Weir’s anger and then the long walk back to town had given him an appetite and he enjoyed his lunch. The Rembrandts and the Durers and the Grimm Brothers might be relics of another era, but they had served their purpose. He had got what he wanted from them, and from the bookstores, the museums, the old streets of Ludensdorf, and what he’d got was the fact that he was under surveillance.
The man at the bar had been on the periphery of his vision all that morning and he remembered him from the Liege airport and before that in Philo Park.
The man was about forty, bulky, muscled, with blond hair cut short, and oddly old-fashioned in his Ivy dress of twenty years ago, flannel slacks, Blucher brogues, a raglan topcoat and the buttoned down, fine cotton shirt and striped tie that identified Brooks Brothers like a thumbprint.
When Weir paid the waiter, he heard the clink of change being tossed on the inside bar. He left the restaurant and strolled to the airlines ticket office without turning around.
The clerk at Lufthansa was happy to take a credit card for flight 257 leaving that evening at nine o’clock from Munich to New York and Chicago. Weir spent some time checking out exactly what time the plane reached Chicago, whether this was a full dinner flight and could the fraulein check what inflight movie was scheduled?
When she obtained all the answers for him, she said, “We’ll want you at the airport by eight, sir. Munich is about one hundred sixty kilometers from here. Would you like me to arrange ground transport?”
Weir looked at his watch thoughtfully. “No, I’ll do that myself, thank you. Make out my ticket and send it to the hotel at five o’clock... the Rhein-Baden Spa, Room 333, General Tarbert Weir.”
Fritz Vestrick was lunching on a tray at his desk but put it aside when he saw the general in the doorway. “I’ll be checking out tonight, Fritz,” he said. “I’d appreciate it if I could spend some time with you. How about a swim?”
Weir went to his room to change into trunks and a robe. From a pocket of his tunic he took the bottle of liquid from the pharmacy, plus the car keys and other materials Captain Tranchet had given him earlier, put them all together in the waterproof map pouch, tucking the packet into the pocket of his robe.
Vestrick had also changed and stood with his office clothes carefully draped on a hanger. Fropi the hotel lobby the two men walked to a vast indoor pool, steam rising from the heated surface, and swam laps together, side by side, talking quietly between their rhythmic strokes. Then they saunaed, ordered salt rubdowns and showered.
Vestrick changed into his elegant working clothes and joined the general in the glassed-in fern gardens beyond the poolhouse. Weir gave Vestrick the map pouch, the two men embraced and the general took an elevator back to his room.
He shaved once more, put on the jogging suit he’d worn in Philo Park, collected his clothing and toilet articles and began to pack. He hung his wet swimming trunks on the bathroom door handle and put everything else in his suitcase, folding his uniform neatly and arranging his robe and slippers on top.
He checked his watch again, then lay back on the bedspread, staring at the ceiling and trying to will relaxation into his body; he remained as tense as a coiled spring, and his thoughts were racing, words forming almost involuntarily in his mind. “It’s right for me to be here, Mark. Survivors feel this way after a battle, it’s a known quality of combat. You look at your comrades, you count the casualties and you wish that you could be part of them in some way...”
A few minutes before five the general dialed room service and asked for ice, soda, a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label and two glasses. “I’m expecting an airline ticket to be left with the concierge at five,” he said. “Ask your man to bring it up with the drinks, if you will.”
He stood at the windows, back to the door, waiting for the knock. When he opened it, the man from the Hutten-Bar was standing there, liquor tray in hand, the airline ticket on the tray.
“Do you mind if I come in?” he said.
“I sure as hell do,” Weir answered. “If you’re selling anything, whether it’s black market currency or young girls or their brothers, I’m not buying.”
“Come now, general,” the man said. “I know you spotted me at least once this morning and I have a notion you’ve been on to me for some time, so I bribed room service to let me bring up your order. May I put it down somewhere?” He nodded down at the tray. “Johnny Walker Black. You’re a thoughtful host.”
“On the bureau then,” Weir said. “And you must let me reimburse you for that bribe. Or is that an expense account item?”
The man put up a hand in mock protest.
“Please, general. My pleasure.” He picked up the airlines envelope and handed it to Weir. “It’s all in order, I’ve checked it. Munich departure nine o’clock, arrival at Kennedy, transfer to American for Chicago, then a twelve-seater down to Springfield in time for supper tomorrow night. The concierge put in the voucher for the ride to the airport. It’s all there.”
The man looked around the hotel room, checking the windows, glancing toward the bathroom. “I’ve called the home office. My people want you aboard Flight 257 and my orders are to stick with you till you’re emplaned.”
He put out his hand. “I’m Lenox Riley. I’d like our few hours together to be as pleasant as possible.”
“There’s no need to introduce myself,” Weir said dryly. “You seem to know everything about me. But I’ll tell you what, Riley, I’ll buy the drinks if you’ll tell me how you got onto me. Scotch all right? I could send down for wine...”
“Scotch will do nicely,” Riley said. He removed his topcoat and dropped it over the arm of a chair. “Easy on the soda and a single ice cube.”
“Hell, every time I’m pressed into service as a bartender I either make it too light or too heavy. Mind serving yourself?”
The general walked to the windows, humming, pretending to savor the sight of the lights twinkling beyond the darkened windows. In the reflection of a pane he watched Riley half fill a glass with Scotch, then take a long swallow from it, adding another ounce of liquor before lopping it with soda and an ice cube.
“I’ll make my own, thanks,” the general said and walked to the bureau.
“This is a rare, on the job treat for me,” Riley said. “If I drank like this all the time I’d have a liver the size of a coconut.”
“Christ, enjoy yourself. It’s the only way to relax after a hard day.” Weir lifted his glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Riley said but set down his glass. He walked to the closets, opened them and ran a hand along the empty metal hangers. He pulled open each bureau drawer and searched them. He went into the bathroom, kicking the door wide open, then checked the medicine cabinet. He noticed the wet swim trunks hanging from the doorknob.
“Forget something?” he asked.
“No. I’m not taking them. I don’t want wet luggage at thirty thousand feet.”
The man opened the suitcase on the bed and felt through the layers of clothing. Then he picked up his drink, placed the straight-backed desk chair between Weir and the hall doorway and straddled it. “You’re a neat packer,” he said. Weir nodded.
“Before we start enjoying ourselves too much,” Riley said, “I’d like to inform you that I’m armed at the moment with a .38 special, Smith and Wesson, for which I carry a German license, and like you, Weir, I’m karate trained.”
Weir nodded again without interest.
“You look CIA, Riley,” the general said flatly, “but I can think of no reason they’d have an interest in me.”
“At the moment I’m an independent, though I still have a classified number in Langley and an operator who’ll take a signal. It’s one of your own confreres who asked me to keep an eye on you, general. There’s no need to be secretive about it now.”