Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [32]
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