again, heading down the steep path to the parking lot.
“Well, that was a bust,” said Peggy.
“I thought it was quite educational myself,” said Brennan. Peggy shot him a look to make sure she wasn’t being mocked.
“I found out exactly what I needed to know,” said Holliday, dropping his little bombshell.
“Which would be?” Brennan said.
“As we were going out in the main hall, did you see the man coming down the stairs?”
“Big man. Jowls, distinguished-looking. Gray tips at the temples. Maybe seventy or so,” answered Peggy.
“That’s the one.” Holliday nodded.
“And who would he be to us?” Brennan asked.
“His name is Angus Scott Matoon,” explained Holliday. “He’s one of the Joint Chiefs at the Pentagon. He’s also Rex Deus. He was at that meeting where I was supposed to play pet archaeologist. I hit him pretty hard when I made my unceremonious exit from Sinclair House.”
“Did he see you?” Brennan asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Holliday, shaking his head. “And if he did, he didn’t recognize me.”
“You’d better hope not,” said Brennan. Holliday got behind the wheel.
“Where to now?” the priest asked.
“France,” answered Holliday. “Thonon-les-Bains.”
Kate Sinclair sat in the baronial hall that passed as a living room in the castle’s private apartments, drinking coffee and staring out through the three churchlike arched windows at the panorama of the Alps, rising only a few miles distant to the north. Pacing up and down across the giant Tabriz carpet that covered the cold stone floor, General Angus Scott Matoon sipped from a snifter of Dudognon Heritage Cognac and scowled as though the expensive brandy had gone sour. He looked somehow diminished out of uniform, thought Sinclair.
“Did he see you?” the brittle woman asked.
“I saw him, so I’m assuming he saw me,” answered Matoon.
“Excellent,” said the elderly woman.
“You’re sure that leaking Crusader is a good idea? Holliday was only a lieutenant colonel but he’s got some very heavy connections in the intelligence business. He could be big trouble.”
“For God’s sake, get some spine! You’re one of the Joint Chiefs! We’re far too wealthy to have big trouble. We simply have problems we have to surmount,” said Sinclair. She let out a smoker’s coughing laugh and lit another cigarette. “Quit worrying about Holliday. It’ll be taken care of.” She paused for a moment. “When they left, which way were they going?”
“North,” answered the general. “I had Jean-Pierre follow him for a while like you asked. He says they turned west, heading for the border on the coast road.”
“France,” murmured Sinclair. She took a deep drag on her cigarette, then let the smoke dribble out through her aristocratic nostrils. “They’re going to Thonon-les-Bains.”
“What’s there?” Matoon asked.
“Bad news for the colonel and his friends, I’m afraid.”
13
Thonon-les-Bains is a town of eighty thousand, about halfway down Lake Geneva on the French side. The old Roman baths have long since lost their cachet and the town now relies on tourism for the better part of its income. It didn’t take them long to find the self-service garage used by William Tritt. There were only two in the city: Auto Express, which was a too upscale and open concept for Tritt by a long shot. The second was more his speed—a run-down, narrow, tin-roofed warehouse at the end of a narrow street, its twenty or so cubicles roughly divided by rotting canvas curtains hung on thin steel frames. There was a pneumatic lift, a workbench, an assortment of tools and a canvas flap over the rear of the cubicle that afforded some privacy. The place was called Paulie’s Garage and it was Paulie himself who oversaw the place, seated on a creaking, old wooden office chair behind an invoice-piled desk. Paulie was immensely fat. He sweated profusely even with a fan blowing directly over him. He wore bib
“Well, that was a bust,” said Peggy.
“I thought it was quite educational myself,” said Brennan. Peggy shot him a look to make sure she wasn’t being mocked.
“I found out exactly what I needed to know,” said Holliday, dropping his little bombshell.
“Which would be?” Brennan said.
“As we were going out in the main hall, did you see the man coming down the stairs?”
“Big man. Jowls, distinguished-looking. Gray tips at the temples. Maybe seventy or so,” answered Peggy.
“That’s the one.” Holliday nodded.
“And who would he be to us?” Brennan asked.
“His name is Angus Scott Matoon,” explained Holliday. “He’s one of the Joint Chiefs at the Pentagon. He’s also Rex Deus. He was at that meeting where I was supposed to play pet archaeologist. I hit him pretty hard when I made my unceremonious exit from Sinclair House.”
“Did he see you?” Brennan asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Holliday, shaking his head. “And if he did, he didn’t recognize me.”
“You’d better hope not,” said Brennan. Holliday got behind the wheel.
“Where to now?” the priest asked.
“France,” answered Holliday. “Thonon-les-Bains.”
Kate Sinclair sat in the baronial hall that passed as a living room in the castle’s private apartments, drinking coffee and staring out through the three churchlike arched windows at the panorama of the Alps, rising only a few miles distant to the north. Pacing up and down across the giant Tabriz carpet that covered the cold stone floor, General Angus Scott Matoon sipped from a snifter of Dudognon Heritage Cognac and scowled as though the expensive brandy had gone sour. He looked somehow diminished out of uniform, thought Sinclair.
“Did he see you?” the brittle woman asked.
“I saw him, so I’m assuming he saw me,” answered Matoon.
“Excellent,” said the elderly woman.
“You’re sure that leaking Crusader is a good idea? Holliday was only a lieutenant colonel but he’s got some very heavy connections in the intelligence business. He could be big trouble.”
“For God’s sake, get some spine! You’re one of the Joint Chiefs! We’re far too wealthy to have big trouble. We simply have problems we have to surmount,” said Sinclair. She let out a smoker’s coughing laugh and lit another cigarette. “Quit worrying about Holliday. It’ll be taken care of.” She paused for a moment. “When they left, which way were they going?”
“North,” answered the general. “I had Jean-Pierre follow him for a while like you asked. He says they turned west, heading for the border on the coast road.”
“France,” murmured Sinclair. She took a deep drag on her cigarette, then let the smoke dribble out through her aristocratic nostrils. “They’re going to Thonon-les-Bains.”
“What’s there?” Matoon asked.
“Bad news for the colonel and his friends, I’m afraid.”
13
Thonon-les-Bains is a town of eighty thousand, about halfway down Lake Geneva on the French side. The old Roman baths have long since lost their cachet and the town now relies on tourism for the better part of its income. It didn’t take them long to find the self-service garage used by William Tritt. There were only two in the city: Auto Express, which was a too upscale and open concept for Tritt by a long shot. The second was more his speed—a run-down, narrow, tin-roofed warehouse at the end of a narrow street, its twenty or so cubicles roughly divided by rotting canvas curtains hung on thin steel frames. There was a pneumatic lift, a workbench, an assortment of tools and a canvas flap over the rear of the cubicle that afforded some privacy. The place was called Paulie’s Garage and it was Paulie himself who oversaw the place, seated on a creaking, old wooden office chair behind an invoice-piled desk. Paulie was immensely fat. He sweated profusely even with a fan blowing directly over him. He wore bib
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