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There had been a brief respite in the initial hours under the trees with the responsive animals, but Lasari realized from the first day that he was not alone or unwatched in Philo Park. He heard the sound of a distinctive Southern voice once and spotted Eddie Neal buying a bratwurst from a vendor. Again, taking the dogs for a run, he saw Strasser and Greta having hot chocolate at a terrace café and Greta had turned quickly, bending down as if to retie the laces on her white boots. The same middle-aged American he had noticed at the bar in the Atelier was seated on a park bench one morning, reading a German newspaper. A few moments later he strolled off and was gone. There were several persons he saw every day, well-dressed, energetic men, moving as if walking were a serious business, but he could not tell if they were businessmen, tourists or professors from the university on a break between classes. It was Herr Rauch whom Lasari was most concerned about, but he was nowhere in sight.

Lasari tried to concentrate on the dogs, keeping his commands brief and efficient, but his thoughts were splintered. He was preoccupied with the trap he was in, frustrated and sullen that he could think of no way out. In the treadmill of his mind it seemed to him that, either as Duro Lasari or George Jackson, he had no options, no choice in any direction that would not be rewarded by time in a federal prison. There was not even the challenge of a maze to face; behind every closed door or twisted corridor a Neal or Strasser, a Malleck or a military court-martial was lying in wait for him.

On his fourth day in Philo Park, Lasari became aware of difficulties with Danke. The big dog’s eyes were alert and intelligent, and he trembled to please and obey commands. But after each workout, the animal became restless, could not hold the “stay” position and turned to Lasari with whining yelps. Lasari reprimanded him with a sharp tap on the muzzle, a stern verbal rebuke. Then he noticed the male dog seemed hot, panting heavily, while the female was calm. Both wore heavy leather collars, studded with decorative brass, but it was Danke that repeatedly sank back on his haunches, yelped and scratched at his ruff.

Lasari called the dog to him and ran a finger under its collar. The collar was not too tight but at the back, in the area just over the ripple of neck muscles, Lasari’s fingers touched a small aluminum microphone. Over the days, in the heat of workouts and sweat, and the metallic surface of the detecting device had interacted to irritate the dog’s skin. Lasari found a discarded newspaper in a trash basket, tore off a section and folded it under the microphone to protect the dog’s hide.

Lasari knew the microphone was connected to a wireless receiver, monitored by someone watching him from the Alte Brucke, the café or some wooded corner of Philo Park he could not see. He bent over to pat Danke’s head, smoothing his hand over its pointed ears, murmuring words of reassurance and praise to the animal. He was trying to decide whether to remove the dog’s collar or simply yank the wires loose, cutting himself free from whatever spies were following him, monitoring his every word. Then he fluffed the dog’s thick ruff around the collar and stood upright. He would let the device stay in place, he decided, until he knew why it was hidden there. Maybe the microphone would tell him something about his enemies.

He turned abruptly as someone spoke behind him.

“I’ve been watching you for a couple of days,” the man said. “You’re doing a hell of a good job with those dogs, soldier.”

It was the word “soldier” and the uncompromising authority in the stranger’s voice that sent Lasari signals of alarm. The man was ambling toward him on a graveled path, face open but unsmiling, as if this were a meeting both had arranged and expected.

The Alsatians pulled at the leashes, straining toward the newcomer. “Sit!” Lasari commanded and the dogs sank back on their haunches, watching both men with warm, alert eyes.

“They get confidence doing what they’re told,” Lasari said. “That’s how they’re bred.”

The man was in his middle years, dressed in a gray jogger’s suit over a black turtleneck sweater that showed at the neck and around the powerful wrists. His hair was black and cut short, with thick threads of gray at the temples and a touch of frost through the dark eyebrows. He might have been a fighter at one time in his life, Lasari thought, noting the big-knuckled hands and the broken nose, a powerful, twisted ridge between the high cheekbones and dark, appraising eyes.

“I notice you don’t use gloves or a quirt,” the man said. “You are not training them as guard dogs then?”

“I’m training them as guard dogs, yes. Attack dogs, no. They will learn to take commands and protect a master. We want them courageous, not paranoid.”

The man smiled coolly. “Some Alsations can be very temperamental, inbred and nervous. And you feel you’ve accurately judged the potential of these animals in these few days? You just over from the States, right?”

Lasari watched the man’s impassive eyes, unwilling to answer either question until he could understand why it was asked. Then he said, “You have a special interest in dogs, mister?”

“I’ve got hunting dogs on my farm in Illinois,” the stranger said. “My dogs will hold point indefinitely if I give the command, even if we kick up a brood. I’ve had a lot of experience with guns and dogs.” He paused, as if expecting a response, then said, “I’m General Tarbert Weir, U.S. Army, retired. I thought you might know who I am.”

“I don’t,” Lasari said.

General Weir moved closer to him, his hands at his sides. He was a full head taller than Lasari and the bulk and nearness of his body were more formidable than his words.

“Did you know my son, Lieutenant Mark Weir of the Chicago police department?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then can you tell me why someone would leave a message for my son on my phone tape, asking him to call her about George Jackson?”

The male dog gave a yelp, rose on its haunches and twisted its head within the ring of the leather collar. “Stay!” Lasari said sharply. “Stay, Danke!”

As he spoke to the dog, Lasari took a furtive glance around the perimeters of Philo Park, at the passersby, the distant café, the traffic crossing the Alte Brucke. The sudden appearance of General Weir had startled him. He could feel the pounding of his heart, unable to know at once if it was hope or fear. Bonnie Caidin had urged him to trust her and her friend. Mark Weir can help you, she’d said. Then he remembered Sergeant Malleck’s derisive words and the brief spasm of hope was displaced by a wary distrust.

He could spot no surveillance on the immediate horizons, but he knew that someone would be monitoring and remembering every word of this conversation.

“It’s a big world, general,” he said, “and I think you found yourself the wrong George Jackson.”

“I don’t consider that a responsive answer, soldier,” Weir said. “Let me try you on this one. Do you know a lady named Bonnie Caidin?”

Lasari answered with a sardonic smile, a shrug. “Now we’re doing business. The lady, as you call her, is a casual friend, a one-night stand, as the old expression goes. Pretty as hell, but not particular about friends. She was giving, I was buying, and that’s about it.”

He saw the general’s jaw harden with anger and his big fists clench.

“Miss Caidin tried to get in touch with my son to talk about George Jackson. Then Miss Caidin took a savage beating in the garage of her apartment when she tried to go to my son. Know anything about that, soldier?”

Lasari heard the sharp intake of his own breath, then controlled himself so his answer was even and unemotional. “A one-night stand, general. I don’t think I’d know the lady if I saw her again...”