The Folks at Fifty-Eight (41 page)

He thought of relaxing, taking a few drinks and seeing where the evening took him, but he needed information. Kube’s boast of being one of the original five Children of Etzel had set the alarm bells ringing. From the look of things, the German could soon be in a sufficiently drunken condition to provide more information. That possibility meant staying alert.

Kube didn’t disappoint. Half-an-hour later they had moved to an adjacent room and were sitting around the table, tucking into lobster thermidor and sipping chilled white Burgundy.

Only a dozen or so had joined them at the table. Allum and Orsini had taken their whispered conversation back to Washington, Allum, without acknowledging Hammond. Wendy Hudson had latched on to an ostentatious senator from somewhere south of Mason-Dixon. According to Theresa, the senator was a key figure on the Senate Appropriations Committee. Wendy Hudson obviously had something else in mind for him to appropriate. Much to Hammond’s annoyance, the senator’s exaggerated drawl and her feigned laughter could be heard all around the room.

At the other end of the table, Angela Carlisle sat on Hammond’s left, Theresa Zalesie on his right. An isolated Kube sat to the other side of Angela Carlisle. The German drank copious amounts of brandy, sneered his contempt, and ate very little. He peered up from his glass and focused on Theresa Zalesie, who was shamelessly tracing erogenous patterns along Hammond’s inner thigh.

“So tell me, Theresa, is there anything on two legs that you would not fuck?”

She sneered back at him.

“Yes, Martin, you.”

Everyone laughed, albeit a trifle nervously. The insult failed to disrupt the contempt.

“I don’t know why he puts up with a whore like you. . . I would break your neck.”

“No, you wouldn’t, Martin. You’d have someone else do it for you.”

A drunken Kube was no match for the lightning wit. He turned the glare on Hammond.

“And you, Mr State Department lackey. What are you here for, apart from the whores?”

Sensing the sudden menace in the air, everyone in the room stopped and stared. Hammond sat studying him before answering, purposely building the tension and waiting to ensure the hushed audience heard every word.

“I’m looking for Catherine Schmidt. You remember her? You raped her when she was a child. You do remember, don’t you, in Berlin that time? How old was she then, Martin? It was her twelfth birthday, wasn’t it? You bought her a new dress and took her to the park, where you raped her. And then you continued using her as your personal whore when you were in Prague, even though she was still just a child. I’m here to find her and to ensure that you never abuse or touch her, ever again.”

By this time everyone at the table had stopped talking and all eyes were focused on Kube. Even in his condition, the German could sense their combined hostility. He growled back.

“That is not true. She made that up. She is just a whore, like all the others around here.”

“Are you saying that she’s here?”

“I do not know where she is. And it is not true, what you said about me raping her. She was not a helpless little girl. She knew what she wanted, and she wanted me. She made it clear. If she said anything else, she is a damn liar.”

Kube lurched from his seat and then stormed from the room, leaving the remaining diners sitting in stunned silence. Slowly the group at the far end resumed their conversation, but without the ostentatious drawl and coquettish shrieks that had been such a feature of their previous behaviour. Theresa Zalesie withdrew her fingers from where they had graduated to unbuttoning Hammond’s fly. She looked disbelievingly at him and asked if it was true. When he nodded, she seemed genuinely distressed.

“Oh, my God!”

Hammond didn’t know Theresa Zalesie, but a post-war Washington, still basking in the euphoria of victory, was full of similar people, with similarly ‘open’ marriages and similarly relaxed attitudes to sex. Their esoteric standards of behaviour and morality never ceased to amaze him.

Just as the prison population has its own fixed lines, whereby certain crimes are seen as morally defensible, even celebrated, and others are frowned upon as being beneath contempt, so the morally avant-garde had theirs. All around the table the mood was suddenly sombre, the previous high-spirits and raucous flirtations forgotten. It was largely Hammond’s doing, and that demanded he make his excuses.

“I’m sorry. I think it’s probably best I leave. I apologize if I’ve upset anyone.”

Angela Carlisle placed a hand on his arm.

“Don’t be silly. It’s not your fault. It’s that disgusting man. You don’t have to go. Please don’t. I thought we could. . . It’s just that you seem so kind, you. . .”

