The Lazarus Trap (23 page)

Val woke to the drumming of the engines and the motion of a ship at sea. The vessel did not rock so much as slice the waves. It buffeted, but not harshly, like an ax cleaving the sea's surface. Val struggled to sit upright. He glanced at his watch. But he could not recall what time it had been when the ship's officer had finally left and he had lain down.

A tray had been brought in and left while he was asleep. He reached across the narrow cubicle and pulled out the stool hidden beneath the desk. Val seated himself and ate with ravenous appetite. Val's temple throbbed and his body ached. His shoulder throbbed from being struck by the door, his hands from abrasions as he flew down the stairs, his knees and ankles from scrambling along the motor.

A mirror was embedded in the alcove wall. He finished eating and stared into his reflection. The face looked flaccid with exhaustion, the eyes cavernous. Val examined his features, seeking a simple answer. What was he to do? And once he knew, would he have the strength to do it?

He lay back down. In an instant he was asleep once more.

The boat's altered motions woke him. This time he felt far more alert. He glanced at his watch. He had been asleep for almost two hours. The motors were rumbling at a lower pitch now. Val rose and entered the cramped washroom. Whoever had brought him lunch had also left a disposable razor and a small bottle of mouthwash. The motions helped loosen the muscles still cramped and sore from the attack. His mind was sluggish, however. There was still a sense of being disconnected. Whether this was from jet lag or the attack, he could not say.

The young male officer who had returned Val's passport unlocked the cabin door. “Ship's docking, sir.”

“Thank you.” Val stuffed his wet belongings into the duffel bag and headed out. The officer refused to meet Val's eye. “Just up the stairs ahead of you.”

“I know the way.”

“Certainly, sir.” There was a toneless etiquette to the young officer's voice. Like a prison officer on public view. He dogged Val's steps, hanging just far enough back to keep from tripping over Val's feet. At the top of the stairs he said, “To your left, sir.”

The entry salon was empty save for three cleaning staff. They did not look up at Val's passage. He had the sense of being officially declared a leper. To look was to risk infection. Unclean, their silence shouted. Unclean.

The officer halted at the gangplank. No farewell word. Nothing. A pair of customs officers awaited him at street level. They had clearly been forewarned. Their search of his bag, his passport, and his body was extremely thorough. Val maintained his story, and kept his tone mild. A day trip to an island he had read about but never visited had been disrupted by two drunken louts. He was terribly sorry for all the trouble he had caused, and extremely glad to be back in England. He gave as his address the West End hotel where he had stayed the last time over. The customs officers had no reason to keep him, and finally let him go.

Val crossed the ferry port's vast parking area, taking great draughts of free air. The evening smelled of sea and salt and rain. Trucks passed in a slow convoy, headed for the continent. He was soon drenched. He did not mind in the slightest, though he had no more dry clothes. The rain helped wash away the mental fog. He left the port area and headed down the main road. There was bound to be a nearby bed-and-breakfast catering to the trucking crowd and accustomed to admitting bedraggled men.

Mental gears meshed begrudgingly as he walked. Clearly his attackers were still on the island. The bank was definitely going to be watched. Which meant he could not access his funds. He and Marjorie had arranged the numbered accounts so that their money could be withdrawn only in person.

Which meant Val was now extremely stuck.

He had less than three hundred dollars to his false name. He was as incognito as he could have asked. A nameless man, unloved by all, seeking freedom from a stranger's past.

TERRANCE AND WALLY JOURNEYED ACROSS THE ATLANTIC IN A Gulfstream IV outfitted like an elegant hotel suite. Wally tried hard to pretend it was all part of the game. But the private steward and the crystal decanters and the kid-leather seats and the walnut burl table and the filet mignon with fresh truffle sauce left her gaping. When they finished dinner, the steward turned the seats into two beds with Sea Island cotton sheets behind hand-painted privacy screens. Five hours later, they were awakened by coffee served on a silver tray and fresh-baked croissants.

The bathroom was cramped but contained a miniature shower. Wally came out toweling her hair and announced, “I'm busy making a list of everything I didn't know I needed until right now.”

They landed in a fog so thick they saw nothing until touchdown. Terrance peered through the soup. Waiting upon the tarmac was an elderly gentleman standing beside a vintage Bentley.

The old man stepped forward as the steward released the stairs. Only then could they get a clear look at his face. Wally halted Terrance with a hand to his arm. “That isn't my guy.”

Terrance waved the steward away. “What are you telling me?”

“The suit. He's not who I called.” Wally took another worried glance beyond Terrance. “My guess is, we're looking at our guy's boss.”

“So? This is good, isn't it?”

“I don't know what it is. I don't like changes in plan. Especially not this one.” Wally had the tight look of taking aim. “This deal is my ticket out. The score that is going to get me out of the hole once and for all.”

The gentleman halted at the base of the plane's stairs and called up, “I'm looking for a Mr. Terrance d'Arcy.”

Terrance asked her, “Aren't we overreacting a little here?”

“Maybe.” Wally squinted through the grim day. “But where's my guy, that's what I want to know.”

The gentleman called, “I say—”

Terrance ducked under the doorway. “I'm d'Arcy.”

“And right on time. How splendid.” The man's smile was far brighter than the overcast day. “Josef Loupe, at your service.”

The air was heavy with a chill foretaste of rain. Terrance met the outstretched hand as he stepped off the bottom stair. The skin was papery with age, but the muscles underneath were firm. “How do you do.”

“Such an honor, Mr. d'Arcy. I have so looked forward to this encounter.” He bowed slightly over Terrance's hand, in the manner of bygone courtiers, then indicated a uniformed gentleman waiting two steps back. “If I might trouble you for your passports, we can make your arrival official.”

