The Judas Goat by Robert B. Parker Page A

organization had had been used up, except the one guy that got away. I wasn’t dealing here with the KGB. Liberty’s resources were probably limited. She came out of her apartment at about two in the afternoon. She was wearing a tan safari jacket and matching pants and carrying a very large shoulder bag. The same one she’d had at the zoo. She was careful not to pay me any attention as she went past me on Cleveland and headed up Goodge Street toward Bloomsbury. 
    For a half hour it was hare and hounds with Kathie dekeing and diving the side streets of Bloomsbury with me behind her and Hawk behind me. At every turn I kept before me the clear image of Shelley Walden. When in doubt I asked myself, “What would Shelley, do?” Everywhere she went, she saw me behind her. Only once in all of this did I catch sight of Hawk. He was in Levis and a corduroy sport coat, surprisingly innocuous, on the opposite side of the street going the other way. I let her lose me in the Russell Square Underground. She got on and I got on. At the last minute she got off and I let her go. As the train pulled out she was heading back out of the station and, behind her, Hawk, with his hands in his hip pockets and the faint bulge of the shotgun along his spine. 
    He was smiling as the train went into the tunnel. 

14 
    I went back and staked out Kathie’s apartment, but she never came back. Good. She was probably headed for a new place. Any pattern break was better than none at this point. After dinner that night I finished up Regeneration Through Violence and was thumbing through the International Herald Tribune when Hawk called. “Where are you?” I said. “Copenhagen, babe, the Paris of the North.”
    “Where is she?”
    “She here too. She checked into an apartment here. You coming over?”
    “Yeah. Be there tomorrow. Anyone with her?”
    “Not yet. She just flew over, came to the apartment and went in. She ain’t come out.”
    “The revolutionaries do lead an exciting life, don’t they?”
    “Like you and me, babe, international adventurers. I’m at the Sheraton Copenhagen watching Danish television. What you doing, man?”
    “I was glancing through the Herald Tribune when you called. Very interesting. An enriching experience.” Hawk said, “Yeah. Me too.”
    “I’ll come over tomorrow,” I said. “Room five-two-three,” Hawk said. “Have them pack up my stuff and ship it to Henry. Hate to have some limey walking around in my threads.”
    “Ah Hawk,” I said, “you sentimental bastard.”
    “You gonna like it here, babe,” Hawk said. “Why is that?”
    “The broads are all blond and they sell beer in the Coke machine. ”
    “Maybe I’ll come over tonight,” I said. But I didn’t. I slept another night in England. In the morning I arranged for Hawk’s stuff to be shipped to the States. I called Flanders and told him where I was going. Then I packed my gun as before, in my luggage, and flew to Denmark. Have gun, will travel. Did Paladin do vengeance? Probably. The airport at Copenhagen was modern and glassy, with a lot of level escalators to move people around the airport. I took a bus in from the airport to the SAS terminal in the Royal Hotel. On the way I spotted the Sheraton. A short walk from the terminal. I made the walk carrying my flight bag, my suitcase and my garment bag, feeling the odd excited buzz I always felt in a place I’d never been. The Sheraton looked like Sheratons I’d seen in New York, Boston and Chicago. Newer maybe than New York and Chicago. More like Boston. It looked as Danish as Bond bread. 
    I checked in. The desk clerk spoke English with no accent. Embarrassing. I didn’t even know how to say Søren Kierkegaard. The hell with him. How many one-armed push-ups can he do? I unpacked and dialed room 523. No answer. The air conditioner was purring under the window but wasn’t cooling the room. The temperature was about 96. I opened the windows and looked out. There was a broad park