Labyrinth (18 page)

The taxi continued on for a few yards, then its brake lights flashed.

Locke made it to the door just as Peale and his men cleared the corner. He hurled himself inside before they could take aim.

The driver started away before speaking, accepting Locke as just another crazy tourist.

“Where to?” he asked in poor English.

Chris almost said “Out of this nightmare,” but settled for the train station.

Chapter 14

LOCKE HAD THE DRIVER
drop him at the station but he didn't enter. Felderberg knew he'd left something there, which meant Peale did too. They'd be watching for him. He needed a plan. He saw a cab of a different make and color waiting at the head of the line and limped over to it.

“Drive around for a while,” he instructed the man behind the wheel, flipping him ten Swiss francs.

The man grunted an acknowledgment.

Chris leaned back and hunched himself low so his head was out of sight from outside the cab. His ankle was throbbing and swelling too, but he could tell that the sprain was relatively minor.

Locke again tried to make sense of what he had learned from Felderberg. He was certain now the key was food. Somebody was buying huge masses of arable land in South America for a reason that Lubeck had stumbled upon in San Sebastian. The party behind it was based in Austria, and somehow the Sanii Corporation's high-tech plant in Schaan was connected.

They‘re everything, everywhere
… .

Charney's words rang more prophetic than ever. They had killed Felderberg ingeniously with a poisoned cork, but not before he had the opportunity to pass on Lubeck's next stop: the Dwarf in Florence. They had set Locke up to kill Alvaradejo in London, allowed him to reach Felderberg only so they could kill him as well. Now they would follow him to Florence and the Dwarf.

Chris told the driver to stop at the next bar where there would be a phone. He needed to share his thoughts with Burgess. Five minutes later he found himself going through the complicated procedure of making a long-distance call halfway across Europe. Depositing the proper amount of change would have aroused too much attention, so he charged the call to his credit card number.

“How long will it take to get your uncle to the phone?” he demanded, after the girl answered.

“Thirty minutes. A little more maybe.”

“Say thirty. It's an emergency. I'll call back then. And tell him to be careful, tell him nothing's safe.”

Locke replaced the receiver. He left the pub with a package of ice purchased from the barman. He reclined as best he could in the taxi's backseat with his head pressed against the left door and his ice-covered ankle propped up against the right.

“Take me on a tour of Vaduz and the surrounding area,” he told the driver. “Try not to pass down the same road twice.”

“In Vaduz, that will not be easy.”

Chris settled back to think. The ice was already numbing his ankle. The decrease in pain helped him clear his mind. The train station was his next logical stop to retrieve his passport and call Colin. Peale's men, though, would be everywhere by now, and a long phone conversation in an exposed booth was out of the question. He would just have to drive around for the next thirty minutes and call Burgess from another pub. Then he could make his way to the train station, which, at midevening, would probably be crowded.

Beyond the taxi, the sky had lost its brightness, and Locke noticed passing cars had their lights on. By the time he reached the Vaduz Station it would be dark, which would also work to his advantage. If not for the mandated retrieval of his passport, he could have taken the taxi all the way to Schaan. The strategy that earlier in the day seemed the safest route had ended up only complicating matters. Chris cursed himself for electing it.

They had moved into the countryside beyond Vaduz and Locke had the driver pull up to a mountain inn that was isolated enough to suit his purpose. Almost a half hour had passed since his call to the girl. He stepped inside and addressed himself to an elderly woman behind a counter.

“A room, sir?” she asked hopefully.

“How much do they cost?”

“One hundred twenty francs for three days.”

Locke pulled fifty from his pocket. “This is only to let me use a room for the next few minutes. I need to make a phone call. I'll give you fifty more to dial the number direct and absorb the charges.”

“You are officially our guest,” the woman said, taking the bill Locke had slid across the counter and handing him a room key in its place. “Room eleven right down the corridor, one of the few with its own phone.”

“Thank you.”

“Please visit us anytime.”

