as the rental car swerved around and flashed past them, a truck driver blew his horn angrily, and pedestrians stopped and pointed. But the clog of London traffic didn’t permit a protracted car chase like those in the movies, and the lanes ahead quickly began to jam up. Alex hung a hard left at the first corner and darted in front of a taxi with only centimeters to spare. At midblock he swung the wrong way into a one-way backstreet and stomped the accelerator. Building walls flashed past in a stony blur, two feet away on either side. The small car bounced and shimmied on the rough cobblestones, severely testing Alex’s grip on the steering wheel. If anyone entered the alleyway ahead of them, a head-on crash couldn’t be averted; but luck was with them, and they exploded out of the cramped street onto a main thoroughfare, fishtailing across the wet pavement in front of oncoming traffic and into a cacophony of squealing brakes and blaring horns. Alex turned right and sped through a red traffic light as it changed from yellow.

The Jaguar was no longer in sight.

“Terrific!” Joanna said.

“Not so terrific.” He kept glancing worriedly at the rearview mirror. “We shouldn’t have lost them. Not that easily.”

“Easily? You think that was easy? We nearly wrecked half a dozen times!”

“They kill like professionals, so they ought to be able to run a tail like professionals. Should’ve kept on top of us every minute. They had a better car than this one. And they must be a lot more familiar with these streets than we are. It’s just like this morning with the other Jaguar. It’s as if they wanted to let us get away—so we’d feel safe.”

“But why would they be playing a game like that?”

He scowled. “I don’t know. I feel like we’re being manipulated, and I sure don’t like the feeling. It scares me.”

“Maybe they don’t have to take exceptional risks to keep us in view,” she said, “because they’ve got this car bugged. A concealed transmitter. Or am I being paranoid?”

“These days,” Alex said, “only the paranoid survive.”

Somewhere in the suburban sprawl, as the storm diluted the last light of dusk and washed it into a deep ocean of night, they stopped in the loneliest end of a shopping-center parking lot. Joanna stayed in the car and kept watch while Alex removed the license plates from their rental car and put them on a nearby Toyota. He didn’t put the Toyota plates on the rental but kept them for later use.

A few miles farther on, they stopped at a busy roadside supper club. Over rolling thunder and the incessant roar of the rain, big-band music and laughter drifted through the drenched night.

Alex checked parked cars for unlocked doors, then looked inside each accessible vehicle in hope of finding keys in the ignition. In a silver-gray Ford, he discovered what he was looking for under the driver’s seat.

Alex drove away in the stolen vehicle. Joanna stayed close behind him in the rental car. As far as he could tell, no one followed them.

In an apartment-complex parking lot, they quickly transferred their bags to the Ford. They abandoned the rental, sans license plates, and went in search of a quiet residential neighborhood.

Ten minutes later, they parked on a street lined with relatively new, identical, single-family brick houses with shallow front lawns and bare-limbed trees, where Alex removed the Ford’s license plates and replaced them with the set he had taken from the Toyota in the shopping center. He dropped the Ford’s tags into a drainage grate at the curb, and they splashed into the dark water below.

The owner of the Toyota was unlikely to notice immediately that his plates had been replaced with those from the rental car. And when the Ford was reported stolen back at the supper club, police would be looking for a car with the plates that were now lost in the storm drain.

By the time they were on the move again, Alex and Joanna were soaked and shivering, but they felt safer. He turned up the heater to its maximum setting. It was going to take a while to chase away the chill, because he was cold all the way into his bones.

Joanna fiddled with the car radio until she located a sta- tion playing Beethoven. The beautiful music relieved her tension.

Using complimentary road maps provided by the car-rental agency, they got lost only three times before they were headed south on the correct highway. They were going to Brighton, on the coast, where Alex intended to spend the night.

For years Joanna had thought that the highway they now traveled was the same on which Robert and Elizabeth Rand had lost their lives. But both London and this outlying landscape were new and strange to her. Hard as it was to accept, she now knew that she had never spent her childhood and adolescence in London, as she had believed for so long; this was her first visit to England. Robert and Elizabeth Rand had existed only in a handful of phony documents—and, of course, in her mind.