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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Critical Mass
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Littel entered the chalet, and moments later Marquand was issuing orders that the house and grounds be thoroughly searched.
The chalet was a typical rental unit, with the same sterility as a hotel room, and yet McGarvey had a sense that Kathleen and Elizabeth had been here, however briefly.
Spranger wouldn't have gone to this much trouble for nothing. The truck was here. It meant something. Greek, perhaps. Toward Greece.
But what else?
“Nobody home?” Littel asked, crossing the living room to the fireplace.
No one paid any attention to him. Marquand's men from front and back were swarming all over the house, from the root cellar to the attic crawl space above the servants' quarters off the kitchen.
There was no fire on the grate, but there had been, and Littel took a poker from the hearth rack and began idly poking through the ashes.
Marquand left the room and McGarvey was alone with his own thoughts for the moment. On first coming into the chalet he'd thought he smelled perfume. Faintly, but there. He tested the air again, but if anything the house now smelled neutral to him.
“McGarvey,” Littel said softly.
Kathleen had always worn perfume, of course. But she'd been subtle about it. This had been different.
“McGarvey,” Littel called, still softly, but more insistently.
McGarvey looked up. “What is it?”
“Take a look,” the Texan said, motioning him over.
McGarvey joined him at the fireplace. Littel had found a diamond necklace in the ashes. It was Elizabeth's. McGarvey recognized the setting. It had been his mother's. The only personal thing he'd ever gotten from her, the only thing he'd ever had to remind him of the side of his mother that he'd always loved.
But the setting and the necklace itself, both 18-carat gold, were intact, which meant the necklace hadn't been subjected to any heat. Yet the diamond was black with burned creosote or pine tar.
“It's my daughter's,” he told Littel, who nodded.
“I know. I saw it in a file photo. I recognized it right away. They were here.”
McGarvey pocketed it as Marquand appeared at the balcony above. He looked up. “Have your men found anything yet?”
“Not yet,” the Action Service colonel said. “You?”
“Nothing,” McGarvey replied, conscious of Littel's eyes on him. “I don't think they were ever here.”
A GREEN AND WHITE PRIVATE MEDEVAC AMBULANCE PULLED UP on the quai beside the 208-foot Greek cargo ship
MV Thaxos
at two in the morning. A thick, oily fog that smelled of the sea, wet cordage, spilled bunker oil and raw sewage blanketed the low island city of Venice. The only sounds were machinery noises from the ship's generator, and somewhere in the distance a bell buoy.
“Turn off the lights,” Spranger said from the back of the ambulance, and their driver Peter Dürenmatt switched them off, but left the engine running.
“There go the lights on the bridge,” Liese said a few moments later. She'd ridden in front since the Italian border beyond the Col du Mont Cenis above Torino. All of them were dressed in white medical garb.
They hadn't been delayed at all. The French border people had simply waved them through, and the Italians had clucked sympathetically, with one eye checking the paperwork of the two Yugoslavian cancer patients, and with the other looking up Liese's short skirt.
“Okay, there's Bruno,” Liese said. “They're coming down now.”
“As soon as we're unloaded, get rid of the ambulance,” Spranger told Dürenmatt. “We sail when you return.”
“See that you wait. The French can't be far behind us, and I have no wish to remain here in Venice waiting for them.”
“Just be quick about it,” Spranger said.
Liese came back and helped him release the straps holding Kathleen and Elizabeth on their portable gurneys. They'd
both been heavily sedated since shortly before they'd left the chalet, but that had been more than twenty hours ago, and Elizabeth was beginning to show signs that she was coming around.
They were dressed in hospital gowns, and the hair had been shaved from their heads, their scalps marked with surgical pen. The extra touch had been a wasted effort, because the border police had not asked to have a look at the patients.
“They'll be angry when they wake up and see what we've done,” Liese said. “Especially the young one.”
“It won't matter,” Spranger replied. “They'll be dead in a couple of days in any event.”
“Such a pity,” Liese said, brushing her fingertips across the nipples of Elizabeth's breasts.
“Your appetites will be your undoing one day.”
She looked up and smiled coyly. “But in the meantime …” She let it trail off.
The ambulance's rear door opened and Bruno Lessing was there with two crewmen from the ship. “Any trouble crossing the border?”
“No,” Spranger said. “How about here?”
“We have our clearance papers, and the radar set is up to date. The captain assures me we can sail tonight.”
“Good. As soon as they're aboard and Peter gets rid of this ambulance, we'll leave.”
The
Thaxos
' crewmen lifted Kathleen and Elizabeth out of the ambulance and carried the unconscious women up the ladder aboard the ship. Liese went with them, while Spranger and Lessing went directly up to the bridge where the captain was waiting.
His name was Andreas Bozzaris, and he was a tough little Greek whose primary source of income was arms smuggling from the continent of Europe across to Africa. He'd done work in the past for the STASI, transporting people to and from the Black Sea.
He was nobody's fool, but he was fearless, and his loyalty went strictly to the highest bidder.
“Ernst. I thought by now that the Germans would have lined you up against the wall and shot you.”
“Would you mourn my passing?”
The Greek laughed. “No, but my bank account would.”
“Are we ready to sail?”
“We have been for the past twelve hours.”
“Then make your final preparations, Captain. As soon as Peter comes aboard we'll leave.”
