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Authors: David Hagberg

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BOOK: Eden's Gate
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PRESENT DAY
The Grand Hotel was old but elegant, and as Bill Lane looked down on Main Street from his third floor front window the police were setting up traffic barricades for the Fourth of July parade due to start in a couple of hours. The morning was cool, in the high fifties, and the sky was perfectly clear, the Flathead mountain range to the east like a Chamber of Commerce poster.
Someone knocked at the door and he went to answer it. He was a husky, thick-shouldered man in his mid-forties with blue, observant eyes. He still had the graceful movements of an athlete and this morning he was dressed in a light cashmere sweater, Pierre Cardin jeans, and hand-sewn soft leather boots. A small pixie of a girl smiled sweetly up at him when he opened the door, a serving cart in front of her.
A fire engine gave a single blast on its siren, and she giggled. “I've brought your breakfast, Mr. Clark,” she said. “But you're going to want to get downstairs pretty soon if you want to get a good spot.”
“I thought I might watch the parade from up here,” Lane said, smiling. The girl couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen, with the all-American fresh-scrubbed look of small town. She had freckles and a complexion that was otherwise flawless with no makeup. Frannie would be a little jealous, though not much.
“No, sir, it wouldn't be the same.”
“You don't say.”
“Yes, sir. And after the parade there'll be the festival in the park. It's worth going to see. Lieutenant Governor Branson is coming in, and there'll be speeches and all that stuff. But it'll be cool.”
The fire engine gave another test blast on its siren, answered by a couple of police cars. Lane had to laugh. Kalispell was like something out of his midwestern childhood, and he'd forgotten how sweet and uncomplicated places like this could be. Or at least appear to be on the surface.
“Let me set this up for you before it gets cold, sir,” the girl said, and Lane stepped aside so that she could push the serving cart to the table by the windows.
 
With a population of just over twelve thousand, the town was Montana's seventh largest. The surrounding mountains, lakes, and forests were achingly gorgeous. But coming in early last night by air he'd been able to pick out only a few lights here and there outside of town. Most of the state was scarcely populated. And the people liked it that way for one reason or another.
The girl opened the serving cart's leaf and handed Lane the bill and a pen to sign it with. “You don't have to add anything extra. There's already a service charge. They do it at all the hotels around here now.”
Lane signed it, added a good tip anyway, and handed it back to her. “It sounds as if the natives are getting restless out there already.”
“Oh, no, sir. The Flatheads won't be coming in for the parade, mostly. They usually don't. But they don't ever cause any trouble.”
“Do you mean Indians?”
The girl put the pen and bill in her apron pocket. “Yes, sir. But the reservation is south of the lake, down around Polson. They don't come up here much. But it used to be different. My dad told me about it.”
“Maybe they want to be left alone,” Lane said. “I think that a lot of people come out here for the same reason. Nobody bothers them. Just like they want it.”
“Where did you hear something like that?”
“I don't know. Read it somewhere, I guess.”
A flinty, suspicious look came into the girl's eyes, and she didn't look so young or innocent as before. But it only lasted a moment,
and then she was smiling sweetly again. “I'll be going. Enjoy your breakfast.”
“I don't suppose the real estate offices would be open today, would they?”
“Not until tomorrow. Are you thinking about buying something? My aunt May has her own agency. Kalispell Realty. Over in the mall.”
“I'll look her up,” Lane said, and he saw the girl to the door, locked it when she was gone, and secured the safety chain.
He checked the window again; already people had begun to gather for the parade, bringing their lawn chairs and picnic coolers with them. The town was all decked out in red, white, and blue bunting swinging from streetlamps. A squad of men who looked to be in their fifties, wearing bits and pieces of military uniforms, marched by. A blue and white police car was parked on the corner, but the cop was nowhere in sight. Nor were the people he'd come here to make contact with. But that would change soon.
He stepped away from the window and took his 9mm Beretta from the waistband beneath his sweater at the small of his back. He cycled all nine rounds out of the breach to check the action, then removed the magazine, reloaded the rounds in the same order they had come out, and stuffed the gun back in his waistband.
Breakfast was softly scrambled eggs, a rasher of medium-done bacon, hash browns, tomato juice with a slice of lemon, and unsweetened hot tea, also with a slice of lemon. He sat down to it, one eye toward the goings-on down on the street, and the other on the door. He was a man who did not like surprises not of his own making, and he had a feeling that this town, or at least the surrounding countryside, had plenty of them.
 
After breakfast he had a smoke by the open window. The street was filling up with people now, many of whom had already set up along the curbs. There were kids and dogs everywhere. In the distance to the northwest he could hear several different marching bands warming up, and every few minutes the fire engine would give a blast on its siren.
Lane used his cell phone to make a local call. Everything would depend on timing, he thought as he waited for it to go through.
Frances Shipley answered it on the first ring, her husky British accent mellifluous and out of place almost anywhere except in London
or on stage. He and Frannie, who was a lieutenant commander in Her Majesty's Secret Intelligence Service, had been married for one year. Lane could not imagine a life without her. Together they headed a super secret and very tiny organization of troubleshooters for the White House and number 10 Downing Street called simply “The Room.”
“Yes,” she said.
“I'm getting set to head downstairs. Is everything ready on your end? Tommy's in place?”
“He's about a half-block out. Looks like he's eating an ice cream cone. Cheeky bugger.”
“Ah, some people have all the luck.”
“Yes, don't we, darling?” Frannie said sweetly.
“Any sign of our people? I haven't seen anything from here yet.”
“They're in town.”
“Okay, don't call me, I'll call you.” Lane said, and he was about to switch off.
“Watch yourself, William,” Frannie cautioned.
“You, too. Ta-ta.” Lane broke the connection, pocketed the phone, and pulling on a light Gucci leather jacket, left his room and headed downstairs.
 