He smiled a comforting smile.

“I’m sorry, but I seem too have put a dampener on things. It’s best I leave.”

She looked deep into his eyes.

“Next week I’m going back to my house, in Takoma Park. Please say you’ll call me?”

Hammond could see the fear and loneliness in her. He knew both emotions well. He wasn’t at all sure he should be getting into any sort of relationship with someone of her confused orientation and emotional instability. He was even less certain of her expectations. But Angela Carlisle was now alone and vulnerable, possibly for the first time in her life. Whatever else she might or might not expect from him, she clearly needed a friend.

“Of course. Perhaps we could have dinner one evening?”

“I’d like that, Gerald. I’d like that very much.”

To his right, Theresa Zalesie had a more basic and obvious agenda.

“And we still haven’t answered that question. I promise you, we will.”

Life for Gerald Hammond seemed to be feast or famine. After so many months of boredom at the insurance company, he had been plunged into a world of unceasing intrigue and violent death. And now, after so many months of loneliness and isolation, beautiful women were suddenly throwing themselves at him. He smiled an enigmatic smile and made his escape.

Back in the room’s seclusion, he changed his clothes, hurriedly packed the suitcase and then told one of the guards to fetch the Pontiac. Once behind the wheel, he drove to the first security gate and collected the Beretta. He checked the load, slipped it under the dashboard, and then drove back up to Highway One. From there, he headed on down towards the city.

A furious Martin Kube sat in the kitchen. Simon Cowdray, privately unsympathetic, sought to calm the rage.

“But you can’t do that, not without authorization, Mr Linz. You know that.”

“Cannot do what? I can do what the hell I like. I am one of the original five. Do you understand what that means? I am one of the original five Children of Etzel.”

“I understand that, sir, but please keep your voice down. Some of the staff are not. . .”

“Then do as I say, damn you!”

Cowdray studied the ferocity and began to waver.

“Mr Zalesie doesn’t want him harmed. He made it clear before he left.”

“Mr Zalesie, Mr Linz? What is all this shit?”

“You know the rules, sir. I’m only following orders.”

“Follow orders, do you? Well here is another one for you. I want that bastard dead, and I want it done now. No arguments.”

“Mr Zalesie isn’t going to like it.”

“I will deal with him. You do as I say.”

Cowdray moved to the telephone and dialled. A man answered.

“Yes.”

“Do you know who this is? That’s right. Do you have any patrols on Highway One, between here and Pelham? Good. There’s a Blackout Pontiac, heading toward the city. Single white male driver, fortyish, name of Hammond, Gerald Hammond. . . I don’t know, and I don’t have time to check, but I do know it’s a rental. He probably picked it up at Municipal. You can get the plate from them. I want it pulled over and the driver detained. What? No, there’s no need for that. I just want him detained. We’ll do the necessary. I’m sending some people now. Tell your men to get clear when they arrive.”

Cowdray replaced the handset, and left it cradled for a couple of seconds, while his mind ran through the choices available. Then he picked it up again and dialled the inner gatehouse.

“The man who just left, in the Blackout. Yes that’s right. Get after him. I don’t want him reaching the city. . . No, don’t bother. Leave everything once the job’s done. . . Yes, that’s right, shotgun would be best. I’ve got police patrols looking for him now. They’ll hold him until you get there. Make sure they get clear first. What’s that? No, take him with you. You’ll need an extra gun. I’ll send someone to cover. Now get a move on, while we’ve still got the light. Oh, and don’t take any stupid chances. This man’s supposed to be good.”

Cowdray replaced the receiver and then turned to face a smiling Kube.

“Just like that, huh?”

There was no answering smile from the Englishman.

“That’s right, Mr Linz. Just like that.”

Hammond had been driving for almost fifteen minutes when he saw the two motorcycle cops. They kept their distance for half-a-mile or so, obviously checking the car and his identity. A hundred yards behind them, the Cadillac stayed fixed in the centre of his mirror. Then it suddenly pulled across the central reservation and headed back to the north.