Locke chained the door to room eleven behind him. It took five minutes to find a free long-distance line and dial the girl's number.

“Is he there?” Locke asked without returning the girl's greeting.

“Yes, hold—”

Then Burgess's heavy voice took over. “Chris, what the hell's gone on there, lad? Why the need to roust me from my fortress?”

“Felderberg's dead.”

“Christ … Not by your hand again, I trust.”

“No, but his bodyguards think otherwise… .” Locke went on to relate that part of the story.

“With a bloody cork, you say? I'll be damned. Clever bastards, these are. We've got our work cut out for us, lad.”

“And a place to start, Colin. The Sanii Corporation right here in Schaan.”

“Never heard of it.”

“High-tech firm. Lots of futuristic stuff probably. They're connected to this somehow. I'm sure there are answers to be found there.”

“In which case getting in will be a chore, lad, and a risk you'd be wise not to undertake.”

“I've come this far.”

“Luck pressed is usually luck lost, lad. Remember your family.”

“I haven't forgotten them, Colin. But Charney was right, this is big, bigger than either of us imagined. If I pull out now they won't get me tomorrow, but there's always the next day or the day after, and one of those times they
will
get me.” Locke paused. “They got Felderberg and he was better protected than I could ever be. My only chance to survive is to expose them, and I'm the only one who can.” Forming those thoughts for the first time into words sent a shiver through Locke he couldn't suppress. Finally it stopped on its own, leaving behind only a trembling in his fingers.

“Was Felderberg helpful in any way?”

“He confirmed that food is the key. Somebody's buying up huge quantities of farmland in South America.”

“Colombia,” Burgess said. “San Sebastian …”

“Exactly. It's only part of the story, but at least we've got something to follow now. Felderberg said Lubeck's next stop was in Florence. Someone known as the Dwarf. Ever heard of him?”

Burgess chuckled. “Heard of him? If MI-6 had him on the payroll, we'd never have lost a single defector. The man's an information warehouse. This might be right up his alley.”

“Why do they call him the Dwarf?”

“Because that's what he is, lad! Little bastard doesn't stand more than four feet high and most of it's in his head. What a magnificent brain, the best in the world at what he does. But finding him won't be easy. I can't help you much there.”

“I'll find a way and I'll be careful.”

“Being careful won't be enough, lad, not against the forces you've described.” Burgess took a deep breath. “I'm going to give you the address of this young lady who's been relaying messages between us. If anything happens to me and you need to come in, use her place as a safe house. Got something to write with?”

“No. Give me the address. I'll memorize it.”

“Two-oh-five Longfield. Falmouth, Cornwall. Got it?”

“Easy enough. I'll call in tomorrow.”

“Cheers, lad.”

“Colin, wait. My family, I-I've got to speak—”

“I've got a friend in the States monitoring them,” Burgess interrupted. “Calling your house now would be the worst step you could take. The bastards behind all this might believe you'd passed something on to them over the line. We can't have that. Your family's fine, lad. Trust me.”

The phone clicked off.

Chris fought back the almost irresistible temptation to get his wife on the phone. He fought back too the urge to sprawl out on the room's big bed and succumb to exhaustion. His ankle felt better now but his head had taken over the throbbing. He glanced at the phone for a long moment and came ever so close to lifting the receiver before he forced himself to his feet and left the room. He deposited another fifty francs at the front desk and returned to his taxi. It was dark outside now, a clear, crystalline night that would see a rapid drop in temperature. It was time to return to the train station.

Locke gave the driver a fifty-franc tip and headed into the Vaduz Station. It proved to be far more crowded now than it had been in the afternoon. So far as he could tell no one was waiting by the lockers for him to extract his bag. If there was surveillance of any kind, it was well camouflaged.

Chris bought a paper and sat down on a wooden bench with the front section in front of his face. He had to wait things out, look for something that looked wrong before he made any move. A man sat down next to him holding a crumpled newspaper. Their eyes met and the man, who looked to be about fifty with a solid day's beard growth, smiled. Suddenly Locke had an idea.