“For Izmir?”
“Yes,” Spranger said, smiling faintly. “For Izmir.”
 
Elizabeth regained consciousness first, and as she awoke she sat up and swung her feet over the edge of the narrow cot. She felt groggy, her lips thick, her mouth and throat extremely dry.
She was in a small cabin, aboard what she immediately understood was a ship. They were moving, she could hear the engine noises, and feel the bows rising to meet the swells, and it was nighttime. She could see the blackness outside through the single porthole.
Her mother was huddled under a thin brown blanket on a cot against the opposite bulkhead. She was still out, but something was different about her. Something wrong, and as Elizabeth tried to work it out in her still drug-befuddled brain, she reached up and touched the top of her head, which she suddenly realized was cold.
She had no hair. She was bald. And so was her mother. The bastards had shaved them!
She shoved aside her blanket and got to her feet. She stood swaying for a moment, trying to keep her balance as a wave of nausea washed over her, trying to workout in her mind what was happening to them.
They'd been drugged back at the chalet, but not before she'd managed to hide her necklace in the fireplace. The Swiss or somebody would find it sooner or later, and she could only hope that her father would be notified, and that he would recognize the clue for what it was.
It was a long string of ifs, but they'd been lucky overhearing
their kidnappers talking about their plans. It had been their only mistake so far.
She tottered across to the other bunk and checked her mother, who was unconscious but seemed only to be sleeping peacefully. Someone had drawn circles and arrows on her mother's scalp with a pen, making her look bizarre.
Again her hand went to her own scalp. It had been made to appear as if they were hospital patients. Probably to get them across a border without questions. They were no longer in France.
She went to the porthole and looked outside, but there was very little to see. Mostly darkness and fog, and perhaps a vague glow off in the indistinct distance.
Armand was dead. There was little doubt in her mind. Poor, silly Armand who'd wanted to have an affair with her. A Parisian whose gallantry had cost him his life.
Elizabeth heard the cabin door open and she turned as Liese Egk came in with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
A LIGHT DRIZZLE FELL FROM A DEEPLY OVERCAST SKY AS THE Dassault helicopter touched down at Charles de Gaulle Airport. It was just dawn, and the terminal area had a deserted air, the lull before the day's international flights began arriving and departing.
McGarvey and Littel had ridden up with Marquand and Belleau. For most of the three-hour flight no one had said much. Elizabeth and Kathleen and their kidnappers had simply disappeared, leaving behind no trace.
The alert had gone out to every airport, train station and bus depot in the Grenoble area, as well as the border crossings in all of France. Word had also been sent to every police district to check every hotel, inn or any other place of lodging for the two women and their captors.
“It will take time,” Marquand explained on the tarmac. Two cars were approaching, one of them from the U.S. Embassy at Littel's behest. “But if they have left France we will learn of it, or if they are still here we will find them.”
“In the meantime?” McGarvey asked.
Marquand shrugged. “We wait, naturally. But what about you? Will you return to Tokyo now, or wait here?”
“They're still in Europe.”
“Yes, and where is this?”
McGarvey looked into the Action Service colonel's eyes. “I don't know yet, but I will find them.”
“If they are in France, Monsieur, you will let me know before you do anything. Anything at all.”
The embassy car pulled up and Littel opened the rear door. “Mr. McGarvey.”
“I will insist on this,” Marquand said.
McGarvey nodded. “If they are in France I'll call you.” He and Marquand shook hands. “Thanks for your help, Colonel, but I think that Grenoble was just a diversion.”
“You know where they are?”
“Not yet.”
“You found something at the chalet. Something that has given you a clue as to their whereabouts. What was it?”
“They're not in France,” McGarvey repeated. “The case is out of your jurisdiction.”
“I could have you detained for withholding information,” Marquand said in frustration.
Belleau stepped to one side, his right hand inside his jacket, ready for trouble.
“That wouldn't help anyone,” McGarvey said, in a reasonable tone. He got into the car, and Littel scrambled in after him.
“I want to know,” Marquand called after them. “I'm on your side, McGarvey.”
“Get us out of here,” Littel told their driver, and they headed off leaving the two Frenchmen standing beside the helicopter. “That was a slick move. You really told them. Christ, that Marquand is a son of a bitch …”
“Shut up,” McGarvey said mildly, cutting Littel off in mid-sentence.
McGarvey reached into his jacket pocket and fingered Elizabeth's diamond necklace. The clasp was intact, and latched, which meant the necklace hadn't been taken from her forcefully. She had unsnapped the clasp, lifted it from her neck and relatched the clasp.
He turned that thought over in his head for a little while. She'd been out of sight of her kidnappers for a few moments. She knew something; she'd figured it out, or seen something, or overheard them talking … whatever. But she'd come up with a bit of information that she wanted to make sure only her father would understand. So she'd left her necklace.
What next? Alone, her necklace off, the clasp relatched, she'd tossed it into the cool fireplace.
Check that. First she'd blackened the stone with a bit of creosote or pine tar. She'd blackened the diamond. The move had been deliberate. She was telling him something.
McGarvey closed his eyes, the solution suddenly coming to him. But it was simple … too simple for mere chance. It was Spranger again, telling him something. The East German had left the clue, or had maneuvered Elizabeth into leaving it.
Either way, it was a sign post: Here I am. Catch me if you can.

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