The waitress took away his plate, and he thanked her in fluent Spanish. Glancing around once more, he reached down into a worn briefcase that stood between his feet and pulled out a thin folder. He took a sip of the iced espresso, lit a cigarillo with a gold lighter, then opened the folder, wondering at the urgency of its delivery. Normally, these things went through channels, using remailing services or encrypted files stored in a high-security Internet cloud. But this had arrived by hand, via bonded courier, one of very few the organization employed.
It was, he mused, the only way they could be positive — one hundred percent positive — that it reached him personally.
He took another sip of espresso, placed the cigarillo in a glass ashtray, then plucked a silk handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and mopped his brow. Despite his years living in tropical climes, he had never grown accustomed to the heat. He frequently had dreams — strange dreams — of his childhood summers in the old hunting lodge outside Königswinter, with its rambling corridors and its views of the Siebengebirge hills and the Rhine Valley.
Stuffing the handkerchief back in his pocket, he opened the folder. It contained a single newspaper clipping, printed on the tawdriest grade of newsprint. Although the article was dated only a few days before, it was already yellowing. An American newspaper with a ludicrous name: the Ezerville Bee. His eye turned to the headline and opening paragraphs:
Mystery Couple Surfaces After Years in Hiding
By Ned Betterton
MALFOURCHE, MISSISSIPPI — Twelve years ago, a woman named June Brodie, despondent after losing her job as executive secretary at Longitude Pharmaceuticals, apparently took her own life by jumping off the Archer Bridge, leaving a suicide note in her car…
The man lowered the clipping with nerveless fingers. “Scheisse,” he muttered under his breath. Raising the clipping again, he read it in its entirety twice. Folding the article and placing it on the table, he glanced carefully around the square. Then he pulled the lighter from his pocket, lit one edge of the article, and dropped it in the ashtray. He watched it carefully, making sure it burned to a cinder, then crushed the ashes with the end of his cigarillo. He took a deep drag, pulled a cell phone from his pocket, and dialed a long string of numbers.
The call was picked up after one ring. “Ja?” said the voice.
“Klaus?” the man said.
He could hear the voice on the other end of the line stiffen as his own was recognized. “Buenos dias, Señor Fischer,” said the voice.
Fischer continued in Spanish. “Klaus, I have a job for you.”
“Of course, sir.”
“There will be two phases to the job. The first is investigative. The second will involve wet work. You are to begin immediately.”
“I am at your command.”
“Good. I will call you tonight from Guatemala City. You will receive detailed orders then.”
Although the line was secure, Klaus’s next question was coded. “What color is the flag on this job?”
“Blue.”
The voice stiffened further. “Consider it already a success, Señor Fischer.”
“I know I can count on you,” Fischer said, and hung up.
CHAPTER 17
The Foulmire, Scotland
D’AGOSTA SEEMED TO BE SHROUDED IN GREAT DEPTHS of comfort, drifting on a tide of warmth. But even as he was suspended in a quasi-dream-state, that small, rational part of his brain spoke again. A single word: hypothermia.
What did he care?
You’re dying.
The voice was like an annoying person who wouldn’t stop talking, wouldn’t let you change the subject. But it was just loud enough, and scary enough, that he felt himself swimming back to reality. Hypothermia. He had all the symptoms: extreme cold followed by unexpected warmth, irresistible desire to sleep, lack of caring.
Christ, he was just accepting it.
You’re dying, idiot.
With an inarticulate roar and an almost superhuman effort, he staggered to his feet, slapping, almost beating his body. He whacked his face twice, hard, and felt a tingle of cold. He hit himself so hard he staggered and fell, rose again, thrashing about like a wounded animal.
He could hardly stand, he was so weak. Pain shot up his legs. His head practically exploded with pain, his injured shoulder throbbing. He started stamping around in circles, alternately hugging himself and smacking his arms against his trunk, shedding snow, yelling as loud as he could, hollering, welcoming the pain. Pain meant survival. Clarity of mind began to return, bit by bit. He jumped, jumped again. All the while he kept his eyes on that yellow light, wavering in the darkness. How to get there? He staggered forward and fell yet again, his face inches from the edge of a bog.
He cupped his hands and yelled. “Help! Help me!”
His voice echoed over the dead moorlands.
“I’m lost! I’m trying to find Glims Holm!”
The yelling helped tremendously. He felt the blood recirculating, his heart pumping.
“Please help me!”
And then he saw it: a second light beside the first, brighter. It seemed to be moving in the darkness, coming his way.
“Over here!” he cried.
The light moved toward him. He realized it was farther off than he’d initially thought: it wandered about, sometimes disappearing and then reappearing. Then it disappeared again and D’Agosta waited.
“Over here!” he cried in a panic. Had they heard him or was it coincidence? Was he seeing things?
“I’m over here!” Why hadn’t they called back? Had they gone down in the mire?
And suddenly there was the light, directly in front of him. The person carrying the light shone it in his face, then placed it on the ground, and in its glow he saw a strange woman with pendulous lips, bundled up in a mackintosh and boots, scarf, gloves, and hat, with a nest of white hair peeking out, a hooked nose, and two wild blue eyes. In the mist and swirling dark, she looked like an apparition.
“What in the devil’s name…?” she asked in a sharp voice.
“I’m looking for Glims Holm.”
“Ye found it,” she said, and then added, sarcastically, “almost.” She picked up the lamp and turned around. “Watch your step.”
D’Agosta stumbled after her. Ten minutes later, the lamp disclosed the dim outlines of a cottage, its mortared stones once whitewashed but now almost completely covered with lichen and moss, with a gray slate roof and chimney.
She pushed open the door and D’Agosta followed into the astonishing warmth of a cozy cottage, with a fire blazing on a giant hearth, an old-fashioned enameled stove, comfortable sofas and chairs, braided rugs on the floor, walls covered with books and odd pictures, along with a row of mounted stags’ antlers, all illuminated by kerosene lanterns.
The heat was the most wonderful thing D’Agosta had felt in his entire life.
“Strip,” the white-haired woman said sharply, moving to the fire.
“I—”
“Strip, blast your eyes.” She went into a corner and dragged out a big wicker basket. “Clothes in there.”
D’Agosta removed his raincoat, dropped it into the basket. This was followed by his sodden sweater, shoes, socks, shirt, tank top, and pants. He stood there in muddy boxers.
“Breeks as well,” said the woman. She busied herself at the stove, removing a large kettle from the hob, pouring water into a galvanized washbasin and setting it near the fire, placing a washcloth and towel beside it.