Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [5]
One man caught my eye, and not only because he was inches taller than his tall countrymen. He had to be a Swede. With a horned helmet on that magnificent thatch of flaxen hair, and a coat of chain mail covering those magnificent shoulders, he’d have been the image of a Viking warrior, like the ones in the books I read when I was a kid. Never mind that the Vikings didn’t wear horned helmets; the illustrations in the book had imprinted the image onto my brain. This man even had a long, droopy mustache like the one sported by Leif Eriksson.
He stood sideways to me, reading a newspaper, and was unaware of being observed. I continued to stare, hoping he would look in my direction. Finally he shifted and glanced up. So much for the power of the piercing stare; he didn’t look at me. I followed his gaze to discover what was so much more fascinating than me.
Characteristically, John had overdone the disguise just a bit. I guess he was trying to look like a Near Easterner of some variety. He had the build for it – slight, slim, lithe. Now his hair was dark and his complexion was a smooth, pale olive. The little black moustache and the too-well-tailored suit suggested Rudolf Valentino. I might not have recognized him if he hadn’t been ignoring me so ostentatiously. As he stared fixedly into the middle distance his profile was turned to me, and the outline of that impeccable structure was unmistakable.
The sight of him brought on an overwhelming flood of emotion – frustrated anger, amusement, contempt, and another feeling, of the sort that Schmidt would probably call ‘romantic’. (By now you should have a pretty good idea of what that word means to Schmidt.) The first emotion predominated. I didn’t stop to think, I didn’t wonder why he was in disguise; the mere fact that he preferred not to be noticed was reason enough to publicize his presence. I opened my big mouth and yelled, ‘Hey, John. John Smythe! Hi, there, John.’
My voice, at full volume, has been compared with that of Brunhild leading the ride of the Valkyries. John started convulsively. Every head within a thirty-yard radius turned towards me. I waved, I stood on tiptoe, I pointed. The heads turned in John’s direction.
A wave of colour – sheer rage, I’m sure – darkened his cheek to olive drab. I knew his ability to combine speed of movement with inconspicuousness; one minute he was there, the next he was gone. It seemed to me that there was an odd little eddy of movement around the spot he had vacated – a kind of swirl of bodies.
The man behind me nudged me. The line was moving. I closed up the gap that had opened between me and the person ahead.
I had not the least intention of going after John. What bothered me was the impression that someone else had done just that. Uneasily I contemplated his original location, by a pillar next to the newsstand. It was a logical place for people to meet if they missed one another at the gate or the exit from customs. The crowd seemed thinner now. I tried to recall individual faces and shapes, but to no avail; I had not been paying attention to anyone but John and the Viking. The latter was still there, and he was still thoroughly uninterested in me. Folding his newspaper, he tucked it under his arm and strolled away.
Nudged again, I shuffled forward. It would not have surprised me to learn that someone was following John. Someone usually was an outraged husband, a policeman, a fellow criminal. The list of people who might want to murder or cripple John was infinite. If I felt any guilt about raising the view halloo, my conscience was assuaged when I recalled that he had summoned me to Stockholm, right into the middle of whatever scam he was currently working. No, I didn’t feel guilty. I felt like killing the rat myself.
After cashing a traveller’s cheque I headed for the exit. I had intended to take the airport bus into the city, but at the last minute I had a change of heart. Ducking out of the line, I ran like hell and threw myself into a taxi. I got some outraged stares from