secretive agency; part spy, part assassin when needed, and still on the job, although only part-time.
“Jock,” I said, “I’m in Frankfurt, Germany. Long story. I need a weapon.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
“I’ll fill you in later. But I’m trying to find out who killed Wyatt, and now somebody’s trying to kill me. I need some protection. Can you help?”
“What do you want?”
“Probably a .38 snub-nosed. I need something small that will work close in.”
“I can take care of it, but you know if you get caught in Europe with a gun, you’ll go to jail.”
“I know. It’s a chance I’ll have to take. I also need some cash. I don’t trust my credit cards.”
“Meet my man tomorrow at noon at the Dornbuscher Bierstube on Schifferstrasse. Cross the river on the pedestrian bridge called the Eisenersteg, turn right for a block and then left on Schifferstrasse. The Dornbusher is in the third building on your left.”
“How’ll I know your man?”
“He’ll know you.” The phone went dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I was worried about my friends. If somebody wanted me badly enough, they might take a run at Patti, Russ, or Jessica. I called Russ and told him what had happened, and why I was concerned. He said that he and Patti were tired, and would eat in the hotel that evening. They’d take the crew bus to the airport the next morning, and be on their way back to Atlanta.
I called Jessica and filled her in. “I don’t know how serious this is,” I said, “but I don’t think the shot taken at me was random. Somebody might try to use you to find me.”
“I’ll check out of here and come meet you.”
“No. Pack your bags and leave them in the room. Walk out the door and get a cab. Make it look like you’re going out for the evening. Have the cabbie bring you to the main train station. I’ll meet you by the bank in the terminal. I’ll make sure nobody’s following you, and then we’ll decide what to do from there. Give me your cell phone number.”
I loitered around a kiosk that sold bratwurst and beer, sipping on a drink and nibbling the sausage. A side door leading out of the terminal was a few feet behind me. I had a clear view to the bank. I’d turned up the collar on my coat and was wearing a jaunty fedora I’d picked up in one of the shops. I’d pulled the brim of the hat low on my forehead. It was rush hour, people leaving the city for their homes in the suburbs. I was virtually invisible.
I saw Jessica when she entered the terminal and walked up to the bank entrance. She stood for a moment, looking around, puzzled that I wasn’t there. I called her cell phone, watched her dig it out of her purse, answer it.
“Don’t look around,” I said. “I see you. I want you to just stand therefor a minute or two and make sure you’re alone. Hang up your phone and put it on vibrate. Put it in your pocket and when it goes off again, ignore it, but walk to your right toward the bratwurst stand. I’ll have my eye on you all the way.”
She stood quietly, hands in the pocket of her overcoat, as if waiting to meet someone. I gave it five minutes. The crowds swirled around her, but no one seemed to take notice of her. I dialed her number again, let it ring twice, and closed my phone. She turned and started toward me. As she got close, I raised my head and waved. She came toward me, smiling. A workingman carrying a lunch pail was behind her, head down, intent on his journey home. Jessica was about ten feet from me when the man reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the side door of the terminal. She jerked back, and the man dropped the lunch pail and grabbed her other arm, using his weight to propel her toward the door. She screamed, and the man said something in German. The people nearest Jessica shrugged, grimaced, and moved on.
Jessica’s face was frozen in fear and pain. The man’s grip on her arms was powerful. I could see his hands straining with the effort.
“Jock,” I said, “I’m in Frankfurt, Germany. Long story. I need a weapon.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
“I’ll fill you in later. But I’m trying to find out who killed Wyatt, and now somebody’s trying to kill me. I need some protection. Can you help?”
“What do you want?”
“Probably a .38 snub-nosed. I need something small that will work close in.”
“I can take care of it, but you know if you get caught in Europe with a gun, you’ll go to jail.”
“I know. It’s a chance I’ll have to take. I also need some cash. I don’t trust my credit cards.”
“Meet my man tomorrow at noon at the Dornbuscher Bierstube on Schifferstrasse. Cross the river on the pedestrian bridge called the Eisenersteg, turn right for a block and then left on Schifferstrasse. The Dornbusher is in the third building on your left.”
“How’ll I know your man?”
“He’ll know you.” The phone went dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I was worried about my friends. If somebody wanted me badly enough, they might take a run at Patti, Russ, or Jessica. I called Russ and told him what had happened, and why I was concerned. He said that he and Patti were tired, and would eat in the hotel that evening. They’d take the crew bus to the airport the next morning, and be on their way back to Atlanta.
I called Jessica and filled her in. “I don’t know how serious this is,” I said, “but I don’t think the shot taken at me was random. Somebody might try to use you to find me.”
“I’ll check out of here and come meet you.”
“No. Pack your bags and leave them in the room. Walk out the door and get a cab. Make it look like you’re going out for the evening. Have the cabbie bring you to the main train station. I’ll meet you by the bank in the terminal. I’ll make sure nobody’s following you, and then we’ll decide what to do from there. Give me your cell phone number.”
I loitered around a kiosk that sold bratwurst and beer, sipping on a drink and nibbling the sausage. A side door leading out of the terminal was a few feet behind me. I had a clear view to the bank. I’d turned up the collar on my coat and was wearing a jaunty fedora I’d picked up in one of the shops. I’d pulled the brim of the hat low on my forehead. It was rush hour, people leaving the city for their homes in the suburbs. I was virtually invisible.
I saw Jessica when she entered the terminal and walked up to the bank entrance. She stood for a moment, looking around, puzzled that I wasn’t there. I called her cell phone, watched her dig it out of her purse, answer it.
“Don’t look around,” I said. “I see you. I want you to just stand therefor a minute or two and make sure you’re alone. Hang up your phone and put it on vibrate. Put it in your pocket and when it goes off again, ignore it, but walk to your right toward the bratwurst stand. I’ll have my eye on you all the way.”
She stood quietly, hands in the pocket of her overcoat, as if waiting to meet someone. I gave it five minutes. The crowds swirled around her, but no one seemed to take notice of her. I dialed her number again, let it ring twice, and closed my phone. She turned and started toward me. As she got close, I raised my head and waved. She came toward me, smiling. A workingman carrying a lunch pail was behind her, head down, intent on his journey home. Jessica was about ten feet from me when the man reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the side door of the terminal. She jerked back, and the man dropped the lunch pail and grabbed her other arm, using his weight to propel her toward the door. She screamed, and the man said something in German. The people nearest Jessica shrugged, grimaced, and moved on.
Jessica’s face was frozen in fear and pain. The man’s grip on her arms was powerful. I could see his hands straining with the effort.
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