“Do you speak English?” he asked the man.

“English!” the stranger exclaimed. “Is like a secoont langooge to me. I iv studied long and hart.” He smiled proudly.

“I need a favor. Would you like to make some money?”

“How mooch?”

“A hundred francs.”

“What can I dooth for you?”

Locke reached into his pocket, pulled out a card and key, and handed them to the man. “Take these to the service desk and say you wish to get into your locker. The clerk will—”

“I know the proceese.”

“There's a small bag inside the locker. Bring it to me on track two.” The next train to Schaan would be leaving from there in fifteen minutes.

“That ese all?”

“That and no questions.”

The man nodded. “You have mooney?”

Locke handed him the hundred francs.

“I go now,” the man said and stood up. He looked down and winked. “You in trooble, eh?”

“A little.”

“Wooman?”

“No questions, remember?”

“I une-der-stand. I weel help you.”

The man walked away.

Locke rose quickly and moved from the bench with a measured pace, trying to match that of the people who shuffled around him. By the time he had reached the track entrance, the man was leading a clerk to the row of lockers. No sooner had he stuck his key in the slot then out of nowhere a herd of men converged on them from every corner of the station. The man was grabbed and wrestled to the floor. The clerk was escorted roughly away. Now the man was being spirited off too, screaming at his captors to no avail.

It was the distraction Locke had hoped for. He couldn't get his passport or clothes now but at least he could escape. He turned quickly.

An old hag, dressed in tatters, grabbed him at the lapel with one bony, filthy hand.

“American, you got money?”

Chris shoved her aside, eyes darting about feverishly to see if he had been noticed.

The hag poked him from behind.

“I know you got money. Give some to me. I not eat in three days. Please, American, please!”

Locke had swung to push her away again when he felt something hard jab into his ribs from beneath her bulky sweater.

“Don't say a word or I kill you here.”

Locke started to speak. The hag poked him harder with her pistol.

“Walk forward to the track,” she whispered.

Chris obeyed, moving toward the knot of people waiting near the track for the next train to Schaan. He might be able to knock the hag's gun aside and neutralize her there but in doing so would draw too much attention to himself. The building would still be crawling with Peale and the others after him for Felderberg's murder. He couldn't risk alerting them.

“Keep walking,” the hag instructed, the steel beneath her ancient sweater never moving from his ribs.

Who had sent her? Locke wondered. Obviously not Felderberg's people, or she'd be leading him back to the station lobby instead of away from it.

They moved beyond the crowds and down into a tunnel where a sign warned
NO PASSENGERS BEYOND THIS POINT
in five languages. The air was dark and sooty, the only light provided by ceiling lamps strung irregularly. Locke knew the woman was taking him to his death now, but he dared not moved against her until he was sure they were out of earshot from the loading platform.

The hag slowed her pace, eyes searching for a closed-off spot to finish him.

That was Locke's cue.

He whirled backward in a blur, grabbing the barrel of the gun and forcing it away from him through the sweater, shredding the material. He went for the hag's throat with his other hand but she slithered backward, still trying to pull her gun free, and sank her teeth into his palm. Locke opened his mouth but managed to suppress a scream that would have drawn attention to their struggle.

The hag sank her teeth in deeper and clawed for his face with her free hand. Chris felt her nails find flesh and begin to tear as he threw himself sideways against the wall. His left hand lost the barrel briefly, then regained it. A shot rang out, kicking up dirt and cement chips behind him.

Locke yanked his hand from the hag's mouth and smashed her hard across the face. She winced, bellowed, and came at him again, free hand tearing for his eyes. Chris deflected the fingers and grabbed them, jerking the bony hand back over. The hag howled in pain and started kicking wildly out with her scrawny legs. Locke's shins and ankles bore the brunt of the assault as he pedaled sideways, trying to tear the pistol free from beneath her mangled sweater. But the hag's grip was iron. Her eyes were bulging with rage.