With the Cadillac out of sight, the first cop drew alongside the Pontiac and waved him down. The second pulled in behind. Hammond dutifully pulled over, stopped at the side of the road and then sat quietly with the window down and his hands in plain sight. He was studying the famous red motorcycles with interest as he affably asked,

“You boys still using those Red Indians?”

He had no idea why they had pulled him over, but had decided to lighten the moment. The cop nodded back at him but didn’t smile.

“That’s right, sir. May I see your license?”

Hammond handed him the license and sat patiently waiting while he scanned the details.

“Would you mind waiting for a moment, sir?”

“Sure.”

The cop walked to the rear of the car and began whispering to his partner. Both men looked uncertain. That was when Hammond saw the Cadillac speeding towards them. The driver must have seen them, because he slowed and pulled to the side of the road.

Hammond studied the occupants in his mirror as they climbed out of the Cadillac and spoke to the cops. One of the cops handed over his license. The man slipped it into his pocket and then wandered toward the Pontiac. As he approached, Hammond saw the snub-nosed Smith & Wesson a moment too late.

“I’ll take the Beretta.”

Hammond first studied the barrel of the thirty-eight and then the look of grim determination. He recognized the man as the guard who had relieved him of the Beretta when he’d first arrived. He nodded, then took out the automatic and handed it over.

“You said you liked it. . . Make sure you look after it.”

“And the keys, if you don’t mind.”

He handed over the ignition fob and then sat quietly as the cops kicked over their machines before heading off towards the city. As the two motorcycles disappeared over the horizon, he asked the question, already knowing the answer.

“So, now what?”

“Now you get out.”

The second gunman walked up to the car and stood facing the driver’s door. He carried a Model Twelve Winchester pump-action shotgun. Hammond studied the twelve-gauge barrel’s obvious menace and knew their orders were to do more than simply detain.

“Looks like you get to keep the Beretta permanently, huh? Look after it.”

The first gunman glanced appreciatively down at the Beretta. Hammond opened the car door. As the shotgun wielder stepped back from the door’s anticipated radius, he briefly lowered the Winchester. It was his last conscious movement.

A point-four-five calibre bullet from the Nineteen-Eleven automatic in Hammond’s hidden left hand arrived through an open mouth. It drove up and on through the brain, before exiting via the cranium. As his accomplice slumped to the ground, the first gunman dropped the Beretta and scrambled to realign the thirty-eight.

Less than a second later, two forty-five rounds thumped hard into his chest.

Hammond studied them dispassionately, knowing they had intended killing him and feeling no remorse. The man with the Winchester had died instantly, but the other was still breathing. He lay at the side of the carriageway, staring blankly back at Hammond and the still-levelled automatic. Hammond smiled grimly down as he recalled their first meeting at the gatehouse.

“Told you, you shouldn’t have just taken my word for it. That’s the trouble with naturally-trusting people, my friend: they’re a dying breed. In your business you should have known better.”

The smile dissolved as he kicked the thirty-eight away from twitching fingers, then bent down and retrieved his license from the man’s jacket pocket. After that he picked up the key fob and Beretta, brushed and blew away the dust, and then climbed back into the Pontiac. He slammed the door, started the ignition, and leisurely drove away, leaving the Cadillac with the engine running and the doors open, and the two failed assassins lying dead and dying at the roadside.

“Do you have any fucking idea what time it is?”

Dawid Gabriel roared down from the top of the stairs. Hammond stood in the stairwell and grinned up at him.

“Sorry about this. It is something of an emergency.”

“It fucking well better be. You’d better come on up.”

Hammond climbed the stairs and wandered into the apartment. Gabriel closed and bolted the door behind him.

“You wanna beer?”

Hammond took the bottle and nodded his thanks.

“So what’s it all about?”

Hammond talked of his meetings with Angela Carlisle, and Zalesie. Then he spoke of the altercation with Kube, and the failed assassination attempt. Gabriel looked to the heavens.

“Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I fucking tell you? You don’t fuck with The Folks at Fifty-fucking-Eight. Christ! How many fucking times did I tell you? The government don’t fuck with ’em, I said. Even the Mob don’t fuck with ’em, I said, so don’t you fuck with ’em. I couldn’t have been clearer if I’d slapped it on a fucking billboard in ten-foot-high fucking letters.”