The next corner required a momentary braking; he took it with tires squealing in protest, and once more tramped on the gas. Gruber, in the car behind, took more of a chance; for a moment it appeared to the man glancing constantly in the rearview mirror that the other was going to carom into a lamppost, but the car straightened itself out, swaying erratically, and came on. It seemed to be gaining, and Huuygens pressed down on the accelerator once again, leaning far over the wheel as if to coax more speed from the straining engine.
The two raced through the quiet neighborhood, flashing past cross-streets, whipping about parked cars, unaware of startled spectators, of anything but the chase itself; taking incredible chances, each intent only on the vibrating wheel in his hands and the growling motor beneath his feet. A major thoroughfare marked the day before by Huuygens was approaching; it was unfortunate, but there was no way to avoid traversing it. He locked his hands on the wheel, barely touched the brake to give the car more control if he required it, and then tramped on the gas, shooting through the stop sign. There was a sharp squeal of brakes as a truck swerved abruptly from his path, bumping against a curb; the faint echo of a shouted curse, and then he was through, bearing down on the accelerator once again. His eye flashed to the rearview mirror; Gruber had taken the crossing without even bothering with his brakes, and was holding his own behind him. Huuygens returned his attention to the road, marking his next turning.
He swung about it more recklessly than ever, gripping the wheel with all his force, recovered from the wild lurch, and then cut hard into the next street, speeding up. Behind him Gruber miraculously managed to follow. The next three corners were taken in even more desperate fashion, and then in the distance the factory entrance came into view. Huuygens bent low, coaxing speed from the car, and then slammed on his brakes, swinging sharply between the two stone houses. For one brief second he thought the following car had missed him, and then he heard the screeching of brakes in the road outside as Gruber also slowed for the turn. He slewed his car across the cobblestones of the yard, spinning the wheel violently, and came to a shuddering stop with his fender almost against a pillar of the loading platform.
The other car was already in the yard, braking hard, skidding to a halt. Huuygens bent low, opening the door of his car; he took a deep breath and dove for the protection of the sagging door, none too soon. A bullet passed over his head, thudding into the brick, showering down shards and dust, and then he was through into the darkened interior, his heart pounding. But he was sure that Gruber’s interest in his property would be greater than his desire for revenge, and he was right. He paused long enough to peer about the corner of the partially opened door; he knew the danger such delay might mean, but something forced him to wait. And then his jaw locked rigidly.
The beige convertible, with Jadzia at the wheel, was shooting through the gateway. He seemed to see the scene as a tableau — the girl, face hard, running from her car toward Gruber; the tall, thin man tearing wildly at the ropes that held the trunk lid in place. Despite himself he opened his mouth to scream, but it was too late. The sound was lost, swallowed up in the tremendous explosion that rocked the cobbled enclosure...
Book Four
14
Jimmy Lewis marched through the broad entrance of Portela airport with a hard look on his normally pleasant face. Somewhere in Paris there was a joker whose sense of humor had not only cost him a wasted trip, but had also earned him a chilling talking-to by a small but angry assistant chief of detectives for Lisbon. Plus an escorted ride to the airport in a police car, and the admonition to take the first plane out of Portugal. True, the joker had possessed a sexy voice, but at the moment his only interest in her was quite different; all he wanted was to locate her and beat her to death with her own right arm.
The wide tiled concourse of the airport terminal was fairly crowded as he made his way toward the Air France counter. While he skirted the noisy groups scattered about, he reluctantly dismissed the lovely idea of murder, and concentrated instead on composing a cable to his editor that might explain, even it did not justify, the fiasco. Done poorly, it might put the clincher on his getting fired; done with skill, it might even allow him to have the paper foot the expenses instead of their coming from his own pocket.
In his preoccupation he scarcely noticed the handsome man in dark glasses who sat hunched over a magazine on a bench nearest the broad windows; it was only as he was passing that the man accidentally shifted his feet, nearly tripping him. Jimmy turned to remonstrate, and then paused, his dark frown disappearing in favor of a wide smile. He shifted his camera to join his overnight bag in his left hand while he thrust out his right, his irritation instantly forgotten in his surprise.
“Kek! What are you doing here?”
To his amazement, his reception from his old friend was anything but cordial. The extended hand was disregarded; the eyes that were raised to his were obscured by the dark glasses, but the hard set of the jaw and the lips pressed thinly together clearly marked disapproval. The man came to his feet, folding his magazine, tucking it into his pocket.
“I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, m’sieu,” he said stiffly in French, and walked away.
Jimmy stared after him in astonishment. Any doubts he might have entertained were instantly removed by that familiar vibrant voice, and no one who knew the man could fail to recognize that purposeful stride. Jimmy watched him come to the wide stairway and mount it in the direction of the second-floor restaurant; one strong hand moved up at regular intervals to grasp the polished handrail and then release it, as if he were somehow measuring it for some mysterious purpose. The man paused at the top for several seconds, glancing down at him, and then turned to disappear through the heavy doors. Jimmy hesitated only a fraction of a second, and then followed him.
The man was sitting on the sun deck when he arrived, alone at one of the wire-legged tables that were scattered about the balcony; he watched Jimmy approach quite calmly. This time he made no attempt to retreat further nor to avoid recognition. Jimmy tossed his gear onto one of the empty chairs at the table and dropped down into another.
“All right, Kek. What’s this all about? Why all the cloak-and-dagger nonsense?”
Huuygens’s eyes came back from their contemplation of the doorway over Jimmy’s shoulder; he studied the tall young man for several seconds. Then he finally nodded, as if he had come to a conclusion after considerable thought.
“You can do me a favor.”
“Of course.”
The dark glasses gauged the other carefully; their obscurity seemed to add even more impersonality to the emotionless voice. “I have a reservation on Air France back to Paris. Someone may or may not be watching the ticket counter, but I’d rather not take any chances. If you could pick it up for me...”
There was no doubt that he was speaking with deadly seriousness; Jimmy’s eyes narrowed at the thought of some intrigue that might salvage something out of his useless trip. Wherever Huuygens was, there was sure to be news, if only he could dig it out.
He nodded. “All right. Is it in your name?”
For a moment the lips quirked in the old Huuygens manner, but instantly straightened out. “Of course,” he said dryly, but there was none of the usual humor in his voice. “I have enough problems with the people at French customs without trying to get past them with a false passport.”