Hernandez’s eyes.
“You’re one stupid Latino!”
Then he turned and clicked his fingers. It happened quickly. The man holding the knife in front of Graciella raised his hand. The blade flashed. Hernandez was about to scream, but a hand came over his mouth again. He watched in horror as the knife came down, sliced through her chest from the valley between her breasts to the navel of her stomach. Hernandez saw blood spurt in a fountain, the whites of her dying eyes looking to heaven, her body suddenly limp, engulfed in blood. He felt the vomit rise in his stomach.
And then the big, blond bodyguard he had seen in the hotel stepped forward out of nowhere.
Hernandez saw the flash of another blade as the man drew a jagged knife from under his coat. Hernandez tried vainly to scream, but the hand trapped the cry in his throat, other hands pinning him hard against the wall.
He watched in mute horror as the jagged metal arced and dug savagely into his chest like a hammer blow. An agonizing pain blossomed, and then he slid back against the wall, slid down into the dark, growing pool of his own blood.
PART TWO
10
STRASBOURG, FRANCE. THURSDAY, DECEMBER 1
A log fire blazed in one corner of the restaurant.
From where they sat by the window, Volkmann could see the ancient cathedral spire rise into the gray afternoon sky, the red-and-brown-slated rooftops of the medieval center of old Strasbourg stretching in jagged rows. A cold wind blew across the Place Gutenberg, needles of rain clawing at the window.
You could usually set your watch by Ferguson’s appointments, but almost half an hour had gone by, they had ordered, and there was still no sign of him.
The head of British DSE hated German food, which was why when they had their weekly informal meeting, Ferguson always chose a French restaurant.
Volkmann stared toward the bronzed statue of Johannes Gutenberg. The cold Place named in his honor was almost void of pedestrians despite the nearness of Christmas. Across the street, a stout, red-faced little salesman was standing on a chair, struggling to hang coils of silvered decorations among a store’s seasonal window display.
Tom Peters sat opposite, sipping a glass of Bordeaux. The section’s number two, Peters was a stocky Welshman of medium height, with graying sandy hair and a ruddy face.
He smiled at Volkmann. “There was an article in Le Monde only last week. Some hack reckoned that soon it’ll be like the bad old days of the Great Depression.” Peters nodded toward the struggling salesman. “For that poor guy’s sake, I hope all the work is worth it.”
Volkmann swallowed a mouthful of wine. “Did Ferguson say what he wanted to talk about, Tom?”
“Yeah. Something to do with the bloody Krauts.”
The worries Volkmann had discussed with Sally Thornton seemed to be looming. DSE wasn’t really working. On the face of it, the organization seemed to be dying of boredom, but he knew the problems went much deeper than that.
The German Section seemed to be on a go slow. Even the people in the French and Italian sections were spending more time than usual lingering over coffee. The only lively presence was in his own department, the British, and that of the Dutch. Both sections were busily working at their desks as if nothing were amiss, incurable bureaucrats that they were.
Ferguson arrived. A tall, gaunt man, pasty-faced, pushing sixty, he dressed like an English squire in Donegal tweeds, checkered shirt, and woolen tie knotted thickly. He took a seat at the table, apologizing.
“I see you’ve started without me.” Ferguson smiled when he saw the wine bottle, and accepted a glass from Peters. “Have you ordered? I better do the same.”
Ferguson ordered the fillet of sole with lemon sauce. He sipped his wine and sat back.
“I thought I’d let you know I had a meeting with Hollrich; it’s what delayed me. He’s been in Germany for the past week, consulting with his masters.”
“Anything that
“You’re one stupid Latino!”
Then he turned and clicked his fingers. It happened quickly. The man holding the knife in front of Graciella raised his hand. The blade flashed. Hernandez was about to scream, but a hand came over his mouth again. He watched in horror as the knife came down, sliced through her chest from the valley between her breasts to the navel of her stomach. Hernandez saw blood spurt in a fountain, the whites of her dying eyes looking to heaven, her body suddenly limp, engulfed in blood. He felt the vomit rise in his stomach.
And then the big, blond bodyguard he had seen in the hotel stepped forward out of nowhere.
Hernandez saw the flash of another blade as the man drew a jagged knife from under his coat. Hernandez tried vainly to scream, but the hand trapped the cry in his throat, other hands pinning him hard against the wall.
He watched in mute horror as the jagged metal arced and dug savagely into his chest like a hammer blow. An agonizing pain blossomed, and then he slid back against the wall, slid down into the dark, growing pool of his own blood.
PART TWO
10
STRASBOURG, FRANCE. THURSDAY, DECEMBER 1
A log fire blazed in one corner of the restaurant.
From where they sat by the window, Volkmann could see the ancient cathedral spire rise into the gray afternoon sky, the red-and-brown-slated rooftops of the medieval center of old Strasbourg stretching in jagged rows. A cold wind blew across the Place Gutenberg, needles of rain clawing at the window.
You could usually set your watch by Ferguson’s appointments, but almost half an hour had gone by, they had ordered, and there was still no sign of him.
The head of British DSE hated German food, which was why when they had their weekly informal meeting, Ferguson always chose a French restaurant.
Volkmann stared toward the bronzed statue of Johannes Gutenberg. The cold Place named in his honor was almost void of pedestrians despite the nearness of Christmas. Across the street, a stout, red-faced little salesman was standing on a chair, struggling to hang coils of silvered decorations among a store’s seasonal window display.
Tom Peters sat opposite, sipping a glass of Bordeaux. The section’s number two, Peters was a stocky Welshman of medium height, with graying sandy hair and a ruddy face.
He smiled at Volkmann. “There was an article in Le Monde only last week. Some hack reckoned that soon it’ll be like the bad old days of the Great Depression.” Peters nodded toward the struggling salesman. “For that poor guy’s sake, I hope all the work is worth it.”
Volkmann swallowed a mouthful of wine. “Did Ferguson say what he wanted to talk about, Tom?”
“Yeah. Something to do with the bloody Krauts.”
The worries Volkmann had discussed with Sally Thornton seemed to be looming. DSE wasn’t really working. On the face of it, the organization seemed to be dying of boredom, but he knew the problems went much deeper than that.
The German Section seemed to be on a go slow. Even the people in the French and Italian sections were spending more time than usual lingering over coffee. The only lively presence was in his own department, the British, and that of the Dutch. Both sections were busily working at their desks as if nothing were amiss, incurable bureaucrats that they were.
Ferguson arrived. A tall, gaunt man, pasty-faced, pushing sixty, he dressed like an English squire in Donegal tweeds, checkered shirt, and woolen tie knotted thickly. He took a seat at the table, apologizing.
“I see you’ve started without me.” Ferguson smiled when he saw the wine bottle, and accepted a glass from Peters. “Have you ordered? I better do the same.”
Ferguson ordered the fillet of sole with lemon sauce. He sipped his wine and sat back.
“I thought I’d let you know I had a meeting with Hollrich; it’s what delayed me. He’s been in Germany for the past week, consulting with his masters.”
“Anything that
Similar Books