As the customs officer leafed through their passports, Terrance inspected their contact. Josef Loupe wore a camel-hair overcoat draped across what once had been very powerful shoulders. Now he had a scarecrow's frame and a face to match. Up close, the smile revealed capped teeth so white they appeared painted. The man's age was impossible to tell. Somewhere between sixty and eighty, with a calculated tan and eyes dead as cold tar. He chatted lightly through the process. “Such is the pleasure of private aircraft these days. No queues, no intrusive inspections. One lands far from the tourist hordes and is treated with proper respect. You cannot put a price on such items. Either you can afford it, or you cannot.”

The officer demanded, “What is the purpose of your visit to England?”

“Just a quick stopover before continuing on to Jersey.”

“How long do you intend to remain in the United Kingdom?”

“Not long. A day.”

Loupe cleared his throat. “Regrettably, events might require you to remain here a bit longer.”

Behind Terrance, Wally huffed as though taking a blow to the gut. Terrance glanced over. Wally refused to meet his eye.

“I should think three days would be more than adequate,” Loupe went on.

The officer stamped both passports, then nodded at the cases that the steward had set on the tarmac. “Anything to declare?”

“Nothing.”

He handed Terrance both passports. “Enjoy your stay.”

Terrance waited until the officer was well away to say, “We were expecting to be met by someone else.”

“Your contact is seeing to matters in Portsmouth.”

“Matters?”

“A temporary setback, nothing more.” Loupe indicated the waiting limo. “I shall endeavor to explain everything once we are underway.”

The car was a vintage Bentley with a front end long as a polished blue locomotive. Terrance let the elderly man settle him into a seat soft as rarefied butter. Loupe slipped the overcoat from his shoulders and handed it to his aide. The attendant was neither tall nor big, but carried himself with a pent-up menace. His face was professionally blank, his motions as tightly silent as a panther. Wally watched while Loupe's man loaded their bags, then climbed into the front seat. She never looked directly at Loupe. The old man did not seem to register her on his radar. Terrance heard Wally sigh as she shut her door. Her disengaged attitude was more irritating than worrisome.

The Bentley's rear compartment was so spacious Terrance could stretch out his legs and still not touch the front seat. Terrance faced a triple set of television screens set in sterling silver frames, with clocks to either side. A bar extended to form a tongue of walnut burl. On it rested a coffee service and a silver tray holding magazines and the day's
Financial Times
. Loupe indicated the coffee service. “May I offer you something?”

“It's not necessary.”

“No, please. I insist.” The faintest tremor touched his hands as he filled the delicate porcelain cup.

The Bentley pulled through the airport's security gates and powered away so smoothly the coffee did not even sway in the cup. “Where are you from?”

“Ah. The accent. Over fifty years in this country, and still I talk like an immigrant.”

Terrance leaned back and took a sip. Perfect. “On the contrary, your English is better than mine.”

“You are too kind. I came to England in 1947. Before that time, I carried the same name as the town where I was born. Josef Lubavitch. You have heard of it?”

“No. Sorry.”

“No matter. It was a place of mud and misery. Stalin should have destroyed it. He started to, then stopped. Don't ask me why.” He gave an old man's smile this time, a thinning of his lips. Perhaps the first genuine gesture Terrance had seen from him. “When I was fourteen I began fighting in Stalin's army. Just another child soldier meant to feed war's ravenous maw. We all were given different names, part of building camaraderie in the face of coming defeat. I was known as Loupe, French for
wolf
.”

Loupe opened the door beneath the coffee service and offered Terrance a linen napkin. There was an elegant servitude to his gestures, a subtle layer of messages. He unpacked sandwiches and set two on a bone china plate. The bread was white and cut very thin and the crusts had been trimmed away. Terrance was not hungry. But he did not refuse. The old man's actions were not about food.

“My battalion commandant was a rarity, a nobleman who had survived Stalin's purges by being the most fervent Communist alive. As a youth he had spent his summers taking the waters at Cannes. He returned to fight alongside his Russian brothers. As I said, a genuine fanatic. He liked to sprinkle his addresses with French. He said it added a certain dignity to our cause.”

Loupe placed a pair of sandwiches on a second plate and settled back into his seat. He did not touch the food either. “He was an absurd figure, no doubt. Standing in a wilderness of mud and death, draped in a tattered uniform and waving a bayonet because his saber had been broken on a helmet or a rifle or a tank. We were all dressed in rags. Our boots we had stolen off the bodies of fallen comrades. We were starving, of course. That is what I remember most about my war years. The hunger. That and the smell. The odor of a battlefield is so fierce it leaves you unable to taste anything fully ever again. I was always famished. When I arrived in London I weighed one hundred and nine pounds. I was twenty-three years old.”

Terrance leaned forward far enough to set the plate down on the newspaper. Wally stared straight ahead, apparently blind and deaf to all that surrounded her. In a flash of insight, Terrance understood her disconnectedness. This was no run-down tenement in a city she knew. They were surrounded by an alien level of luxury, hosted by a gentleman of the old school. The woman was utterly out of her element. Which, truth be told, suited Terrance just fine. He was the master performer when it came to power and privilege. This was his realm.

“Newly arrived in England,” Loupe continued, “I assumed I was invincible. After all, I had survived the Nazis and the Reds. But Stalin was not my worst enemy, Mr. d'Arcy. Time is such a subtle foe. You think you have mastered everything. But in the end, time always wins. Look at me. Seventy-four, no sons, no one I can trust with my business. So a mistake has been made, and I must personally travel out to meet you, and apologize.”