The Da Vinci Deception (27 page)

“Sure. It's okay.”

In the airport motel Tony changed from the dark suit into a pair of brown slacks and a yellow sport shirt. He unpacked the suitcase and carried it to the floor above and jammed it into a refuse container next to the soda dispenser. He wanted to keep the expensive Loewe bag but it was becoming a trademark and it was essential that he blend in with his fellow travelers.

The time was now 3:25. He returned to the terminal and the TWA counter, where he checked on his flight to Paris. Then he took a limousine to the Sheraton Plaza in Boston. A telephone directory led him to a luggage shop, where he chose a conventional dark blue two-suiter. He returned to the hotel and took the limo back to the airport motel.

At 4:15 he was in the TWA lobby. He presented his ticket, passport,
and blue suitcase. The agent was solicitous. “I'm sorry there's a delay, Mr. Habershon. We have an equipment problem.”

“How long a delay?” Tony asked.

“We're posting an estimated 7:30 departure.”

Without a word, he picked up the suitcase and went to the men's room. In a stall he opened his bag and took out the revolver. Something wasn't right.
Don't take risks.
He wiped the revolver then wrapped it in toilet tissue. He opened the door and dropped the package into the towel receptacle. He returned to the ticket agent and checked his bags.

Tony clutched his boarding pass and walked to the passengers' lounge. The sun was falling toward the horizon, creating long, sharp shadows beneath the fuselage and wings of a 747 sitting just beyond the windows. There had been no police in the waiting room before, but now there were two. One was talking with the senior agent, the other stood by the departure door to the aircraft. Then each was joined by a man in streetclothes.

Tony stood at the window, staring out at the planes on the tarmac. Maintenance men swarmed over the plane, but no special crew of mechanics was evident. But there was a special group that was offloading all the suitcases and packages that were being put aboard the plane in Boston. They set them in rows under the left wing of the plane. Two men walked among the rows of suitcases, examining each. They neared a dark blue suitcase, then continued past. Tony sighed perceptibly.

Examination of the luggage was finally completed and at 7:41 the last piece of baggage disappeared into the stomach of the huge plane.

It was the last hurdle. But some irony was attached to the delay and the apprehension it caused. The search of the luggage had been a test, occasioned by the recent bomb threats from the South American drug lords.

When the plane left the runway, Tony was deeply relieved; he was reminded of a cloudless day many years before when his crude kite finally took to the wind. He had run faster than all his friends, but the sticks and cloth he called a kite skittered over the ground. His father was away once more. They never shared those monumentally important successes like the one that day when his kite flew above the others.

T
erminal Building One in the Charles de Gaulle Airport was bedlam. Tourists and businessmen clogged the escalators and aisles; a long line had formed in front of the men's room. Tony inched ahead and, when inside, waited again. He locked himself into one of the cubicles, shaved, and changed to a shirt and tie.

He bought a ticket on Swissair to Zurich. The noon flight would arrive at 1:10. At the Godfrey Davis counter he reserved a BMW.

Alex Tobias sat across from Edna Braymore in her richly decorated office. He dabbed at his neck with a handkerchief. “New York is like a furnace,” he said offhandedly.

“It is extremely hot, Mr. Tobias, we're all too familiar with that distressing fact.” She showed her agitation; her hands gripped the arms to her chair as if she were being catapulted through a violent storm in a crippled airplane.

“Miss Braymore, there was a near-fatal accident just outside this building yesterday. It happened during the noon hour. Were you aware of it?” He asked the question in the same measured tone as he had remarked on the weather.

“I heard talk among the office workers. I didn't go to lunch yesterday. It was more pleasant to stay at my desk.”

Tobias waited for her to continue but she remained silent. He studied her face, then the way she moved her shoulders and legs. Tobias had written the book on body language.

“A man ran from this building and hailed a cab on Lexington Avenue. He was followed by another man, who, as it turns out, was a police officer from England. The officer tried to stop the cab, but instead was
thrown to the street. It's a miracle he wasn't run over. His right hand, Miss Braymore, was seriously injured by the man in the cab.” He put his hand in front of her. “These fingers were crushed. We don't know if he'll ever be able to use them again.” His exaggeration scored the point.

“That would be a terrible thing. But you did say he might have been killed but wasn't. That's something of a blessing.” She smiled weakly.

“Don't you think it's interesting that he was an English police officer?”

She did not reply immediately, then said, “Yes, I suppose that is unusual.”

“Miss Braymore, two days ago I sat in this chair and heard you state that Anthony Waters had not been seen in these offices for six months. Is that a true statement?”