The parade was a half hour from starting and downtown was full. Shops such as clothing stores and hardware stores, and banks, post offices, city hall, and libraries were closed for the holiday. But places like restaurants, gift shops, bakeries, and ice cream shops were open and doing a land office business. There was probably no one left in town who wasn't here, and the tourists were easy to spot because their boots and jeans were too new, and they stood around self-consciously.
Lane spotted the woman across the street coming out of an art gallery specializing in Indian and cowboy artifacts. She was very tall and slender, wearing a light yellow dress with large blue polka dots, and a very large, gay nineties sort of summer hat that on her looked fantastic. Her maiden name was Gloria Swanson, and like her namesake she had wanted to become a serious actor. But because of a lack of talent she'd never made it. In her late forties, however, she still turned heads.
Lane waited in the crowd as she made her way across the street and went inside the Grand Hotel. He followed her inside in time to see her enter the lounge and take a seat at the empty bar. She took
a cigarette out of her handbag, but before she could get out her lighter he was there with a match.
“Just like in the movies,” he said.
She turned to look at him, her eyes soft, almost unfocused, her expression supremely indifferent. Close up he could see the lines under her makeup. “Thank you,” she said, taking the light.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I do mind.” She turned as the bartender, a young man with a large mustache and thick arms, came over, and she ordered a Sapphire martini; up, very dry, very cold. “Two olives, darlin',” she reminded him.
“Yes, Mrs. Sloan.”
If her husband had used his real name hers would have been Mrs. Helmut Speyer, wife of a former East German Stasi intelligence officer and hit man. The West German BND had lost track of him after the Wall came down, and it wasn't until a few weeks ago that he was positively identified masquerading as Herbert Sloan here in Montana.
The bartender took his time making her drink, and when he was finished he came to the end of the bar where Lane had seated himself.
“What'll it be, sir?” he asked. His smile was fake.
“I'll have the same as hers, but if it's not as cold as outer Siberia you'll have to do it again.”
The bartender leaned a little closer. “Whatever your game is, pal, it's not going to work. Just a word of advice? She's a married lady, and her husband and his pals don't take kindly to assholes.”
“Nice speech.” Lane grinned at him. “But I don't think the management would take
kindly
to its guests being treated like this.”
“Let's see your room key.”
Lane laid it on the bar. “Make that a Gibson, would you? Olives give me gas.”
The bartender's brows knitted for a second, but then he nodded stiffly. “Sorry for the misunderstanding, sir. But this time of year we get all kinds in here.” He glanced down the bar at the woman. “We tend to take care of our own.”
“An admirable sentiment.”
The bartender went to fix the drink and a moment later two men walked in. One of them was tall and very husky, his light brown hair cut very short in the military style. He wore khakis and a bush jacket, and he remained standing by the door to the lobby. If he was
carrying a gun, Lane decided, it wasn't in a shoulder holster. He wore an earpiece.
The other man, much shorter, more compactly built, with short steel gray hair, a thin mustache, dressed in gray slacks and a blue blazer over an open collar white shirt, came directly across to the woman, who turned to him and offered her cheek.
“I thought I'd find you here,” the man said with a hint of irritation. He was Helmut Speyer, aka Herbert Sloan.
“I was tired of waiting,” his wife said languidly.
The bartender broke off from making Lane's drink. “Good morning, Mr. Sloan. Care for something?”
“A glass of beer.”
“Yes, sir.”
Speyer glanced briefly at Lane, and then turned back to his wife and said something too low to be heard. Lane looked over at the man standing by the door. He was Ernst Baumann, aka Ernest Burkhart, Speyer's chief of staff and bodyguard. He was staring at Lane. The German Federal Police also had warrants for his arrest on several charges of murder, arson and kidnapping, including three car bombings.
Lane nodded pleasantly and smiled at the man, then turned around as his drink finally came.
“No trouble, sir,” the bartender warned softly. “Please.”
“There'll be no trouble from me as long as my Gibson is cold,” Lane said loudly enough for the others to hear.
“Finish up now,” Speyer told his wife. “The parade is just about to start.”
Lane sipped his drink, and he had to admit that it was a lot better than he expected it would be. “This is just fine,” he said. “Tell the lady for me that she has good taste.”
 
An old man, wearing a tired sport coat at least two sizes too large, his right hand in a pocket, came shuffling up Main Street. He was obviously in a lot of pain. A few people in the crowd gave him sympathetic looks, but most ignored him. He looked like a bum. He stopped in front of the Grand Hotel, hesitated for a few moments as if he was trying to make up his mind about something, then threw the last of his ice cream cone in a trash barrel and went inside.
The front desk clerk spotted him, but before he could decide what to do, an attractive woman dressed in a short cotton skirt, a brightly
colored blouse, and sandals entered from the street. She took off her large sunglasses and came over.
“Good morning, madam,” the clerk said.
“Ms.,” Frannie corrected him, smiling sweetly. “I was rather wondering if you have a king size nonsmoking for the next five days. Everyone else in town seems to be booked.”
BOOK: Eden's Gate
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