“I have nothing to add to that conversation, Mr. Tobias.” Her nervousness turned to irritation. “I answered your questions and now I must ask you to excuse me.” She rose stiffly and walked to the door.

Tobias did not move. “You are perfectly within your rights. You can refuse to answer my questions today, but in due course you will have to respond. I strongly urge that you listen to what I have to say.”

She remained by the door. “Then say what it is.”

“If it is determined that Anthony Waters was in these offices during the time you say he was not here . . . and if it is proven that you were in any way involved in his escape, then, Miss Braymore, there would be sufficient cause to suspect you of complicity and the harboring of a suspected criminal. That may bring great unhappiness into your life.”

She returned to her desk and faced the detective. “For what horrible crime is he accused?” A touch of sarcasm tinged her words.

“For killing an agent of Scotland Yard. A young woman, perhaps of an age to be your daughter. She was merely carrying out a routine assignment but not so unimportant to stop Anthony Waters from brutally murdering her.” He lowered his voice. “I'm told she was pretty, but that night she became a distorted, mangled mess. Her face was torn and cut, her chest crushed by the steering wheel of an automobile that Waters converted into her death weapon. Her scalp—about here—along the hair line of what had been soft, blonde hair, was cut clean to the bone, and—”

“Stop! You can't force me to hear more.”

“Miss Braymore, when did you last see Anthony Waters?”

She sat staring blankly at an abstract oil that hung on the wall directly behind Tobias. She answered in a soft voice. “Monday. Monday afternoon.
But you must understand . . . he said there had been a problem over a piece of land he planned to buy . . . that he had gone to see the land and that it had been misrepresented.” She shook her head slowly. “He said there was a contract and there might be inquiries. He said it was all very ‘petty' and that it would be our secret. Mr. Tobias, he is not a murderer.”

“You saw him on Monday? Not since?”

“No.”

“When he got into that taxi, where was he going?”

“I can't answer that.”

“You know you can. It's best if you tell me.”

“He instructed me to get a ticket on the air shuttle to Boston, then on to Paris.”

“After Paris—where?”

“I don't know. I really don't know.”

“Money. Did he ask for money?”

“He asked for three thousand dollars.”

Tobias shrugged. Not a fortune, he thought, but enough to get him anywhere in the world. “Have you heard from Mr. Kalem?”

Again she looked past Tobias to the abstract painting.

“I'll repeat my question. Has Jonas Kalem telephoned?”

“I last heard from him a week ago.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don't know, Mr. Tobias, and that is the truth. When Mr. Kalem is in Europe, he frequently travels without an itinerary. We send all urgent messages through the London office.”

“Why not Paris? You have an office there.”

“The Paris office is really a small apartment. It's more of a convenience.”

“The address. May I have it?”

“There's no one there.”

“Are you sure? Waters flew to Paris last night?”

Her eyes strayed back to the painting. “I suppose it's easy enough to locate in the directory. Here, the address is in our brochure.” She handed Tobias a copy.

He put it in his pocket, then rose. “I trust you understand that we must cooperate with the London police on matters like this.”

Edna Braymore finally shifted her gaze away from the painting. “What will happen if you—
they
—find him?”

“He'll be tried for murder. The English are good at that, you know.”

“I hope it's all a dreadful mistake. I can't understand how anyone could take another person's life.”

Tobias was at the door. “If that was the way things went, Miss Braymore, I'd be a basketball coach.”

The airbus banked gracefully over Lake Zurich, then began its final approach into the airport at Kloten, seven miles north of the city. The temperature on the runway was fifty-eight, a welcome relief from the steaminess of New York.

Tony was in a forward row, and was the fourth passenger off the plane. A trio of arguing Frenchmen preceded him and he fell in so close behind they appeared as a quartet. He showed his passport to an agent who was anxious to wave the line into the terminal without delay. He was relieved that a BMW was available and waiting. The sturdy car could take the twisting Swiss roads and accelerate on the expressways.

His route south would take him through Zug, Altdorf, Bellizona, Lugano, and the border city of Chiasso. In all, a distance of nearly a hundred and fifty miles. He stopped at the central piazza in Lugano for an espresso; from there he could look out over the lake to the distant Italian hills. Except for the brief stopover in Paris he had been in constant motion for thirty hours; now he was at rest, and he reacted to the sensation by letting his memory reverse the chronology of the past three days. Zurich—Paris—Boston—the red-faced security guard—Deats's wild eyes—spiced meats on charcoal grills—the blows to his head. The images came in a rush; he bolted upright, his muscles tightened. He ran to his car.